M. Durand looked flustered when Lydie suddenly entered his sanctum.
But she was hardly conscious of his presence, or even of where she
was.
The vast audience chamber which she had just quitted so abruptly had
only the two exits; the one close to which she had left milor
standing, and the other which gave into this antechamber, where M.
Durand usually sat for the express purpose of separating the wheat
from the chaff—or, in other words, the suppliants who had letters of
introduction or passports to "le petit lever" of M. le
Contrôleur-Général, from those who had not.
It was not often that Mme. la Marquise came this way at all; no doubt
this accounted in some measure for M. Durand's agitation when she
opened the door so suddenly. Had Lydie been less absorbed in her own
thoughts she would have noticed that his hands fidgeted quite
nervously with the papers on his bureau, and that his pale watery eyes
wandered with anxious restlessness from her face to the heavy portière
which masked one of the doors. But, indeed, at this moment neither M.
Durand nor his surroundings existed for her; she crossed the
antechamber rapidly without seeing him. She only wanted to get away,
to put the whole enfilade of the next reception rooms between herself
and the scene which had just taken place.
Something was ringing in her ears. She could not say for certain
whether she had really heard it, or whether her quivering nerves were
playing her a trick; but a cry had come to her across the vastness of
the great audience-chamber, and rang now even through the closed door.
A cry of acute agony; a cry as of an animal in pain. The word:
"Lydie!" The tone: one of reproach, of appeal, of aching, wounded
passion!
She fled from it, unwilling to admit its reality, unwilling to believe
her ears. She felt too deeply wounded herself to care for the pain of
another. She hoped, indeed, that she had grievously hurt his pride,
his self-respect, that very love which he had once professed for her,
and which apparently had ceased to be.
Once he had knelt at her feet, comparing her to the Madonna, to the
saints whom Catholics revered yet dared not approach; then he talked
of worship, and now he spoke of pollution, of stained honour, and
asked her to keep herself free from taint. What right had he not to
understand? If he still loved her, he would have understood. But
constant intercourse with Irène de Stainville had blurred his inward
vision; the image of the Madonna, serene and unapproachable, had
become faded and out of focus, and he now groped earthwards for less
unattainable ideals.
That this was in any way her fault Lydie would not admit. She had
become his wife because he had asked her, and because he had been
willing to cover her wounded vanity with the mantle of his adoration,
and the glamour of his wealth and title. He knew her for what she was:
statuesque and cold, either more or less than an ordinary woman, since
she was wholly devoid of sentimentality; but with a purpose in her
mind and a passion for work, for power and influence. Work for the
good of France! Power to attain this end!
Thus he had found her, thus he had first learned to love her! She had
denied him nothing that he had ever dared to ask. This had been a bond
between them, which now he had tried to break; but if he had loved her
as heretofore he would not have asked, he would have known. How, and
by what subtle process of his mind Lydie did not care to analyze.
He would have known: he would have understood, if he still loved her.
These two phrases went hammering in her brain, a complement to that
cry which still seemed to reach her senses, although the whole
enfilade of reception rooms now stretched their vastness between her
and that persistent echo.
Of course his love had been naught to her. It was nothing more at best
than mute, somewhat dog-like adoration: a love that demanded nothing,
that was content to be, to exist passively and to worship from afar.
Womanlike, she apprised it in inverse ratio to its obtrusiveness; the
less that was asked of her, the less she thought it worth while to
give. But the love had always been there. At great social functions,
in the midst of a crowd or in the presence of royalty, whenever she
looked across a room or over a sea of faces, she saw a pair of eyes
which rested on her every movement with rapt attention and unspoken
admiration.
Now she would have to forego that. The love was no longer there. On
this she insisted, repeating it to herself over and over again, though
this seemed to increase both the tension of her nerves, and the
strange tendency to weakness, from which her proud spirit shrank in
rebellion.
She was walking very rapidly now, and as she reached the monumental
staircase, she ran down the steps without heeding the astonished
glances of the army of flunkeys that stood about on landing and
corridors. In a moment she was out on the terrace, breathing more
freely as soon as she filled her lungs with the pure air of this
glorious summer's day.
At first the light, the glare, the vibration of water and leaves under
the kiss of the midday sun dazzled her eyes so that she could not see.
But she heard the chirrup of the sparrows, the call of thrush and
blackbird, and far away the hymn of praise of the skylark. Her
nostrils drew in with glad intoxication the pungent fragrance of
oak-leaved geraniums, and her heart called out joyfully to the
secluded plantation of young beech trees there on her left, where she
often used to wander.
Thither now she bent her steps. It was a favourite walk of hers, and a
cherished spot, for she had it always before her when she sat in her
own study at the angle of the West Wing. The tall windows of her
private sanctum gave on this plantation, and whenever she felt wearied
or disheartened with the great burden which she had taken on her
shoulders, she would sit beside the open casements and rest her eyes
on the brilliant emerald or copper of the leaves, and find rest and
solace in the absolute peace they proclaimed.
And, at times like the present one, when the park was still deserted,
she liked to wander in that miniature wood, crushing with delight the
moist bed of moss under her feet, letting the dew-covered twigs fall
back with a swish against her hands. She found her way to a tiny
glade, where a rough garden seat invited repose. The glade was
circular in shape, a perfect audience chamber, wherein to review a
whole army of fancies. On the ground a thick carpet of brilliant green
with designs of rich sienna formed by last year's leaves, and flecks
of silver of young buds not yet scorched by the midday sun; all
around, walls of parallel, slender trunks of a tender gray-green
colour, with bold patches of glaring viridian and gold intermixed with
dull blue shadows. And then a dado of tall bracken fantastic in shape
and almost weird in outline, through which there peeped here and
there, with insolent luxuriance, clumps of purple and snow-white
foxgloves.
Lydie sank on to the rough bench, leaning well back and resting her
head against the hard, uneven back of the seat. Her eyes gazed
straight upwards to a patch of vivid blue sky, almost crude and
artificial-looking above the canopy of the beeches.
She felt unspeakably lonely, unspeakably forsaken. The sense of
injustice oppressed her even more than the atmosphere of treachery.
Her father false and weak; her husband fickle and unjust! Prince
Charles Edward abandoned, and she now powerless, probably, to carry
through the work of rescue which she had planned! Until this moment
she had not realized how much she had counted on her husband to help
her. Now that she could no longer ask him to ride to Le Havre, and
take her message to the commander of Le Monarque, she cast about her
in vain for a substitute: some one whom she could trust. Her world was
made up of sycophants, of flatterers, of pleasure-loving fops. Where
was the man who would cover one hundred and eighty leagues in one
night in order to redeem a promise made by France?
Her head ached with the agony of this thought. It was terrible to see
her most cherished hope threatened with annihilation. Oh! had she been
a man! . . .
Tears gathered in her eyes. At other times she would have scorned the
weakness, now she welcomed it, for it seemed to lift the load of
oppression from her heart. The glare of that vivid blue sky above
weighed down her lids. She closed her eyes and for the space of a few
seconds she seemed to forget everything; the world, and its treachery,
the palace of Versailles, the fugitives in Scotland.
Everything except her loneliness, and the sound of that cry: "Lydie!"
As soon as M. Durand had recovered from the shock of Madame la
Marquise's sudden invasion of his sanctum, he ran to the portière
which he had been watching so anxiously, and, pushing it aside, he
disclosed the door partially open.
"Monsieur le Comte de Stainville!" he called discreetly.
"Has she gone?" came in a whisper from the inner room.
"Yes! yes! I pray you enter, M. le Comte," said M. Durand,
obsequiously holding the portière aside. "Madame la Marquise only
passed through very quickly; she took notice of nothing, I assure
you."
Gaston de Stainville cast a quick searching glance round the room as
he entered, and fidgeted nervously with a lace handkerchief in his
hand. No doubt his enforced sudden retreat at Lydie's approach had
been humiliating to his pride. But he did not want to come on her too
abruptly, and was chafing now because he needed a menial's help to
further his desires.
"You were a fool, man, to place me in this awkward position," he said
with a scowl directed at M. Durand's meek personality, "or else a
knave, in which case . . ."
"Ten thousand pardons, M. le Comte," rejoined the little man
apologetically. "Madame la Marquise scarcely ever comes this way
after le petit lever. She invariably retires to her study, and
thither I should have had the honour to conduct you, according to your
wish."
"You seem very sure that Madame la Marquise would have granted me a
private audience."
"I would have done my best to obtain one for M. Le Comte," said M.
Durand with becoming modesty, "and I think I should have succeeded
. . . with tact and diplomacy, Monsieur le Comte, we, who are
privileged to . . ."
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Gaston impatiently, "but now?"
"Ah! now it will be much more difficult. Madame la Marquise is not in
her study, and . . ."
"And you will want more pay," quoth Gaston with a sneer.
"Oh! Monsieur le Comte . . ." protested Durand.
"Well! how much more?" said the Comte impatiently.
"What does M. le Comte desire?"
"To speak with Madame la Marquise quite alone."
"Heu! . . . heu! . . . it is difficult. . . ."
But Gaston de Stainville's stock of patience was running low. He never
had a great deal. With a violent oath he seized the little man by the
collar.
"Two louis, you knave, for getting me that audience now, at once, or
my flunkey's stick across your shoulders if you fool me any longer."
M. Durand apparently was not altogether unprepared for this outburst:
perhaps his peculiar position had often subjected him to similar
onslaughts on the part of irate and aristocratic supplicants. Anyway,
he did not seem at all disturbed, and, as soon as the Comte's grip on
his collar relaxed, he readjusted his coat and his cravat, and holding
out his thin hand, he said meekly:
"The two louis I pray you, Monsieur le Comte. And," he added, when
Gaston, with another oath, finally placed the two gold pieces on the
meagre palm, "will you deign to follow me?"
He led the way through the large folding doors and thence along the
enfilade of gorgeous reception rooms, the corridors, landings and
staircase which Lydie herself had traversed just now. Gaston de
Stainville followed him at a close distance, acknowledging with a curt
nod here and there the respectful salutations of the many lackeys whom
he passed.
M. le Comte de Stainville was an important personage at Court: Madame
de Pompadour's predilection for him was well known, and His Majesty
himself was passing fond of the gallant gentleman's company, whilst
Madame la Comtesse was believed to hold undisputed sway over M. le
Contrôleur-Général des Finances.
Thus Gaston met with obsequiousness wherever he went, and this despite
the fact that he was not lavish with money. M. Durand would have
expected a much heavier bribe from any one else for this service which
he was now rendering to the Comte.
Anon the two men reached the terrace. M. Durand then pointed with one
claw-like finger to the spinney on the left.
"M. le Comte will find Madame la Marquise in yonder plantation," he
said; "as for me, I dare not vacate my post any longer, for M. le
Contrôleur might have need of me, nor would Monsieur le Comte care
mayhap to be seen by Madame la Marquise in my company."
Gaston assented. He was glad to be rid of the mealy-mouthed creature,
of whose necessary help in this matter he was heartily ashamed. Unlike
Lydie, he was quite unconscious of the beauty of this August day:
neither the birds nor the acrid scent of late summer flowers appealed
to his fancy, and the clump of young beech trees only interested him
in so far as he hoped to find Lydie there, alone.
When he reached the little glade, he caught sight of the graceful
figure, half-sitting, half-reclining in the unconscious charm of
sleep. Overcome by the heat and the glare, Lydie had dozed off
momentarily.
Presently something caused her to open her eyes and she saw Gaston de
Stainville standing there looking at her intently.
She was taken at a disadvantage, since she had undoubtedly been
asleep—if only for a moment—and she was not quite sure if her pose,
when Gaston first caught sight of her, was sufficiently dignified.
"I am afraid I have disturbed you," he said humbly.
"I was meditating," she replied coldly, as she smoothed down her
skirts and mechanically put a hand to her hair, lest a curl had gone
astray.
Then she made as if she would rise.
"Surely you are not going?" he pleaded.
"I have my work to do. I only stayed here a moment, in order to rest."
"And I am intruding?"
"Oh, scarcely," she replied quietly. "I was about to return to my
work."
"Is it so urgent?"
"The business of a nation, M. le Comte, is always urgent."
"So urgent that you have no time now to give to old friends," he said
bitterly.
She shrugged her shoulders with a quick, sarcastic laugh.
"Old friends? . . . Oh! . . ."
"Yes, old friends," he rejoined quietly. "We were children together,
Lydie."
"Much has occurred since then, Monsieur le Comte."
"Only one great and awful fault, which meseems hath been its own
expiation."
"Need we refer to that now?" she asked calmly.
"Indeed, indeed, we must," he replied earnestly. "Lydie, am I never to
be forgiven?"
"Is there aught for me to forgive?"
"Yes. An error, a grave error . . . a fault, if you will call it so
. . ."
"I prefer to call it a treachery," she said.
"Without one word of explanation, without listening to a single word
from me. Is that just?"
"There is nothing that you could say now, Monsieur le Comte, that I
should have the right to hear."
"Why so?" he said with sudden vehemence, as he came nearer to her, and
in a measure barred the way by which she might have escaped. "Even a
criminal at point of death is allowed to say a few words in
self-defence. Yet I was no criminal. If I loved you, Lydie, was that
wrong? . . . I was an immeasurable fool, I own that," he added more
calmly, being quick to note that he only angered her by his violence,
"and it is impossible for a high-minded woman like yourself to
understand the pitfalls which beset the path of a man, who has riches,
good looks mayhap and a great name, all of which will tempt the
cupidity of certain designing women, bent above all on matrimony, on
influence and independence. Into one of these pitfalls I fell, Lydie
. . . fell clumsily, stupidly, I own, but not inexcusably."
"You seem to forget, M. le Comte," she said stiffly, "that you are
speaking of your wife."
"Nay!" he said with a certain sad dignity, "I try not to forget it. I
do not accuse, I merely state a fact, and do so before the woman whom
I most honour in the world, who was the first recipient of my childish
confidences, the first consoler of my boyhood's sorrows."
"That was when you were free, M. le Comte, and could bring your
confidences to me; now they justly belong to another and . . ."
"And by the heavens above me," he interrupted eagerly, "I do that
other no wrong by bringing my sorrows to you and laying them with a
prayer for consolation at your feet."
He noted that since that first desire to leave him, Lydie had made no
other attempt to go. She was sitting in the angle of the rough garden
seat, her graceful arm resting on the back, her cheek leaning against
her hand. A gentle breeze stirred the little curls round her head, and
now, when he spoke so earnestly and so sadly about his sorrow, a swift
look of sympathy softened the haughty expression of her mouth.
Quick to notice it, Gaston nevertheless in no way relaxed his attitude
of humble supplication; he stood before her with head bent, his eyes
mostly riveted on the ground.
"There is so little consolation that I can give," she said more
gently.
"There is a great one, if you will but try."
"What is it?"
"Do not cast me out from your life altogether. Am I such a despicable
creature that you cannot now and then vouchsafe me one kind look?
. . . I did wrong you . . . I know it. . . . Call it treachery if you
must, yet when I look back on that night, meseems I am worthy of your
pity. Blinded by my overwhelming love for you, I forgot everything for
one brief hour . . . forgot that I had sunk deeply in a pitfall—by
Heaven through no fault of mine own! . . . forgot that another now had
a claim on that love which never was mine to give, since it had always
been wholly yours. . . . Yes! I forgot! . . . the music, the noise,
the excitement of the night, your own beauty, Lydie, momentarily
addled my brain. . . . I forgot the past, I only lived for the
present. Am I to blame because I am a man and that you are exquisitely
fair?"
He forced himself not to raise his voice, not to appear eager or
vehement. Lydie only saw before her a man whom she had once loved, who
had grievously wronged her, but who now stood before her ashamed and
humbled, asking with utmost respect for her forgiveness of the past.
"Let us speak of it no longer," she said, "believe me, Gaston, I have
never borne you ill-will."
For the first time she had used his Christian name. The layer of ice
was broken through, but the surface of the lake was still cold and
smooth.
"Nay! but you avoid me," he rejoined seeking to meet her eyes, "you
treat me with whole-hearted contempt, whilst I would lay down my life
to serve you, and this in all deference and honour, as the martyrs of
old laid down their life for their faith."
"Protestations, Gaston," she said with a quick sigh.
"Let me prove them true," he urged. "Lydie, I watched you just now,
while you slept; it was some minutes and I saw much. Your lips were
parted with constant sighs; there were tears at the points of your
lashes. At that moment I would have gladly died if thereby I could
have eased your heart from the obvious burden which it bore."
Emboldened by her silence, and by the softer expression of her face,
he sat down close beside her, and anon placed his hand on hers. She
withdrew it quietly and serenely as was her wont, but quite without
anger.
She certainly felt no anger toward him. Strangely enough, the anger
she did feel was all against her husband. That Gaston had seen her
grief was in a measure humiliating to her pride, and this humiliation
she owed to the great wrong done her by milor. And Gaston had been
clever at choosing his words; he appealed to her pity and asked for
forgiveness. There was no attempt on his part to justify himself, and
his self-abasement broke down the barrier of resentment which up to
now she had set up against him. His respectful homage soothed her
wounded pride, and she felt really, sincerely sorry for him.
The fact that her own actions had been so gravely misunderstood also
helped Gaston's cause; she felt that, after all, she too might have
passed a hasty, unconsidered judgment on him, and knew now how acutely
such a judgment can hurt.
And he spoke very earnestly, very simply: remember that she had loved
him once, loved and trusted him. He had been the ideal of her
girlhood, and though she had remorselessly hurled him down from his
high pedestal since then, there remained nevertheless, somewhere in
the depths of her heart, a lingering thought of tenderness for him.
"Lydie!" he now said appealingly.
"Yes?"
"Let me be the means of easing your heart from its load of sorrow. You
spoke of my wife just now. See, I do not shirk the mention of her
name. I swear to you by that early love for you which was the noblest,
purest emotion of my life, that I do not wrong her by a single thought
when I ask for your friendship. You are so immeasurably superior to
all other women, Lydie, that in your presence passion itself becomes
exalted and desire transformed into a craving for sacrifice."
"Oh! how I wish I could believe you, Gaston," she sighed.
"Try me!"
"How?"
"Let me guess what troubles you now. Oh! I am not the empty-headed fop
that you would believe. I have ears and eyes, and if I hold aloof from
Court intrigues, it is only because I see too much of their inner
workings. Do you really believe that I do not see what goes on around
me now? Do I not know how your noble sympathy must at this very moment
be going out to the unfortunate young prince whom you honour with your
friendship? Surely, surely, you cannot be a party to the criminal
supineness which at this very moment besets France, and causes her to
abandon him to his fate?"
"Not France, Gaston," she protested.
"And not you, surely. I would stake my life on your loyalty to a
friend."
"Of course," she said simply.
"I knew it," he ejaculated triumphantly, as if this discovery had
indeed caused him joyful surprise. "Every fibre in my soul told me
that I would not appeal to you in vain. You are clever, Lydie, you are
rich, you are powerful. I feel as if I could turn to you as to a man.
Prince Charles Edward Stuart honoured me with his friendship: I am not
presumptuous when I say that I stood in his heart second only to Lord
Eglinton. . . . But because I hold a secondary place I dared not
thrust my advice, my prayers, my help forward, whilst I firmly
believed that his greater friend was at work on his behalf. But now I
can bear the suspense no longer. The crisis has become over-acute. The
Stuart prince is in deadly danger, not only from supineness but from
treachery."
Clever Gaston! how subtle and how shrewd! she would never have to come
to meet him on this ground, but he called to her. He came to fetch
her, as it were, and led her along the road. He did not offer to guide
her faltering footsteps, he simulated lameness, and asked for
assistance instead of offering it.
So clever was this move that Lydie was thrown off her guard. At the
word "treachery" she looked eagerly into his eyes.
"What makes you think . . . ?" she asked.
"Oh! I have scented it in the air for some days. The King himself
wears an air of shamefacedness when the Stuart prince is mentioned.
Madame de Pompadour lately hath talked freely of the completion of her
château in the Parc aux Cerfs, as if money were forthcoming from some
unexpected source; then a letter came from England, which His Majesty
keeps hidden in his pocket, whilst whispered conversations are carried
on between the King and Madame, which cease abruptly if any one comes
within earshot. Then to-day . . ."
"Yes? . . . to-day?" she asked eagerly.
"I hardly dare speak of it."
"Why?"
"I fear it might give you pain."
"I am used to pain," she said simply, "and I would wish to know."
"I was in the antechamber when His Majesty arrived for le petit
lever of M. le Contrôleur. I had had vague hopes of seeing you this
morning, and lingered about the reception rooms somewhat listlessly,
my thoughts dwelling on all the sad news which has lately come from
Scotland. In the antechamber His Majesty was met by M. le Duc
d'Aumont, your father."
He paused again as if loth to speak, but she said quite calmly:
"And you overheard something which the Duke, my father, said to the
King, and which confirmed your suspicions. What was it?"
"It was His Majesty who spoke, obviously not aware that I was within
earshot. He said quite airily: 'Oh! if we cannot persuade milor we
must act independently of him. The Stuart will be tired by now of
living in crags and will not be so chary of entrusting his valuable
person to a comfortable French ship.' Then M. le Duc placed a hand on
His Majesty's arm warning him of my presence and nothing more was
said."
"Then you think that the King of France is about to deliver Prince
Charles Edward Stuart to his enemies?" she asked calmly.
