Chapter IX: Inside and Outside

"But sure he is the Prince of the world; let his nobility remain in his Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some, that humble themselves, may; but the many will be too chill and tender; and they'll be for the flowery way, that leads to the broad gate and the great fire."

--SHAKSPEARE, "_All's Well that Ends Well_," Act iv. Scene 5.

"My Dearest Mother,--(For I cannot bear to call you anything else)--I have so much to tell you that I know not where to begin. I am now, as you will see by my date, at St. Germains, which is a rather pretty place. My step-mother is kind to me, in her way, which is not exactly your way; but I am quite comfortable, so pray be not troubled about me. I like Philip, my younger brother, very much; he oft reminds me of Charley. My elder brother, Edward, I have not yet seen, he being now absent from home. I have seen the Pretender and the late Queen Mary,[1] both of whom are very tall persons, having dark hair and eyes. I have made no friends here but one; you shall hear about her shortly. So much for my news.

"And now I wish very much to hear yours. Are you all well? And pray tell me anything of note concerning any person whom I know. All news from England has great interest for me now.

"Pray give all manner of loving messages for me. Tell my dear father that the people here hunt a great deal, but always stags. There is no cock-fighting, at which I am glad, for 'tis but a cruel sport to my thinking; nor no baiting nor wrestling, but a great deal of duelling. I like the French gentlemen ill, and the ladies worse. Bell should come here to see the modes; 'twould give her infinite pleasure. I can speak French tolerable well now, and if my father and you choose, could teach Lucy on my return. For I am looking forward to that, Mother dear--sometimes very much indeed. To think that 'tis six months, nearly, since I saw one of you! and if you have writ I have not had your letters. If aught should bring Harry to Paris, do pray bid him visit me; I should be so infinitely glad. Pray give my love to Cicely, and tell her I would she knew my woman here, whom I like mightily, and so would she. I hope Charley is a good boy, and that Lucy tries to fill my place with you. At the end of this month, if my Lady Ingram say nought, I shall ask her when she will part with me. I beg that you will write to me, if 'twere but a line. Indeed I should like dearly to hear from every one of you. Anything you like to write will be infinitely welcome to--

"Madam,
"Your dutiful child and faithful servant,
"CELIA INGRAM.[2]

"ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE,
_May_ 15, 1712."

Celia folded her letter, addressed it, and sat thinking. How would they receive it? She pictured Lucy rushing into the parlor, waving it above her head, and Isabella languidly rebuking her for her rough entrance. She could guess the Squire's comments on many things she had said, and she knew that the very mention of the Pretender would call forth some strong participles. Madam Passmore would fold up the letter with "Dear child!" and drop it into her ample pocket. Cicely would courtesy and ask if Mrs. Celia was a-coming. One month more, and then surely Lady Ingram must be satisfied. But then came another thought. She would be very sorry to leave Philip and Patient, even to return to Ashcliffe. Would Lady Ingram be induced to let her take Patient with her? As to Philip, surely he could visit her if he chose.

"Mademoiselle!" said the voice of Thérèse beside her.

Celia turned, and saw that Thérèse was holding a little pink note, which having delivered, the French maid departed. She broke the seal, and discovered to her surprise that the note was from Lady Ingram herself. It ran thus:

"MY DAUGHTER,--I shall not be able to receive you this afternoon, as I am suffering from megrims.[3] I will send Philip to keep you company. I wish you to know that when I return to Paris, which will be in four days, I will lead you to kiss the hand of the King of France. After this you will be able to enter into company.

"CLAUDE INGRAM."

Celia dropped the note in the trepidation which it caused her. She had no desire to be presented to the originator of the Dragonnades. And what was "entering into company?" She was sure it meant what she would not like, and might think actually wrong.

"Do you drive out this afternoon, Madam?" asked Patient, appearing at the door.

"No, Patient," said Celia, hesitatingly, for she was still thinking of the note. "Mr. Philip will drink a dish of chocolate with me here."

"Yes, Madam," replied Patient, and disappeared.

Celia changed her dress with a heavy heart, and came back into her boudoir, where preparations for the chocolate were made. She found Mr. Philip Ingram very comfortably established on her sofa.

"Good evening, Madam," observed that gentleman, without any alteration in his attitude of repose.

"Philip, what is it to go into company?"

"To dress fine and tell lies. Why?"

Celia gave him the note in answer.

"Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now--the megrims are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest."

"What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment.

"Only my Lady-Mother's style of cipher correspondence, my dear. She gives an occasional _séance_ to her spiritual advisers, on which occasion she tells the world--fibs."

"You do not really mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"But what does she do?"

