The Cat and the King Read online

  “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!

  2

  GABRIELLE’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 ha
d 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:

  “What a happy day for Conti! He must be quite overjoyed.”

  “Isn’t it splendid, dear Madame, that we should have the House of Bourbon represented on two thrones?”

  “Do you think the new king will have many regrets at leaving poor old Versailles?”

  “Surely not! With such a glorious future he will forget us all in a week’s time!”

  “What will he call himself? François premier? Of course! As gallant as his namesake.”

  Madame la Duchesse suddenly threw back her head and laughed with a gaiety it was hard to believe was feigned.

  “I don’t suppose there are many of us here who would be difficult to forget!” she exclaimed. “No, if I were going to Warsaw, I should have no need of amnesia. The only thing I do not envy my fortunate cousin is the loss of his sovereign. How can it be a happy event to leave the court of the king you all profess to adore?”

  When the princesse de Conti, tiny, dark and dour, approached the circle, Madame la Duchesse rose and curtsied low to the new queen. The latter’s eyes glittered.

  “You must pity us, dear cousin,” she said with a simpering smile. “We leave you in God’s country while we travel north to the land of ice and snow! How shall we manage without your wit and warmth?”

  “Ah, my dear, you will be in Poland what you have been here: the winter queen!”

  It was typical of her wit. Everyone knew that her term referred to the sexual temperature of Conti’s wife.

  But I was now in for a surprise. As Madame la Duchesse left the group and passed me, she rapped me lightly on the knuckles with her fan and indicated with a brief but imperious nod that I was to follow her. In the gallery, she seated herself on a divan and pointed to the chair beside it.

  “I have a bone to pick with you, Monsieur de Saint-Simon. You were sitting there as if you were at a comedy. As if I were putting it all on!”

  “If it was a performance, it was a splendid one! If not, it was a touching tribute to a great prince. Either way, I applaud.”

  “Why should I not be glad to see the prince de Conti king of Poland? Do you think it is pleasant for me to see a man of his ability wasting his time at court? Do you think I care nothing for his advancement? For his glory?”

  “I think you will miss him. As will we all.”

  “Of course, I shall miss him! I shall miss him horribly. You know all about that. You’re his friend. But you think I care only for my own satisfaction. It never occurs to you that I could put his best interests ahead of myself!”

  I looked at those dark flashing eyes and marveled at her candor. “You honor me with your confidence, Madame.”

  “And you wonder why? I’ll tell you. It’s because you hold Conti in your heart.”

  I hesitated. “He does me the honor to call me his friend.”

  “Friend? I know nothing about friendship. I know about love. You and I love Conti.”

  I stared at the duchess in alarm and fascination. What on earth did she mean? And how did she know about my emotions? I had told Conti, of course, about my devotion to my father and to the due de Beauvillier. Perhaps he had told her about my cult of loyalty. But how could she equate this with her passion for Conti? And yet—somehow—as I looked into those mocking, smiling eyes, I seemed to sense a depth behind them.

  “How do you mean...” I stammered, “when you say that I... love the prince?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean like his pages, if that’s what worries you,” she replied with a snort. “I don’t accuse you of that.”

  “Surely, ma’am, you don’t believe such gossip!” I exclaimed, scandalized at the casual way in which she threw this off.

  “Never mind what I believe. What have such matters to do with me? I’ve spent my life at court, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s not to let the few good things that happen to me be spoiled by the bad. Conti and I, that’s a box, a precious one, and I keep it tightly closed, except when I open the lid just a crack, like this, when I’m talking to you; and that’s only because he said I could trust you! But you don’t think I pop my husband into that box, or his wife, or my children, or his? Or anyone or anything else? Never! I’m not such an ass.”

  “Why do you tell me all this?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Because when he goes to Poland, you and he will write each other, and I will give you messages. Oh, don’t look at me that way! I shan’t shock you. You won’t have to put in anything you don’t choose. And he will do the same, in his letters to you. There! Does that disgrace you? Does that make you a bawd? Think of it, my dear duke; I may never see him again!”

  Her eyes sparkled, but not with tears, and I took her hand and raised it g
ravely to my lips.

  “If he becomes a great king,” I murmured fervently, “I know where he will have learned his trade.”

  “It’s a scene from Corneille, isn’t it?” she replied, but then she spoiled it all with that terrible mocking laugh. I felt like a fool.

  “I may not, after all, be available for your correspondence,” I observed dryly.

  “Ah, traitor, why?”

  “Because I may wish to share his glory!”

  “You mean you want to go with him?” Madame la Duchesse, raising her eyebrows starkly, actually looked like her father. “Not till we tell you, anyway. We need you here.”

  3

  THE PRINCE DE CONTI departed for Poland, with Savonne on his staff, for Madame de Maintenon finally let him go. For some weeks we had no news, but after they were established in Warsaw I heard regularly from both. The news was not good. The elector of Saxony had entered the contest for the throne and had gathered considerable support from the nobles in the north. There seemed a distinct possibility of civil war. My information was slower than the official couriers because my correspondents had to wait until a messenger whom they trusted was going to France. We could not take the risk of being opened by the king’s police spies.

  Conti’s letters to me, which I turned over to Madame la Duchesse, were eloquent. He seemed thoroughly absorbed in the business of winning adherents, and supplied me with all kinds of interesting details about politics in that murky, northern world, but each letter invariably ended with a nostalgic evocation of what he had left behind at Versailles.

  “Perhaps it is just as well that things ended when they did. I wonder how much longer the envious court would have allowed us to go on as we were going. People resent what is unique. They could see that between her and myself there was something that never could have been engendered between either of us and any other person, something that seemed to have no real relation to either of us taken alone.”

  It was perfectly true. There was a glow between Conti and Madame la Duchesse that had seemed at times to awe even their angry and jealous spouses, that had almost silenced the objections even of Madame de Maintenon and the king. Simply to see them together in the garden at Marly, or sitting beside each other at the comedy, smiling and chatting like the most proper in-laws, was to receive the impression of a bond that was all the stronger for having been adapted to the public gaze. Although they were both intensely physical and passionate beings, they seemed to communicate on a level above or beyond the senses. Perhaps that was simply because they made the rest of us feel a bit quaint, a bit ridiculous, even, at times, irrelevant. The most striking thing about their passion was that it appeared to dignify them. Madame la Duchesse seemed less trival, less malicious, certainly less heartless, when she was with Conti, whereas he with her seemed stronger, more resolute, less inclined to see the world as a decaying and purposeless planet.