"I am sure of it: and the thought is more than I can bear. And I am
not alone in this, Lydie. The whole of France will cry out in shame at
such perfidy. Heaven knows what will come of it ultimately, but
surely, surely we cannot allow that unfortunate young prince whom we
all loved and fêted to be thus handed over to the English
authorities! That is why I have dared intrude on you to-day. Lydie,"
he added now in a passionate appeal; "for the sake of that noble if
misguided young prince, will you try and forget the terrible wrong
which I in my madness and blindness once did you? Do not allow my sin
to be expiated by him! . . . I crave your help for him on my knees.
. . . Hate me an you will! despise me and punish me, but do not deny
me your help for him!"
His voice, though sunk now almost to a whisper, was vibrating with
passion. He half dropped on his knees, took the edge of her skirt
between his fingers and raised it to his lips.
Clever, clever Gaston! he had indeed moved her. Her serenity had gone,
and her cold impassiveness. She sat up, erect, palpitating with
excitement, her eyes glowing, her lips parted, all her senses awake
and thrilling with this unexpected hope.
"In what manner do you wish for my help, Gaston?"
"I think the King and M. le Duc will do nothing for a day or two at
any rate. I hoped I could forestall them, with your help, Lydie, if
you will give it. I am not rich, but I have realized some of my
fortune: my intention was to charter a seaworthy boat, equip her as
well as my means allowed and start for Scotland immediately, and then
if possible to induce the prince to cross over with me to Ireland, or,
with great good luck I might even bring him back as far as Brittany.
But you see how helpless I was, for I dared not approach you, and I do
not know where I can find the prince."
"And if I do not give you that help which you need?" she asked.
"I would still charter the vessel and start for Scotland," he replied
quietly. "I cannot stay here, in inactivity whilst I feel that
infamous treachery is being planned against a man with whom I have
often broken bread. If you will not tell me where I can find Charles
Edward Stuart, I will still equip a vessel and try and find him
somehow. If I fail, I will not return, but at any rate I shall then
not be a party or a witness to the everlasting shame of France!"
"Your expedition would require great pluck and endurance."
"I have both, and boundless enthusiasm to boot. Two or three friends
will accompany me, and my intention was to start for Brest or Le Havre
to-night. But if you will consent to help me, Lydie . . ."
"Nay!" she interrupted eagerly. "I'll not help you. 'Tis you who shall
help me!"
"Lydie!"
"The plan which you have formed I too had thought on it: the treachery
of the King of France, my God! I knew it too. But my plans are more
mature than yours, less noble and self-sacrificing, for, as you say, I
have power and influence; yet with all that power I could not serve
Prince Charles Edward as I would wish to do, because though I have
pluck and endurance I am not a man."
"And you want me to help you? Thank God! thank God for that! Tell me
what to do."
"To start for Le Havre—not Brest."
"Yes!"
"This afternoon . . . reaching Le Havre before dawn."
"Yes."
"There to seek out Le Monarque. She lies in the harbour, and her
commander is Captain Barre."
"Yes! yes!"
"You will hand him over a packet, which I will give you anon, and then
return here as swiftly as you went."
"Is that all?" he asked in obvious disappointment, "and I who had
hoped that you would ask me to give my life for you!"
"The faithful and speedy performance of this errand, Gaston, is worth
the most sublime self-sacrifice, if this be purposeless. The packet
will contain full instructions for Captain Barre how and where to find
Prince Charles Edward. Le Monarque is ready equipped for the
expedition, but . . ." she paused a moment as if half ashamed of the
admission, "I had no one whom I could entrust with the message."
Gaston de Stainville was too keen a diplomatist to venture on this
delicate ground. He had never once mentioned her husband's name,
fearing to scare her, or to sting her pride. He knew her to be far too
loyal to allow condemnation of her lord by the lips of another man;
all he said now was a conventional:
"I am ready!"
Then she rose and held out her hand to him. He bowed with great
deference, and kissed the tips of her fingers. His face expressed
nothing but the respectful desire to be of service, and not one
thought of treachery disturbed Lydie's serenity. Historians have, we
know, blamed her very severely for this unconditional yielding of
another's secret into the keeping of a man who had already deceived
her once; but it was the combination of circumstances which caused her
to act thus, and Gaston's masterly move in asking for her help had
completely subjugated her. She would have yielded to no other emotion,
but that of compassion for him, and the desire to render him
assistance in a cause which she herself had so deeply at heart. She
had no love for Gaston and no amount of the usual protestations would
have wrung a confidence from her. But he had so turned the tables that
it appeared that he was confiding in her; and her pride, which had
been so deeply humiliated that self-same morning, responded to his
appeal. If she had had the least doubt or fear in her mind, she would
not have given up her secret, but as he stood so coldly and
impassively before her, without a trace of passion in his voice or
look, she had absolutely no misgivings.
"I can be in the saddle at four o'clock," he said in the same
unemotional tones, "when and how can I receive the packet from you?"
"Will you wait for me here?" she replied. "The packet is quite ready,
and the walls of the palace have eyes and ears."
Thus they parted. She full of confidence and hope, not in any way
attempting to disguise before him the joy and gratitude which she
felt, he the more calm of the two, fearing to betray his sense of
triumph, still trembling lest her present mood should change.
Her graceful figure quickly disappeared among the trees. He gave a
sigh of intense satisfaction. His Majesty would be pleased, and Madame
de Pompadour would be more than kind. Never for a moment did the least
feeling of remorse trouble his complacent mind; the dominant thought
in him was one of absolute triumph and pride at having succeeded in
hoodwinking the keenest statesman in France. He sat down on the garden
seat whereon had been fought that close duel between himself and the
woman whom he had once already so heartlessly betrayed. He thought
over every stage of the past scene and smiled somewhat grimly. He felt
quite sure that he individually would never have trusted for the
second time a woman who had once deceived him. But Lydie had no such
misgivings; as she now sped through the park, she no longer saw its
artificiality, its stunted rose trees and the stultified plantations.
The air was invigorating to breathe, the fragrance of the flowers was
sweet, the birds' twitter was delicious to the ear. There were good
and beautiful things in this world, but the best of all was the
loyalty of a friend.
Lydie returned to the palace in a very different frame of mind than
when, half an hour ago, she had run along corridor and staircase, her
nerves on the jar, her whole being smarting under the sense of wrong
and of injustice.
Hope had consoled her since then, and the thought that her own
cherished plan need not fail for want of a loyal man's help had in a
measure eased that strange obsession which had weighed on her heart,
and caused foolish tears to start to her eyes. She was also conscious
of a certain joy in thinking that the companion of her childhood, the
man who had been her earliest ideal was not so black a traitor as she
had believed.
Gaston had spoken of pitfalls, he owned to having been deceived, and
there is no woman living who will not readily admit that her
successful rival is naught but a designing minx. Gaston had always
been weak where women were concerned, and Lydie forgave him his
weakness, simply because he had owned to it and because she liked to
think of his fault as a weakness rather than as a deliberate
treachery.
Now she only thought of her project. When first she had talked of
commissioning Le Monarque, milor had entrusted her with all
necessary directions by which Captain Barre could most easily reach
the Stuart prince and his friends. It was but a very few weeks, nay
days ago, that she had been quite convinced that the King himself
would be foremost in the general desire to fit out an expedition for
the rescue of the unfortunate Jacobites, and naturally the fitting-out
of such an expedition would have been entrusted primarily to herself
and incidentally to her husband.
These directions she still had. All she had to do now was to embody
them in the secret orders which Gaston de Stainville would hand over
to the Commander of Le Monarque. Further orders would be anent
getting the prince and his friends on board, and the route to be taken
homeward, the better to ensure their safety.
Beyond that she would need some sort of token which, when shown to
Charles Edward Stuart by Captain Barre, would induce the young prince
to trust himself and his friends unconditionally to Le Monarque.
Lord Eglinton's signet ring had been spoken of for this object the day
of the Young Pretender's departure, but now of course she could not
ask milor for it. On the other hand she felt quite sure that a written
word from her would answer the necessary purpose, a brief note sealed
with the Eglinton arms.
The thought of the seal as an additional message of good faith first
occurred to her when she once more reached the West Wing of the
palace.
From the great square landing where she now stood, a monumental door
on her right gave on her own suite of apartments. On the left was the
long enfilade of reception rooms, with the vast audience chamber and
milor's own withdrawing room beyond.
She deliberately turned to the left, and once more traversed the vast
and gorgeous halls where, half an hour ago, she had suffered such keen
humiliation and such overwhelming disappointment. She forced herself
not to dwell on that scene again, and even closed her eyes with a
vague fear that the mental vision might become materialized.
Beyond the audience chamber there were two or three more reception
rooms, and from the last of these a door masked by a heavy portière,
gave on milor's study. All these apartments were now deserted, save
for a few flunkeys who stood about desultorily in the window
embrasures. From one of them Lydie asked if M. le Contrôleur des
Finances was within, but no one remembered having seen milor since the
petit lever, and it was generally thought that he had gone to
Trianon. Lydie hesitated a moment before she opened the door; she
scarcely ever entered this portion of the palace and had never once
been in milor's private rooms. But she wanted that seal with the
Eglinton arms, and would not admit, even to herself, that her
husband's presence or absence interested her in the least.
But on the threshold she paused. Milor was sitting at a gigantic
escritoire placed squarely in front of the window. He had obviously
been writing; at the slight sound of the creaking door and the swish
of Lydie's skirts, he raised his head from his work and turned to look
at her.
Immediately he rose.
"Your pardon for this intrusion, milor," she said coldly, "your
lacqueys gave me to understand that you were from home."
"Is there anything that you desire?"
"Only a seal with the Eglinton arms," she replied quite casually, "I
have need of it for a private communication."
He sought for the seal among the many costly objects which littered
his table and handed it to her.
"I am sorry that you should have troubled to come so far for it," he
said coldly, "one of my men would have taken it to your study."
"And I am sorry that I should have disturbed you," she rejoined. "I
was told that you had gone to Trianon."
"I shall be on my way thither in a few moments, to place my
resignation in the hands of His Majesty."
"Your resignation?"
"As I have had the honour to tell you."
"Then you will leave Versailles?"
"To make way for my successor, as soon as His Majesty hath appointed
one."
"And you go . . . whither?" she asked.
"Oh! what matter?" he replied carelessly, "so long as I no longer
trouble your ladyship with my presence."
"Then you will have no objection if I return to my father until your
future plans are more mature?"
"Objection?" he said with a pleasant little laugh. "Nay, Madame, you
are pleased to joke."
She felt a little bewildered: this unexpected move on his part had
somehow thrown all her plans out of gear. For the moment she scarcely
had time to conjecture, even vaguely, what her own future actions
would be if her husband no longer chose to hold an important position
in the Ministry. The thought that his resignation would of necessity
mean her own, suddenly rushed into her mind with overwhelming
violence, but she was too confused at present to disentangle herself
from the maze of conflicting emotions which assailed her, when first
she realized the unexpected possibility.
She was toying with the seal, forgetful somehow of the purpose and the
plans which it represented. These not being in jeopardy through
milor's extraordinary conduct, she could afford to dismiss them from
her mind.
It was the idea of her husband's resignation and her own future which
troubled her, and strangely enough there was such an air of finality
about his attitude that, for the moment, she was somewhat at a loss
how to choose a line of argument with which to influence him. That she
could make him alter his decision she never doubted for a moment, but
since the first day of their married life he had never taken any
initiative in an important matter, and his doing so at this moment
found her at first wholly unprepared.
"Am I to understand that my wishes in so vital a decision are not to
be consulted in any way?" she asked after a momentary pause.
"You will honour me, Madame, by making me acquainted with them," he
replied.
"You must reconsider your resignation," she said decisively.
"That is not possible."
"I have much important business of the nation in hand which I could
not hand over to your successor in an incomplete state," she said
haughtily.
"There is no necessity for that, Madame, nor for depriving the nation
of your able, guiding hand. The post of Comptroller of Finance need
not be filled immediately. It can remain in abeyance and under your
own matchless control, at the pleasure of His Majesty and M. le Duc
d'Aumont, neither of whom will, I am sure, desire to make a change in
an administration, which is entirely for the benefit of France."
She looked at him very keenly, through narrowed lids scanning his face
and trying to read his intent. But there was obviously no look of
sarcasm in his eyes, nor the hint of a sneer in the even placidity of
his voice. Once more that unaccountable feeling of irritation seemed
to overmaster her, the same sense of wrath and of injustice which had
assailed her when she first spoke to him.
"But this is senseless, milor," she said impatiently. "You seem to
forget that I am your wife, and that I have a right to your
protection, and to a fitting home if I am to leave Versailles."
"I am not forgetting that you are my wife, Madame, but my protection
is worth so little, scarcely worthy of your consideration. As for the
rest, my château of Vincennes is entirely at your disposal; a retinue
of servants is there awaiting your orders, and my notary will this day
prepare the deed which I have commanded wherein I humbly ask you to
accept the château, its lands and revenues as a gift from me, albeit
these are wholly unworthy of your condescension."
"It is monstrous, milor, and I'll not accept it," she retorted. "Think
you perchance I am so ready to play the rôle of a forsaken wife?"
A strange thought had been gradually creeping into her mind: a weird
kind of calculation whereby she put certain events in juxtaposition to
one another: the departure of Gaston de Stainville, for he had told
her that he was prepared to go to Scotland whether she helped him in
his expedition or not: then Irène would be temporarily free, almost a
widow since Gaston's return under those circumstances would have been
more than problematical; and now milor calmly expressing the
determination to quit Versailles, and to give away his château and
lands of Vincennes, forsooth, as a sop to the forsaken wife, whilst
Madame de Stainville's provocative attitude this morning more than
bore out this conclusion.
Lydie felt as if every drop of blood in her body rushed up violently
to her cheeks, which suddenly blazed with anger, whilst his, at her
suggestion, had become a shade more pale.
"I am free to suppose, milor, that Madame de Stainville has something
to do with your sudden decision!" she said haughtily; "therefore,
believe me, I have no longer a wish to combat it. As the welfare of
France, the work which I have in hand, interests you so little, I will
not trouble you by referring to such matters again. By all means place
your resignation in His Majesty's hands. I understand that you desire
to be free. I only hope that you will assist me in not washing too
much of our matrimonial linen in public. I have many enemies and I
must refuse to allow your whims and fantasies to annihilate the fruits
of my past labours, for the good of my country. I will confer with
Monsieur le Duc, my father; you will hear my final decision from him."
She turned once more toward the door. He had not spoken one word in
interruption, as with a harsh and trenchant voice she thus hurled
insult upon insult at him. She only saw that he looked very pale,
although his face seemed to her singularly expressionless: whilst she
herself was conscious of such unendurable agony, that she feared she
must betray it in the quiver of her mouth, and the tears which
threatened to come to her eyes.
When she ceased speaking, he bowed quite stiffly, but made no sign of
wishing to defend himself. She left the room very hurriedly: in
another second and she would have broken down. Sobs were choking her,
an intolerable anguish wrung her heartstrings to that extent, that if
she had had the power, she would have wounded him physically, as she
hoped that she had done now mentally. Oh! if she had had the strength,
if those sobs that would not be denied had not risen so persistently
in her throat, she would have found words of such deadly outrage, as
would at least have stung him and made him suffer as she was suffering
now.
There are certain pains of the heart that are so agonizing, that only
cruelty will assuage them. Lydie's strong, passionate nature
perpetually held in check by the force of her great ambition and by
her will to be masculine and firm in the great purpose of her life,
had for once broken through the trammels which her masterful mind had
fashioned round it. It ran riot now in her entire being. She was
conscious of overwhelming, of indomitable hate.
With burning eyes and trembling lips she hurried through the rooms,
and along the interminable corridors. The flunkeys stared at her as
she passed, she looked so different to her usual composed and haughty
self: her cheeks were flaming, her bosom heaving beneath the
primly-folded kerchief, and at intervals a curious moan-like sound
escaped her lips.
Thus she reached her own study, a small square room at the extreme end
of the West Wing, two of its walls formed an angle of the structure,
with great casement windows which gave on that secluded spinney, with
its peaceful glade which she loved.
As soon as she entered the room her eyes fell on that distant beech
plantation. A great sigh rose from her oppressed heart, for suddenly
she had remembered her great purpose, the one project which was
infinitely dear to her.
The graceful beech trees far away, with their undergrowth of bracken
and foxgloves gleaming in the sun, recalled to her that Gaston was
waiting in their midst for her message to Le Monarque.
Thank God, this great joy at least was not denied her. She still had
the power and the will to accomplish this all-pervading object of her
life: the rescue of the Stuart prince from the hands of his enemies
and from the perfidy of his whilom friends.
This thought, the recollection of her talk with Gaston, the work which
still remained for her to do, eased the tension of her nerves and
stilled the agonizing pain of her heart.
With a tremendous effort of will she chased away from her mental
vision the picture of that pale, expressionless face, which seemed to
haunt her. She forced herself to forget the humiliation, the
injustice, the affront which she had suffered to-day, and not to hear
the persistent echo of the deadly insults which she had uttered in
response.
Her study was cool and dark; heavy curtains of soft-toned lavender
fell beside the windows, partially shutting out the glare of the
midday sun. Her secretaire stood in the centre of the room. She sat
down near it and unlocked a secret drawer. For the next quarter of an
hour her pen flew across two sheets of paper. She had in front of her
a map of a certain portion of the West Coast of Scotland, with
directions and other sundry notes carefully written in the margins,
and she was writing out the orders for the commander of Le Monarque
to reach that portion of the coast as quickly as possible, to seek out
Prince Charles Stuart, who would probably be on the look-out for a
French vessel, and having got him, and as many friends of his as
accompanied him, safely aboard, to skirt the West Coast of Ireland and
subsequently to reach Morlaix in Brittany, where the prince would
disembark.
There was nothing flustered or undetermined about her actions, she
never paused a moment to collect her thoughts for obedient to her will
they were already arrayed in perfect order in her mind: she had only
to transfer them to paper.
Having written out the orders for Captain Barre she carefully folded
them, together with the map, and fastened and sealed them with the
official seal of the Ministry of Finance: then she took one more sheet
of paper and wrote in a bold clear hand:
"The bearer of this letter is sent to meet you by your
true and faithful friends. You may trust yourself and
those you care for unconditionally to him."
To this note she affixed a seal stamped with the Eglinton arms: and
across the words themselves she wrote the name "Eglinton!"
There was no reason to fear for a moment that the Stuart prince would
have any misgivings when he received this message of comfort and of
hope.
Then with all the papers safely tied together and hidden in the folds
of her corselet, she once more found her way down the great staircase
and terraces and into the beech wood where M. de Stainville awaited
her.
Gaston de Stainville had been sitting idly on the garden seat, vaguely
wondering why Lydie was so long absent, ignorant of course of the
acute crisis through which she had just passed. For the last quarter
of an hour of this weary waiting, anxiety began to assail him.
Women were so fickle and so capricious! which remark inwardly muttered
came with singular inappropriateness from Gaston de Stainville. His
keen judgment, however, fought his apprehensions. He knew quite well
that Lydie was unlike other women, at once stronger and weaker than
those of her own sex, more firm in her purpose, less bendable in her
obstinacy. And he knew also that nothing could occur within the
gorgeous walls of that palace to cause her to change her mind.
But as the moments sped on, his anxiety grew apace. He no longer could
sit still, and began walking feverishly up and down the little glade,
like an animal caged within limits too narrow for its activity. He
dared not wander out of the wood, lest she should return and, not
finding him there, think at once of doubting.
Thus when she once more appeared before him, he was not so calm as he
would have wished, nor yet so keen in noting the subtle, indefinable
change which had come over her entire personality. Desirous of masking
his agitation, he knelt when she approached, and thus took the packet
from her hand.
The action struck her as theatrical, her mind being filled with
another picture, that of a man motionless and erect, with pale,
expressionless face, which yet had meant so much more of reality to
her.
And because of this theatricality in Gaston's attitude, she lost
something of the fullness of joy of this supreme moment. She ought to
have been happier, more radiant with hope for the future and with
gratitude to him. She tried to say something enthusiastic, something
more in keeping with the romance of this sudden and swift departure,
the prospective ride to Le Havre, the spirit of self-sacrifice and
courage which caused him to undertake this task, so different to his
usual avocation of ease and luxury.
"I pray you, Gaston," she said, "guard the packet safely, and use your
best endeavours to reach Le Havre ere the night hath yielded to a new
dawn."
She could not say more just now, feeling that if she added words of
encouragement or of praise, they would not ring true, and would seem
as artificial as his posture at her feet.
"I will guard the packet with my life," he said earnestly, "and if
perchance you wake to-night from dreams of the unfortunate prince,
whom your devotion will save from death, send one thought wandering
far away across the rich fields of Normandy, for they will be behind
me by that time, and I will sight the port of Le Havre long before its
church spires are tipped with gold."
"God speed you then!" she rejoined. "I'll not detain you!"
She chided herself for her coldness, noting that Gaston on the other
hand seemed aglow now with excitement, as he unbuttoned his coat and
slipped the papers into an inner pocket. Then he sprang to his feet
and seemed ready to go.
Just at the moment of actual parting, when he asked for her hand to
kiss, and she, giving it to him felt his lips trembling on her
fingers, some measure of his excitement communicated itself to her,
and she repeated more warmly:
"God speed you, Gaston, and farewell!"
"God bless you, Lydie, for this trust which you have deigned to place
in me! Two days hence at even I shall have returned. Where shall I see
you then?"
"In my study. Ask for an audience. I will see that it is granted."
The next moment he had gone; she saw the rich purple of his coat
gradually vanish behind the tall bracken. Even then she had no
misgivings. She thought that she had done right, and that she had
taken the only course by which she could ensure the safety of the
Stuart prince, to whom France, whom she guided through the tortuous
paths of diplomacy, and for whose honour she felt herself to be
primarily responsible, had pledged her word and her faith.
