Part 11

"No, my dear; I am laughing at the Catholic Church, not at you. The Jansenists are a sort of heretic-Catholics, whom all real Catholics agree to call very wicked. They hold all manner of wrong doctrines, according to the Bishops and my Lady-Mother; and they lead lives of such austerity and purity as to put half the saints in the calendar to shame. Now this very Cousin Charlotte of mine, who sits there looking so quiet and saintly, with her blue eyes cast down, and her hands folded on that sombre black gown,--when my mother was a girl, she was the gayest of the gay. About fifteen years since she became a Jansenist. From that day she has been a very saint. She practices all kinds of austerities, and is behaved to almost as if she were a professed nun. Of course, in the eyes of all true Catholics, her Jansenism is her worst and wickedest action. I don't quite see myself how anything can be so very wrong which makes such saints of such sinners. But you see I am a complete _extern_, as the religious call it."

"I should like to know something more about these people, Philip. What doctrines do they hold?"

"Now, what a remarkable attraction anything wrong and perilous has for a woman!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram, with the air of a philosopher. "Well, my dear, I have only heard one; but I believe they have a sort of confession or creed, indicating the points whereon they differ from the Church. That one is, that there is no such thing as grace of congruity, and that men are saved by the favor of God only, and by no merit of their own."

"But, Philip, that is the Gospel!" exclaimed Celia, turning round to look at him. "That is what we Protestants believe."

"Is it, my dear? Well, I have no objection. (Now, return to your condition of a statue, or you will have a lecture on awkwardness and want of repose in your manners. Oh! I know all about that. Do you think I was born such a finished courtier as you see me?) As to merit, I have lived long enough to find out one thing, and that is, that people who are always talking of merit are generally least particular about acquiring it, while those who believe that their good deeds are worth nothing, have the largest stock of them."

"That is natural," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the lady who stands on my mother's left--the one in primrose. Do you see her?

"I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the others. Who is she?"

"The Marchioness de Simiane,[2] daughter of the Countess de Grignan, and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of the people in this room."

"What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!"

"My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is not one of them who has a heart, my dear--merely lumps of painted stone, as I told you. These are not men and women--they are only walking statues."

"Do you call that cross little man a walking statue?" asked Celia, smiling.

"He!--scarcely; he is too intensely disagreeable."

"I should rather like to see the lady to whom you said that man took a fancy, Philip. Is she here?"

"Ah! my Sister," answered Philip, in a graver voice than any in which he had yet spoken, "you must go to the royal vaults at St. Denis, and search among the coffins, to do that. She was buried twenty years ago.[3] She was so unfortunate as to have a heart, and he has a piece of harder marble even than usual. So when the two articles met, the one broke the other."

"I never can tell whether you are jesting or serious, Philip."

"A little of both generally, my dear. Don't lose those ladies who are going through the courtesying process now--they are distinguished people. The elder one is the Duchess du Maine,[4] one of the daughters of the Prince of Condé, who is emphatically '_the_ Prince' in French society. The younger is Mademoiselle de Noailles,[5] the daughter of the Duke de Noailles--a famous belle, as you may see. She will probably be disposed of in a year or two to some Prince or Duke--whoever offers her father the best lump of pin-money. We don't sell young ladies in the market here, as they do in Barbary; we manage the little affair in private. But 'tis a sale, for all that."

"It sounds very bad when you look at it in that light, Philip."

"A good many things do so, my dear, when you strip off the gilding. His Majesty gave a cut of his walking-stick once to a gentleman with whom he was in a passion, and was considered to have honored him by that gracious notice. Now, if he had been the Baron's son, and the other the King, whipping to death would have been thought too good for him after such an insult to Majesty. We live in a droll world, my Sister."

"But, Philip, there must be differences between people--God has made it so."

"Aren't there?--with a vengeance! On my word, here comes Bontems, the King's head _valet-de-chambre_. Now we shall have some fun. You will learn the kind of differences there are between people--Louis XIV. and you, to wit."

