by Eugène Sue
“Oh, I doubt not that! Poor Raoul is capable of the greatest sacrifices in order worthily to represent his master, our great King; he would even suppress his physical pains and moral sufferings.”
“Excuse me, aunt, but I am unable to understand you. I was not aware that my brother had a political mission to fill.”
“And yet there is nothing more simple! Does not your brother, charged with a mission to King Charles II during the absence of the French ambassador Monsieur Croissy, represent his Majesty Louis XIV at London? Consequently, however deep his melancholia may be, is not my nephew bound to conceal it from the eyes of the English court, so as not to be outdone in gracefulness, wit and mirth by the English courtiers, and to continue to eclipse them all in honor of his master? Thus it is that Raoul is fulfilling the duties imposed upon him by his mission to King Charles. But,” added the Marchioness, after this plausible answer to her niece’s objections, and wishing, moreover, to change the subject of a conversation that embarrassed her, “but by the way of the good King Charles — the name of that gallant and joyful prince leads me back to the subject that we wandered from with this long digression upon my nephew. I must repeat to you what I was saying and which your absentmindedness at the moment prevented you from hearing. I was speaking of the beautiful young Breton lady.”
“What did you say about her, aunt?”
“I was saying: Admit that the lot of the beautiful Mademoiselle Kerouaille, who is to-day the Duchess of Portsmouth, and one of the greatest ladies of England, by reason of the favor that she has received, is a lot worthy of envy.”
Bertha of Plouernel shuddered; her beautiful and usually pale visage was suffused by a blush; her black eyebrows contracted; and, gazing at the Marchioness with undisguised amazement, she said:
“Is it to me that you put such a question?”
“What astonishes you, my dear?”
“You ask me whether the lot of Mademoiselle Kerouaille seems to me worthy of being envied?”
“Why, yes, my dear child; the question is quite natural.”
“You, then, despise me!” cried Mademoiselle Plouernel with an outburst of indignation. “You, my father’s sister! Oh, madam — madam!”
“Truly, niece, I drop from the clouds!” answered the Marchioness with profound sincerity. “What! Do I despise you because I mention to you the enviable lot of a noble young girl who has had the signal honor of serving the interests of the great King, our neighbor — and of meriting the affection and favors of such a powerful monarch!”
“Madam,” replied Bertha, interrupting the Marchioness with a trembling voice, “during the nearly eighteen months since I had the misfortune of losing my mother, I have lived with you in Paris or Versailles; I thought you knew me somewhat; I find that I am mistaken, since you look surprised to see me revolt at infamy, and since you dare to ask me such a question.”
“Infamy! In truth, you are losing your mind, my dear niece.”
“Not one, but many infamies,” Bertha of Plouernel proceeded, with biting satire. “Madam, I have no choice but to say so plainly to you. Thanks to the licence in morals that reigns in your salon, at court and everywhere else, I have despite myself learned things that a young girl should never as much as suspect — the principles that guide the conduct of the great world.”
“And what did you learn, niece?”
“Among a thousand other indignities, I learned this, madam: King Charles was still hesitating whether or not to declare war upon the Dutch Republic, where we now are meeting with generous hospitality; Louis XIV thereupon charged the Duchess of Orleans to overcome the indecision of her brother Charles II by whatever means she could. She agreed; departed for London equipped with a considerable sum of money and intentionally leading in her train one of her ladies of honor, a young girl of extraordinary beauty — Mademoiselle Kerouaille. And what was the purpose that caused the Duchess of Orleans to take the handsome girl in her company? It was for the purpose of delivering her to the King in return for his declaration of war upon the Dutch. Lewdness matched with treachery — infamy! Such is the statecraft of these monarchs!”
“One moment, niece. You are mistaken in your appreciations.”
“Madam, I said there was not one but several infamies. Did I exaggerate? Let us number them: speculating upon the dissoluteness of the King of England, Louis XIV sends his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Orleans, to fill the role of a coupler — is not that enough of an infamy? And when we see that princess lowering herself to such an ignoble commerce, towards whom? towards her own brother — is there not in that a double infamy?”