"In her _séance_? Confesses her sins--that is, so far as I can judge from my recollection of one such occurrence at which I was present when a small kitten, she regales her spiritual pastor with some very spicy tales of all her friends and acquaintances."

"I am sure you are joking, Philip. But please tell me what it is that she wants me to do? Is it to go to all her assemblies?"

"Precisely, my Grey Sister--and to a few Court balls, and a play or two."

"O dear!" sighed poor Celia. "I never can do _that_,"

"Don't sigh in that heart-rending style," said Philip. "As to assemblies, there will not be above three more this summer, and we may be in China by next year. What is your special grief?"

"It looks like conformity to the world," answered Celia, in a low tone, for she did not expect Philip to understand her.

"Where is the world?" laughed that irreverent young gentleman. "That superb satin gown of yours, or the chocolate, or the talk? Eh, Patient? What do you say, my veteran prioress?"

"In your heart, Mr. Philip," answered Patient, setting down the chocolate-pot which she had just brought in. "The world outside, and an evil worldly human heart within, will work no little mischief. I'll warrant it did _Him_ no harm dining with the Pharisee[4]--not that Simon was an over-pleasant man to do with, I should say: and when your heart is as pure and holy as His, why, Sir, I'm thinking you may go, and welcome. But I've work enough cut out for me in keeping the devil without mine own door, without calling at his to ask how he fareth."

"Thank you, Dr. Patient. Rather a short sermon. Celia, my dear, I have a scrap of information for you which will make you open your eyes."

"The shortest sermon I ever heard of was one of the most salutary, Sir,--to wit, when Nathan said to poor sinful David, 'Thou art the man!'"[5]

"You are very disrespectful to His Israelitish Majesty," said Philip, lightly. "Well, Mrs. Celia, know that I have succeeded at last in obtaining her Ladyship's leave, and the King's commission, to go into the army. Lieutenant Ingram, Madam, at your service!" and Philip rose and made a bow which would not have disgraced Monsieur Bontems.

"Philip! Are you really a lieutenant?"

"Really. And the best half of the battle is the battle. There is a prospect of the troops being called to active service."

Celia turned pale.

"Does your mother know that?"

"No."

"O Philip! you have not been deceiving her, have you?"

"Smooth your ruffled brow, my fair reprover. I did not know it myself until after His Majesty had promised me a commission. Of course, after this I must be a fervent Jacobite. So don't you talk any politics in my hearing, Mrs. Patient Irvine, unless you wish me to fight you."

"I shall scarce be like to do that, Sir, unless you give me the starting," quietly responded Patient.

"Thank you, no! I will keep my hands off that gunpowder-magazine. I know how you can go off sometimes when touched by a few odd matches. So, my charmer, your interview with me on the 18th of next month will be the last for a while."

"Where are you going, Philip?"

"We march to the Netherlands Border, and meet Prince Eugene. We are to be at Landrécies by the 10th of July."[6]

"Mr. Philip, you shall not go hence without a Bible in your knapsack."

"Thank you very much. Am I to read it when I am not firing?"

"If I could help it, Sir, you would not go without one other thing, but that I cannot give you."

"What thing may that be?"

"The grace of God in your heart, Sir."

"You think me entirely devoid of it?" asked Philip, gravely.

"I do so, Mr. Philip," said Patient, looking him full in the face.

"Well, you are candid, if not complimentary," said he. "'Tis fortunate for me that my conscience gives a rather fairer report than you do. I wish Edward were back. I should like to have gone into battle under dear old Ned's wing, and I'm in his own regiment, too. He must have got an awful furlough."

"Your conscience, Sir!" exclaimed Patient, in a peculiar voice. "Do you think that when Adam fell he left his conscience out?"

"My dear Patient, I wonder what you mean? God has given to every man his conscience as his ruler, counsellor, and guide. He who hearkens to his conscience is hearkening to God."

Patient did not answer at once. Then she said:

"Sir, I desire to speak with due reverence of the Lord's dealings. But 'tis my true belief that he did nothing of the kind you say. He gave, 'tis true, a guide to every man; but that guide was His own blessed Word and His own Holy Spirit, not the man's poor, miserable, fallen conscience. Truly, I would not take my conscience, which is myself, to be my 'ruler, counsellor and guide.' One is my Ruler, which is in heaven. One is my Counsellor--the Wonderful Counsellor.[7] And one is my Guide--the Spirit, in the Word which He hath written. Conscience given us for a guide, Mr. Philip! Why, Paul went according to his conscience when he kept the clothes of them that stoned Stephen.[8] Peter went according to his conscience when he withdrew himself from them that were not of the circumcision, and refused to eat with them.[9] Alexander the coppersmith very like went according to his conscience when he did the Church much evil.[10] To come to our own day, I dare be bold to guess that King Charles went according to his conscience,--Charles the First, I mean; I doubt his son had none. And Claverhouse, and this King Lewis, and the Pretender--ay, the Pope himself, poor old sinner!--I'll be bound they go according to their consciences. Nay, nay, Mr. Philip! When Adam fell in Eden, surely his conscience fell with him. And just as there can be nothing more sweet and gracious than an enlightened conscience and a sanctified will, so there is little worse than a blind conscience and a carnal will."