"What do you mean by fun?"

"You shall hear. Here is a chair, Monsieur Bontems, and I am rejoiced to see you."

"Sir, I am your most obedient servant," responded a dapper little gentleman, dressed in black and silver, with a long sword by his side, and large silver buckles in his shoes. He sat down on the seat which Philip indicated.

"I trust that His Most Christian Majesty enjoys good health this evening?" began that young gentleman, with an air of the greatest interest in the reply to his question.

"Sir, I am happy to say that His Majesty condescends to be in the enjoyment of most excellent health."

"Very condescending of him, I am sure," commented Philip, gravely. "May I venture to hope that His Royal Highness the Duke de Berry[6] is equally condescending?"

"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, looking much grieved, "I regret exceedingly to state that Monseigneur the Duke is not in perfect health. On the contrary, he has this very day been constrained to take medicine."

"How deeply distressing!" lamented Mr. Philip Ingram, putting on a face to match his words. "And might I ask the kind of medicine which had the felicity of a passage down Monseigneur's most distinguished throat, and the honor of relieving his august sufferings?"

"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, not in the least perceiving that he was being laughed at, "it was a tisane of camomile flowers."

"I unfeignedly trust that it has not affected his illustrious appetite?"

"Sir," was the reply, always commencing by the same word, "I am much troubled at the remembrance that His Royal Highness's appetite at supper was extremely bad. He ate only two plates of soup, one fowl, fifty heads of asparagus, and a small cherry tart."

"Ah! it must have been very bad indeed," said Mr. Philip, with a melancholy air. "He generally eats about a couple of geese and half a dozen pheasants, does he not?"[7]

"Sir?" said Monsieur Bontems, interrogatively. "I am happy to say, Sir, that all the members of the Royal House have tolerably good appetites; but scarcely--two geese and six pheasants!--no, Sir!"

"Yes, I have gathered that they have, from what I have heard you say," answered Philip, gravely. "Monsieur Bontems, I am anxious to inform my sister--who speaks no French--of the manner in which His Majesty is served throughout the day. I am not sure that I remember all points correctly. It is your duty, is it not, to present His Majesty's wig in the morning, and to buckle his left garter?"

"The left, Sir?" asked Monsieur Bontems, somewhat indignantly. "The right! Any of His Majesty's ordinary valets may touch the left--it is my high office to attend upon the august right leg of my most venerated Sovereign!"

"I beg your pardon a hundred thousand times!"

"You have it, Sir," said Monsieur Bontems affably. "A young gentleman who shows so much interest in His Majesty's and Monseigneur's health may be pardoned even that. But you are a little mistaken in saying 'buckle.' His Majesty is frequently pleased to clasp his own garters; it is my privilege to unclasp them in the evening."

"Would you kindly explain to me, that I may translate to my sister, His Majesty's mode of life during each day?"

"Sir, I shall have the utmost pleasure," replied Monsieur Bontems, laying his hand Upon his heart. "Madam," he continued, addressing himself to Celia, though she could understand him only through the medium of Philip, "first thing in the morning, when I rise from the watch-bed which I occupy in the august chamber of my Sovereign, having noiselessly dressed in the antechamber, I and Monsieur De St. Quentin, first gentleman of the chamber, reverently approach his royal bed, and presume to arouse our Sovereign from his slumbers. Then Monsieur De St. Quentin turns his back to the curtains, and placing his hands behind him, respectfully presents the royal wigs, properly curled and dressed, for His Majesty's selection."

"Pardon my interrupting you; I thought the King's attendants never turned their backs upon him?"

"Sir, His Majesty cannot be seen without a wig! Profanity!" cried Monsieur Bontems, looking horrified. "This is the only part of our service in which we are constrained to turn our ignoble backs upon our most illustrious Master."

"I beg your pardon, and understand you now. Pray proceed."

