The Song of the Siren

It was not to be imagined however that the great King of France would concern himself with those who were eager to be presented to him. It was necessary for the supplicants to present themselves in an anteroom close to the royal lodging through which he would have to pass on his way to other parts of the palace. There patiently every day those who hoped to catch his eye waited. Of course he might not come, in which case they would have waited in vain. They would come again the next day.

It was a great achievement, however, to get to this antechamber. “The first step,” said Hessenfield. “But until the King has acknowledged you, you cannot go to Court.”

So we made our way to that part of the palace behind the Galerie des Glaces to that side of the court where Louis’s rooms were situated and found ourselves in the antechamber which was known as the Oeil de Eoeuf-so called from the shape of its window.

Here were assembled a group of people, all elaborately dressed, all, like ourselves, waiting to catch the eyes of the King should he pass through that morning.

It was a long wait. I looked around the room at these people, all very serious, all intent on one thing, and some spirit of mischief within me wanted to laugh outright.

I wanted to say, Why should we all stand here so humble, so servile and await the pleasure of one man? I don’t care if he is the Sun King; I don’t care if his wealth has built this palace. Why should I? For what purpose? I thought: I will take the matter up with Hessenfield tonight.

I knew what his answer would be. “We have to keep Louis’s goodwill. We could get nowhere without his help. We have to keep him willing to help put James on the throne.

Yes, that was a good enough reason. And these others, what did they want? Promotion of some sort. So it was after all ambition which prompted them to stand there, ready at any moment to kneel in adoration when the scintillating presence was before them.

I was aware of a woman watching me. She was an extremely handsome woman with masses of dark hair elaborately dressed. She wore a silver grey gown and pearls in her ears and about her neck. She was very elegant. I thought something about her face was familiar and wondered if I could possibly have met her somewhere before.

She half smiled at me. I returned the smile.

A few minutes later she had edged a little nearer to me. “It is weary waiting,” she said in a low voice speaking in English with a marked French accent.

“Yes,” I said.

“I have waited yesterday. He did not come. Let us hope he comes today.”

I said: “You speak English well.”

She lifted her shoulders. “My grandmother was English.”

Conversation was not considered to be in the best of taste. One spoke in whispers while one kept one’s eyes on that spot where the King might at any moment make his entry.

“You are Lady Hessenfield?” she murmured.

I nodded.

“You are doing such good work ... such excellent work.”

”Thank you. I am afraid I do very little.”

“You support your husband. That is good.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Elisse de Partiere. My husband was killed at Blenheim.”

“Oh ... I am so sorry....”

Silence fell between us. All eyes were on the door, for at that moment there was a stir of excitement.

The great moment had come. The presence was about to shine upon us.

With what dignity he walked! Of course he was an old man now, but the splendour of his garments dazzled the eyes so that one did not notice the lined and wrinkled face beneath the luxuriant wig. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert. There was something about him which set him apart. Was it assurance? He was so confident that he was above all other men that he convinced them that he was.

He stopped here and there to exchange a brief word with one or two of the elect and so briefly covered them with the glory of the reflected sun.

Hessenfield stepped forward, holding my hand.

“Sire, may I present my wife.”

The dark eyes, alive among the wrinkles, were regarding me steadily. I flushed slightly and sank to the floor in the required obeisance. The eyes brightened. He smiled faintly.

His eyes travelled from my face to my neck and bosom.

“Very pretty,” he said. “Congratulations, my lord.”

Then he passed on. It was triumph.

He had gone. The morning in the Oeil de Boeuf was at an end.

“What an honour,” said Hessenfield. “I might have known you would make your mark.

It’s not often he sees a woman as pretty as you.”

“What of all the mistresses he has had?”

“Hush. He likes discretion. None of them had half your beauty. Praise the gods that he is an old man now working a quick passage to heaven.”

“Be careful. You may jeopardize your position.”

“You are right,” he whispered, pressing my arm. “Now you may go to court. The King has acknowledged you.”

There was a press of people walking in the gardens and Hessenfield said to me: “Let us go now. Our mission is accomplished. I want to get back to Paris as soon as possible.”