"You have such a curious set of arguments as I never heard. You are for ever talking about the fall of Adam, which you seem to fancy accounts for the falls and slips of you and me. I never knew Adam, I am sure, and I don't hold myself responsible for his taste in apples. How do you know that Adam 'fell,' as you are pleased to call it? And supposing that he did, what in the name of common sense has that to do with me?"

"It has more to do with you than you think for, Mr. Philip. As Christ is the Head of His saved Church, so is Adam the head of the whole family of man. 'In Adam all die.'[11] And as to knowing that Adam fell, to say nought of the Lord's record of it, I scarce think I need more evidence of that than your doubting it, Sir. If you can look upon this world, as it is at this moment, and doubt that man is a fallen, lost, ruined, miserable creature, there must be something sore wrong with the eyes of your understanding."

"Or of yours," suggested Philip. "Oh, I see evil enough in the world, I warrant you: but I see good along with it. Now the principle you are fond of laying down is according to a text which I think you have quoted to me twenty times--'In us dwelleth no good thing.'"[12]

"I wish you thought so, Mr. Philip."

"Thank you for wishing me such an agreeable view of myself. But while you are fixing your eyes intently on all the evil in the world, you leave the good unseen."

"Would you kindly point it out to me, Sir?"

"Willingly. Take only one point. There are hosts of people in the world--Catholics and others, even Mahometans and idolaters, I dare say--whom you would consign kindly and certainly to everlasting perdition"--

"I consign no man to perdition, Sir. The keys of hell and of death are not in my hands, thank God! But I read of 'the son of perdition,'[13] who went to his own place.'"[14]

"Well, among all these very wicked people, there is a vast deal of charity. Is that good or bad?"

"Charity is good, Sir," said Patient, cautiously. "Paul would have counted himself nothing worth if he had not charity.[15] But"--

"Then they are good for indulging it?" interrupted Philip.

"Sir, 'charity' is a much misused word. You are speaking of mere alms, the which are good for them that receive them, if they use them rightly; and good for them that give them, when given in a right spirit. But these are no more evidence of a man's standing before God"--

"Patient Irvine, have you read the Twenty-fifth chapter of Saint Matthew?"

"I have read the Twenty-fifth of Matthew, Sir," answered Patient, dryly, leaving out the "Saint."

"And are not the good people commended in that chapter, and do they not obtain everlasting life, simply and solely for their charity to the poor?"

"No, Sir," said Patient, placidly.

"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Philip.

"Sir," resumed Patient, gravely, "it takes but a kindly heart to give alms for its own sake, or for the receiver's sake. But it takes a renewed heart to give alms for Christ's sake. Not the giving of alms was the title to life everlasting, but the giving them 'unto Him'[16] was the seal and evidence of their grace. They that know Christ will look for a savor of Him in all things, and such as have it not are bitter unto them. And I would call to your mind, Sir, that 'tis 'he that believeth'[17] which shall be saved: not he which giveth alms. At least, there is no such passage in _my_ Bible."

"You always run off to something else," said Philip, discontentedly. "However, to come back to our first point--as to my conscience, begging your pardon, and with your gracious leave, I think that God has given it to me as a guide, and that I am bound to follow it."

Patient laid down her work, and looked Philip in the face.

"I read in the Word, Mr. Philip, of different sorts of consciences. There is a defiled conscience. 'Unto them that are defiled and unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is defiled.'[18] There is an evil conscience. 'Having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience;'[19] and nought in earth or heaven will sprinkle them to this end save the blood of Christ. There is a conscience lost and smothered in dead works. 'How much more shall the blood of Christ ... purge your conscience from dead works?'[20] Now, Mr. Philip, see your 'good' and charity to the poor. _Works_, you see: but, coming from dead hearts and souls--_dead_ works. And lastly, deepest and deadliest of all, I read of a conscience 'seared with a hot iron.'[21] Ay, there have been some of those in our day. The Lord protect us from it! The devil hath such a grip of them that they cannot free themselves; and, poor blind souls! they never know it, but think they are doing God's service. Are these consciences given as guides, Mr. Philip?"

"Well, you see, all that is Saint Peter's opinion."

"I ask you pardon, 'tis Paul, not Peter.'

"Oh, St. Paul? Well, 'tis all the same."