"When the King has selected the wig which he is pleased to wear, St. Quentin puts away the others; and then, His Majesty placing his wig on his august head with his own royal hands, he indicates to me by a signal that he is ready for the curtains to be undrawn. As soon as I have undrawn the curtains, there is the familiar _entrée_. This is attended by the Princes of the Blood, and by His Majesty's physicians. Then I pour into the hands of my Sovereign a few drops of spirits of wine, and the Duke d'Aumont,[8] first Lord of the Bedchamber, offers the holy water. Now His Majesty rises, and I present his slippers. After putting on his dressing-gown, if it be winter, His Majesty goes to the fire. The first _entrée_ follows. The King shaves on alternate days. Monsieur De St. Quentin has the high honor of removing the royal beard, and washing with spirits of wine and water our Sovereign's august chin. I hold the glass, while His Majesty wipes his face with a rich towel. Then, while His Majesty's dresses, the _grande entrée_ takes place. His Most Christian Majesty is assisted in dressing by the Grand Master of the Robes, Monsieur d'Aumont, a Marquis (graciously chosen by the Sovereign), Monsieur De St. Quentin, my humble self, three valets, and two pages. Thus, as you will see, many attendants of the Crown are allowed the felicity of approaching near to the person of our most illustrious Master."

"Too many cooks spoiling the broth, I should say," was the translator's comment. "Fancy ten people helping a fellow to put his coat on!"

"His Majesty's shoes and garters are clasped with diamonds. At this point the king condescends to breakfast. On an enamelled salver a loaf is brought by the officers of the buttery, and a folded napkin on another: the cup-bearer presents to the Duke d'Aumont a golden cup, into which he pours a small quantity of wine and water, and the second cup-bearer makes the assay. The goblet, carefully rinsed and replenished, is now presented to His Majesty upon a golden saucer. The napkin is offered by the first Prince of the Blood present at the _entrée_. His Majesty then intrusts to my hands the reliquary which he wears about his neck, and I carefully pass it to one of the lower attendants, who carries it to the royal closet, and remains there in charge of it. The royal shirt is then presented--by the Grand Master of the Robes, if no person of more distinction be present; but if any more august persons have attended the _entrée_, it is passed on till it reaches the first Prince of the Blood. I assure you, on frosty winter days, I have known it perfectly cold on reaching His Majesty (though always carefully warmed), the persons of distinction through whose hands it had to pass being so numerous."

"Ah! 'Pride costs more than hunger, thirst, or cold,'" observed Mr. Philip Ingram. "That is a copy I had set me ages ago. But what a very cool proceeding!"

"When His Majesty's lace cravat is presented, he is pleased himself to indicate the person who shall have the honor of tying it. Then I bring him the overcoat which he wore on the previous day, and with his own august hands he removes from the pockets such articles as he is pleased to retain. Lastly, Monsieur De St. Quentin presents to him, on an enamelled salver, two handkerchiefs laced with superb point. Now His Majesty returns to his _ruelle_[9] for his private devotions. Two cushions are placed there, upon which His Majesty condescends to kneel. Here he prays aloud, all the Cardinals and Bishops in the chamber following his royal accents in lower tones."

"I hope he learns his prayers by heart, then, or all his Cardinals following will put him out abominably!" was the interpolation this time.

"Oh dear, Philip!" murmured Celia, "it reminds me of Daniel and Darius."

"'Save of thee, O King?'[10] No, he is a little better than that."

"Our Sovereign," pursued Monsieur Bontems, "now receives the envoys of foreign powers, not one of which powers is worthy to compete with our august Master."

"I say, draw that mild!" objected Mr. Philip Ingram.

"Then he passes into his cabinet, and issues his orders for the day; when all retire but the Blood, and a few other highly distinguished persons. After an interval of repose, His Majesty attends mass."

"How sadly he must want his repose!"