“Once more, my niece, what do you know about the negotiations between princes?”
“Finally, Mademoiselle Kerouaille, an accomplice in the ignominious transaction, sells herself to the King of England and accepts the duchy of Portsmouth as the price of her public shame — a further infamy! Shame upon these execrable beings!”
“You seem to forget that you speak of crowned heads!”
“It is true, madam! I forgot that a Prince of the Catholic Church, Bossuet, the Bishop of Meaux, dared to say, in the very house of God, in the presence of the court, assembled on that occasion to hear the funeral oration on the Duchess of Orleans: ‘She went on a mission to unite two kingdoms by pleasing methods, and her own virtue was the sole mediator between the two Kings.’ Is such language not infamous enough on the lips of a man invested with an august character? Hypocrisy, servility, cowardice — what apanages to a priest who, rather than corrupt, should purify the human race!”
After having first betrayed her sincere astonishment at the vehement indignation of Mademoiselle Plouernel, and after a sense of suppressed anger and even rage succeeded her astonishment, the Marchioness of Tremblay collected herself, reflected for a moment, and promptly imparting to her features the sweetest expression that they could assume, and to her voice the most affectionate accents into which she was capable of modulating it, she rose from her reclining chair and said to her niece, who was still trembling with contempt and disgust:
“Dear child — come to my arms. Let me embrace you — you are an angel.”
Not a little astonished at this outburst of tenderness, the young lady hesitated to respond to the invitation of her aunt, who repeated:
“Yes, come and let me embrace you; you are a noble being, worthy of the name that you carry; you are an angel, an archangel; you have issued triumphant from a trial to which I wished to put you.”
“A trial?” queried Mademoiselle Plouernel without any effort at concealing her incredulity; but immediately after, and yielding to the impulse of all pure and straightforward characters, who are ever more disposed to believe good than evil, Bertha approached the Marchioness, who, taking her niece in her arms, pressed the noble girl to her heart and kissed her effusively.
“Blessed be God! It was only a trial!” repeated the young girl, smiling with gratification and feeling her chest relieved of a heavy weight. “But aunt, dear aunt, I mean not to reprove you — only those are tried who are doubted. Did you doubt me?”
“No; of course not! But in our days one sees a King’s love turn so many young heads, even the most solid, that—”
“And you mistrusted the solidity of mine?”
“However certain I was, I wished, dear niece, to see you prove it in all the luster of good judgment and purity. Only, and neither do I now mean to convey a reproach, I do deplore that a young person of your birth should, as it sometimes happens with you, forget herself to the point of speaking irreverently of the priests, the bishops, the Princes of the Church, and above all of the great King, our master, of whom your brother has the honor of being one of the most faithful, the most devoted servants.”
“Aunt, let us not discuss the worthiness of Bossuet and his fellows, any more than the worthiness of him whom you style your master; he never will be mine. I have but one Master: He thrones in heaven.”
“Do doubt; but after God, come the priests, the mini
sters, the Pope, the bishops, and then comes the King, to whom we owe blind submission, boundless devotion, pious respect.”
“Pious respect! When at Versailles I saw that King promenading in public in one carriage with the Queen his wife and his two mistresses — the old and the new — Mademoiselle La Valiere and Madam Montespan! Is such audacity in bad morals to be respected? No! I shall not respect that infamous King who surrounds himself with high-born courtesans!”
“In truth, my dear, you are losing your reason. The violence of your language! Where can you have drawn such principles from?”
“Excuse my Breton frankness, but I could not respect a person who inspires me with aversion, disgust and contempt. What! That prince knows how his scandalous amours afflict the Queen. He is aware of the bitterness of the rivalry between La Valiere and Montespan! And yet, without pity for the laceration of the hearts of those three women, he forces them to gulp down the affront put upon them, to silently swallow their mutual jealousy and resentment, to smother their shame. He forces them to appear in public face to face; he drags them triumphantly after him as if anxious to glory openly in his double adultery! Ah, I repeat it, that ridiculous self-infatuation, that disregard of all sense of chastity, that brutal disdain for all human feelings, that insolent cynicism towards women — no, that never could inspire me with aught but aversion, contempt and disgust!”