"Ay, Mr. Philip, it is all the same, for it was the Holy Ghost that spake through both of them. And _His_ opinion is scarce to be dealt with so lightly, methinks, seeing that by His word we shall be judged at the last day."

Patient took up her work again, and said no more. Philip was silent for a time: when he next spoke it was on a different subject.

"Celia, I want you to come down at my mother's next assembly. I should like to present my friend Colville to you."

"I am rather curious to see him," she admitted.

"Mr. Philip, if I might presume to say a word"--

"'Presume to say a word!' you may presume to say a thousand, my dear old Covenanter. What's in the wind now?"

"I wish you went less about with that Mr. Colville."

"Why? Does he wear his cravats without starch?" asked Philip, stretching himself out lazily.

"I am afraid, Mr. Philip, that he wears his soul without grace," said Patient, determinately. "If he were such another as his grandsire, I would wish no better than to see you in his company. But I am sore afraid that he draws you off, Sir, to places where you should not go."

"He never draws me off, Reverend Mother, to any place where I don't choose to go, I assure you. He would find that a hard matter."

"The case is scarce bettered by that, Mr. Philip," replied Patient, mournfully. "Nay, rather worsened, I'm thinking. O Mr. Philip! bear with me, Sir, for I have sobbed many a prayer over your cradle, and many a wrestle have I had with the Lord for a blessing on your soul. You little ken, Sir, how even now, whenever I see you go out with that Mr. Colville, I lay the case before the Lord at once. I could not rest else."

"My dear old darling!" said Philip, smiling, and very affectionately, "I wish you did not look at me through such very black spectacles. There are better men than I am--many a one; but I hope there are a few worse."

"That won't satisfy me, Sir," answered Patient. "I would have Sir Edward and you the two best men in the world."

"And we are not!--at least I am not; I am not sure that Ned is not. What a pity!"

"Ay, Mr. Philip, a bitterer pity than you'll ken till you come to stand before God. I have watched you for years, Sir, like a mother her babe, trusting to see you quietened and calmed by grace: and to-night you seem to me lighter and gayer than ever. 'Tis no manner of use--no manner of use. 'I have labored in vain; I have spent my strength for nought.'"[22]

"Dear Patient," said Celia, as the door closed on Philip, "have you forgotten that verse we read last Sunday--'Though Israel be not gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and my God shall be my strength.'[23] It comes, you know, just after the text you repeated."

"Ou ay, Mrs. Celia," answered Patient, dropping into Scotch, as was usual with her when deeply stirred,--"ou ay, I mind that word. But it was the gathering I wanted, Madam--it was the gathering!"

Back in Paris, and once more attired in full court costume, Celia somewhat sadly joined her step-mother. This visit to the Tuileries was even more distasteful to her than that she had paid at St. Germains. The idea of kneeling to kiss the hand of the man who had ordered the Dragonnades, came, she thought, very near the border of absolute wrong; at the same time, she did not feel so certain of the wrong as to make her resist Lady Ingram's order. Her position was exceedingly disagreeable, since, while she could not be sure that she was doing wrong, she felt very doubtful whether she was doing right. Philip tried to rally her upon her sorrowful face, but his banter fell flat, and he looked puzzled and compassionate.

"I am ready, my dear," said Lady Ingram as she came in. "But what a face! Do you think that I am taking you to see an execution?"

"Madam," said Celia, summoning all her courage, "I wish your Ladyship would allow me to remain at home."

"Is this wicked, my votaress?" asked Lady Ingram, with the scornful smile which by this time her step-daughter knew so well.

"I cannot say that, Madam; but I am not quite sure that it is right. Does your Ladyship wish me particularly to accompany you?"

"Of course I do, my clear. 'Tis an opportunity which it would be a sin to lose. You consider it a venial sin, I suppose. Well, you can say another prayer or two."

"I know nothing about venial sins, Madam. Sin is sin to me; but as I am not sure that this is a sin, if your Ladyship absolutely commands me, I will go: at the same time, I would much rather remain."

"Ah! I know what that means, my _réligieuse_," said Lady Ingram, laughing; "you want an excuse for your conscience. Very well, then, I command you. The coach is here. Come!"

Celia followed slowly. Lady Ingram had entirely misunderstood her--in all probability was incapable of understanding her. Any further explanation, she felt, would merely plunge her deeper into the mire; so she sat grave and silent until the carriage drew up on one side of the Place du Carrousel. Lady Ingram gave her hand as usual to Philip, and Celia followed them in silence. After the customary passage through suites of rooms, they paused at a door; and on giving a gentle tap, a gentleman in black came out and bowed low before them.

"Madam," said he, "my duty is my duty. I regret unspeakably to be constrained to inform you that His Most Christian Majesty can receive no person to-day."

