Louis XI. does not know this; and, as he is no doubt ashamed of not knowing it, instead of replying to Martigny's question, he says—
"But hast thou not tried to attract this young man to my court?"
"He had left that of the Duc de Bourgogne some time after the countess."
"He will, no doubt, follow in her track."
As you see, Louis XI. is really much more subtle than he appears. He continues—
"Martigny, we must watch for his arrival. If he comes, my favour awaits him ... But what art thou looking at?"
You, I presume, who are not Louis XI., have no doubt what crony Martigny is looking at? Why! he is looking towards the young man for whom the king's favours are waiting. This is called ad eventum festinare, moving towards the dénoûment; it is recommended in the first place by Horace, and in the second by Boileau. Thanks to his disguise, and to a breakfast which he offers to the traveller, Louis XI. learns that he who has just come is, indeed, the man he is looking for, that his name is Quentin Durward, that he is a Scot; that is to say, as nobly born as a king, as poor as a Gascon, and proud, upon my faith! as proud as himself. The old king, indeed, gets some wild cat scratches from time to time; but he is used to that: these are the perquisites of an incognito. Here is an instance. Martigny has gone to order the breakfast.
"Tell me, Maître Pierre," asks Quentin Durward of the king, "what is that château which I see in the distance?"
"It is the royal residence."
"The royal residence! Why, then, those battlements, those high walls, those large moats? Why so many sentinels posted at regular distances? Do you know, Maître Pierre, that it has rather the air of a fortress or of a prison than of the palace of a king?"
"You think so?"
"Why such great precautions?... Tell me, Maître Pierre, if you were king, would you take so much trouble to defend your dwelling?"
"But it is as well to be on one's guard; one has seen places taken by surprise, and princes carried away just when they least expected such a thing. It seems to me, besides, that the king's safety demands ..."
"Do you know a surer rampart for a king than the love of his subjects?"
"No, of course ... yet ..."
"If my lot had placed me on the throne I would rather be loved than feared; I would like the humblest of my subjects to have free access to my person; I should rule with so much wisdom that none would have approached me with evil intention."
That is not recommended either by Horace or by Boileau, but by the leader of the claque.[1] The fashion of giving advice to a king is always creditable to an author: it is called doing the work of the opposition; and such clap-trap methods appeal to the gallery.
In spite of the advice given by Mély-Janin to Charles X. which the latter should have followed as coming from a friend, he appointed the Polignac Ministry. We know the consequences of that nomination.
Martigny returns. The meal is ready; they sit down to the table. The wine loosens their tongues, especially the small white wine which is drunk on the banks of the Loire. Quentin Durward then informs the king that he is not engaged in the service of any prince, that he is seeking his fortune, and that he has some inclination to enlist in the Scots Guards, where he has an uncle who is an officer.
Here, you see, the drama begins to run on all fours with the romance. But what a difference between the handling of the romance-writer and that of the dramatist, between the man called Walter Scott and the man called Mély-Janin. Now, as the conversation begins to become interesting, the king rises and goes away without giving any other reason for his departure than that which I myself give you, and which I am obliged to guess at. If you question it, here is his bit—