“Oh, my niece, in their fervent adoration of their much beloved sovereign, La Valiere, Montespan and the Queen do as people do who make to God a sacrifice of their pains — they offer their torn hearts to their idol, the handsomest, the greatest King in the whole world!”
“Well, aunt, that theory becomes excessively hyperbolic. Have I not seen him, that ‘great King,’ an undersized man in reality, seeking to add inches to his stature with the aid of immoderately high heels and enormous wigs! Tell me, deprived of his heels, his wigs and, above all, his royal mantle, what, I pray you, is left of the ‘idol’? Why, a little stuffed and groomed crow! For the rest, a good carpet dancer, a still better knight of the carrousel; always in red paint, severe, buttressed in the majesty of his trappings, never laughing out of fear to expose his villainous teeth, otherwise negligent of his appearance and never shaving but every three days, passionately fond of perfumery in order to conceal his bad breath, finally having, under the category of truly ‘great’ nothing to show except his appetite, to judge from his voracity, which I once witnessed at Versailles on a gala day! But raillery carries me away, and I blush, myself,” added Mademoiselle Plouernel, whose features quickly assumed an expression of deep sadness. “Am I ever to forget that my mother’s brother finished his days in a dungeon, the victim of the iniquity of Louis XIV!”
CHAPTER III.
THE HUGUENOT COLONEL.
THE MARCHIONESS OF Tremblay had her secret reasons to suppress her own sentiments, and not to fulminate against what she termed the “enormities of her niece,” who, however, on this occasion, had given stronger vent than ever before to her hostility for the “idol” who was desolating Gaul. Accordingly, Bertha’s aunt contented herself with a few forced smiles, and seeking to give a different turn to the conversation that, besides being generally distasteful to her, threw doubts into her mind concerning the secret plans that she was pursuing, she observed in a mild tone:
“After all, my dear, the unwonted vehemence of your language has its excuse in this, that the contagion of the country on whose shores we suffered shipwreck has smitten you. This wicked little heretical republic, once so severely chastised by Louis XIV, has always held our great King in particular aversion. The heretical and republican pestilence must have mounted to your head; who knows,” she added with an affectation of archness, “but you may come out of the country a full-fledged Huguenot.”
“I should then have, at least, the consolation of knowing that I shall not be the first or only Huguenot in our family,” answered Mademoiselle Plouernel, whose features the line of thought into which her aunt’s words threw her seemed suddenly to overcast with pensiveness; “I would be but following the example of one of our ancestors who was not much of a partisan of royalty. Was not my father’s grandfather a Huguenot? Did not Colonel Plouernel, as he was then called, take part in the religious wars of the last century under the great Coligny, one of whose bravest officers he proved himself? Did he not fight valiantly against the royal and Catholic armies?”
“Alas, it is but too true. The apostasy of that Plouernel is a blot upon our family. He was the youngest son of the family. After his eldest brother, the Count, and the latter’s son, the Viscount, were both killed in the front ranks of the royal and Catholic army, at the battle of Roche-la-Belle, fighting against the rebellious heretics, the Huguenot colonel became by that catastrophe the head of our house, and came into possession of its vast domains. Unfortunately, his son shared the paternal vice of heresy, but at last his grandson, who was my father, re-entered, thanks to God, the bosom of the Catholic Church, and resumed the observance of our old traditions of love, respect and loyalty to our Kings. Let us leave the two Plouernels, the only two unworthy members of our family, buried in their double felony. We should endeavor to forget that the two ever lived.”
“It goes against my grain, aunt, to contradict you, but I can assure you that Colonel Plouernel, by reason of his courage, his virtues and the nobility of his character, is perhaps the only male member of whom our family may be justly proud.”
As Mademoiselle Plouernel was saying these last words she happened to cast her eyes in the direction of the net awning that sheltered from the rays of the sun the wide balcony near which she was seated. She remained silent for a moment, while her eyes, looking intently into the space that stretched before Monsieur Tilly’s house, seemed to follow with so much interest someone who was passing on the street, that, half rising from her easy-chair, the Marchioness inquisitively asked her niece:
“What is it you see out there? You seem to be absorbed in deep contemplation.”