In one of the smaller rooms of the palace of Trianon, His Majesty King
Louis XV received M. le Comte de Stainville in private audience.
Madame la Marquise de Pompadour was present. She sat in an armchair,
close beside the one occupied by His Majesty, her dainty feet resting
on a footstool, her hand given up to her royal patron, so that he
might occasionally imprint a kiss upon it.
Gaston de Stainville sat on a tabouret at a respectful distance. He
had in his hand a letter with a seal attached to it and a map, which
had a number of notes scribbled in the margin. His Majesty seemed in a
superlatively good humour, and sat back in his chair, his fat body
shaking now and again with bursts of merriment.
"Eh! eh! this gallant Count!" he said jovially, "par ma foi! to think
that the minx deceived us and our Court all these years, with her prim
ways and prudish manner. Even Her Majesty the Queen looks upon Madame
Lydie as a pattern of all the virtues."
He leaned forward and beckoned to Gaston to draw his chair nearer.
"Voyons, M. le Comte," continued Louis with a humorous leer, "there is
no need for quite so much discretion. We are all friends together
. . . eh? Tell us how you did it."
Gaston de Stainville did draw his chair nearer to His Majesty, such a
proffered honour was not to be ignored. His face wore an air of
provocative discretion and a fatuous smile curled his sensual lips.
"Nay," he said unctuously, "your Majesty who is galant homme par
excellence will deign to grant me leave to keep inviolate the secret
of how I succeeded in breaking through the barrier of prudery, set up
by the most unapproachable woman in France. Enough that I did succeed:
and that I have been made thrice happy by being allowed to place the
result, with mine own hands, at the feet of the most adored of her
sex."
And with an elegant and graceful flourish of the arm, he rose from his
tabouret and immediately dropped on one knee at Madame's feet,
offering her the letter and the map which he held. She took them from
him, regarding him with a smile, which fortunately the amorous but
highly jealous monarch failed to see; he had just taken the papers
from Pompadour and was gloating over their contents.
"You had best see M. le Duc d'Aumont at once," said His Majesty with a
quick return to gravity, as soon as Gaston de Stainville had once more
resumed his seat. "Go back to the palace now, Monsieur le Comte,
Madame will allow you to take her chair, and then by using our own
private entrance on the South side, you will avoid being seen from the
West Wing. Needless to say, I hope, that discretion and wariness must
be your watchword until the affair is brought to a successful
conclusion."
Gaston de Stainville bent himself nearly double, and placed one hand
there, where his heart was supposed to be, all in token that he would
be obedient to the letter and the spirit of every royal command.
"We do not think," said Louis, with somewhat forced carelessness,
"that our subjects need know anything about this transaction."
"Certainly not, Sire," rejoined De Stainville most emphatically,
whilst Madame too nodded very decisively.
"Most people have strange ideas about politics and diplomacy,"
continued the King. "Just as if those complicated arts could be
conducted on lines of antiquated mediæval codes: therefore the whole
business must be kept between our three selves now present, M. le
Comte, and of course M. le Duc d'Aumont, who has helped us throughout,
and without whom we could not now proceed."
"I quite understand, Sire," assented Gaston.
"We are of course presuming that your happy influence over Madame
Lydie will not cease with her giving you those papers," said Louis
with another of his unpleasant leers.
"I think not your Majesty."
"She will hold her tongue, I should imagine . . . for very obvious
reasons," said Madame with a malicious sneer.
"Anyhow you had best make our recommendations known to Monsieur le Duc
d'Aumont. Tell him that we suggest not relying on Le Monarque even
though she be ready to put to sea, as her commander may be, for aught
we know a secret adherent of the Stuart. We should not care to trust
him, since the Eglintons seem to have been already to do so. A delay
of five or six days while Le Levantin is being commissioned is
better than the taking of any risk. Though we are doing nothing that
we are ashamed of," added Louis the Well-beloved airily, "we have no
wish that the matter be bruited abroad, lest we be misunderstood."
We must suppose that Monsieur le Comte de Stainville had been denied
at his birth the saving gift of a sense of humour, for in reply to
this long tirade from the King, he said quite seriously and
emphatically:
"Your Majesty need not be under the slightest apprehension. Neither M.
le Duc d'Aumont, I feel sure, nor I myself will in any way endanger
the absolute secrecy of the transaction, lest we be misunderstood. As
for Madame Lydie . . ." He paused a moment, whilst carefully examining
his well-trimmed nails: a smile, wherein evil intent now fought with
fatuity, played round the corners of his lips. "Madame Lydie will also
hold her tongue," he concluded quietly.
"That is well!" assented the King. "M. le Duc d'Aumont will see to the
rest. In five or six days, Le Levantin should be ready. Her secret
orders have been drafted and already bear our royal signature. Now
with this map and directions, and the private note for the Stuart, all
so kindly furnished by Madame Lydie, the expedition should be easy,
and above all quite swift. The sooner the affair is concluded and the
money paid over, the less likelihood there is of our subjects getting
wind thereof. We must stipulate, M. le Comte, since you are the
youngest partner in this undertaking and the least prominent in the
public eye, that you take the secret orders yourself to Le Levantin.
We should not feel safe if they were in any one else's hands."
"I thank your Majesty for this trust."
"For this special task, and for your work this afternoon, you shall be
rewarded with two out of the fifteen millions promised by His Grace of
Cumberland. M. le Duc d'Aumont will receive three, whilst we shall
have the honour and pleasure of laying the remainder at the feet of
Madame la Marquise de Pompadour."
He cast an amorous glance at Madame, who promptly rewarded him with a
gracious smile.
"I think that is all which we need say for the present M. le Comte,"
concluded His Majesty; "within six days from now you should be on your
way to Brest where Le Levantin should by then be waiting her orders
and ready to put to sea. A month later, if wind, weather and
circumstances favour us, that young adventurer will have been handed
over to the English authorities and we, who had worked out the
difficult diplomatic problems so carefully, will have shared between
us the English millions."
With his habitual airy gesture, Louis now intimated that the audience
was at an end. He was obviously more highly elated than he cared to
show before Gaston, and was longing to talk over plans and projects
for future pleasures and extravagances with the fair Marquise. Madame,
who had the knack of conveying a great deal by a look, succeeded in
intimating to Gaston that she would gladly have availed herself a
little longer of his pleasant company, but that royal commands must
prevail.
Gaston therefore rose and kissed each hand, as it was graciously
extended to him.
"We are pleased with what you have done, Monsieur le Comte," said the
King as M. de Stainville finally took his leave, "but tell me," he
whispered slily, "did the unapproachable Lydie yield with the first
kiss, or did she struggle much? . . . eh? . . . B-r-r . . . my dear
Comte, are your lips not frozen by contact with such an icicle?"
"Nay, your Majesty! all icicles are bound to melt sooner or later!"
said Gaston de Stainville with a smile which—had Lydie seen it—would
have half killed her with shame.
And with that same smile of fatuity still lurking round his lips, he
bowed himself out of the room.
M. le Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of His Majesty King Louis XV of
France, was exceedingly perturbed. He had just had two separate
interviews, each of half an hour's duration, and he was now busy
trying to dissociate what his daughter had told him in the first
interview, from that which M. de Stainville had imparted to him in the
second. And he was not succeeding.
The two sets of statements seemed inextricably linked together.
Lydie, certainly had been very strange and agitated in her manner,
totally unlike herself: but this mood of course, though so very
unusual in her, did not astonish M. le Duc so much, once he realized
its cause.
It was the cause which was so singularly upsetting.
Milor Eglinton, his son-in-law, had sent in his resignation as
Comptroller-General of Finance, and this without giving any reason for
so sudden and decisive a step. At any rate Lydie herself professed to
be ignorant of milor's motives for this extraordinary line of action
as she was of his future purpose. All she knew—or all that she cared
to tell her father—was that her husband had avowedly the intention of
deserting her: he meant to quit Versailles immediately, thus vacating
his post without a moment's notice, and leaving his wife, whom he had
allowed to conduct all State affairs for him for over a year, to
extricate herself, out of a tangle of work and an anomalous position,
as best she might.
The only suggestion which milor had cared to put forward, with regard
to her future, was that he was about to make her a free gift of his
château and lands of Vincennes, the yearly revenues of which were
close upon a million livres. This gift she desired not to accept.
In spite of strenuous and diplomatic efforts on his part, M. le Duc
d'Aumont had been unable to obtain any further explanation of these
extraordinary events from his daughter. Lydie had no intention
whatever of deceiving her father and she had given him what she
believed to be a perfectly faithful exposé of the situation. All
that she had kept back from him was the immediate cause of the grave
misunderstanding between herself and her husband, and we must do her
the justice to state that she did not think that this was relevant to
the ultimate issue.
Moreover, she was more than loath to mention the Stuart prince and his
affairs again before M. le Duc. She knew that he was not in sympathy
with her over this matter and she dreaded to know with absolute
certainty that there was projected treachery afoot, and that he
perhaps would have a hand in it. What Gaston de Stainville had
conjectured, had seen and overheard, what she herself had guessed, was
not to her mind quite conclusive as far as her father's share in the
scheme was concerned.
She was deeply attached to her father, and her heart found readily
enough a sufficiency of arguments which exonerated him from actual
participation in such wanton perfidy. At any rate in this instance she
chose ignorance rather than heartrending certainty, and as by her
quick action and Gaston's timely and unexpected help, the actual
treachery would be averted, she preferred to dismiss her father's
problematical participation in it entirely from her mind.
Thus she told him nothing of milor's attitude with regard to the Duke
of Cumberland's letter; in fact, she never once referred to the letter
or to the Young Pretender; she merely gave M. le Duc to understand
that her husband seemed desirous of living his future life altogether
apart from hers.
M. le Duc d'Aumont was sorely disquieted: two eventualities presented
themselves before him, and both were equally distasteful. One was the
scandal which would of necessity spread around his daughter's name the
moment her matrimonial differences with her husband became generally
known. M. le Duc d'Aumont was too well acquainted with this Court of
Versailles not to realize that Lydie's position, as a neglected wife,
would subject her to a series of systematic attentions, which she
could but regard in the light of insults.
On the other hand M. le Duc could not even begin to think of having to
forego his daughter's help in the various matters relating to his own
administration. He had been accustomed for some years now to consult
her in all moments of grave crises, to rely on her judgment, on her
able guidance, worth ten thousand times more to him than an army of
masculine advisers.
In spite of the repeated sneers hurled at this era of "petticoat
government," Lydie had been of immense service to him, and if she were
suddenly to be withdrawn from his official life, he would feel very
like Louis XIII had done on that memorable Journée des Dupes, when
Richelieu left him for twenty-four hours to conduct the affairs of
State alone. He would not have known where to begin.
But Lydie told him that her decision was irrevocable, or what was more
to the point, milor had left her no alternative: his resignation was
by now in His Majesty's hands, and he had not even suggested that
Lydie should accompany him, when he quitted Versailles, in order to
take up life as a private gentleman.
It was all very puzzling and very difficult. M. le Duc d'Aumont
strongly deprecated the idea of his daughter vacating her official
post, because of this sudden caprice of milor. He had need of her, and
so had France, and the threads of national business could not be
snapped in a moment. The post of Comptroller-General of Finance could
remain in abeyance for awhile. After that one would see.
Then with regard to the proposed gifts of the château and revenues of
Vincennes, M. le Duc d'Aumont would not hear of a refusal. Madame la
Marquise d'Eglinton must have a private establishment worthy of her
rank, and an occasional visit from milor would help to keep up an
outward appearance of decorum, and to throw dust in the eyes of the
scandal-mongers.
The interview with his daughter had upset M. le Duc d'Aumont very
considerably. The whole thing had been so unexpected: it was difficult
to imagine his usually so impassive and yielding son-in-law displaying
any initiative of his own. M. le Duc was still puzzling over the
situation when M. le Comte de Stainville, specially recommended by His
Majesty himself, asked for a private audience.
And the next half-hour plunged M. le Duc into a perfect labyrinth of
surmises, conjectures, doubts and fears. That Gaston de Stainville was
possessed not only of full knowledge with regard to the Stuart
prince's hiding-place, but also of a letter in Lydie's handwriting,
addressed to the prince and sealed with her private seal, was
sufficiently astonishing in itself, but the young man's thinly veiled
innuendoes, his fatuous smiles, his obvious triumph, literally
staggered M. le Duc, even though his palm itched with longing for
contact with the insolent braggart's cheek. Every one of his beliefs
was being forcibly uprooted; his daughter whom he had thought so
unapproachable, so pure and so loyal! who had this very morning shamed
him by her indignation at the very thought of this treachery, which
she now so completely condoned! that she should have renounced her
opinions, her enthusiasm for the sake of a man who had already
betrayed her once, was more than M. le Duc could and would believe at
first.
Yet the proofs were before him at this very moment. They had been
placed in his hand by Gaston de Stainville: the map with the marginal
notes, which Lydie had so often refused to show even to her own
father, and the letter in her handwriting with the bold signature
right across the contents, bidding the unfortunate young prince trust
the traitor who would deliver him into the hands of his foes.
But M. le Duc would have had to be more than human not to be satisfied
in a measure at the result of Gaston de Stainville's diplomacy; he
stood in for a goodly share of the millions promised by England. But
it was the diplomacy itself which horrified him. He had vainly tried
to dissuade Lydie from chivalrous and misguided efforts on behalf of
the young prince, or at any rate from active interference, if His
Majesty had plans other than her own; but whilst she had rejected his
merest suggestions on that subject with unutterable contempt, she had
not only listened to Gaston de Stainville, but actually yielded her
will and her enthusiasms to his pleadings.
M. le Duc sighed when he thought it all out. Though Lydie had done
exactly what he himself wanted her to do, he hated the idea that she
should have done it because Gaston de Stainville had persuaded her.
Later on in the afternoon when an excellently cooked dinner had
softened his mood, he tried to put together the various pieces of the
mental puzzle which confronted him.
Gaston de Stainville had obtained a certain ascendancy over Lydie, and
Lydie had irretrievably quarrelled with her husband. Milor was
determined to quit Versailles immediately; Lydie was equally bent on
not relinquishing her position yet. Gaston de Stainville was obviously
triumphant and somewhat openly bragged of his success, whilst milor
kept to his own private apartments, and steadily forbade his door to
every one.
It was indeed a very difficult problem for an indulgent father to
solve. Fortunately for his own peace of mind, M. le Duc d'Aumont was
not only indulgent to his own daughter whom he adored, but also to
every one of her sex. He was above all a preux chevalier, who held
that women were beings of exceptional temperament, not to be judged by
the same standards as the coarser fibred male creatures; their beauty,
their charm, the pleasure they afforded to the rest of mankind, placed
them above criticism or even comment.
And of course Lydie was very beautiful . . . and milor a fool . . .
and . . . Gaston. . . . Well! who could blame Gaston?
And it was most amazingly lucky that Lydie had given up her absurd
ideas about that Stuart prince, and had thus helped those English
millions to find their way comfortably across the Channel, into the
pockets of His Majesty the King of France, and of one or two others,
including her own doting father.
And after that M. le Duc d'Aumont gave up worrying any more about the
matter.
What chronicler of true events will ever attempt to explain exactly
how rumour succeeds in breaking through every bond with which privacy
would desire to fetter her, and having obtained a perch on the
swiftest of all currents of air, travels through infinite space, and
anon, observing a glaringly public spot wherein to alight, she
descends with amazing rapidity and mingles with the crowd.
Thus with the news anent milor Eglinton's resignation of the General
Control of Finance.
By the time the Court assembled that evening for the Queen's
reception, every one had heard of it, and also that milor, having had
a violent quarrel with his wife, had quitted or was about to quit
Versailles without further warning.
The news was indeed exceedingly welcome. Not from any ill-will toward
Lord Eglinton, of course, who was very popular with the ladies and
more than tolerated by the men, nor from any sense of triumph over
Madame Lydie, although she had not quite so many friends as milor, but
because it happened to be Thursday, and every Thursday Her Majesty the
Queen held her Court from seven o'clock till nine o'clock: which
function was so deadly dull, that there was quite an epidemic of
dislocated jaws—caused by incessant yawning—among the favoured few
who were both privileged and obliged to attend. A piece of real
gossip, well-authenticated, and referring to a couple so highly
placed as Lord and Lady Eglinton, was therefore a great boon. Even Her
Majesty could not fail to be interested, as Lydie had always stood
very highly in the good graces of the prim and melancholy Queen,
whilst milor was one of that very small and very select circle which
the exalted lady honoured with her conversation on public occasions.
Now on this same Thursday evening, Queen Marie Leszcynska entered her
throne-room precisely at seven o'clock. Madame Lydie was with her as
she entered, and it was at once supposed that Her Majesty was already
acquainted with Lord Eglinton's decision, for she conversed with the
neglected wife with obvious kindliness and sympathy.
His Majesty was expected in about a quarter of an hour. As Madame de
Pompadour and her immediate entourage were excluded from these solemn
functions, the King showed his disapproval of the absence of his
friends by arriving as late as etiquette allowed, and by looking on at
the presentations, and other paraphernalia of his wife's receptions,
in morose and silent ennui.
This evening, however, the proceedings were distinctly enlivened by
that subtle and cheerful breath of scandal, which hovered all over the
room. Whilst noble dowagers presented débutante daughters to Her
Majesty, and grave gentlemen explained to fledgling sons how to make a
first bow to the King, groups of younger people congregated in distant
corners, well away from the royal dais and discussed the great news of
the day.
Lydie did not mingle with these groups. In addition to her many other
dignities and functions, she was Grande Maréchale de la Cour to Queen
Marie Leszcynska and on these solemn Thursday evenings her place was
beside Her Majesty, and her duty to present such ladies of high rank
who had either just arrived at Court from the country or who, for some
other reason, had not yet had the honour of a personal audience.
Chief among these reasons was the Queen's own exclusiveness. The proud
daughter of Stanislaus of Poland with her semi-religious education,
her narrow outlook on life, her unfortunate experience of matrimony,
had a wholesome horror of the frisky matrons and flirtatious minxes
whom Louis XIV's taste had brought into vogue at the Court of France;
and above all, she had an unconquerable aversion for the various
scions of that mushroom nobility dragged from out the gutter by the
catholic fancies of le Roi Soleil.
Though she could not help but receive some of these people at the
monster Court functions, which the elaborate and rigid etiquette of
the time imposed upon her, and whereat all the tatterdemalions that
had e'er filched a handle for their name had, by that same unwritten
dictum, the right of entry, she always proudly refused subsequently to
recognize in private a presentation to herself, unless it was made by
her special leave, at one of her own intimate audiences, and through
the mediation either of her own Grande Maréchale de la Cour, or of one
of her privileged lady friends.
Thus Madame la Comtesse de Stainville, though formally presented at
the general Court by virtue of her husband's title and position, had
never had the honour of an invitation to Her Majesty's private
throne-room. Queen Marie had heard vague rumours anent the early
reputation of "la belle brune de Bordeaux"; this very nick-name,
freely bandied about, grated on her puritanic ear. Irène de
Stainville, chafing under the restrictions which placed her on a level
with the Pompadours of the present and the Montespans or La Vallières
of the past, had more than once striven to enlist Lydie's help and
protection in obtaining one of the coveted personal introductions to
Her Majesty.
Lydie, however, had always put her off with polite but ambiguous
promises, until to-day, when her heart, overfilled with gratitude for
Gaston de Stainville, prompted her to do something which she knew must
please him, and thus prove to him that she was thinking of him at the
very time when he was risking his entire future and probably his life
in an attempt to serve her.
Her own troubles and sorrows in no way interfered with the discharge
of her social duties. Whilst she still occupied certain official
positions at Court, she was determined to fill them adequately and
with perfect dignity. A brief note to Irène de Stainville acquainted
the latter lady with the pleasing fact, that Madame la Grande
Maréchale would have much pleasure in introducing her personally to
Her Majesty the Queen that very same evening, and "la belle brune de
Bordeaux" was therefore present at this most exclusive of all
functions on Thursday, August 13, 1746, and duly awaited the happy
moment when she could make her curtsey before the proudest princess in
all Europe, in the magnificent gown which had been prepared some time
ago in view of this possible and delightful eventuality.
She stood somewhat isolated from the rest of the throng, between two
or three of her most faithful admirers, holding herself aloof from the
frivolity of the surrounding gossip and wearing a sphinx-like air of
detachment and of hidden and sorrowful knowledge.
To every comment as to the non-appearance of her lord at the soirée,
she had mutely replied by a slight shrug of the shoulders.
Up in the gallery, behind a screen of exotic plants, the band of
musicians was playing one of M. Lulli's most famous compositions, the
beautiful motet in E flat which, alone amongst the works of that
master of melody, was sufficiently serious and sedate for the Queen's
taste. Anon Her Majesty gave the signal that dancing might begin. She
liked to watch it, if it was decorously performed, though she never
joined in it herself. Therefore a measured and stately gavotte was
danced by the young people every Thursday, and perhaps a majestic
pavane afterward. But the minuet was thought unbecoming. Her Majesty
sat in one of the heavy gilded chairs underneath the canopy, the other
being reserved for King Louis.
Lydie watched the gavotte with dreamy, abstracted eyes; every now and
then the Queen spoke to her, and the force of habit caused her to
reply coherently and with that formality of expression, which Her
Majesty liked to hear. But her mind was very far from her
surroundings. It was accompanying Gaston de Stainville on his reckless
ride through the rich plains of Normandy; her wishes sped him on his
way, her gratitude for his noble self-sacrifice would have guarded him
from the perils of the road.
