The Refugees - Arthur Conan Doyle

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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.

      Chapter 5.

       Children of Belial

       Table of Contents

      The elderly Huguenot had stood silent after his repulse by the king, with his eyes cast moodily downwards, and a face in which doubt, sorrow, and anger contended for the mastery. He was a very large, gaunt man, raw-boned and haggard, with a wide forehead, a large, fleshy nose, and a powerful chin. He wore neither wig nor powder, but Nature had put her own silvering upon his thick grizzled locks, and the thousand puckers which clustered round the edges of his eyes, or drew at the corners of his mouth, gave a set gravity to his face which needed no device of the barber to increase it. Yet in spite of his mature years, the swift anger with which he had sprung up when the king refused his plaint, and the keen fiery glance which he had shot at the royal court as they filed past him with many a scornful smile and whispered gibe at his expense, all showed that he had still preserved something of the strength and of the spirit of his youth. He was dressed as became his rank, plainly and yet well, in a sad-coloured brown kersey coat with silver-plated buttons, knee-breeches of the same, and white woollen stockings, ending in broad-toed black leather shoes cut across with a great steel buckle. In one hand he carried his low felt hat, trimmed with gold edging, and in the other a little cylinder of paper containing a recital of his wrongs, which he had hoped to leave in the hands of the king’s secretary.

      His doubts as to what his next step should be were soon resolved for him in a very summary fashion. These were days when, if the Huguenot was not absolutely forbidden in France, he was at least looked upon as a man who existed upon sufferance, and who was unshielded by the laws which protected his Catholic fellow-subjects. For twenty years the stringency of the persecution had increased until there was no weapon which bigotry could employ, short of absolute expulsion, which had not been turned against him. He was impeded in his business, elbowed out of all public employment, his house filled with troops, his children encouraged to rebel against him, and all redress refused him for the insults and assaults to which he was subjected. Every rascal who wished to gratify his personal spite, or to gain favour with his bigoted superiors, might do his worst upon him without fear of the law. Yet, in spite of all, these men clung to the land which disowned them, and, full of the love for their native soil which lies so deep in a Frenchman’s heart, preferred insult and contumely at home to the welcome which would await them beyond the seas. Already, however, the shadow of those days was falling upon them when the choice should no longer be theirs.

      Two of the king’s big blue-coated guardsmen were on duty at that side of the palace, and had been witnesses to his unsuccessful appeal. Now they tramped across together to where he was standing, and broke brutally into the current of his thoughts.

      “Now, Hymn-books,” said one gruffly, “get off again about your business.”

      “You’re not a very pretty ornament to the king’s pathway,” cried the other, with a hideous oath. “Who are you, to turn up your nose at the king’s religion, curse you?”

      The old Huguenot shot a glance of anger and contempt at them, and was turning to go, when one of them thrust at his ribs with the butt end of his halberd.

      “Take that, you dog!” he cried. “Would you dare to look like that at the king’s guard?”

      “Children of Belial,” cried the old man, with his hand pressed to his side, “were I twenty years younger you would not have dared to use me so.”

      “Ha! you would still spit your venom, would you? That is enough, Andre! He has threatened the king’s guard. Let us seize him and drag him to the guard-room.”

      The two soldiers dropped their halberds and rushed upon the old man, but, tall and strong as they were, they found it no easy matter to secure him. With his long sinewy arms and his wiry frame, he shook himself clear of them again and again, and it was only when his breath had failed him that the two, torn and panting, were able to twist round his wrists, and so secure him. They had hardly won their pitiful victory, however, before a stern voice and a sword flashing before their eyes, compelled them to release their prisoner once more.

      It was Captain de Catinat, who, his morning duties over, had strolled out on to the terrace, and had come upon this sudden scene of outrage. At the sight of the old man’s face he gave a violent start, and drawing his sword, had rushed forward with such fury that the two guardsmen not only dropped their victim, but, staggering back from the threatening sword-point, one of them slipped and the other rolled over him, a revolving mass of blue coat and white kersey.

      “Villains!” roared De Catinat. “What is the meaning of this?”

      The two had stumbled on to their feet again, very shamefaced and ruffled.

      “If you please, captain,” said one, saluting, “this is a Huguenot who abused the royal guard.”

      “His petition had been rejected by the king, captain, and yet he refused to go.”

      De Catinat was white with fury. “And so, when a French citizen has come to have a word with the great master of his country, he must be harassed by two Swiss dogs like you?” he cried. “By my faith, we shall soon see about that!”

      He drew a little silver whistle from his pocket, and at the shrill summons an old sergeant and half a dozen soldiers came running from the guard-room.

      “Your names?” asked the captain sternly.

      “Andre Meunier.”

      “And yours?”

      “Nicholas Klopper.”

      “Sergeant, you will arrest these men, Meunier and Klopper.”

      “Certainly, captain,” said the sergeant, a dark grizzled old soldier of Conde and Turenne.

      “See

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