"I regret it exceedingly also," answered Lady Ingram. "I can proceed, I suppose, to visit the ladies?"

"Certainly, Madam."

Lady Ingram turned off through further suites of apartments, and the gentleman in black, straightening himself up, disappeared again behind the door. Celia felt relieved. There could be nothing wrong, she thought, in paying respect to the Queen and Princesses, to whom she supposed Lady Ingram to refer; and she followed with a lighter step and heart than before. Her ignorance of the state of the Royal Family of France was very great indeed. That state, in the summer of 1712, was a strange and lamentable one. There was no Queen, yet the King was married; there were no Princesses save one, the Duchess de Berry, yet three of the King's daughters sat round his table every evening.

"Now, Celia!" said Lady Ingram, looking back, "we will pay our respects first to the Duchess de Berry."

"Who is the Duchess de Berry?" Celia inquired softly of Philip.

"The wife of the King's grandson," he whispered in reply.

The Duchess de Berry could receive them, they were told, on asking; and the gentleman usher opened the inner door, and gave access to a large and handsome room, wherein about two dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated at a table, playing cards. A much larger number stood round the room, close to the walls, watching the players. Lady Ingram made her way to a very young girl who sat at one end of the lansquenet-table, and who, Celia thought, was scarcely seventeen. This surely could be the wife of nobody, she mentally decided.

The girl certainly looked very young. Celia, on consideration, doubted if she were seventeen. A soft, bright, innocent face she had, laughing eyes, and a blooming complexion. She looked up with a smile as Lady Ingram approached her, and said a few words in a low tone. Lady Ingram took off her gloves, and sat down quietly at the lansquenet-table, having apparently forgotten her companions.

"Are we to remain here?" asked Celia of Philip, in a tone inaudible to any one but himself.

"Wait a minute, till I see the result of her first venture," answered Philip, biting his lip.

Celia looked back at the card-table. She was accustomed to see Squire Passmore play cards, but never for money, except when he received or went into company; and even then, a few half-crowns were all that changed hands. She gazed with surprise on the piles and rouleaux of gold which lay upon this table, and the quantity of loose pieces scattered about. Hands were constantly extended with a dozen or two of louis in them, and one lady in particular Celia noticed, who piled up her gold until the tower would go no higher, and each time staked the heap on a single card.

"Who is that girl next my Lady Ingram, at the end of the table?" Celia next inquired of her brother.

"That is the Duchess de Berry," said he.

"That the Duchess! Why, Philip! she is scarce more than a child!"

"She is the mother of two children herself," replied Philip. "Perhaps you guess her younger than she is--eighteen."

"She looks so young and innocent," said Celia.

"Young, yes--but innocent! My dear, this girl of eighteen is already one of the worst women in France. Deuce-ace--ah! She will go on. We may go."

Philip slipped round the table to his mother's side, and whispered a few words to her, to which she responded without turning her head. Coming back to Celia, he gave her his hand and led her out of the room.

"Is my Lady not coming?" she asked, glancing back.

"Not when she has thrown deuce-ace," said Philip, dryly. "She considers that her lucky number, and always goes on playing when it comes at the first throw. Now come with me for half-an-hour. You will see a little of Court-life, and you shall go home when you are tired. We will visit the great drawing-room."

He led her into a large, handsome room, hung with crimson. Round the apartment lines of spectators, three or four deep, were standing, and at a very large table in the midst about forty more were seated. The game played here also was lansquenet, for such immense losses had occurred at basset that the King had forbidden the latter game in all rooms but the private boudoirs of the Princesses.

"Have we any right here, Philip?" whispered Celia, doubtfully.

"Yes," said Philip, coolly. "Any person known to the gentlemen-ushers can enter. Come round a little to the right--there is more room, and you will see better. I will be your directory. That gentleman with the blue coat and the orders on his breast, at the top of the table, is the Duke of Orleans.[24] If the King die while his heir is under age, as is most likely, that man will be Regent of France. He is considered a clever fellow."

Celia looked, and saw a man of middle height, and about forty years of age. He had bright eyes, a laughing mouth, a florid complexion, and a thick, flat nose. The hand which held his cards was as small, white, and delicate as that of a woman.

"And who are the ladies beside him?" Celia wished to know.

"On the right, his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany,[25] and on the left another cousin,[26] the Princess of Conti. Next to her is her half-sister, the Duke's wife."[27]

"I do not quite like the Grand Duchess's face."