The monotonous tune of the gavotte with its distinct and sharply
defined beat, sounded to her like the measured clink of a horse's
hoofs on rough hard ground. She was quite unconscious that, from every
corner of the room, inquisitive and sarcastic eyes were watching all
her movements.
Whilst the younger people danced, the older ones gossiped, and the
absence of any known facts rendered the gossip doubly interesting.
There was one group most especially so engaged; at the further corner
of the room, and with sixteen dancing pairs intervening between it and
the royal daïs, there was little fear of Her Majesty overhearing any
frivolous comments on the all-absorbing topic of the day, or of Madame
Lydie herself being made aware of their existence.
Here Madame de la Beaume, a young and pretty matron, possessed of a
good-looking husband who did not trouble her much with his company,
was the centre of a gaily cackling little crowd, not unlike an
assemblage of geese beside a stream at eventide. Young M. de Louvois
was there and the old Duchesse de Pontchartrain, also M. Crébillon,
the most inveterate scandal-monger of his time, and several others.
They all talked in whispers, glad that the music drowned every echo of
this most enjoyable conversation.
"I have it from my coiffeur, whose son was on duty in an adjacent
room, that there was a violent quarrel between them," said Madame de
la Beaume with becoming mystery. "The man says that Madame Lydie
screamed and raged for half an hour, then flew out of the room and
along the passages like one possessed."
"These English are very peculiar people," said M. Crébillon
sententiously. "I have it on M. de Voltaire's own authority that
English husbands always beat their wives, and he spent some
considerable time in England recently studying their manners and
customs."
"We may take it for granted that milor Eglinton, though partly
civilized through his French parentage, hath retained some of his
native brutality," added another cavalier gravely.
"And it is quite natural that Madame Lydie would not tolerate his
treatment of her," concluded the old Duchess.
"Ah!" sighed Madame de la Beaume pathetically, "I believe that English
husbands beat their wives only out of jealousy. At least, so I have
been told, whereas ours are too often unfaithful to feel any such
violent and uncomfortable pangs."
"Surely," quoth young M. de Louvois, casting an admiring glance at
Madame's bold décolletage, "you would not wish M. de la Beaume to lay
hands on those beautiful shoulders."
"Heu! heu!" nodded Madame enigmatically.
M. Crébillon cast an inquisitorial look at Madame de Stainville, who
was standing close by.
"Nay! from what I hear," he said mysteriously, "milor Eglinton had
quite sufficient provocation for his jealousy, and like an Englishman
he availed himself of the privileges which the customs of his own
country grant him, and he frankly beat his wife."
Every one rallied round him, for he seemed to have fuller details than
any one else, and Madame de la Beaume whispered eagerly:
"You mean M. de Stainville. . . ."
"Hush—sh—sh," interrupted the old Duchess quickly, "here comes
miladi."
The Dowager Marchioness of Eglinton, "miladi," as she was always
called, was far too shrewd and too well versed in the manners and
customs of her friends not to be fully aware of the gossip that was
going on all round the room. Very irate at having been kept in
ignorance of the facts which had caused her son's sudden decision, and
Lydie's strange attitude, she was nevertheless determined that,
whatever scandal was being bruited abroad, it should prove primarily
to the detriment of her daughter-in-law's reputation.
Therefore, whenever, to-night, she noted groups congregated in
corners, and conversations being obviously carried on in whispers, she
boldly approached and joined in the gossip, depositing a poisoned
shaft here and there with great cleverness, all the more easily as it
was generally supposed that she knew a great deal more than she cared
to say.
"Nay! I beg of you, Mesdames and Messieurs," she now said quite
cheerfully, "do not let me interrupt your conversation. Alas! do I not
know its subject? . . . My poor son cannot be to blame in the
unfortunate affair. Lydie, though she may be wholly innocent in the
matter, is singularly obstinate."
"Then you really think that?——" queried Madame de la Beaume eagerly,
and then paused, half afraid that she had said too much.
"Alas! what can I say?" rejoined miladi with a sigh. "I was brought up
in the days when we women were taught obedience to our husband's
wishes."
"Madame Lydie was not like to have learnt the first phrase of that
wholesome lesson," quoth M. de Louvois with a smile.
"Exactly, cher Monsieur," assented miladi, as she sailed majestically
on to another group.
"What did miladi mean exactly?" asked M. Crébillon.
"Oh! she is so kind-hearted, such an angel!" sighed pretty Madame de
la Beaume, "she wanted to palliate Madame Lydie's conduct by
suggesting that milor merely desired to forbid her future intercourse
with M. de Stainville. . . . I have heard that version of the quarrel
already, but I must own that it bears but little resemblance to truth.
We all know that so simple a request would not have led to a really
serious breach between milor and his wife."
"It was more than that, of course, or milor would not have beaten
her," came in unanswerable logic from M. Crébillon.
"Hush—sh—sh!" admonished the old Duchess, "here comes His Majesty."
"He looks wonderfully good-humoured," said Madame de la Beaume, "and
doth not wear at all his usual Thursday's scowl."
"Then we may all be sure, Mesdames and Messieurs," said the
irrepressible Crébillon, "that rumour hath not lied again."
"What rumour?"
"You have not heard?"
"No!" came from half a dozen eager and anxious lips.
"They say that His Majesty the King of France has agreed to deliver
the Chevalier de Saint George to the English in consideration of a
large sum of money."
"Impossible!"
"That cannot be true!"
"My valet had it from Monsieur de Stainville's man," protested M.
Crébillon, "and he declares the rumour true."
"A King of France would never do such a thing."
"A palpable and clumsy lie!"
And the same people, who, five minutes ago, had hurled the mud of
scandal at the white robes of an exceptionally high-minded and
virtuous woman, recoiled with horror at the thought of any of it
clinging to the person of that fat and pompous man, whom an evil fate
had placed on the throne of France.
His Majesty certainly looked far less bored than he usually did on his
royal consort's reception evenings. He entered the room with a
good-natured smile on his face, which did not leave him, even whilst
he kissed the frigid Queen's hand, and nodded to her entourage, every
one of whom he cordially detested.
But when he caught sight of Lydie, he positively beamed at her, and
astonished all the scandal-mongers by the surfeit of attentions which
he bestowed on her. Directly after he had paid his respects to his
wife and received the young scions of ancient aristocratic houses,
that were being presented to him, he turned with great alacrity to
Lydie and engaged her in close conversation.
"Will you honour us by stepping the pavane with us, Marquise?" he
asked in sugary tones. "Alas! our dancing days should be over, yet par
ma foi! we could yet tread another measure beside the tiniest feet in
France."
Lydie would perhaps have been taken aback at the King's superlative
amiability, but instinctively her mind reverted to the many occasions
when he had thus tried to win her good graces, in the hope of
obtaining concessions of money from the virtual chief of the
Department of Finance. She saw that inquisitive eyes were watching her
over-keenly as—unable to refuse the King's invitation—she placed a
reluctant hand in his, and took her position beside him for the
opening of the pavane.
She was essentially graceful even in the studied stiffness of her
movements; a stiffness which she had practised and then made entirely
her own, and which was somehow expressive of the unbendable hauteur of
her moral character.
The stately pavane suited the movements of her willowy figure, which
appeared quite untrammelled, easy and full of spring, even within the
narrow confines of the fashionable corslet. She was dressed in white
to-night and her young shoulders looked dazzling and creamy beside the
matt tone of her brocaded gown. She never allowed the ridiculous
coiffure, which had lately become the mode, to hide entirely the glory
of her own chestnut hair, and its rich, warm colour gleamed through
the powder, scantily sprinkled over it by an artist's hand.
She had not forgotten even for a moment the serious events of this
never-to-be-forgotten day; but amongst the many memories which crowded
in upon her, as, with slow step she trod the grave measure of the
dance, none was more vivid than that of her husband's scorn, when he
spoke of her own hand resting in that of the treacherous and
perfidious monarch, who would have sold his friend for money. She
wondered how he would act if he could see her now, her fingers, very
frequently meeting those of King Louis during the elaborate figures of
the dance.
Strangely enough, although everything milor had said to her at that
interview had merely jarred upon her mood and irritated her nerves,
without seemingly carrying any conviction, yet now, when she was
obliged to touch so often the moist, hot palm of King Louis, she felt
something of that intolerable physical repugnance which her husband
had, as it were, brought to actuality by the vigour of his
suggestions.
Otherwise she took little heed of her surroundings. During the
preliminary movement of the dance, the march past, with its quaint,
artificial gestures and steps and the slow majesty of its music, she
could not help seeing the looks of malevolent curiosity, of satisfied
childish envy, and of sarcastic triumph which were levelled at her
from every corner of the room.
The special distinction bestowed on her by the King—who as a rule
never danced at his wife's soirées—seemed in the minds of all these
gossip-lovers to have confirmed the worst rumours, anent the cause of
Lord Eglinton's unexpected resignation. His Majesty did not suffer
like his wife from an unconquerable horror of frisky matrons; on the
contrary, his abhorrence was chiefly directed against the starchy
dowagers and the prudish dévotes who formed the entourage of the
Queen. The fact that he distinguished Lydie to-night so openly, showed
that he no longer classed her among the latter.
"His Majesty hath at last found a kindred spirit in the unapproachable
Marchioness," was the universal comment, which thoroughly satisfied
the most virulent disseminator of ill-natured scandal.
Lydie knew enough of Court life to guess what would be said. Up to now
she had been happily free from Louis's compromising flatteries, save
at such times when he required money, but his attentions went no
further—and they invariably ceased the moment he had obtained all
that he wanted. But to-night he was unswerving in his adulation; and,
in the brief pause between the second and third movement of the dance,
he contrived to whisper in her ear:
"Ah, Madame! how you shame your King! Shall we ever be able to
adequately express the full measure of our gratitude?"
"Gratitude, Sire?" she murmured, somewhat bewildered and rather
coldly, "I do not understand . . . why gratitude?"
"You are modest, Madame, as well as brave and good," he rejoined,
taking one more opportunity of raising her hand to his lips. He had
succeeded in gradually leading her into a window embrasure, somewhat
away from the rest of the dancers. He did not admire the statuesque
grace of Lydie in the least, and had always secretly sneered at her,
for her masculine strength of will and the rigidity of her principles,
but it had been impossible for any man, alive to a sense of what was
beautiful, not to delight in the exquisitely harmonious picture formed
by that elegant woman, in her stiff, white brocaded gown and with her
young head crowned by its wreath of ardent hair, standing out
brilliantly against the pale, buttercup colour of the damask curtain
behind her. There was nothing forced therefore in the look of
admiration with which the King now regarded Lydie; conscious of this,
she deeply resented the look, and perhaps because of it, she was not
quite so fully alive to the hidden meaning of his words as she
otherwise might have been.
"And as beautiful as you are brave," added Louis unctuously. "It is
not every woman who would thus have had the courage of her
convictions, and so openly borne witness to the trust and loyalty
which she felt."
"Indeed, Sire," she said coldly and suddenly beginning to feel vaguely
puzzled, "I am afraid your Majesty is labouring under the
misapprehension, that I have recently done something to deserve
special royal thanks, whereas——"
"Whereas you have only followed the dictates of your heart," he
rejoined gallantly, seeing that she had paused as if in search of a
word, "and shown to the sceptics in this ill-natured Court that,
beneath the rigid mask of iron determination, this exquisitely
beautiful personality hid the true instincts of adorable womanhood."
The musicians now struck the opening chords to the third and final
measure of the pavane. There is something dreamy and almost sad in
this movement of the stately dance, and this melancholy is specially
accentuated in the composition of Rameau, which the players were
rendering with consummate art to-night. The King's unctuous words were
still ringing unpleasantly in Lydie's ears, when he put out his hand,
claiming hers for the dance.
Mechanically she followed him, her feet treading the measure quite
independently of her mind, which had gone wandering in the land of
dreams. A vague sense of uneasiness crept slowly but surely into her
heart, she pondered over Louis's words, not knowing what to make of
them, yet somehow beginning to fear them, or rather to fear that she
might after all succeed in understanding their full meaning. She could
not dismiss the certitude from her mind that he was, in some hidden
sense, referring to the Stuart prince and his cause, when he spoke of
"convictions" and of her "courage"; but at first she only thought that
he meant, in a vague way, to recall her interference of this morning,
Lord Eglinton's outburst of contempt, and her own promise to give the
matter serious consideration.
This in a measure re-assured her. The King's words had already become
hazy in her memory, as she had not paid serious attention to them at
the time, and she gradually forced those vague fears within her to
subside, and even smiled at her own cowardice in scenting danger where
none existed.
Undoubtedly that was the true reason of the rapacious monarch's
flatteries to-night; truth to tell, her mind had been so absorbed with
actual events, her quarrel with her husband, the departure of Gaston,
the proposed expedition of Le Monarque, that she had almost
forgotten the promise which she had made to the King earlier in the
day, with a view to gaining time.
"How admirably you dance, Madame," said King Louis, "the poetry of
motion by all the saints! Ah! believe me, I cannot conquer altogether
a feeling of unutterable envy!"
"Envy, Sire, of whom?—or of what?" she asked, forced to keep up a
conversation which sickened her, since etiquette did not allow her to
remain silent if the King desired to talk. "Methinks fate leaves your
Majesty but little to wish for."
"Envy of the lucky man who obtained a certitude, whilst we had to be
content with vague if gracious promises," he rejoined blandly.
She looked at him keenly, inquiringly, a deep line of doubt, even of
fear now settling between her brows.
"Certitude of what, Sire?" she asked suddenly pausing in the dance and
turning to look him straight in the eyes. "I humbly crave your
Majesty's pardon, but meseems that we are at cross-purposes, and that
your Majesty speaks of something which I, on the other hand, do not
understand."
"Nay! nay! then we'll not refer to the subject again," rejoined Louis
with consummate gallantry, "for of a truth we would not wish to lose
one precious moment of this heavenly dance. Enough that you
understand, Madame, that your King is grateful, and will show his
gratitude, even though his heart burn with jealousy at the good
fortune of another man!"
There was no mistaking the sly leer which appeared in his eye as he
spoke. Lydie felt her cheeks flaming up with sudden wrath; wrath,
which as quickly gave way to an awful, an unconquerable horror.
Still she did not suspect. Her feet once more trod the monotonous
measure, but her heart beat wildly against the stiff corslet; the room
began to whirl round before her eyes; a sickening sense of dizziness
threatened to master her. Every drop of blood had left her cheeks,
leaving them ashen pale.
She was afraid; and the fear was all the more terrible as she could
not yet give it a name. But the sense of an awful catastrophe was upon
her, impending, not yet materialized, but which would overwhelm her
inevitably when it came.
Then all at once she understood!
There at the further end of the room, against the rich gold of the
curtain, she saw Gaston de Stainville standing beside his wife and one
or two other women, the centre of a gaily chattering crowd, he himself
chattering with them, laughing and jesting, whilst from time to time
his white and slender hand raised a gold-rimmed glass to his eye, with
a gesture of fatuity and affectation.
Something in her look, though it had only lasted a few seconds, must
then and there have compelled his own, for he suddenly dropped his
glass, and their eyes met across the room; Lydie's inquiring, only
just beginning to doubt, and fearful, as if begging for reassurance!
his, mocking and malicious, triumphant too and self-flattering, whilst
la belle Irène, intercepting this exchange of glances, laughed loudly
and shrugged her bare shoulders.
Lydie was not that type of woman who faints, or screams at moments of
acute mental agony. Even now, when the full horror of what she had so
suddenly realized, assailed her with a crushing blow that would have
stunned a weaker nature, she contrived to pull herself together and to
continue the dance to the end. The King—beginning to feel bored in
the company of this silent and obviously absent-minded woman—made no
further effort at conversation. She had disappointed him; for
Monsieur le Comte de Stainville's innuendoes had led him to hope that
the beautiful marble statue had at last come to life and would
henceforth become a valuable addition to the light-hearted circle of
friends that rallied round him, helping to make him forget the ennui
of his matrimonial and official life.
Thus the dance was concluded between them in silence. Louis was too
dull and vapid to notice the change in his partner's attitude, the icy
touch of her fingers, the deathly whiteness of her lips. But presently
he, too, caught sight of Gaston de Stainville and immediately there
crept into his face that malicious leer, which awhile ago had kindled
Lydie's wrath.
Whether she noted it now or not, it were difficult to say. Only a
great determination kept her from making a display before all these
indifferent eyes, of the agonizing torture of her mind and heart.
With infinite relief, she made her final curtsey to her partner, and
allowed him to lead her back to her official place beside the royal
daïs. She could not see clearly, for her eyes had suddenly filled with
burning tears of shame and bitter self-accusation. She bit her lips
lest a cry of pain escaped them.
"You are ill, my dear! Come away!"
The voice—gentle and deeply concerned—was that of her father. She
did not dare look at him, lest she should break down, but she allowed
him to lead her away from the immediate noise and glare.
"What is it, Lydie?" queried M. le Duc again, more anxiously, as soon
as they had reached a small and secluded alcove. "Has anything
further happened? Par Dieu, if that man has again dared . . ."
"What man, father?" she interrupted.
Her voice had no tone in it, she wondered even if M. le Duc would
hear, but he was talking ambiguously and she had had enough of
misunderstandings to-day.
"What man?" rejoined Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont irritably. "Your husband
of course. I have heard rumours about his behaviour to you, and by all
the heathen gods . . ."
He paused, astonished and almost awed, for Lydie had laughed suddenly,
laughed loudly and long, and there was such a strange ring in that
unnatural mirth, that Monsieur le Duc feared lest excitement had been
too much for his daughter's brain.
"Lydie! what is it? You must tell me . . . Lydie . . ." he urged,
"listen to me . . . do you hear me, Lydie?"
She seemed to be collecting her scattered senses now, but great sobs
of hysterical laughter still shook her from head to foot, and she
leaned against her father's arm almost as if she feared to fall.
"Yes, father dear," she said fairly coherently, "I do hear you, and I
pray you take no heed of me. Much hath occurred to-day to disturb me
and my nerves seem to be on the jar. Perhaps I do not see quite
clearly either. Father, tell me," she added with a voice almost
steady, but harsh and trenchant, and with glowing eyes fixed on the
Duke's face, "did I perceive Gaston de Stainville in the crowd just
now?"
"You may have done, my dear," he replied with some hesitation. "I do
not know."
She had been quick enough to note that, at mention of Gaston's name,
his eyes suddenly wore a curious shamefaced expression and avoided
meeting her own. She pressed her point more carelessly, feeling that
there was something that he would only tell her, if she was perfectly
calm and natural in her questionings.
"Then he is here?" she asked.
"Yes . . . I believe so . . . why do you ask?"
"I thought him gone," she said lightly, "that was all. Methought there
was an errand he had meant to perform."
"Oh! there is no immediate hurry for that!"
Monsieur le Duc d'Amont, never a very keen observer, was feeling quite
reassured by her calmer mood. His daughter had been overwrought.
Events had crowded in upon her, thick and fast, some of them of an
unpleasant nature: her final surrender to Gaston de Stainville could
not have occurred without a wrench; sentiment—he supposed—having
conquered friendship and loyalty, no doubt remorse had held sway for
awhile. He certainly thought his daughter quite at one with him and
his confederates in the treacherous plan; it never entered his head
for a moment to blame her for this volte-face, nor did he realize
that Gaston's attitude had been one of lying infamy. He knew her for a
pure-minded and exceptionally proud woman and his paternal heart had
no fear that she would stoop to a vulgar intrigue, at the same time he
had no reason to doubt that she had yielded to the persuasive powers
of a man whom she had certainly loved at one time, who and of
necessity would still exercise a certain influence over her.
And now she was no doubt anxious to know something of future plans
she had probably not heard what had been decided with regard to the
expedition, and perhaps fretted as to how her own actions had been
interpreted by her father and the King. It was with a view to
reassuring her on all these points that he now added:
"We are not thinking of sending Le Monarque."
"Ah? I thought that she would have been the most likely vessel. . ."
"Le Levantin will be safer," he explained, "but she will not be
ready to put to sea for five or six days, so Gaston will not start
until then; but you need have no fear, dear; the orders together with
the map and the precious letter, which you have given him, are quite
safe in his hands. He is too deeply concerned in the success of the
expedition to think of betraying you, even if his regard were less
genuine. . . . And we are all deeply grateful to you, my dear . . . It
was all for the best. . ."
He patted her hand with kindly affection, much relieved now, for she
seemed quite calm and the colour even was coming back to her cheeks:
all the afternoon he had been dreading this meeting with his daughter,
for he had not seen her since he learned from Gaston that she had
yielded to his entreaties, and given him the map and letter which
would help the King of France to betray his friend: now he was glad to
find that—save for an unusual hysterical outburst—she took the whole
matter as coolly as he did himself.
There is no doubt that there are moments in life when a crisis is so
acute, a catastrophe so overwhelming, that all our faculties become
completely deadened: our individuality goes out of us, and we become
mere dolls moving automatically by muscular action and quite
independently of our brain.
Thus it was with Lydie.
Her father's words could not be misunderstood. They left her without
that last faint shadow of doubt which, almost unbeknown to herself,
had been her main support during the past few minutes of this intense
agony. Now the tiny vestige of hope had vanished. Blank despair
invaded her brain and she had the sensation as if sorrow had turned it
into a pulpy mass, a great deal too bulky for her head, causing it to
throb and to ache intolerably. Beyond that, the rest of herself as it
were, became quite mechanical. She was glad that her father said
nothing more about the scheme. She knew all that she wanted to know:
Gaston's hideous, horrible treachery, the clumsy trap into which she
had fallen, and above all the hopeless peril into which she had
plunged the very man whom she had wished to save.
