"They must have changed since their grandfather's days!--since La Rochelle!"
"They have changed, though--Vengeance confound and crush them!--some are still obstinate. But, Aurore, listen. This young man, this nephew, needs not the money. He is provided for, will be provided for in his own land. He will do well--go far under the heretic, Anne. Oh, Aurore, he is your flesh and blood, I know. 'Tis but nature that you should benefit him--yet not so much, not so much. God is before man--before all earthly relations."
"He is my brother's child," the Princesse de Rochebazon repeated. "And I loved that brother. Also this one has been my care----"
"I know, I know! Supported, educated by you, given money hourly to squander in waste. Yet I speak not against that; he is of your race. But now you will give him all this--so great a sum! And France needs money. Aurore," she cried, "do you know that our--that Louis'--coffers are empty? The wars, the buildings, the pomps and vanities, the awful prodigalities of the court have left those coffers bare. And money is needed so, needed so--especially for the work of the Church--needed so much!"
And she almost wrung her hands as thus she pleaded. Yet again the dying aristocrat murmured: "My own flesh and blood. Also of our faith."
Exhausted by her own efforts, the De Maintenon--the Curse of France! as many had termed her--seemed now to desist, to be beaten back by the words of the princess. Then suddenly seemed also roused to fresh excitement as the other spoke again--excitement mixed this time with anger, as testified by the glances her eyes shot forth. For the dying woman had continued: "Though I provide for him I must tell him the truth--tell all. I can not die with a lie on my lips--in my heart."
"Aurore!" she exclaimed--had she not been a king's wife, had this not been a sick-room, it might almost have seemed that she screamed at the other--"Aurore, your brain is gone. You are mad. Tell him all, and lead to further evil to our Church. Aurore, for God's sake say this is a fantasy of your mind. Why," she exclaimed, her passion mounting with her thoughts, "why should you, a stranger to France, a woman raised by marriage to your high position, bring scandal on the name of a noble family--reveal secrets that have slumbered for years?"
"I can not die," the other repeated, "with the truth hidden."
"The truth," Madame de Maintenon muttered through her discoloured teeth, "the truth! What has the truth to do with--what account is it when set against our faith! Aurore, in the name of that faith, recall your words, your resolve."
But the dying woman was unshaken. Even the other, whose influence terrified all France, could not affright her--perhaps because the princess knew that henceforth she had to answer to a greater than she.