The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“Come down, you dog of a tinsmith!” he shouted, cracking his whip in the dirt. “Come down, and I’ll take the hide off your back!”

I laughed again; for the life of me, I could not be angry with the wretch. His burly figure and his impotent rage only aroused my contempt, and I heeded his threats and his gestures as little as I did the mirth of the kitchen behind him. I know not how long he would have continued his pantomime, if it had not been for another attack of his inveterate enemy. While he was shouting at me I saw the ravens rise suddenly from the roof with a whir of black wings, and the dwarf came dancing along on the very verge of the eaves. He had evidently dropped from the windows of the terem, the women’s quarters, which there, as usual, occupied a separate upper story of wood, which overlooked the flat roof of the wing. The little creature executed a fandango over the steward’s head and then suddenly let fly a pebble, with such accurate aim that he took the fat man fairly under his left ear. He was alive to dangers now, however, and, discovering his foe, started for the kitchen-door with a bound, while the dwarf, waiting only for him to disappear, came sliding down over the edge of the roof, and swinging by his long arms he dropped, with marvellous agility, on the ledge of the window below, and from there, swinging again, monkey-fashion, on the window of the lower story, he finally dropped into the yard, amidst a burst of applause from the serfs. Meanwhile, the major-domo, arriving at last at the window over the roof, looked out in baffled fury, and seeing me still at my post, cursed me in Russ and two or three other dialects. “O meat for dogs!” he bellowed, “’tis through some signalling of yours, and I’ll pay you for it! I will—by the beard of the Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk! May the black god smite you!”

I shrugged my shoulders and left the window in disgust. So he called me meat for dogs and a tinsmith; that was the cream of the jest! By Saint Denis, a tinsmith—I, Jéhan de Marle, Marquis de Cernay, an officer of the household troops of Louis XIV., King of France, and cousin to the Duc de Richelieu! Yet, after all, the varlet had some reason for his gibe, for did I not figure in Moscow as the apprentice of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith of Paris? Ah, and thereby hangs a tale!

Twelve months before, my evil star took me to Paris for Easter. I had been in Normandy, on my estates, and had served in the Palatinate. Before that I won distinction, under the very eye of the king, at Ghent and Ypres, and the saying at court was that no service paid out of his sight, while in it there was such a scramble that Spinola bit the royal finger—when he saluted the king’s hand—to make his mark among the herd of sycophants. But, as it happened, the king noticed me without the bite, though afterwards I paid for the recognition.

It was then scarcely three years after the Peace of Nimequen; France was on a pinnacle of glory; Strasburg had fallen without a shot, and Catinet had entered Casale. King Charles the Second of England had taken his wages with some grumblings, and retired from the war, and the Prince of Orange had been forced to yield to the Estates of Holland and conclude the peace; the King of France held a line of towns from Dunkerque to the Meuse, and Spain was disarmed. Louis had maintained the war against Europe and was victorious; “singly against all,” as Louvois said. It was a season of glory and joy for every Frenchman, and especially for every French soldier.

But what of it? What if fortune seemed to smile, and the rewards of courage were within my grasp; what of it? I say. My evil star took me to Paris, and all the world was at the festival. Mme. de Montespan, the king’s mistress, was at dagger’s point with Mme. de Maintenon, who was the governess of her children and the rising star, as all the world knew; for “the Star of Quanto,” as they called Mme. de Montespan, was near to setting, though she could still afford to lose and win again, four millions—in one night—at basset.

There also was M. le Vicomte d’Argenson, taken by his evil star—a deadly evil one it proved—to Paris and to me. He was cousin to Mme. de Montespan, and as black-hearted a knave as ever wore a velvet coat and clean ruffles at court, and that, as I would have you know, is saying much. Ah, well! monsieur and I were in Paris, and ’twas Easter week, and Mme. de Montbazon gave a ball at the Hôtel de Montbazon. It was one of the most magnificent fêtes in Paris; wine flowed in the kennel of the Rue de Bethisi, so they said, and madame gave a silver lily to each of her guests, while Vatel himself was superintending in the kitchen. The lily for the young Duchess of Burgundy was of gold set with pearls and diamonds. The world was there, great and small, and one little maid from Provence, a dependent of the Princess de Condé, country-bred and honest, as I chanced to know, although she had an old hag of a mother who would have sold her soul to make a fine match for her daughter, and had even been to that great man, Bontemps, the king’s chief valet, to inquire about the possibilities of securing a rich husband. But that is neither here nor there.

It all happened at the very height of the ball, and it was thus I lost my silver lily. I was on the grand staircase, and at the landing was M. d’Argenson, with a throng of rufflers, waiting for the king. And, at the moment, as ill luck would have it, the little maid from Provence, Mlle. Lamoignon, came up the stairs, her face aglow with pleasure and looking, as I thought, not unlike a Provençal rose herself. Satan being in the heart of M. le Vicomte, doubtless it was his prompting that made the man go out, before us all, to meet the child and try to kiss her; at which she cried out, resisting with all her might, and the beaux on the landing laughed. M. d’Argenson, being in liquor and angered, I take it, by the titter behind him, turned on the girl and grossly insulted her before us all. I was but two steps above them and, quick as a flash, I caught monsieur by the shoulders, and flinging him back against the wall with one hand, with the other I slapped my glove in his face. D’Argenson was a mixture of bully and coward, and had his sword out in a trice, and was at me, the others crying to us that the king was coming. But I caught his rapier and, breaking it across my knee, flung the fragments over the balustrade with a gibe, and he, with the face of a fury, cursed me, standing on the same step, while little mademoiselle cowered under my arm like a frightened pigeon.

“Monsieur will pay for it—with blood!” screamed M. le Vicomte, growing purple above his cravat.

“Pish!” I retorted, laughing in his face. “Jéhan de Cernay cares not for vermin.”