“I am looking at the young mariner whom you know,” answered Bertha without evincing the slightest embarrassment; “he was just passing with a grey-haired man, I doubt not his father; there is a marked resemblance between the two. Both have very sympathetic ways and faces.”
“Of what mariner are you speaking, if you please? I know nobody of that class.”
“Why, aunt, can you have so soon forgotten the services rendered us when we were in mortal danger — you who believe in death? Would not the brigantine on which we embarked from Calais have foundered with every living soul on board, had it not been for the heroic action of that young mariner, French like ourselves, who braved the tempest in order to come to our aid, and snatch us from the imminent danger that we ran?”
“Well! And did not Abbot Boujaron give the mariner ten louis in my name, in payment for the service that he rendered us? We are quits with him.”
“It is true — and immediately upon receiving the remuneration, which went unaccompanied by a single courteous word, or a single expression that came from the heart, the young mariner turned, threw the ten louis into the cap of an invalid sailor who was begging on the wharf, and our generous rescuer said with a smile to the poor man: ‘Take this, my friend, here are ten louis that Monsieur the Abbot gives you — for you to pray for the absolution of his sins; we all need being prayed for, abbots as much as anybody else.’ And with a respectful salute he walked away.”
“And that was what I call a piece of extreme impertinence!” interjected the Marchioness, interrupting her niece. “The idea of giving the ten louis to the beggar to pray for the absolution of the Abbot’s sins! Was not that to insinuate that the holy man had a heavily loaded conscience? I was not aware of the fellow’s effrontery and ingratitude; I was still too sea-sick and under the effect of the fright we went through. Well, then, to return to the salt water rat, the fellow’s disdain for the remuneration offered him, cancels even more completely whatever debt we may have owed him.”
“That
is not my opinion, aunt. Accordingly I requested our host, Monsieur Tilly, to be kind enough to ascertain the name and address of our brave countryman, who can only be a temporary resident of Delft — to judge by what has been reported to me.”
“And for what purpose did you make the kind inquiry, dear niece?”
“I wish to commission Monsieur Tilly to assure our generous rescuer of our gratitude, and to ask him to excuse the strange conduct of Monsieur the Abbot towards him — excuses that, I must admit, I had not the courage to offer on the spot; I felt so confused at the humiliation that he was put to, and, besides, I felt too indignant at the conduct of the Abbot to trust myself to speak to him. Just now, as I saw him crossing the square—”
“You probably had a wish to call him from the window?” asked the Marchioness suffocating with repressed anger. “Truly, dear niece, you are losing your head more and more. Such a disregard for propriety on the part of a person of your quality!”
“I never thought of calling our countryman out of the window; I was only sorry that Monsieur Tilly did not happen to be with us at the time. He might have gone out after him and asked him to step in.”
“My dear, what you say upon this subject is so absurd, that I even prefer to hear your praises of Colonel Plouernel — although that topic is not of the most edifying.”
“Nothing easier than to accommodate you, aunt,” answered Bertha with a smile that seemed to foreshadow numerous subjects for the suffocation of the Marchioness. “In a manuscript left by Colonel Plouernel under the title of ‘Instructions to His Son’ a most extraordinary fact was recorded. In reminding his son of the antiquity of his family, which goes back to the time of the conquest of Gaul by the Franks, the colonel added the natural observation that there are no conquerors without conquered, and that the Franks, from whom we of the noble race claim to descend, despoiled and then enslaved the Gauls. He then proceeded to say that a family of the Gallic race, a descendant of whom the colonel became acquainted with at the siege of La Rochelle, handed down to its own members from age to age, first, from the time of the conquest of Gaul by the Romans, and then, from the conquest of the country by the Franks, a series of legends that chronicled the trials and misfortunes undergone by the several and succeeding members of that family, which, strange coincidence! on the occasion of the frequent uprisings of the enslaved Gauls, more than once fought arms in hand and victoriously against the seigneurs of our own Frankish house! Our ancestor, the colonel, approves and extols the right of conquered peoples to rise in insurrection.