She had been the most perfidious traitor amongst them all, for the
unfortunate prince had given her his friendship, and had trusted her
more fully than he had others.
And then there was her husband!
Of him she would not think, for that way lay madness surely!
She managed to smile to her father, and to reassure him. Presently she
would tell him all . . . to-morrow perhaps, but not just yet . . . She
did not hate him somehow. She could not have hated him, for she knew
him and had always loved him. But he was weak and easily misguided.
Heavens above! had anyone been more culpably weak, more misguided than
she herself?
Monsieur le Duc, fully satisfied in his mind now by her outward calm,
and the steady brilliance of her eyes, recalled her to her official
duties.
"Dancing is over, Lydie," he said, "have you not a few presentations
to Her Majesty to effect?"
"Oh yes!" she said perfectly naturally, "of a truth I had almost
forgotten . . . the first time for many years, eh? my dear father. . .
How some people will gossip at this remissness of Madame la Grande
Maréchale de la Cour . . . will you conduct me straight away to Her
Majesty? . . . I hope she has not yet noticed my absence."
She leaned somewhat heavily on her father's arm, for she was afraid
that she could not otherwise have walked quite straight. She fully
realized what it meant when men talked of drunkenness amongst
themselves. Copious libations must produce—she thought—just this
same sensation of swaying and tottering, and hideous, painful
giddiness.
Already Monsieur de Louvois, Her Majesty's Chamberlain, was waiting,
whilst the ladies, who were to receive the honour of special
presentation, were arraigned in a semi-circle to the left of the dais.
Beneath the canopy the King and Queen were standing: Louis looking as
usual insufferably bored, and the Queen calmly dignified, not a little
disdainful, and closely scrutinizing the bevy of women—more or less
gorgeously apparelled, some old, some young, mostly rather dowdy and
stiff in their appearance—who were waiting to be introduced.
Quickly, and with a respectful curtsey indicative of apology, Lydie
now took her stand beside her Royal mistress and the ceremony of
presentations began. The chamberlain read out a name; one unit
thereupon detached itself from the feminine group, approached with
sedate steps to the foot of the throne, and made a deep obeisance,
whilst Madame la Grande Maréchale said a few appropriate words, that
were meant to individualize that unit in the mind of the Queen.
"Madame de Balincourt. Your Majesty will deign to remember the brave
General who fought at Fontenoy. Madame has eschewed country life
momentarily for the honour of being presented to your Majesty."
"Enchantée, Madame," the Queen would reply graciously, offering her
hand for a respectful kiss.
"Madame Helvetius, the wife of our renowned scientist and philosopher.
Your Majesty is acquainted with his works."
"Enchantée, Madame!"
"And Mademoiselle Helvetius, striving to become as learned as her
distinguished father, and almost succeeding so 'tis said."
The Queen deigned to say a few special words to this shy débutante
and to her mother, both primly clad in badly-fitting gowns which
proclaimed the country dressmaker, but in their simplicity and
gaucherie peculiarly pleasing to Her Majesty.
And thus the procession filed past. Elderly women and young girls,
some twenty in all, mostly hailing from distant parts of France, where
the noise and frivolity of the Court of Versailles had not even roused
an echo. The Queen was very gracious. She liked this select little
circle of somewhat dowdy provincials, who she felt would be quite at
one with her in her desire for the regeneration of social France. The
uglier and less fashionable were the women, the more drabby and
ill-fitting their clothes, the sweeter and more encouraging became Her
Majesty's smile. She asked lengthy questions from her Grande
Maréchale, and seemed to take a malicious delight in irritating the
King, by protracting this ceremony, which she knew bored him to
distraction, until he could scarcely manage to smother the yawns which
continually assailed his jaws.
Suddenly Lydie felt her limbs stiffen and her throat close as if iron
fingers had gripped it. She had been saying the usual platitudes anent
the wife, sister or aunt of some worthy general or country squire,
when Monsieur de Louvois called out a name:
"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville."
And from out the group of dowdy country matrons and starchy-looking
dévotes a brilliant figure now detached itself and glided forward
with consummate grace. Irène de Stainville was approaching for
presentation to the Queen, her eyes becomingly cast down, a rosy flush
on her cheeks, for she was conscious that she was beautiful and that
the King's wearied eyes had lighted up at sight of her.
There was something almost insolent in the gorgeousness of her gown:
it was of a rich turquoise blue, that stood out, glaring and vivid
against the buttercup-coloured hangings of the room. Her stiff corslet
was frankly décolleté, displaying her fine shoulders and creamy
bosom, on which reposed a delicately wrought turquoise necklet of
exquisite design. Her hair was piled up over her head, in the
monumental and outré style lately decreed by Dame Fashion, and the
brocade of her panniers stood out in stiff folds each side of her,
like balloon-shaped supports, on which her white arms rested with
graceful ease. It seemed as if a gaudy, exotic butterfly had lost its
way, and accidentally fluttered into an assembly of moths.
Gaston de Stainville stood a little behind his wife. Etiquette
demanded that he should be near her, when she made her obesiance to
the Queen. He, too, somehow, looked out of place among these more
sedate cavaliers: there had always been a very distinct difference
between the dress worn by the ladies and gentlemen of the Queen's
entourage, and the more ornate style adopted by the gayer frequenters
of the Court of Versailles. This difference was specially noticeable
now, when this handsome young couple stood before Her Majesty, she not
unlike a glittering jewel herself, he in a satin coat of pale mauve,
that recalled the delicate shades of a bank of candytuft in mid-June.
The Queen no longer looked down from her daïs with an indulgent,
somewhat melancholy smile. Her eyes—cold and gray as those of King
Stanislaus had been—regarded with distinct disapproval these two
people, who, in her rigid judgment, were naught but gaudily decked-out
dolls, and who walked on high-heeled shoes that made an unpleasant
noise on the polished floor.
Lydie had during the last agonizing half-hour wholly forgotten Irène
de Stainville and the presentation which, on an impulse of gratitude
toward Gaston, she had promised to bring about, and she certainly had
not been prepared for this meeting, face to face, with the man who,
for the second time in her life, had so bitterly and cruelly wronged
her.
Gaston did not seem anxious to avoid her gaze. There was insolent
triumph and mockery in every line of his attitude: in the head thrown
a little to one side; in the eyes narrowed until they were slits,
gazing at her over the barrier of his wife's elaborate coiffure: in
the slender, well-kept hand toying with the gold-rimmed eyeglass, and
above all in the sensual, sneering mouth, and the full lips parted in
a smile.
Lydie was hardly conscious of Irène's presence, of any one in fact,
save of Gaston de Stainville, of whom she had dreamed so romantically
a few hours ago, speeding him on his way, praying—God help her!—that
he might be well and safe. An intense bitterness surged up in her
heart, a deadly contempt for him. Awhile ago she would not have
believed that she could hate anyone so. She would at this moment have
gladly bartered her life for the joy of doing him some awful injury.
All softness, gentleness, went out of her nature, just while she
looked at Gaston and caught his mocking smile.
It was the mockery that hurt her so! The awful humiliation of it all!
And there was also in Lydie that highly sensitive sense of loyalty,
which revolted at the sight of these traitors approaching, with a
smile of complacency on their lips, this proud Queen who was ignorant
of their infamy.
Women have often been called petty in their hates: rightly perhaps!
but let us remember that their power to punish is limited, and
therefore they strike as best they can. Lydie, in spite of her
influence and her high position, could do so little to punish Gaston,
now that by his abominable treachery he had filched every trump card
from her.
She had been such an unpardonable fool—and she knew it—that her very
self-abasement whipped up her sense of retaliation, her desire for
some sort of revenge, into veritable fury; and thus, when la belle
Irène, triumphant in the pride of her universally acknowledged
beauty, came to the foot of the Royal daïs, when—through some
unexplainable and occult reason—a hush of expectancy descended on all
spectators, Lydie's voice was suddenly raised, trenchant and decisive:
"This is an error on Monsieur le Chambellan's part," she said loudly,
so that everyone in the vast audience-chamber might hear. "There is no
one here to present this lady to Her Majesty!"
A gasp went round the room, a sigh of astonishment, of horror, of
anticipation, and in the silence that immediately followed, the
proverbial pin would have been heard to drop: every rustle of a silken
gown, every creak of a shoe sounded clear and distinct, as did the
quickly-suppressed sneer that escaped Gaston de Stainville's lips and
the frou-frou of his satin coat sleeve as he raised the gold-rimmed
glass to his eye.
What were the joys of gossip in comparison with this unexpected
sensation, which moreover would certainly be the prelude to an amazing
scandal? Anon everyone drew instinctively nearer. All eyes were fixed
on the several actors of this palpitating little scene.
Already Irène had straightened her graceful figure, with a quick jerk
as if she had been struck. The terrible affront must have taken her
completely unawares, but now that it had come, she instantly guessed
its cause. Nevertheless there was nothing daunted or bashful about her
attitude. The colour blazed into her cheeks, and her fine dark eyes
responded to Lydie's scornful glance with one of defiance and of hate.
The Queen looked visibly annoyed. She disliked scenes and
unpleasantness, and all incidents which disturbed the even placidity
of her official life: the King, on the other hand, swore an
unmistakable oath. Obviously he had already taken sides in favour of
the gaily-plumaged butterfly against the duller moths, whilst Monsieur
de Louvois looked hopelessly perturbed. He was very young and had only
lately been appointed to the onerous position of Queen's Chamberlain.
Though the post was no sinecure, a scandal such as threatened now, was
quite unprecedented. He scented a violent passage of arms between two
young and beautiful women, both of high social position, and manlike
he would sooner have faced a charge of artillery than this duel
between two pairs of rosy lips, wherein he feared that he might be
called upon to arbitrate.
Lydie, alone among all those present, had retained her outward
serenity. This was her hour, and she meant to press her triumph home
to the full. All the pent-up horror and loathing which had well-nigh
choked her during the whole of this terrible day, now rose clamouring
and persistent in this opportunity for revenge. Though Gaston stood
calm and mocking by, though Irène looked defiant and her cheeks flamed
with wrath, they would glow with shame anon, for Lydie had
deliberately aimed a blow at her vanity, the great and vulnerable spot
in the armour of la belle brune de Bordeaux.
Lydie knew Marie Leszcynska well enough to be sure that the very
breath of scandal, which she had deliberately blown on Gaston's wife,
was enough to cause the rigid, puritanically-minded Queen to refuse
all future intercourse with her. Rightly or wrongly, without further
judgment or appeal, the Queen would condemn Irène unheard, and ban
her and her husband for ever from her intimacy, thus setting the mark
of a certain social ostracism upon them, which they could never live
down.
Less than three seconds had elapsed whilst these conflicting emotions
assailed the various actors of this drawing-room drama. The Queen now
turned with a frown half-inquiring, wholly disapproving toward the
unfortunate Louvois.
"Monsieur le Chambellan," she said sternly, "how did this occur? We do
not allow any error to creep in the list of presentations made to our
Royal person."
These few words recalled Irène to the imminence of her peril. She
would not allow herself to be humiliated without a protest, nor would
she so readily fall a victim to Lydie's obvious desire for revenge.
She too was shrewd enough to know that the Queen would never forgive,
and certainly never forget, the esclandre of this presentation; but
if she herself was destined to fall socially, at least she would drag
her enemy down with her, and bury Lydie's influence, power and
popularity beneath the ruins of her own ambitions.
"Your Majesty will deign I hope to pause a moment ere you sweep me
from before your Royal eyes unheard," she said boldly; "the error is
on the part of Madame la Grande Maréchale. My name was put on Monsieur
le Chambellan's list by her orders."
But Marie Leszcynska would not at this juncture take any direct notice
of Irène; until it was made quite clear that Madame la Comtesse de
Stainville was a fit and proper person to be presented to the Queen of
France, she absolutely ignored her very existence, lest a word from
her be interpreted as implying encouragement, or at least
recognition. Therefore she looked beyond Irène, straight at Monsieur
de Louvois, and addressed herself directly to him.
"What are the true facts, Monsieur le Chambellan?" she said.
"I certainly . . . er . . . had the list as usual . . . er . . . from
Madame la Grande Maréchale . . . and . . ." poor Monsieur de Louvois
stammered in a fit of acute nervousness.
"Then 'tis from you, Madame la Marquise, that we require an
explanation for this unseemly disturbance," rejoined Her Majesty
turning her cold, gray eyes on Lydie.
"The explanation is quite simple, your Majesty," replied Lydie calmly.
"It had been my intention to present Madame la Comtesse de Stainville
to your Majesty, but since then events have occurred, which will
compel me to ask Madame la Comtesse to find some other lady to perform
the office for her."
"The explanation is not quite satisfactory to us," rejoined Her
Majesty with all the rigid hauteur of which she possessed the stinging
secret, "and it will have to be properly and officially amplified
to-morrow. But this is neither the place nor the moment for discussing
such matters. Monsieur de Louvois, I pray you to proceed with the
other names on your list. The Queen has spoken!"
With these arrogant words culled from the book of etiquette peculiar
to her own autocratic house, the daughter of the deposed King of
Poland waved the incident aside as if it had never been. A quickly
repressed murmur went all round the room. Lydie swept a deep and
respectful curtsey before Her Majesty, and indicated by her own
manner that, as far as she was concerned, the incident was now closed
by royal command.
But Irène de Stainville's nature was not one that would allow the
matter to be passed over so lightly. Whichever way the Queen might
choose to act, she felt that at any rate the men must be on her side:
and though King Louis himself was too indolent and egotistical to
interfere actively on her behalf, and her own husband could not do
more than pick a quarrel with some wholly innocent person, yet she was
quite sure that she detected approval and encouragement to fight her
own battles in the looks of undisguised admiration which the masculine
element there present freely bestowed upon her. Monsieur le Duc
d'Aumont, for one, looked stern disapproval at his daughter, whilst
Monsieur de Louvois was visibly embarrassed.
It was, therefore, only a case of two female enemies, one of whom
certainly was the Queen of France—a prejudiced and obstinate autocrat
if ever there was one, within the narrow confines of her own intimate
circle—and the other exceptionally highly placed, both in Court
favour and in official status.
Still Irène de Stainville felt that her own beauty was at least as
powerful an asset, when fighting for social prestige, as the political
influence of her chief adversary.
Therefore when the Queen of France chose to speak as if Madame la
Comtesse de Stainville did not even exist, and Monsieur de Louvois
diffidently but firmly begged her to stand aside, she boldly refused.
"Nay! the Queen shall hear me," she said in a voice which trembled a
little now with suppressed passion; "surely Her Majesty will not allow
a jealous woman's caprice . . ."
"Silence, wench," interrupted Marie Leszcynska with all the authority,
the pride, the dictatorial will, which she had inherited from her
Polish ancestors; "you forget that you are in the presence of your
Queen."
"Nay, Madame, I do not forget it," said Irène, nothing daunted, and
firmly holding her ground. "I remember it with every word I utter, and
remember that the name of our Queen stands for purity and for justice.
Your Majesty," she added, being quick to note the slightly yielding
look which, at her cleverly chosen words, crept in Marie Leszcynska's
eyes, and gracefully dropping on her knees on the steps of the throne,
"will you at least deign to hear me? I may not be worthy to kiss your
Majesty's hand; we none of us are that, I presume, for you stand
infinitely above us by right of your virtues and your dignity, but I
swear to the Queen of France that I have done nothing to deserve this
public affront."
She paused a moment, to assure herself that she held the attention of
the Queen and of every one there present, then she fixed her dark eyes
straight on Lydie and said loudly, so that her clear, somewhat shrill
young voice rang out triumphantly through the room:
"My husband was made a tool of by Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton, for
the purpose of selling the Stuart prince to England."
Once more there was dead silence in the vast reception hall, a few
seconds during which the loudly accusing voice died away in an almost
imperceptible echo, but in one heart at least those seconds might have
been a hundred hours, for the wealth of misery they contained.
Lydie stood as if turned to stone. Though she had realized Gaston's
treachery she had not thought that it would mean all this. The utter
infamy of it left her paralyzed and helpless. She had delivered her
soul, her mind, her honour, her integrity to the vilest traitor that
ever darkened the face of the earth. If a year ago she had humiliated
him, if to-day she had tried to thwart all his future ambitions, he
was fully revenged now.
She did not hear even the loyal Queen's protest:
"It is false!" for Marie Leszcynska, sickened and horrified, was loth
to believe the truth of this terrible indictment against the one woman
she had always singled out for royal trust and royal friendship.
"It is true, your Majesty," said Irène firmly, as she once more rose
to her feet. "Deign to ask Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton if to-day in
the loneliness of the Park of Versailles, she did not place in the
hands of Monsieur le Comte de Stainville the secret of the Stuart
prince's hiding place so that he might be delivered over to the
English for a large sum of money. Madame is beautiful and rich and
influential, Monsieur de Stainville being a man, dared not refuse to
obey her orders, but Monsieur de Stainville is also handsome and
young, Madame honoured him with her regard, and I the wife was to be
publicly ostracised and swept aside, for I was in the way, and might
have an indiscreet tongue in my mouth. That, your Majesty, is the
truth," concluded Irène now with triumphant calm; "deign to look into
her face and mine and see which is the paler, she or I."
Marie Leszcynska had listened in silence at the awful accusation thus
hurled by one woman against the other. At Irène's final words she
turned and looked at Lydie, saw the marble-like hue of the face, the
rigidity of the young form, the hopeless despair expressed in the
half-closed eyes. It is but fair to say that the Queen even now did
not altogether believe Madame de Stainville's story: she instinctively
was still drawing a comparison between the gaudily apparelled doll
with the shrill voice, and the impudently bared shoulders, and the
proud, graceful woman in robes of virginal white, of whom, during all
these years of public life, unkind tongues were only able to say that
she was cold, rigid, dull, uninteresting perhaps, but whose vestal
robes the breath of evil scandal had never dared to pollute.
The Queen did not feel that guilt was written now on that straight,
pure brow, but she had a perfectly morbid horror of any esclandre
occurring in her presence or at one of her Courts. Moreover, Irène had
certainly struck one chord, which jarred horribly on the puritanical
Queen's nerves, and unfortunately at the very moment when Madame de
Stainville made this final poisoned suggestion, Marie Lesczynska's
eyes happened to be resting on the King's face. In Louis' expression
she caught the leer, the smile, half-mocking, half indulgent which was
habitual to him when woman's frailty was discussed, and her whole
pride rose in revolt at contact with these perpetual scandals, which
disgraced the Court of Versailles, and which she was striving so hard
to banish from her own entourage.
Because of this she felt angered now with every one quite
indiscriminately. A few years ago her sense of justice would have
caused her to sift this matter through, to test for herself the rights
or wrongs of an obviously bitter quarrel; but lately this sense of
justice had become blunted, through many affronts to her personal
dignity as a Queen and as a wife. It had left her with a morbid
egotistical regard for the majesty of her Court: this she felt had
been attainted; and now she only longed to get away, and leave behind
her all this vulgarity, these passions, these petty quarrels, which
she so cordially abhorred.
"Enough," she said sternly; "our royal cheeks glow with shame at
thought that this indecent brawl should have occurred in our presence.
Your Majesty," she added turning haughtily to the King, "your arm, I
pray; we cannot endure this noisy bickering, which is more fitting for
the slums of Paris than for the throne-room of the Queen of France."
Louis' bewilderment was almost comical. It would have been utterly
impossible for him, and quite unseemly in his wife's presence, to
interfere in what was obviously a feminine quarrel, even if he had
desired to do so; and he had not altogether made up his mind how
Madame la Comtesse de Stainville's indiscreet outburst would affect
him personally, which was all that really interested him in the
matter. On the whole he was inclined to think favourably of the new
aspect of affairs. When the fact of the Stuart prince's betrayal into
his enemies' hands became known—which it was bound to do sooner or
later—it was not unpleasant that the first hint of the treachery
should have come in such a form as to implicate Lydie, and that so
deeply, that ever afterward the public, clinging to the old proverb
that there is no smoke without fire, would look upon her as the prime
mover in the nefarious scheme.
Louis the Well-beloved possessed, par excellence, the subtle knack of
taking care of his august person, and above all of his august
reputation. It would certainly be as well, for the sake of the
future, that his over-indulgent subjects should foster the belief
that, in this vile treachery, their King had been misled; more sinned
against than sinning.
But of course he too was anxious to get away. That the present
feminine altercation would lead to a more serious quarrel, he already
guessed from the fact that his shrewd eyes had perceived Lord Eglinton
standing close to one of the great doors at the further end of the
room. Vaguely Louis wondered how much the husband had heard, and what
he would do if he had heard everything. Then he mentally shrugged his
shoulders, thinking that after all it did not matter what milor's
future actions might be. Louis was quite convinced that Madame Lydie
had thrown her bonnet over the mills, and that, as a gallant
gentleman, milor would above all things have to hold his peace.
His Majesty therefore was not angered against any one. He smiled quite
affably at the Comte and Comtesse de Stainville and bestowed a knowing
wink on Lydie, who fortunately was too dazed to notice this final
insult.
Every one else was silent and awed. The Queen now descended the steps
of the daïs on the arm of the King. Irène was a little disappointed
that nothing more was going to happen. She opened her lips, ready to
speak again but Marie Leszcynska threw her such a haughty, scornful
glance that Gaston de Stainville, realizing the futility—nay! the
danger—-of prolonging this scene, placed a peremptory hand on his
wife's arm, forcibly drawing her away.
At the foot of the steps Her Majesty once more turned to Lydie.