"She is not considered particularly amiable. One of her sisters[28] was married to the Duke de Guise, which was so marvellous a condescension that the poor man might never eat his dinner without his wife's leave. Every day he stood beside her chair, and presented her dinner-napkin: the cover was laid for her only; and he might not presume to help himself even to a biscuit until Her Royal Highness was graciously pleased to command a plate and chair to be brought for Monsieur de Guise. Then he made a low, grateful bow to his very superior wife, and might sit down and dine."

"Is that really true, Philip?" asked Celia, laughing softly.

"Perfectly true."

Celia turned her attention to the Princess of Conti. She liked to look at her fair, quiet face, with its large, soft brown eyes; and she was wondering what her character was, when suddenly a lady, who had been staking extremely high, rose from her seat, flinging down her cards, cursing and swearing in most voluble French. This was the first time that Celia had heard a woman use such language, and she hid her face, shuddering.

"Ruined!" said Philip, coolly. "You had better come away."

The ladies and gentlemen at the card-table set up a shrill chorus of laughter.

"O Philip, take me home!" sobbed Celia. "I cannot bear this!"

She had heard Squire Passmore swear before now, but it was generally when he was excited or angry, and was commonly accompanied by a gentle "Hush, John!" from his wife. Philip led his sister out of the room to the seats in the recess of the corridor window.

"Sit down here a minute," he said, "and recover yourself, before I take you up-stairs. That was an unfortunate accident. If I had known I should not have brought you here."

"O Philip, let me go home! No more visits like this, please!"

"You shall do as you like, my dear," said Philip, kindly; "but the next visit will be very different from this."

Celia rose, trying to compose herself; and, afraid of disappointing her brother, she consented to be taken where he wished.

"Does Madame de Maintenon receive this afternoon?" was Philip's question to the usher upstairs.

"She does, Sir; and His Royal Highness the Duke of Bretagne is with her."

"Oh, I don't want to see anybody who will swear!" said Celia, drawing back.

"If the Duke of Bretagne have learned to swear," answered Philip, gravely, "he must be a marvel of juvenile depravity; for he will not be three years old until next February."

"A child!" said Celia. "I beg the little thing's pardon; I have no objection to that."

"The future King of France, my dear," said Philip. "He will be Louis XV. (if he live) in a few years, at the utmost. Now, three low courtesies for Madame de Maintenon."

In a quiet, pleasant chamber, hung with dark blue, an old lady sat showing a picture-book to a very little boy who stood leaning against her knee. She did not look her age, which was seventy-eight. Her figure was rather inclining to be tall, and she preserved the taste, the grace, and the dignity which had always characterized her. A complexion of extreme fairness was relieved by black eyes, very large and radiant, but the once chestnut hair now required no powder to make it white.

"Mr. Philip Ingram?" she said, with a peculiarly pleasant smile; "I am very much pleased to see you."

"My sister, Madame," said Philip, as he presented Celia.

"I did not know that you had a sister," she answered, receiving Celia very kindly. "Louis, will you give your hand to this lady?"

The pretty little child[29] addressed trotted forward, and looking straight in Celia's face with his great brown eyes, presented his baby hand to be kissed. Resisting a strong inclination to take him on her knee and kiss him, Celia performed her homage to the future Sovereign. With much gravity the little Duke offered the same privilege to Philip, and trotted back to his picture-book.

"My Lady Ingram is not with you?" asked the old lady.

"In the Duchess de Berry's saloon at lansquenet, Madame."

"Ah! Do you play, Mademoiselle?"

"No, Madame," said Celia.

"I am glad to hear it," replied Madame de Maintenon.[30] "It is a great waste of time and temper, which were not given us for such uses."

"Turn over!" required the little Prince, authoritatively.

Madame de Maintenon smiled and obeyed.

"I hope His Majesty is not ill?" asked Philip. "I hear he does not receive."

"Not ill, but not well. One of his troublesome headaches. Neither men nor women live forever, Mr. Ingram--not even Kings."

"True, but unfortunate, Madame," was the civil answer with which Philip took his leave.

"Now we will go home," said he. "A short visit, but I thought we had better not interrupt the Duke's reading-lesson. Did you like this scene better than the other?"

"O Philip, how different! Is that lady his nurse?"

"Well, not precisely, my dear. She is--only that she is not called so--the Queen."

"The Queen of France?" asked Celia, opening her eyes.