"After mass, and a visit to the council-chamber, at one o'clock His Majesty dines. This is either _au petit couvert_, or _au grand couvert_; the _grands couverts_ are rare. His Majesty commonly dines alone in his own cabinet, at a small table, three courses and a dessert being served. Monsieur de St. Quentin announces the repast, and His Majesty takes his seat. If the Grand Chamberlain be there, he waits on the Sovereign; when he is absent, this is the privilege of Monsieur de St. Quentin. Another interval of repose ensues before His Majesty drives out. He frequently condescends at this time to amuse himself with his favorite dogs. Then he changes his dress, and drives or hunts. On returning, he again changes his attire, and after a short period in his cabinet, repairs to the apartments of Madame de Maintenon, where he remains until ten, the hour of supper. At a quarter past ten His Majesty enters the supper-room, during which interval the officers have made the assay"--

"What is the assay?" asked Celia of Philip, who repeated the question.

"The assay," said Monsieur Bontems, condescending to explain, "is the testing of different matters, to see that no attempt has been made upon the most sacred life of His Majesty. There is the assay of the plates, which are rubbed with bread and salt; the knife, the fork, the spoon, and the toothpicks, which will be used by our Sovereign. All these are rubbed with bread and salt, afterwards eaten by the officers of the assay, to make sure that no deleterious matter has been applied to these articles. Every dish brought to the royal table is tested by the officers ere it may be set before His Majesty, and the dishes are brought in by the comptroller-general, an officer of the pantry, a comptroller of the buttery, and an equerry of the kitchen, preceded and followed by guards, whose duty it is to prevent all manner of tampering with the meats destined for the King."

"Poor man!" said Celia, compassionately; "I am glad to be beneath all that caution and preparation."

"This done," proceeded Monsieur Bontems, "the house-steward enters, with two ushers bearing flambeaux. Then comes His Most Christian Majesty. All the Princes and Princesses of France are already standing round the table. His Majesty most graciously desires them to be seated. Six nobles stand at each end of the table. When His Majesty condescends to drink, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'Drink for the King!' whereupon the officers of the cellar approach with an enamelled goblet and two decanters. The cup-bearer pours out, the officers taste. The cup-bearer presents the goblet to the Sovereign, and as he raises it with his illustrious hand to his august lips, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'The King drinks!' and the whole company bow to His Majesty."

"What a tremendous bore it must be!" was Mr. Philip's comment. "How can the poor fellow ever get his supper eaten?"

"His Majesty commonly begins supper with three or four platesful of different soups. Some light meat follows--a chicken, a pheasant, a partridge or two--then a heavier dish, such as beef or mutton. The King concludes his repast with a few little delicacies, such as salad, pastry, and sweetmeats.[11] When he wishes to wipe his hands, three Dukes and a Prince of the Blood present him with a damp napkin; the dry one which follows I have the honor to offer. His Majesty usually drinks about three times during supper."

"How much at a time?" inquired Philip, with an air of deep interest.

"Sir," replied Monsieur Bontems, gravely, "His Majesty's custom in this respect somewhat varies. The goblet holds about half-a-pint, and the King rarely empties it at a draught."

"A pint and a quarter, call it," said Philip, reflectively.

"After supper, His Majesty proceeds to his bedchamber, where he dismisses the greater number of his guests; he then passes on to his cabinet, followed by the Princes and Princesses. About midnight he feeds his dogs."

"Does he feed them himself?"

"Sir, there are occasions upon which those indescribably happy animals have the honor of receiving morsels from His Majesty's own hand. The King now returns to his bed-chamber, and the _petit coucher_ commences. An arm-chair is prepared for him near the fire, and the _en-cas_ is placed upon a table near the bed. This is a small repast, prepared lest it should be His Majesty's pleasure to demand food during the night. It is most frequently a bowl of soup, a cold roast fowl, bread, wine, and water."

"And how many Dukes are required to give him those?"

"Sir, my humble services are esteemed sufficient."

"He appears to be much less august at some moments than others," satirically remarked the translator.