"We shall expect an explanation from you, Marquise," she said
haughtily, "but not to-night. See that our audience chamber is cleared
from all this rabble."
And with this parting shot, hurled recklessly at her faithful
adherents, just as much as at those who had offended her, the
descendant of a proud line of Kings sailed majestically out of the
room, whilst a loud "hush-sh-sh-sh . . ." caused by the swish of
brocaded skirts on the parquet floor as every one made a deep
obeisance, accompanied the Royal lady in her short progress toward the
door and then softly died away.
Irène de Stainville was quite right when she thought that sympathy
would be on her side, in the grave affront which had been put upon
her, and for which she had revenged herself somewhat drastically, but
under the circumstances quite naturally.
Although in this circle—known as the Queen's set—the young
Marchioness of Eglinton had always been looked up to as a leader and
an especial favourite, the accusation which Irène had brought against
her was so awful, her own attitude of passive acquiescence so
incomprehensible, that it was small wonder that after the departure of
Their Majesties, when the crowd broke up into isolated groups, most
people there present held themselves aloof from her.
The words "a jealous woman's caprice," which at the outset had so
angered the Queen, expressed fully the interpretation put upon Lydie's
conduct by those who witnessed the scene from beginning to end. That
Irène de Stainville had inflicted on her the humiliation of a terrible
public indictment, was reckoned only as retributive human justice.
Lydie knew well enough that the crowd which surrounded her—though
here usually composed of friends—was only too ready to believe evil,
however crying, against a woman placed so highly in Royal and social
favour as she herself had been for years. Already she could hear the
murmur of condemnation round her, and that from people who should
have known that she was quite incapable of committing the base
treachery attributed to her.
Of course she had not denied it. She could not have denied it, in the
face of the wording of the accusation itself.
And she felt herself hideously and morally guilty, guilty in the facts
though not in the spirit. As Irène had put it crudely and simply, she
had handed over to Gaston de Stainville in the privacy of the Park of
Versailles the secret which would deliver the Stuart prince into the
hands of his enemies.
How could she begin to explain to all these people that her motive had
been good and pure, her orders to Gaston altogether different from
those imputed to her by Irène? No one would have believed her
explanation unless Gaston too spoke the truth. And Gaston meant to be
an infamous liar to the end.
She had been the tool of that clique, it was they now who were ready
to cast her aside, to break her power and ultimately to throw her on
the heap of social refuse, where other traitors, liars and cheats
mouldered away in obscurity.
Already she knew what the end would be, already she tasted the bitter
fruit of waning popularity.
Quite a crowd of obvious sympathizers gathered round the Comte and
Comtesse de Stainville. Gaston's avowedly base conduct was—it
seems—to be condoned. At best he stood branded by his own
wife—unwittingly perhaps—as having betrayed a woman who for right or
wrong, had trusted him, but it is strange to record that, in this era
of petticoat rule, the men were always more easily forgiven their
faults than the women.
Lydie found herself almost alone, only Monsieur de Louvois came and
spoke to her on an official matter, and presently Monsieur le Duc
d'Aumont joined them.
"Will you let me take you back to your apartments, Lydie?" urged
Monsieur le Duc. "I fear the excitement has seriously upset you."
"You think I have been to blame, father dear?" she asked quite gently.
"Oh! . . ." he murmured vaguely.
"You did not speak up for me when that woman accused me . . ."
"My dear child," he said evasively, "you had not taken me into your
confidence. I thought . . ."
"You still think," she insisted, "that what Madame de Stainville said
was true?"
"Isn't it?" he asked blandly.
He did not understand this mood of hers at all. Was she trying to
deny? Impossible surely! She was a clever woman, and with the map and
her own letter, sealed and signed with her name, what was the good of
denying?
"Your own letter and the map, my child," he added with gentle
reproach, thinking that she feared to trust him completely.
"Ah yes! my own letter!" she murmured, "the map . . . I had
forgotten."
No! she did not mean to deny! She could not deny! . . . Her own father
believed her guilty . . . and all she could have done would have been
to urge the purity of her motive. Gaston had of course destroyed her
orders to the command of Le Monarque and there was only the map
. . . and that awful, awful letter.
Monsieur le Duc thought that his daughter had been very unwise.
Having trusted Gaston, and placed herself as it were in his hands, she
was foolish to anger him. No man—if he have the faintest pretension
to being called an honourable gentleman—however smitten he might be
with another woman's charms, will allow his wife to be publicly
insulted by her rival. No doubt Lydie had been jealous of Irène, whose
somewhat indiscreet advances to milor Eglinton had aroused universal
comment. But Lydie did not even pretend to care for her own husband
and she had yielded her most treasured secret to Gaston de Stainville.
There she should have remained content and not have provoked Irène's
wrath, and even perhaps a revulsion of feeling in Gaston himself.
Unlike King Louis, Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont did not approve of his
daughter's name being associated with the treacherous scheme from
which he was ready enough to profit financially himself, although in
the innermost depths of his heart he disapproved of it. He knew his
Royal master well enough to be fully aware of the fact that, when the
whole nefarious transaction came to light, Louis would find means of
posing before the public as the unwilling tool of a gang of
money-grabbers. When that happened, every scornful finger would of
necessity—remembering the events of this night—point at Lydie, and
incidentally at her father, as the prime movers of the scheme.
It had been far better to have conciliated Irène and not to have
angered Gaston.
But women were strange creatures, and jealousy their most autocratic
master. Even his daughter whom he had thought so exceptional, so
clever and so clear-headed, was not free from the weaknesses of her
sex.
"Methinks, my dear," he said kindly, "you have not acted as wisely as
I should have expected. Madame de Stainville, on my honour, hath not
wronged you so as to deserve a public affront, and Gaston himself only
desired to serve you."
Monsieur le Duc must have raised his voice more than he intended, or
else perhaps there had occurred quite suddenly in the crowd of
sympathizers, that now stood in a dense group round Madame de
Stainville, one of those inevitable moments of complete silence when
angels are said to be fluttering round the room. Certain it is that
Monsieur le Duc's words sang out somewhat loudly, and were heard by
those whose names had been on his lips.
"Nay! I entreat you, Monsieur le Duc," came in light, bantering
accents from Gaston de Stainville, "do not chide your fair daughter.
Believe me, we who have suffered most are not inclined to be severe.
As to me the psychology of Madame la Marquise's mood has been
profoundly interesting, since it hath revealed her to the astonished
gaze of her many admirers, as endowed with some of the weaknesses of
her adorable sex. Why should we complain of these charming weaknesses?
For though we might be very hard hit thereby, they are but expressions
of flattery soothing to our pride."
The groups had parted somewhat as he spoke, leaving him face to face
with Lydie, towards whom he advanced with an affected gait and mincing
steps, looking at her with mocking eyes, whilst toying gracefully with
the broad black ribbon that held his eyeglass.
But Gaston's were not the only sarcastic glances that were levelled at
Lydie. His fatuous innuendoes were unmistakable, and bore out the
broader and more shameful accusation hurled by Irène. Lydie's own
attitude, her every action to-night, the expression of her face at
this moment seemed to prove them true. She retreated a little as he
advanced, and, doing so, she raised her head with that proud toss
which was habitual to her.
Thus her eyes travelled swiftly across the room, and she saw her
husband standing some distance away. She, too, like King Louis,
wondered how much he had heard, how much he knew: and knowing all,
what he meant to do. Instinctively when she caught sight of him, and
then once more saw Gaston de Stainville drawing nearer to her, she
remembered that warning which milor had given her that morning, and
which she had thought so futile, anent the loathsome reptile that,
once touched, would pollute for ever.
"Madame," said Gaston now, as he boldly approached her, "my friends
here would tell me no doubt that, by every code of social honour, my
duty is to punish you or someone who would represent you in this
matter, for the affront done to my wife. But how can I do that since
the offender is fair as well as frail? My desire is not to punish, but
rather to thank you on my knees for the delicate compliment implied by
your actions to-night. I knew that you honoured me by trusting in me,"
he added with obvious significance, "but I had not hoped to provoke
such flattering jealousy in the heart of the most statuesque woman in
France."
A titter went round the room. Gaston's attitude seemed suddenly to
have eased the tension, as of an impending tragedy, which had hung
over the brilliant assembly for the last half hour. Monsieur le Comte
was such a dreadful mauvais sujet but so delightful in his ways, so
delicately refined in his wickedness! He was quite right to take the
matter lightly, and a murmur of approval followed the titter, at the
tact with which he had lifted the load of apprehension from the minds
of the company.
Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton was something of a fool to take the
matter so thoroughly au tragique. No doubt the affairs of the Stuart
prince would right themselves presently, and she certainly should have
had more regard for her willing and obviously devoted accomplice.
He looked so superlatively elegant and handsome now, the younger women
sighed whilst they admired him. He pointed his toe and held out his
tricorne in the manner prescribed by fashion for the making of a bow,
and it was most unfortunate that he was so suddenly stopped in the
very midst of his graceful flourish by a quiet and suave voice which
came immediately from behind him.
"I would not do that, were I in your red-heeled shoes, my good
Stainville. A slip on this highly-polished floor is certain to be the
result."
But even before the gentle echo of these blandly spoken words had
penetrated to the further ends of the room, Monsieur le Comte de
Stainville had measured his full length face downward on the ground.
His fall was so instantaneous that he had not the time to save himself
with his hands, and he was literally sprawling now at Lydie's feet
with arms and legs stretched out, his face having come in violent
contact with the polished floor. Quite close to him Lord Eglinton was
standing, laughing softly and discreetly and looking down on the
prostrate and distinctly inelegant figure of the handsome cavalier.
A ripple of merry laughter followed this unexpected turn of events.
One or two spectators, who had stood quite close at the very moment
that the catastrophe occurred, declared subsequently that milor had
with a quick action of his foot thrown Monsieur de Stainville off his
balance; the intense slipperiness of the parquet having merely done
the rest.
Be that as it may, the laughter of necessity was prudently suppressed,
for already Gaston had picked himself up and there was that in his
face which warned all those present that the farce—such as it
was—would prove the prelude to real and serious tragedy.
"There now," said Lord Eglinton blandly, "did I not warn you, Monsieur
le Comte? Graceful flourishes are apt to be treacherous."
"Milor. . ." said Gaston, who was livid with rage.
"Hush—sh—sh," interrupted milor in the same even and gentle voice,
"not in the presence of ladies. . . . An you desire, Monsieur le
Comte, I'll be at your service later on."
Then he turned toward his wife, bowing low, but not in the least as
Gaston de Stainville would have bowed, for he had inherited from his
father all the stiffness of manner peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race.
Thus at this moment he looked distinctly gauche, though not without
dignity, as, his back slightly bent, his left arm outstretched, he
waited until Lydie chose to place her hand on his sleeve.
"Your seconds, milor," shouted Gaston, who seemed quite unable to
control himself, and who had to be distinctly and even determinedly
held back by two of his friends from springing then and there at Lord
Eglinton's throat.
"They will wait on yours to-night, Monsieur le Comte," replied le
petit Anglais affably. "Madame la Marquise, will you honour me?"
And Lydie took his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the room.
Monsieur Achille was waiting in the vestibule of the Queen's
apartments. As soon as Lord and Lady Eglinton appeared his majestic
figure detached itself from the various groups of flunkeys, who stood
about desultorily pending the breaking up of Her Majesty's Court; he
had a cloak over his arm, and, at a sign from his master he approached
and handed him the cloak which milor then placed round his wife's
shoulders.
"Do you desire to sleep in Versailles to-night, Madame?" he asked, "my
coach is below in case you wished to drive to Château d'Aumont."
"I thank you, milor," she said, "I would wish to remain in
Versailles."
Then she added with a pathetic sigh of bitterness:
"My father would prefer it, I think. He is not prepared for my visit.
And I do not interfere with your lordship's arrangements. . . ."
"Not in the least, Madame," he rejoined quietly. "The corridors are
interminable; would you like a chair?"
"No. . . . Let us walk," she said curtly.
Without further comment he once more offered her his arm. She took it
and together they descended the monumental staircase and then turned
along the endless, vast corridors which lead to the West Wing.
Monsieur Achille followed at a respectful distance, and behind him
walked two flunkeys, also in the gorgeous scarlet and gold Eglinton
livery, whilst two more bearing torches preceded Monsieur le Marquis
and Madame, lighting them on their way.
On the way to the West Wing, milor talked lightly of many things: of
Monsieur de Voltaire's latest comedy, and the quaint new fashion in
headgear, of His Majesty the King of Prussia and of the pictures of
Monsieur Claude Gelée. He joked about the Duchesse de Pontchartrain's
attempts at juvenility and Monsieur Crébillon's pretensions to a place
among the Immortals. Lydie answered in monosyllables; she could not
bring herself to speak, although she quite appreciated milor's desire
to appear natural and unconcerned before his own lacqueys.
A great resolution was taking root in her mind, and she only wanted
the privacy and the familiarity of her own apartments to put it into
execution. Thus they reached the West Wing.
Arrived in the antechamber whence her rooms branched off to the right
and milor's to the left, Lord Eglinton stopped, disengaged her arm
from his and was about to bid her an elaborate good-night, when she
said abruptly:
"May I speak with you privately and in your own study, milor?"
"Certainly, Madame," he replied seemingly a little astonished at her
request.
He dismissed all the flunkeys with the exception of Monsieur Achille,
who led the way through the reception rooms toward milor's private
suite. Lord and Lady Eglinton followed in silence now. The rooms
seemed strangely silent and deserted, ghostlike too, for there was no
artificial light, and the moon peered in through the tall windows,
throwing patches of pale mauve and weird, translucent greens on the
parquet floor and the brocade coverings of the chairs.
In milor's study, Monsieur Achille lighted the candles in two massive
candelabra, which stood on the secrétaire, then, at a nod from his
master, he walked backward out of the room.
The heavy portière fell back with a curious sound like a moan, and for
the third time to-day husband and wife stood face to face alone. The
gaucherie of his manner became at once apparent now: yet he seemed in
no way bashful or ill as ease, only very stiff and awkward in his
movements, as he drew a chair for her at a convenient angle, and when
she had sat down, placed a cushion to her back and a footstool at her
feet. He himself remained standing.
"I pray you sit, milor," she said with a quick sigh, that trembled as
it escaped her lips, "and if I have not angered you beyond the bounds
of your patience, I earnestly ask you to bear with me, for if I have
been at fault I have also suffered much and . . ."
"Madame," he said quite gently if somewhat coldly, "might I entreat of
you not to insist on this interview if it distresses you very much; as
to a fault . . . on my honour, Madame, the very thought of
self-accusation on your part seems to me wildly preposterous."
He did not sit as she had asked him to do, but stood looking down at
her and thinking—thinking alas!—that she never had been quite so
beautiful. She was almost as white as her gown, the powder still clung
to her hair, which, in the dim light of the candles, chose to hide the
glory of its ardent colour beneath the filmy artificial veil. She wore
some exquisite pearls, his gift on the day of her marriage: row upon
row of these exquisite gems fell on her throat and bosom, both as
white, as glittering and pure as the priceless treasures from the
deep.
The chair in which she sat was covered with damask of a rich dull
gold, and against this background with its bright lights and
impenetrably dark shadows, the white figure stood out like what he had
always pictured her, a cold and unapproachable statue.
But to-night, though so still and white, the delicate marble had taken
unto itself life: the life which means sorrow. All the haughtiness of
the look had vanished; there were deep shadows under the eyes and
lines of suffering round the perfectly chiselled lips.
Henry Dewhyrst, Marquis of Eglinton, was not yet thirty: he loved this
exquisitely beautiful woman with all his heart and soul, and she had
never been anything more to him than a perfectly carved image would be
on the high altar of a cathedral. She had been neither helpmate nor
wife, only an ideal, an intangible shadow which his love had not
succeeded in materializing.
As he looked at her now, he wondered for the first time in the course
of their married life, if it had been his own fault that they had
remained such complete strangers: this was because for the first time
to-day a great sorrow, a still greater shame had breathed life into
the marble-like statue.
All at once he felt deeply, unutterably sorry for her; he had no
thought of her wrongs toward him, only of those done to herself by her
pride and the faults of the epoch in which she lived.
"Milor," she said trying to steady her voice, "it would ease me a
little—and ease the painfulness of this interview—if you were to
tell me at what precise moment you entered Her Majesty's throne-room
to-night."
"I cannot say, Madame," he replied with the ghost of a smile; "I did
not look at the clock, but I was in attendance on His Majesty and
therefore . . ."
"You heard what passed between Madame la Comtesse de Stainville and
myself?" she interrupted hastily.
"Every word."
Somehow she felt relieved. She would have hated to recapitulate that
vulgar scene, the mutual recriminations, the insults, culminating in
Her Majesty's contemptuous exit from the room. She could not now see
her husband's face, for he had contrived to stand so as to allow the
light from the candelabra to fall full upon her, whilst he himself,
silhouetted against the light, remained in the shadow; but there was a
certain dignified repose about the whole figure, the white, slender
hand resting lightly on the bureau, the broad shoulders square and
straight, suggesting physical strength, and the simple, somewhat sober
style and cut of the clothes.
The room too appeared as a complete contrast to the other apartments
of the palace of Versailles, where the mincing fancies of Watteau and
the artificialities of Boucher had swept aside the nobler conceptions
of Girardon and Mansard. It was quite plainly furnished, with
straight-back chairs and hangings of dull gold, and the leather
covering of the bureau gave ample signs of wear.
The turmoil in Lydie's heart subsided, yielding itself to peace in the
midst of these peaceful surroundings. She was able to conquer the
tremor of her voice, the twitch of her lips, and to swallow down the
burning tears of humiliation which blinded her eyes and obscured her
judgment.
"Then, milor, it will indeed be easier for me. You understand of what
I am charged, the awful load of disgrace and shame which by my own
folly I have placed upon my shoulders . . . you understand," and her
voice, though steady, sunk to a whisper, "that I have proved unworthy
of the confidence which the unfortunate Stuart prince, who was your
friend, placed in me as well as in you?"
He did not reply, waiting for her to continue. Her head had drooped
and a heavy tear fell from her sunken lids upon her hands. To him who
loved her, and whom she had so deeply wronged, there was a strange yet
painful joy in watching her cry.
"What Madame de Stainville said to-night is true," she added
tonelessly. "I gave into Monsieur de Stainville's hands the map, with
full marginal notes and description of the place where the Stuart
prince is hiding; I also gave him a letter written and signed by me,
addressed to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, begging him to trust
implicitly his own royal person and that of his friends to the bearer
of my note. That letter and the plan are even now in the hands of His
Majesty, who purposes to accept the proposals of His Grace the Duke of
Cumberland, and to sell the Stuart prince to his foes for the sum of
fifteen million livres. And that is all true."
Knowing men, the men of her world, she fully expected that this
confession of hers would cause her husband's just wrath to break
through that barrier of courteous good-breeding and self-restraint,
imposed on all men of honour when in the presence of women, and which
she firmly believed had alone prevented him from interfering between
herself and Irène. She would not have been astonished if he had
stormed and raged, loudly accused and condemned her, nay!—she had
heard of such things—if he had laid hands on her. But when, hearing
nothing, she looked up, she saw that he had scarcely moved, only the
hand which still rested on the secrétaire trembled a little. Perhaps
her look made him conscious of that, for he withdrew it, and then
seemed to pull himself together, and draw himself up, straight and
rigid like a soldier on parade.
"Having told you this, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, "I
should like to add that I am fully aware that in your eyes there can
be no excuse possible for what I did, since in doing it I have
sacrificed the life of a man who trusted us—you and me, milor—more
even than he did France. He and his friends, by my act, will leave the
shelter of their retreat, and will be delivered into the hands of
those who cannot do aught, for political and self-protective reasons,
but send them to the scaffold. You see, milor, I do not palliate my
offence, nor do I seek your pardon—although I know that you will look
on what I have done as a disgrace brought by your wife upon your name.
I deserve no pardon, and I ask for none. But if there is no excuse for
my conduct, at least do I owe you an explanation, and for this I crave
your attention if you would care to listen."
"Nay, Madame, you do but jest," he rejoined, "you owe me nothing . . .
not even an explanation."
"Yet you will listen?" she urged.
"It would be only painful to us both, Madame."
"You prefer to think of me as ignoble, treacherous and base," she said
with sudden vehemence, "you do not wish to know for certain and from
my own lips that Gaston de Stainville . . ."
She paused abruptly and bit her lips, he watching her keenly, she not
knowing that she was watched.
This was going to be a fight and he knew it, a dire conflict between
distress and pride. At first he had hoped that she was prepared to
yield, that she had sought this interview because the load of sorrow
and of humiliation being more than she could bear, she had turned
instinctively to the only man in the world who could ease and comfort
her: whose boundless, untiring love was ready to share the present
pain, as it had shrunk from participating in the glories of the past.
But as she spoke, as she sat there before him now, white, passive,
disdainful even in her self-abasement, he knew that his hour—Love's
hour—had not yet struck. Pride was not yet conquered.
The dominant ruler of a lifetime will not abdicate very readily, and
though distress and sorrow are powerful opponents, they are more
transient, more easily cast aside than Pride.
"As you say, milor," she now said more quietly, "the matter is only
painful to us both. I understand that your estimate of me is not an
exalted one. You despise—you probably hate me! Well! so be it. Let us
not think of our own feelings in this matter, milor! I entreat you to
ignore my very existence for the time being, only thinking of the
Stuart prince and of his dire peril!