"The King of France's wife, which I suppose is the same thing; only that in Madame de Maintenon's case it is not the same thing. There is a paradox! A strange life that woman has led. She was born in a prison, the daughter of a Huguenot father and a Catholic mother; imbibed her father's teaching, and when young was a determined little Huguenot. Her father died early. Her mother took her to church, and she turned her back on the altar. Madam d'Aubigné slapped Miss Fanny and turned her round; but Fanny only presented the other cheek. 'Strike away!' said she; ''tis a blessed thing to suffer for one's religion!' Her mother now thought there was nothing to be done with the obstinate little heretic, and gave her up. Next, the house was burnt--fortunately while they were out of it; but for days Fanny cried inconsolably. Her mother, who appears to have been a practical, matter-of-fact woman, when this sort of thing had gone on for several days, thought it desirable to treat Miss Fanny to a slight scolding. 'What a little goose you are!' she said, 'crying everlastingly for a house!' 'Oh! it isn't the house!' sobbed Fanny; 'it isn't the house--it is dolly!' Well, Madame d'Aubigné died while Fanny was still a girl, and she was left entirely destitute. In these circumstances she married, for a home, the ugliest man in France. He was a comic poet, a poor deformed fellow, of the name of Scarron. Fanny did not gain much by her marriage, for they were very poor; but her taste in dress was so exquisite that I have heard ladies say she looked better in a common gown of lavender cotton than half the Court ladies in their silks and satins: and her conversation was so fascinating that clever men used to dine with Scarron just for the sake of hearing her talk.

"There is a story told of one such dinner, at which the servant whispered in Madame's ear, 'Please to tell another story; there is not enough roast beef.' I have heard these and many other anecdotes about her from Aunt Sophie, whose mother-in-law knew her well for many years. When her husband died, she was again thrown on the world; and for some time she petitioned the King in vain for some little property or pension to which she was entitled us Scarron's widow. At last he became perfectly tired of her petitions; but he had never seen her. 'Widow Scarron!' His Majesty used to say, as he took up another petition: 'am I always to be pestered with Widow Scarron?' A short time afterwards he met her somewhere; and her grace, beauty, and wit made such an impression upon him that he gave her the appointment of governess to a _posse_ of his children. When he came to see them, he saw her; and 'Widow Scarron' so grew in his esteem, that it is supposed about two years after the death of his Queen, he married her."[31]

"And why do they call her Madame de Maintenon?"

"His Majesty gave her the estate of Maintenon, and wished her to bear the name."

"And what will become of her when he dies?"

"Ah, that is just the point! I should think she will go into a convent."

"I thought you said she was a Huguenot?"

"So she was, but she is generally supposed to be a Catholic now."

"What a pity!" said Celia, thoughtfully. "How much good she might have done in turning the King's heart towards the Huguenots, if God had permitted her!"

"On the contrary, she is thought to have turned him from them. Many persons say that we may thank her for the revocation of the Edict of Nantes."

"I can scarce believe that, Philip!"

"I hardly do myself."

"Do you think, Philip," asked Celia, slowly, after a pause, "that there is one really good man or woman among all your acquaintance?"

"My dear," replied Philip, in his gravest manner, "I have met with so many good men and women that I have lost all faith in the article. I have seen excellent mothers whose children have died from neglect, excellent husbands who have run away with other people's wives, excellent sons and daughters who have left a kind mother alone in her old age, and excellent friends who have ruined their friends' reputations by backbiting. Never a one of your good men and women for me, if you please. We are all a bad lot together--that is the truth; and the best of us is only a trifle less bad than the others."

"But, Philip, do you really know none who has the fear of God in his heart?"

"Yes, I know three people who have it--you, and Ned, and Patient. I cannot name a fourth."

"O Philip! I wish you were the fourth yourself!" sighed Celia.

"So do I, my dear," said Philip, so gravely that Celia looked up into his face to see what he meant. She was perplexed, and scarcely satisfied with what she read there.

"Philip," she asked, dropping her eyes again, "do _you_ play at these card-tables?"

"Never. I believe Patient thinks I do, but she is mistaken. I threw at basset once, and I shall never do it again."

"Did you lose?"

"No, I won."

"Then what made you determine not to do it again?"

"A remark of Leroy, who was standing near. He said, 'No man ever loses at the first throw. I never saw one lose. The Devil is too cunning for that.' I thought that if the habitual frequenters of the basset-table acknowledged that gentleman for their president, the less I saw of it the better."

"I think you were very wise, Philip," said Celia. "Monsieur Leroy! The man who"--she stopped suddenly, wondering whether Philip were acquainted with the facts of which she was thinking.

"'The man who'--precisely: Savarie Leroy. I see Patient has told you that sad story."