"When our Sovereign enters his chamber, he hands to me his watch and reliquary, and delivers to Monsieur d'Aumont his waistcoat, cravat, and ribbon. Two valets and two pages assist us in the removal of the garments honored by His Majesty's wear. When the King is ready, I lift the candle-stick, and deliver it to the nobleman indicated by my Sovereign for that unparalleled honor. All persons now quit the chamber save the candle-bearer, the physician, and myself. His Majesty selects the dress which he will wear the next morning, and gets into bed."

"Can he get into bed by himself? I should have thought it would have required five Dukes and ten Marquises to help him."

"After the physician has visited his august patient, he and the candle-bearer retire; I close the curtains, and, turning my back to the royal couch, with my hands behind me, await the pleasure of my Sovereign. It is to me that he delivers the wig, passing it outside the curtain with his own illustrious hand. I now extinguish the candles, light the night-lights, and take possession of the watch-bed."

"I wonder if you don't occasionally faint under such a weight of honor--and bother," observed Mr. Philip Ingram, not to Monsieur Bontems. "Well, now we have got His Most Christian Majesty in bed, let him stay there. Monsieur Bontems, I am unspeakably indebted to you for your highly-interesting account, and shall never forget it as long as I live. I beg you will not allow me to detain you further from the company, who are earnestly desirous of your enchanting conversation, though less sensible of your merits than I am."

Monsieur Bontems laid both hands upon his heart, and made three bows.

"Sir, I beg you will not depreciate your high qualities. Sir, I take the utmost delight in conversing with you."

And the head-valet of the chamber allowed himself to be absorbed among the general throng.

"Well, is he not a comical specimen?" said Philip to Celia. "He often makes me laugh till I am exhausted; and the beauty of it is that he never finds out at what one is laughing. And to think who it is that they worship with all these rites--an old man of seventy-four, with one foot in the grave, who has never been any better than he should be. Really, it reminds one of Herod Agrippa and them of Tyre and Sidon!"[12]

"'Thou shalt honor the face of the old man,'"[13] whispered Celia, softly.

"My dear," said Philip, "I don't complain of their honoring him. Let them honor him as much as they like--he is their King, and they ought to do. But what we have just heard is not honoring him, to my thinking--it is teasing and worshipping him. I assure you I pity the poor fellow with all my heart. He must have a most uncomfortable time of it. No, if I were to envy any man, it would not be Louis XIV."

"Who would it be, Philip?" asked Celia, with a smile.

"Simeon Stylites, perhaps," said Philip, drily. "I would quite as soon be the one as the other!"

"I don't know who he was," replied Celia.

"A gentleman of the olden time, who worked out his salvation for forty years on the top of a tall pillar," was the answer, accompanied by an expression of countenance which Celia had seen before in Philip, and could not understand. "Are you tired?" he added, suddenly.

"Scarcely, yet," she answered; "it is all so new to me. But what time is it, Philip?"

Philip pulled out a watch about three inches in diameter.

"Ten minutes to one."

"Do you mean to say it is one o'clock in the morning?" asked Celia, in a voice of unmitigated amazement and horror.

"It certainly is not one o'clock in the afternoon," replied Philip, with much gravity.

"I had no idea how late it was! Let me go, Philip, please do."

And Celia made her escape rather hastily. But Lady Ingram was not justified in saying that nobody would miss her, as she would have seen if she had noticed the lost and _ennuyé_ look of Mr. Philip Ingram after the disappearance of Celia.

[1] Antoine Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Peguilin and Duke de Lauzun: born about May 1633; imprisoned from 1671 to 1681; created Duke 1692; married, May 21, 1695, Geneviève Marie de Durfort, daughter of Maréchal de Lorges; died November 19, 1723, aged ninety.

[2] Pauline, daughter of François d'Adhémar, Count de Grignan, and Françoise Marguerite de Sévigné: born at Paris, 1674; married, November 29, 1695, Louis Marquis de Simiane; died July 3 or 13, 1737.