"'Tis because of him I have begged for this interview," she resumed
with just a thought of that commanding manner, which she was wont to
assume whenever matters of public import were discussed: "I need not
reiterate the fact that he is in deadly danger. Le Levantin, a fast
brigantine, milor, is even now being equipped by His Majesty for the
nefarious expedition. Le Levantin or perhaps Le Monarque—the
latter is quite ready to sail at any time, and with the map and my
letter it will be easy . . . oh! so easy! . . . Oh!" she added with a
sudden uncontrollable outburst of passionate appeal, "milor, he was
your friend . . . can nothing be done? . . . can nothing be done?"
"I do not know, madame," he replied coldly, "how should I?"
"But surely, surely you remember your promise to him, milor," she said
impatient at his coldness, unable to understand this lack of
enthusiasm. "You remember that night, in the Château d'Aumont—the
banquet . . . his farewell to you . . . his trust, his confidence
. . . the assurance you gave him . . ."
"So much has occurred since then, Madame," he said simply. "The
guidance of affairs has been in your hands. . . . I have lost what
little grasp I ever had of the situation. . . . As you know, I am
neither clever nor strong—and I have only too gladly relied on abler
wits than mine own. . . ."
"But your promise," she urged, with real passion ringing in her voice,
"your promise to him. . . ."
"I made a far more solemn one to you, madame, never to interfere in
matters of State."
"I'll release you of that," she cried impulsively; "think, milor . . .
I entreat you to think! . . . there must be some way out of this
terrible labyrinth . . . there must be some one whom you can trust
. . ."
She checked herself, and a quick hot blush rose to her cheeks. She
thought that she had detected a quick flash in his eyes at these last
words of hers, a flash which had caused that sudden rush of blood to
her temples, but which was extinguished almost as soon as it arose: he
said quite naturally and tonelessly:
"There is no one. How could there be?"
"But surely, surely," she repeated with growing, obstinate vehemence,
"you can think of something to do . . . you have the means . . . you
are rich . . . have you no enthusiasms, milor?"
"Oh! . . ." he said deprecatingly, "so few! . . . they are scarce
worthy of the name. . . ."
"No thought how to help your friend who is in fear and peril of his
life? . . . Heavens above us, what are the men of France? Wooden dolls
or . . ."
"That what the women of France have made them, Madame," he said
quietly.
"Then you have no thought, or initiative how to help your friend?" she
retorted.
He had noted the ring of scorn in her voice, the return of that
haughty and obstinate self-will, which would for ever stand between
her and happiness. His expression suddenly hardened, as he looked at
her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curl of the exquisite lips, all
the gentleness went out of his face, the latent tenderness which she
had wilfully ignored, and his voice, no longer softly mocking, became
hard and bitter in its tones.
"I?" he said with a slight uplifting of his brow and a
self-deprecating droop of the lip, "surely, Madame, you are pleased to
jest. I am no statesman, no politician, I scarce have a sufficiency
of brains to be a figure head in an administration. I have never been
taught to think."
"You are mocking me, milor," she said haughtily.
"Nothing is further from my thoughts. I have far too much respect for
your ladyship to venture on either mockery or individual thought."
She paused awhile, frowning and impatient, angered beyond bounds, too,
at his attitude, which she was quite clever enough to see did not
represent the true state of his mind. No doubt he desired to punish
her for her contempt of him that morning. She would have liked to read
the expression in his face, to know something of what was going on
behind that straight, handsome brow, and the eyes always so gentle,
yet so irritating now in this semblance of humility. She thought
certainly that the outline of the jaw suggested obstinacy—the
obstinacy of the inherently weak. If she had not wanted his help so
much, she would have left him then and there, in scorn and in wrath,
only too glad that sentiment had not led her into more excuses or
explanations—a prayer for forgiveness mayhap. She was not a little
irritated with herself too, for she felt that she had made a wrong
start: she was quite sure that his supineness, at any rate with regard
to the fate of the Stuart prince, was assumed. There must be a way of
appealing to that loyalty which she knew he cherished for his friend,
some means of breaking down that barrier of resentment which he had
evidently set up against her.
Oh! if it had been a few months ago, when he still loved her, before
Irène de Stainville. . . She paused in this train of thought, her mind
not daring to travel further along it; it was such a wide, such a
glorious possibility that that one little "if" suggested, that her
heart quivered with renewed agony, and the weak tears, of which she
was so ashamed, insisted on coming to her eyes.
If only his love for her was not dead, how easy her task would have
been! It would have fired him to enthusiasm now, caused him to forget
his resentment against her in this great work yet to be accomplished,
and instead of asking him for passive help she could have incited him
to a deed of loyalty and of courage. But now she was too proud to
continue her appeal: she thought that she had done her best, and had
not even succeeded in breaking through the icy reserve and resentment
which in his heart had taken the place of silent and humble worship.
"Milor," she said with sudden determination, and in the authoritative
manner which was more habitual to her than the more emotional,
passionately appealing mood, "with your leave we'll cease these
unworthy bickerings. I may have been hasty in my actions this morning.
If so I pray you not to vent your anger against your friend. If I have
wronged you by taking you at your word, when a year ago you told me
that you would never wish to interfere in my official work, well! I
humbly beg you pardon, and again entreat you not to allow your friend
to expiate the sins of your wife. You say that the men of France are
what the women have made them; there I think that you are wrong—at
least in this: that in your mind the word woman stands for those of
the sex who are pure and loyal as well as those for who are not. It is
not the women of France who have made the men, milor, rather it is the
men who—looking to the Pompadours, the Irène de Stainvilles, not only
for companionship and for pleasure, but also, heaven help them! for
ideals—have made the women what they are! But enough of this. You no
doubt think me wordy and tedious, and neither understand, nor wish to
understand that there may be honour and chivalry in a far greater
degree in the heart of a woman, than in that of the more selfish sex.
I have asked for your advice in all simplicity and loyalty,
acknowledging the sin I have committed and asking you to help me in
atoning for it, in a way useful to your friend. This appeal for advice
you have met with sneers and bitter mockery: on my soul, milor if I
could now act without your assistance I would do so, for in all the
humiliation which I have had to endure to-day, none has been more
galling or more hard to bear believe me, than that which I must now
endure through finding myself, in a matter essentially vital to my
heart and even to my reason, dependent upon your help."
He could hear her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts at
self-control. He knew quite well that at this moment she spoke the
truth, and these last words of hers, which for many a long day
afterward rang persistently in his ears, represented to him ever
afterward the very acme of mental—aye! and physical—pain which one
human being could inflict on another. At the time it absolutely seemed
unendurable: it seemed to him that under the blow, thus coldly dealt
by those same beautiful lips, for which his own ached with an
intensity of passionate longing, either his life or his reason must
give way. The latter probably, for life is more tenacious and more
cruel in its tenacity: yet if reason went, then Heaven alone could
help him, for he would either kill her or outrage her beyond the hope
of pardon.
"Therefore, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, unconscious
evidently of the intense cruelty of her words, "I will beg of you not
to make it harder for me than need be. I must ask this help from you,
in order to succeed, if humanly possible, in outwitting the infamous
work of a gang of traitors. Will you, at least, give me this help I
need?"
"If it lies within my power," he replied; "I pray you to command
Madame."
"I am thinking of sending a messenger post haste to the commander of
Le Monarque with orders to set sail at once for Scotland," she
continued in matter-of-fact tones. "I should want a fresh copy of the
map where Prince Charles Edward is in hiding, and to make assurance
doubly sure a letter from you to the prince, asking him to trust
Captain Barre implicitly. Le Monarque I know can reach Scotland long
ere Le Levantin is ready for sea, and my idea had been originally to
commission her to take the prince and his friends on board, and then
to skirt the west coast of Ireland, reaching Brittany or mayhap the
Pyrenees by a circuitous route. I have firm belief that it is not too
late to send this messenger, milor, and thus to put my original plan
into execution. And if you will give me a new map and full directions
and your signet ring for the prince, I feel confident that I can find
someone whom I could thoroughly trust . . ."
"There is no one whom you could thoroughly trust with such an errand,
Madame!" he said drily.
"I must risk that, milor. The crisis has become so acute that I must
do something to avert that awful catastrophe."
"Betrayal would be the inevitable result."
"I entreat you to leave that to me," she urged firmly. "I know I can
find someone, all I ask is for the map, and a word and signet ring
from you."
She was leaning forward now, eager and enthusiastic again, self-willed
and domineering, determined that he should do what she wished. Her
eyes were glowing, the marble was indeed endowed with life; she
gleamed like a jewel, white and fragile-looking, in this dull and
sombre room, and he forgetting for the moment her cruelty of awhile
ago was loth to let her go, to speak the harsh words which anon would
have to be said, and which would send her resentful, contemptuous,
perhaps heartbroken, out of his sight again.
Would it not have been ten thousand times more simple to throw pride,
just anger, reason to the winds, to fall at those exquisite feet, to
encircle that glittering marble with passionately tremulous arms, to
swear fealty, slavery, obedience to her whims.
How she would smile, and how softly and tenderly would the flush of
victory tinge those pale cheeks with delicate rose! to see it
gradually chase away the pearl-like tone of her skin, to see her eyes
brighten at his word, to feel perhaps the tiny hand tremble with joy
as it lay for sheer gratitude a few brief seconds in his, was not that
well worth the barren victory of a man's pride over a woman's
self-will?
She had thought that he would have yielded at her first word, would at
once have fawned at her feet, kissing her hand, swearing that he was
her slave. He had done it once . . . a year ago, and why not now
again? Then she had smiled on him, had allowed him to kneel, to kiss
her gown, anon had yielded her cold fingers to his kiss; he had reaped
a year of misery for that one moment's joy, and now, just for the
space of a few seconds he was again assailed with an awful temptation
to throw prudence and pride away, to enjoy one golden hour—less
perhaps—but glorious and fulsome whilst it lasted, until it gave way
once more to humiliation, far worse to bear than heretofore.
The temptation for those few brief seconds was overwhelming, and 'twas
fortunate that he stood in shadow, else she had seen signs of an awful
conflict in that young and handsome face which she had been wont to
see so gentle and so placid. But he knew that in her, pride had by now
absolutely got the upper hand: sorrow had laid down her arms and
constituted herself a prisoner of war, following meekly behind the
triumphal chariot of her conquering rival.
And because of that, because he knew that there was not one spark yet
in her heart which Love had kindled, that Love itself was still lying
dormant within her, gagged and bound even in his sleep, kept in
subjection thus pinioned and helpless by masterful self-will and by
obstinate pride, he would not yield to the temptation of culling the
Dead Sea fruit, that would inevitably turn to ashes, even as his lips
first tasted its fleeting, if intoxicating savour.
She had half risen from her chair leaning across the bureau, eager,
excited, tremulous, sure of victory. Paper and pen lay close to her
hand, smiling she pointed to these:
"Oh! I pray you, milor," she said with passionate fervour, "do not
delay! Every hour, every minute is precious . . . I swear to you that
I'll find a messenger. He'll not know the purport of his errand. . . .
Oh! I assure you I'll play the part of indifference to perfection!
. . . The packet to the commander of Le Monarque will seem of the
most insignificant kind. . . . I'll not even order the messenger to
hurry . . . just to guard the packet as inviolate as any secret of
State. . . . Nay! hundreds of such messages have to be trusted to
indifferent hands, in the course of a single transaction of the
nation's business. Believe me, milor, there is not cause for fear! Le
Monarque can put to sea within an hour of receiving my orders, and
Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends will be safely out of
reach, ere Le Levantin unfurls her sails, and pins to her masthead
the pennant of traitors. . . ."
"But you do not speak, milor," she said suddenly changing the tone of
her voice, all eagerness gone from her manner, a strange, nameless
anxiety gripping her heart, "will you not do this little I ask? . . ."
"It is impossible, Madame," he said curtly.
"Impossible? . . . Why? . . ."
Her voice now was harsh, trenchant, as it had been when she hurled a
loud insult at Gaston de Stainville through his wife. She was on her
feet, tall and erect; a statue once more, white to the lips, cold and
haughty, rigid too, save for the slight trembling of her hands and the
tremulous quiver of her mouth when she spoke.
As he did not reply to her question, she said impatiently:
"Will you give me a reason for this unexplainable refusal, milor?"
"No. I refuse, that is all."
"This is not your last word?"
"It is my last word."
"Would you have me think that you are at one with the treacherous
scheme, milor? and that you do not desire the safety of the Stuart
prince?"
She had raised her voice, boldly accusing him, inwardly knowing that
the accusation was groundless, yet wishing to goad him now into
passion, into explanation, above all into acquiescence if it still lay
in her power to force it.
But he took the insult with apparent calm, shrugged his shoulders and
said quietly:
"As you please."
"Or is it . . . is it that you do not trust me? . . . that you think I
. . . ?"
She could not finish the sentence, nor put into words the awful
suggestion which had sprung like a stinging viper straight across the
train of her thoughts. Her eyes dazed and burning tried to pierce the
gloom wherein he stood, but the flickering light of the candles only
threw weird, fantastic gleams upon his face, which suddenly seemed
strange, unknown, incomprehensible to her. His figure appeared
preternaturally tall, the sober gray of his coat looked like the pall
of an avenging ghost. He was silent and had made no sign of protest,
when she framed the terrible query.
A bitter, an awful humiliation overwhelmed her. She felt as if right
within her heart something had snapped and crumbled, which nothing on
earth could ever set up again.
She said nothing more, but she could not altogether repress a
heartbroken moan, which rose from the intensity of her mental agony.
Then she turned and with head thrown back, with silent, trembling lips
and half-closed eyes she walked slowly out of the room.
Lydie hardly knew how she reached her apartments. Earlier in the day
she had thought once or twice that she had reached the deepest abyss
of sorrow and humiliation into which it was possible for a woman of
pride to descend. When her husband first asked an explanation from
her, and taxed her with lending an ear to the King's base proposals;
when she found that her own father, whom she respected and loved, had
himself delved deeply in the mire of treachery; when she stood face to
face with Gaston de Stainville and realized that he was an infamous
liar and she a weak, confiding fool; when Irène had accused her
publicly of scheming that which she would have given her life's blood
to avert, all these were moments when she felt that the shame of them
was more than she could bear.
Yet how simple and childish, how paltry seemed the agony of those
mental tortures in comparison with that she endured now.
She felt as if she had received a blow in the face, a blow which had
left a hideous, disfiguring mark on her which everyone henceforth
would see: the scarlet letter of ignominy with which in the New World
beyond the seas a puritanic inquisition branded the shameless
outcasts. By her husband's silence rather than by his words she had
been branded with a mark of infamy.
Ye saints and angels above, how terribly it hurt!
Yet why did she suffer so? Was it only because she had failed to
obtain that which she almost begged for on her knees? Lydie, proud,
dictatorial, domineering Lydie, felt that she had humiliated herself
beyond what she would have thought possible less than twelve hours
ago, and she had been refused.
Was it that, that made her heart, her head, her very limbs ache with
almost unendurable agony?
Her mind—though almost on the verge of madness—retained just one
glimmer of reason. It answered "No! the pain has deeper roots, more
mysterious, at present incomprehensible, and death-dealing in their
tenacity."
Her husband thought that if he entrusted her with a letter for the
Stuart prince, she might use that letter for treacherous ends. That
was the reason of his refusal. He so hated, so despised her that his
mind classed her as one of the most ignoble of her sex!
Well! Awhile ago, in the Queen's antechamber, Irène de Stainville had
publicly accused her of selling her royal friend for gold. Most people
there had believed Irène readily enough! That had hurt too, but not so
much.
Then why this? Why these terrible thoughts which went hammering in her
mind? whispers of peace to escape from this racking torture? peace
that could only be found in death!
"Great God, am I going mad?"
Monsieur Achille had been accompanying Madame la Marquise on her way
along the corridors; he was carrying a candelabrum, wherein four wax
candles spluttered and flickered in the incessant draught. Lydie had
been unconscious of the man's presence, but she had followed the
light mechanically, her eyes fixed on the four yellowish flames which
looked like mocking mouths that laughed, and emitted a trail of black
smoke, foul as the pestilential breath of shame.
Arrived at the door of her own antechamber, she was met by one of her
liveried servants, who told her that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont was
within and awaiting to see her. To her hastily put query, the man
replied that Monsieur le Duc had arrived about half an hour ago, and,
hearing that Madame la Marquise was closeted with milor, he had
elected to wait.
This visit from her father at this hour of the night meant a grave
crisis, of course. At once Lydie's mind flew back to the Stuart
prince. She had almost forgotten him since she left her husband's
room. It seemed as if the overwhelming misery of that silent and
deadly indictment had weighed down all other thoughts, until they sank
into complete insignificance.
Vaguely, too, she had the sensation that there was no immediate
necessity for her to rack her overtired brain to-night on the subject
of the Jacobite's fate. She had at least six clear days before her,
before Le Levantin, which was to start on the dire expedition, could
be ready to put to sea. There was Le Monarque, on the other hand,
quite ready to sail within an hour of receiving her orders. And
Captain Barre was an honest man, a gallant sailor; he would only be
too willing to make top speed in order to circumvent a treacherous
plot, which he would abhor if he knew of it.
True, Lydie had now no means of locating the fugitives exactly, but
with a six days' start of Le Levantin this want of precise
knowledge need not necessarily prove fatal. She could trust to her
memory somewhat, for she had repeatedly studied and fingered the map;
she could draw something approximate from memory, and Captain Barre's
determination and enthusiasm would surely do the rest.
These suggestions all rushed into her mind directly she heard that her
father had come to visit her at this late hour. At first her desire
was to avoid seeing him at risk even of offending him: but in spite of
all that she had gone through, Lydie still retained sufficient
presence of mind not to allow any impulse to rule her at such a
critical moment. She forced herself to reflect on the Stuart prince
and on him alone, on his danger and the treacherous plot against him,
for at least twenty seconds, time enough to realize that it was
absolutely necessary that she should see her father, in order to glean
from him if possible every detail of the proposed expedition. She
would indeed be helpless if she remained in ignorance of what had been
planned between the King, Gaston, and her father. Perhaps—who
knows?—in accordance with the habits of a lifetime, the Duke might
even at this moment be anxious to consult his daughter—his helpmeet
in all such matters—as to the final arrangements for the equipment of
Le Levantin.
Satisfied with her conclusions, she therefore went straight into the
boudoir where the lacquey said that Monsieur le Duc was waiting.
The first look at his benign face proved to her that he, at least, was
not in any trouble. Whatever his daughter's views on the subject might
be, he evidently was not altogether dissatisfied with the events of
the day. He still wore a perturbed look, certainly; the scene which
had occurred in Her Majesty's throne-room would not tend to decrease
his mental worry; but beyond the slightly troubled look in his kindly
eyes, and the obvious solicitude with which he took her hand and led
her to a low divan, he seemed fairly serene.
"Well?" he said in a tone of anxious query.
"Well, father dear?"
"Your husband . . . what did he say?"
She looked at him, a little bewildered, with a stupid, vacant stare
which puzzled him.
"What should he have said, father dear?" she asked. "I do not
understand."
"About the fracas to-night, my child. Was he there when Irène de
Stainville spoke up so indiscreetly?"
"No . . . no . . . I mean yes . . ." she said vaguely, "yes, milor was
there; he heard every word which Irène de Stainville said."
"Well? What did he say?" he repeated with marked impatience. "Lydie,
my child, this is not like you. . . . Cannot you see that I am
anxious? . . . I have been waiting here for over an half hour in a
perfect agony of uncertainty. . . . Your servants told me you were
closeted with milor. . . . You must tell me what he said."
"He said nothing, father," she replied simply.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Monsieur le Duc looked at her very keenly, but her eyes were clear now
and met his straight and full. There was obviously no deceit there, no
desire to conceal more serious matters from him. He shrugged his
shoulders, in token that he gave up all desire to understand. His
son-in-law had always been a shadowy personality to him, and this
attitude of his now, in face of the public scandal resting on his
wife's name, was quite beyond Monsieur le Duc's comprehension.
Had Lydie told him that her husband had heaped torrents of abuse on
her, and had concluded a noisy scene by striking her, he would have
been very angry, but he would have understood.
"Hm!" he said placidly, "these English are mad, of a truth; we men of
honour here cannot really comprehend them. Nevertheless, my dear
Lydie, I suppose I, as your father, must be thankful that he did not
lay hands on you, for English husbands are notoriously brutal. You are
quite sure that you have nothing to complain of in your husband's
conduct?"
"Quite sure, father dear."
"I had come prepared to take you away with me. My coach is below and I
am driving to Château d'Aumont to-night. Would you like to come?"
"Not to-night, dear," she replied serenely, and her father was glad to
note that a slight smile hovered round her lips. "I am a little tired,
and will go straight to bed. . . . But to-morrow I'll come."
"Permanently?"
"If you will have me."
"Well! until you go to your Château of Vincennes, you know my views on
that subject?"
"Yes, father dear. . . . We will talk of that another time. . . . I am
very tired to-night."
"I understand that, my child," said Monsieur le Duc rather fussily
now, and clearing his throat, as if there was something which still
oppressed him and of which he would have liked to speak before leaving
her.
There was that awkward pause, the result of a want of mutual
understanding between two people who hitherto have been all in all to
each other, but whom certain untoward events have suddenly drawn
apart. Lydie sincerely wished that her father would go. She had much
to think about, a great deal to do, and the strain of keeping up a
semblance of serenity was very trying to her overwrought nerves. He on
the other hand felt uncomfortable in her presence: he left quite angry
with himself for not being able to discuss freely with her the subject
matter which was uppermost in his mind. There were one or two details
in connection with the expedition to the Scottish coast that he very
much wanted to talk over with his daughter. The habits of a lifetime
gave him the desire to consult her about these details, just as he had
been wont to do on all public and official matters. He had come to her
apartments chiefly for that purpose. Was she not at one with him, with
the King and Gaston over the scheme? She had given substantial proof
that she favoured the expedition. His Majesty had thanked her for her
help: she had rendered such assistance as now made the whole affair
not only feasible but easy of accomplishment.