"Philip," said Celia, very seriously, "I wish I could do something to help you. If you do _really_ wish to fear God"--

"My dear little sister," replied Philip, putting his arm round her, "have you any idea how much you have helped me already? I am not quite the Gallio you and Patient think me--caring for none of these things. Now I will just give you a glimpse into my heart. I always knew what Patient was--she never concealed her thoughts on the matter; but there are thirty years between her and me, and I fancied--perhaps foolishly--that the religion which might be very good for her would not do for me. I thought many a time, 'If I could find some one in my own rank, and near my own age, who had not been brought up with Patient as Ned and I have, and therefore had not taken the tone of his feelings from her; if this person should think, feel, and talk in the same way that she does, having derived it from a different locality and breeding, and all that,--why, then, I should feel that, whatever else this religion of hers were, at least it was a reality.' Now this I never could have found in Ned, for two reasons: as to religious breeding, Patient has brought him up; the tone and color of his religion he derives from her. And, secondly, Ned is rather close. Not in the least sternly or unkindly so--nothing of the sort; but he is not such an open, foolish, off-handed fellow as I am. It is not natural to him, as it is to me, to say everything he thinks, to everybody who comes in his way; and in religious matters particularly, what he thinks and feels he keeps to himself. Well, then you came. For the first few weeks that you were here, I watched you like a cat watches a mouse. If you had made one slip--if I had once seen your profession and practice at variance--if you had been less gentle and obedient to my mother, when I could see that she was making you do things which you would much rather not do: or if, on the other hand, you had allowed her to lead you into something which I knew that you considered positively forbidden--if I had seen anything of this, Celia, I should have gone away more irretrievably disgusted than ever with religion and all who professed it.

"Now, my dear, I don't want to make you proud and puff you up, but as I am telling you all this, I must add that I found not one slip in you. I cannot understand how you have done it. It seems to me that you must have a very large amount of what Patient calls 'grace,' that I, who have been watching you so narrowly, could detect nothing in you which I thought wrong. Now will you forgive me for the ordeal through which, unknown to you, I have been putting you? The conclusion to which it has led me is this:--This thing--this religion of yours and Patient's--call it fear of God, or what you will--is a real thing. It is not the disordered fancy of one good woman, as I for a time imagined that it might be. It is a genuine compact and converse between God and your souls, and I only wish I were one of you."

Rather to Philip's surprise, Celia, who while he spoke had been earnestly regarding him, with brilliant eyes and smiling lips, put her head down and burst into tears.

"My dear!" he said.

"O Philip, I am so glad!" she said,--"so glad, so thankful--so very, very glad!" And she sobbed for pure joy.

"Then I am very glad that I have told you, my dear. And if it gives you any satisfaction, I will say again what I have said:--from my soul I wish I were one of you!"

[1] The ugly word "ex-queen" had not yet come into use, and the English spoke of Maria Beatrice as they would have done if she had died.

[2] I must own to having left my heroine's letter defective in one point. In her day ladies' orthography was in a dreadful state. Queen Anne usually signed herself the "affectionat freind" of her correspondents; and it had only just ceased to be the fashion for ladies to employ the longest words they could pick up, using them in an incorrect sense, and with a wrong pronunciation. Addison gives an account of one French lady who having unfortunately pronounced a hard word correctly, and employed it in the proper sense, "all the ladies in the Court were out of countenance for her."

[3] Headache.

[4] Luke vii. 36.

[5] Sam. xii. 7.

[6] Prince Eugene was now besieging Landrécies, a town on the border between France and Flanders.

[7] Isaiah ix. 6.

[8] Acts vii. 58; viii. 1.

[9] Gal. ii. 12.

[10] 3 Tim. iv. 14.

[11] 1 Cor. xv. 22.

[12] Rom. vii. 18.

[13] John xvii. 12.

[14] Acts i. 25.

[15] 1 Cor. xiii. 1, 2.

[16] Matt. xxv. 40.

[17] Mark xvi. 16.

[18] Titus i. 15.

[19] Heb. x. 22.

[20] Heb. ix. 14,

[21] 1 Tim.

[22] Isaiah xlix. 4.

[23] Ibid. 5.

[24] Philippe, younger son of Louis XIII. and Anne of Austria: born August 2, 1674; died December 2, 1723.

[25] Marguerite Louise, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and Marguerite of Lorraine: born July 28, 1645; married at the Louvre, April 19, 1661; died in France, September 17, 1721.

[26] Marie Anne, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Louise de La Vallière: born at Vincennes, October 2, 1666; married, January 16, 1680, Louis Prince of Conti; died May 3, 1739.

[27] Françoise Marie, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Athenaïs de Montespan; born May 4, 1677; married February 18, 1692; died 1749.

[28] Isabelle, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and Marguerite of Lorraine: born December 20, 1646; married 1667; died March 17, 1696.

[29] Louis XV.: born February 15, 1710; died at Versailles, of small-pox, May 10, 1774.

[30] Françoise, daughter of Constant d'Aubigné and Jeanne de Cardillac; born at Niort, November 27, 1635; married at Versailles 1685; died at St. Cyr, April 15, 1719.

[31] All these little anecdotes concerning Madame de Maintenon are authentic.