It was therefore passing strange that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont still
felt an unaccountable bashfulness in her presence when referring to
the Stuart prince at all.
So he went to work in a circuitous way, for there was another matter
that troubled him, but less so than the expedition: therefore,
perhaps, he spoke of it first.
"I presume, my dear child," he said lightly, "that you are
sufficiently a woman of the world to understand that some sort of
reparation is due from your husband to Monsieur de Stainville."
"Reparation? . . ." she asked. "For what?"
Again she stared at him blankly, and with that vague expression of
puzzlement which irritated whilst it half-frightened him.
"You were there, my dear," he said impatiently, "you know . . . and of
course you must have seen . . ."
"What?"
"Milor jeered at Gaston, then tripped him up with his foot, so that
Monsieur de Stainville measured his full length on the floor."
"I did not notice. . . ." she said simply.
"But many people did . . . enough at all events to give Monsieur de
Stainville the initiative in the necessary reparation. He was the
insulted party."
"Oh! a duel, you mean," she said indifferently, "yes, I suppose my
husband will fight Monsieur de Stainville if His Majesty will grant
them leave."
"Gaston will not appeal to His Majesty, and milor cannot very well
refuse to meet him. The King has oft declared his intention of
permanently suppressing all duelling just as it has been done in
England. Even to-night after the unfortunate fracas, when I had the
honour of paying my final respects, His Majesty said to me: 'If milor
Eglinton and Monsieur de Stainville fight and one of them is killed,
we'll hang the survivor!'"
"Then they'll not fight, you think?"
Monsieur le Duc stared at his daughter. Such complete indifference as
to her husband's actions in so grave a matter passed the bounds of
correct behaviour.
"Mais oui! they will fight, my dear!" he said sternly. "You know as
well as I do that Gaston could not pocket the slight put upon him by
milor without covering himself with ridicule. But the duel need not be
serious . . . a scratch or two and no more. . . . Gaston is a perfect
swordsman . . . he never misses his man," added the Duke hesitatingly.
"Is milor clever with the foils?"
"I do not know."
"He has never fought a duel to your knowledge?"
"I think never."
"Whilst Gaston's skill is famous. . . . But, my dear, you need have no
anxiety. . . . It was also with a view to reassuring you on the
subject that I have sought you so late. . . . You will believe your
father's word, Lydie, if he tells you that your husband is in no grave
danger at the hands of Gaston."
"I thank you, father dear," she rejoined with the same natural, even
tone of voice which should have tranquillised him as to her mental
condition, but which somehow failed to do so.
"Gaston must take up the matter . . . you understand that. . . . It is
quite public and . . . he would be laughed at if he appealed for leave
to fight from His Majesty . . . the matter was not serious and the
result will be likewise. . . . Gaston will administer a slight
punishment to milor . . . such a perfect swordsman, you understand,
can select the very place on his opponent's body where he will inflict
the scratch . . . it will be the shoulder perhaps . . . or . . . or
. . . the cheek . . . nothing to be anxious about. . ."
"I am not anxious, father dear," she said with a serene smile, amused
in spite of herself at his many circumlocutions, his obvious
confusion, and his still quite apparent wish to speak of one more
matter which seemed to be weighing on his mind.
"Is that all that you wished to say to me, dear?" she said gently,
"for if so I can assure you that you need not be troubled on my
account. I am neither anxious nor upset. . . . Milor I feel confident
will take tender care of his shoulder . . . or of his cheek just as he
does of his comfort and of his . . . his dignity."
"And you will not take it amiss from me, my dear, if I do not offer to
be one of your husband's seconds in the affair?" he asked suddenly,
throwing off his hesitation and speaking more frankly.
"Certainly not, father dear. . . . I feel sure that milor himself
would not have suggested it. . . ."
"My position near His Majesty . . . you understand, my dear," he
explained volubly, "and also my . . . our association with Gaston.
. . ."
"Certainly—certainly," she repeated, emphasizing her words, "our
association with Gaston. . . ."
"And he really is acting like a perfect gentleman . . . a man of
honour. . . ."
"Indeed?"
"His enthusiasm, his courage, and devotion have been quite marvellous.
And though we shall primarily owe the success of our enterprise to
you, my dear, yet His Majesty feels as I do, that we also owe much to
Monsieur de Stainville. Ah! mon Dieu! what it is to be young!"
"What has Monsieur de Stainville done, dear, to arouse your special
enthusiasm?" she asked.
"You shall judge of it yourself, my dear. After the esclandre provoked
by Irène to-night, the publicity given to our scheme, we held a
hurried boudoir meeting, at which His Majesty and Madame de Pompadour
were present, as well as myself and Gaston. We all felt that you too
should have been there, dear, but you had gone with milor, and . . ."
"Yes, yes, never mind about me, father," she interrupted impatiently,
seeing that he was getting lost in the mazes of his polite apologies.
"You held a boudoir meeting. What did you decide? . . ."
"That after the publicity given to the main idea of our scheme, you
understand," he rejoined, "it would be no longer safe to wait for its
execution until Le Levantin was ready for sea. Something had to be
risked, of course, but on the whole we all thought that now that the
matter had become 'le secret de Polichinelle' a six days' delay would
be dangerous, if not fatal to success. You were not there, Lydie," he
repeated diffidently, "we could not consult you. . . ."
"No, no! Then what did you decide?"
"That we must send Le Monarque off at once."
"Le Monarque? . . . at once? . . ."
"Yes! she is quite ready, so you told me this morning. And though we
feared that Captain Barre might be too firm an adherent of the Stuart
cause to be altogether reliable, still—as we had your own letter—we
finally decided that we had better trust him now, rather than wait for
Le Levantin. . . . I think we did right, do you not? . . . Lydie.
. . . Lydie . . . child, what is it?"
The desperately anxious query had its justification in Lydie's
terrible pallor, the wild dilation of her pupils, the dark purple
rings which circled her eyes.
As her father spoke she had risen from the divan, and now she seemed
unable to stand; she was trembling from head to foot, her hands were
held out before her, as in a pathetic appeal for physical support. In
a moment his arm was round her, and with gentle force he drew her back
to the couch, pressing her head against his shoulder.
"Lydie . . . Lydie, dear . . . I am sure you are ill."
But already she had recovered from this sudden attack of faintness and
dizziness, of which, with characteristic impatience for all feminine
weaknesses, she was now thoroughly ashamed. Her nervous system had
received so many severe shocks in the course of this terrible and
memorable day, that it was small wonder that this last awful blow
struck her physically as well as mentally.
"No, no, dear father," she said as lightly as she could for she still
felt very faint and ill, "I am quite well, I assure you . . . please
. . . please . . ." she urged earnestly, "do not worry about me now,
but tell me quite clearly—and as briefly as you can—exactly what are
your plans at this moment . . . yours and Gaston's, with regard to the
expedition against the Stuart prince . . . you spoke of a duel just
now . . . and then of Monsieur de Stainville's enthusiasm and courage.
. . . I . . . I am a little confused . . . and I would like to
understand."
"I will tell you as briefly as I can, my dear," he rejoined, not
feeling altogether reassured, and regarding her with loving anxiety.
"We decided that, instead of waiting for Le Levantin to be ready for
sea, we would send Le Monarque, and instruct Captain Barre in
accordance with the plan and the letter which you gave us, and the
secret orders framed by His Majesty and myself. Le Monarque having
got the Stuart and his friends on board will make straight for the
north-west coast of England, and land the Jacobites at the first
possible port, where they can be handed over to the English
authorities. Once this was settled, Gaston immediately offered to
start for Le Havre at dawn with the secret orders. We are not really
afraid of Captain Barre's possible disloyalty—and, of course, he is
compelled to obey orders or suffer for his insubordination, which he
is not likely to contemplate. On the whole I think we may safely say
that we run far less risk by sending Le Monarque than by waiting for
Le Levantin: and Gaston has full powers to promise Captain Barre a
heavy bribe in accordance with the speed which Le Monarque will
make. After that His Majesty was pleased to dismiss Monsieur de
Stainville and myself, being most specially gratified with Gaston's
enthusiastic offer to ride at breakneck speed to Le Havre, as soon as
he could get to horse. Outside the boudoir, Gaston explained to me,
however, that he could not shirk the duel with Lord Eglinton: his
seconds, Monsieur de Belle-Isle and Monsieur de Lugeac, already had
his instructions and would wait on milor to-night: to put it off now
would be to cover himself with ridicule and to risk social ostracism;
the affront put upon his wife could not be allowed to rest until after
his own return. But the duel could take place at dawn, and then he
could get to horse half an hour later. . . . So you see, my dear,
that the duel cannot—because of these weighty reasons—have any
serious consequences. As for our expedition, methinks everything now
is most satisfactorily arranged, as Gaston swears that he will reach
Le Havre ere the shades of the evening fall upon the sea."
Lydie had listened quite quietly to this long explanation, taking in
every detail of the project, lest anything should escape her. Her
father could indeed be completely reassured. She was perfectly calm,
apparently cheerful, and when he had finished speaking she thanked him
quite naturally and expressed approval of all that had been done.
"Everything is beautifully planned and arranged, my dear father," she
said pleasantly, "methinks I cannot do better than take a rest. I fear
I have been overwrought all day and have caused you much anxiety. All
is for the best now, is it not? . . . Shall we both go to bed?"
Monsieur le Duc sighed with satisfaction. He seemed to have found a
long-lost daughter. This was the one he knew, self-possessed,
clear-headed, a comfort and a guide.
He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and if there was a
suggestion of shrinking, of withdrawal in the young body, he was
certainly too preoccupied to notice it. He bade her "good-night," and
then with obvious relief and a light, elastic step, he finally went
out of the room.
When Monsieur Achille, having escorted Madame la Marquise as far as
her apartments, once more retraced his sedate footsteps toward those
occupied by Lord Eglinton, he was much surprised to find the worthy
Baptiste Durand in the octagonal room which gave immediately on
milor's study.
The wizened little man looked singularly upset; he had a couple of
heavy books under his arm: and two large white quills, one behind each
ear, gave him the look of a frightened stork.
It was long past the usual hour when M. Durand laden with his bulky
books habitually entered the Marquis's private room and remained
closeted therein with milor until long past midnight. Every evening at
the self-same hour he came to the octagonal room, passed the time of
day with Monsieur Achille and then went in, to milor: he always
carried a leather bag filled with papers neatly tied in bundles, and
he wore a somewhat anxious look when he entered and one of relief when
he finally departed. Monsieur Achille had often bent his broad and
majestic back, in order to bring his ear down to the level of the
keyhole of the door, through which Monsieur Durand invariably
disappeared at ten o'clock in the evening; but all the satisfaction
which his curiosity obtained was the sound of two voices, one steady
and low and the other somewhat shrill, without any individual or
comprehensible sentence detaching itself from the irritating babel.
And when M. Durand came out of the room after midnight, he bade
Monsieur Achille a curt good-night and invariably refused any
information with regard to the work he did for milor at that late hour
of the night.
When closely pressed he would vaguely say: "Accounts!" which of course
was ridiculous. Monsieur Achille had never heard of a nobleman
troubling himself about accounts, at the time when most people of
consideration were either at petits soupers or else comfortably in
bed.
As time went on Monsieur Achille ceased to take any interest in these
nightly proceedings; they were so monotonous and so regular, that they
were no longer exciting. But to-night everything seemed changed. M.
Durand instead of marching straight through with his books into the
study, stood in the middle of the room, a veritable picture of
helpless perturbation.
"Why, M. Durand," said Achille greatly astonished, "what ails you? You
look as if you had seen a ghost."
"Sh!—-sh!—-sh!" whispered the timorous little man, indicating with a
jerk of his lean shoulder the distant door of the study, "do you hear
that?"
Monsieur Achille bent his ear to listen. But strive how he might he
could hear nothing but the great bracket-clock on the wall ticking
monotonously. He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that the worthy
Baptiste had been dreaming, but there was a certain look in the
wizened face which caused him to tiptoe toward the study door and once
more to bring his ear down to the level of the keyhole.
Then he shook his head, and tiptoed back to the centre of the room.
"I can hear nothing," he whispered. "Are you sure he is in there?"
"Quite, quite sure," replied Durand.
"Then why don't you go in as usual?"
"I . . . I can't!"
"Why not?"
"I . . . I don't know. . . . I seemed to hear such a funny sound as if
. . ." he paused a moment searching for the words that would best
render his impression of what he had heard. Finding none apparently,
he reiterated:
"It is a very funny sound."
"Perhaps milor was asleep and snoring," suggested the practical
Achille.
"No, no," protested Durand very energetically.
"Or ill . . ."
"Ah yes! . . . perhaps . . ." stammered the little man, "perhaps milor
is ill."
"Then I'll to him at once."
And before M. Durand could prevent him—which undoubtedly he would
have done—Achille had gone back to the study door and loudly knocked
thereat.
At first there was no answer. M. Achille knocked again, and yet again,
until a voice from within suddenly said:
"Who is it?"
"Achille, M. le Marquise!" responded the worthy with alacrity.
"I want nothing," said the voice. "Tell Durand that I shall not need
him to-night."
M. Durand nearly dropped his heavy books on the floor.
"Not want me!" he ejaculated; "we shall get terribly in arrears!"
"Will milor go to bed?" again queried M. Achille.
"No!" came somewhat impatiently from within. "Do not wait up for me.
If I want you later I will ring."
Achille looked at M. Durand and the worthy Baptiste returned the look
of puzzlement and wonder. Both shrugged their shoulders.
"There's nothing to be done, my good Baptiste," said Achille at last;
"you had best take your paraphernalia away and go to bed. I know that
tone of voice, I have heard it once before when . . . but never mind
that," he added abruptly checking himself, as if he feared to commit
an indiscretion, "enough that I know if milor says, in that tone of
voice, that he does not want you and that you are to go away—well
then, my good Durand, he does not want you and you are to go away.
. . . Do you see?"
And having delivered himself of this phrase of unanswerable logic he
pointed toward the door.
M. Durand was about to take his friend's sound advice, when a loud
ring broke in upon the silence which had fallen over this portion of
the stately palace.
"A visitor at this late hour," mused Monsieur Achille. "Ma foi!
methinks perhaps milor was expecting a fair and tardy visitor. . . .
eh, M. Durand? . . . and that perhaps this was the reason why you and
I were to go away . . . eh? . . . and why you were not wanted
to-night, . . . What?"
M. Durand was doubtful as to that, but there was no time to discuss
that little matter, for a second ring, louder and more peremptory than
the first, caused M. Achille to pull himself together, to flick at his
cravat, and to readjust the set of his coat, whilst M. Durand loath to
retire before he knew something of the tardy visitor, withdrew with
books, bag and papers into a dark corner of the room.
Already the sound of approaching footsteps drew nearer; the visitor
had been admitted and was now being escorted through the reception
rooms by the two footmen carrying torches. The next moment the doors
leading to the official suite of apartments were thrown open, M.
Achille put himself in position in the centre of the room, whilst a
loud voice from the distant hall announced:
"M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle! M. le Comte de Lugeac!"
Achille's broad back was bent nearly double. The names were well known
to him and represented, if not exactly the flower of aristocratic
France, at least the invisible power which swayed her destinies. M. le
Marquis de Belle-Isle was Madame de Pompadour's best friend, and M. de
Lugeac was her nephew.
"Your master . . . is he within?"
It was M. de Belle-Isle who spoke; his voice was loud and peremptory,
the voice of a man who only recently had been in a position to
command.
"Milor is . . . er . . . within, M. le Marquis," said Achille with
slight hesitation. It is not often that he was taken aback when in the
exercise of his duties, but the situation was undoubtedly delicate,
and he had not yet made up his mind exactly how he ought to deal with
it.
Neither of the two gentlemen, however, seemed to have any intention of
leaving him much longer in doubt.
"Go and tell him at once," said M. de Lugeac, "that Monsieur le
Marquis de Belle-Isle and myself will have to trouble him for about
two minutes."
Then as Achille seemed to be hesitating—for he did not move with any
alacrity and his well-kept hand stroked his smooth, heavy chin—M. de
Belle-Isle added more loudly:
"Go knave! and at once. . . . Par le diable, man! . . . how dare you
hesitate?"
Indeed Monsieur Achille dared do that no longer. M. le Marquis de
Belle-Isle was not a gentleman to be trifled with so he shrugged his
majestic shoulders, and rubbed his hands together in token that the
affair had passed out of their keeping, and that he no longer held
himself responsible for any unpleasant consequences which might accrue
from such unparalleled intrusion.
He strode with becoming majesty to the study door, his broad, straight
back emphasising the protest of his whole attitude. Once more he
knocked, but more loudly, less diffidently than before.
The voice from within queried with marked impatience:
"What is it now?"
"An urgent call, Monsieur le Marquis!" replied Achille in a firm
voice.
"I can see no one. I am busy," said the voice from within.
M. de Belle-Isle felt that this little scene was not quite dignified;
neither he nor M. de Lugeac was accustomed to stand behind a lacquey's
back, parleying with a man through closed doors: therefore when
Monsieur Achille turned to him now with a look which strove to
indicate respectfully but firmly that the incident was closed, he
pushed him roughly aside and himself called loudly:
"Pardi, Marquis, methinks you are over-anxious to forbid your door
to-night. I, André de Belle-Isle and my friend le Comte de Lugeac
desire a word with you. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville, and
unless you are closeted with a lady, I summon you to open this door."
Then as the door remained obstinately closed—too long at any rate for
M. le Marquis's impatience—he boldly placed his hand on the knob and
threw it open. The heavy panels flew back, revealing Lord Eglinton
sitting at his secrétaire writing. His head was resting on his hand,
but he turned to look at the two gentlemen, as they stood, momentarily
silent and subdued in the doorway itself. He rose to greet them, but
stared at them somewhat astonished and not a little haughtily, and he
made no motion requesting them to enter.
"We crave your pardon, milor," began Monsieur de Belle-Isle, feeling,
as he afterward explained, unaccountably bashful and crestfallen, "we
would not have intruded, M. de Lugeac and I, only that there was a
slight formality omitted this evening without which we cannot proceed
and which we must pray you to fulfill."
"What formality, Monsieur?" asked milor courteously. "I am afraid I do
not understand."
"The whole incident occurred very rapidly, we must admit," continued
M. de Belle-Isle still standing in the doorway, still unwilling
apparently to intrude any further on this man whom he had known for
some time, yet who seemed to have become an utter stranger to him now:
haughty, grave and courteous, with an extraordinary look of aloofness
in the face which repelled the very suggestion of familiarity. "And
that is no doubt the reason, milor, why you omitted to name your
seconds to Monsieur de Stainville."
"My seconds?" repeated milor. "I am afraid you must think me very
stupid . . . but I still do not understand . . ."
"But surely, milor . . ." protested M. de Belle-Isle, a little taken
aback.
"Would you be so kind as to explain? . . . if it is necessary."
"Necessary? Pardi, I should not have thought that it had been
necessary. You, milor, in yourself also and through Madame la Marquise
your wife have insulted M. le Comte de Stainville and Madame la
Comtesse too. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville in this affair,
wherein we presume that you are prepared to give him satisfaction. And
we have come to-night, milor, to ask you kindly to name your own
representatives so that we may arrange the details of this encounter
in the manner pre-eminently satisfactory to M. le Comte de Stainville,
since he is the aggrieved party."
Gradually M. de Belle-Isle had raised his voice. His feeling of
bashfulness had entirely left him and he felt not a little wrathful at
this strange rôle which he was being made to play. It was quite
unheard of that a gentleman who had so grossly insulted another, as
Lord Eglinton had insulted M. de Stainville, should require such
lengthy explanations as to what the next course of events would
necessarily be.
"Therefore, milor," he continued with some acerbity as Lord Eglinton
had vouchsafed no reply to his tirade, "we pray you to name your
seconds to us, without delay, so that we may no longer intrude upon
your privacy."
"I need not do that, M. le Marquis," said milor quietly. "I require no
seconds."
"No seconds?" gasped the two gentlemen with one breath.
"I am not going to fight M. de Stainville."
If Lord Eglinton had suddenly declared his intention of dethroning
King Louis and placing the crown of France on his own head, he could
not more have astonished his two interlocutors. Both M. de Belle-Isle
and M. de Lugeac were in fact absolutely speechless: in all their vast
experience of Court life such a situation had never occurred before,
and literally neither of them knew exactly how to deal with it. M. de
Lugeac, young and arrogant, was the first to recover his presence of
mind. Like his successful relative Jeanne Poisson de Pompadour he had
been born in the slums of Paris, his exalted fortune, following so
quickly in the wake of the ex-victualler's wife, had given him an
assurance and an amount of impudence which the older de Belle-Isle
lacked, and which stood him in good stead in the present crisis.
"Are we to look on this as a formal refusal, milor?" he now asked
boldly.
"As you please."
"You will not give M. le Comte de Stainville the satisfaction usually
agreed upon between men of honour?"
"I will not fight M. de Stainville," repeated milor quietly. "I am
busy with other things."
"But milor," here interposed M. de Belle-Isle testily: "you cannot
have reflected on the consequences of such an act, which I myself at
this moment would hardly dare to characterize."
"You will excuse me, gentlemen," said Lord Eglinton with seeming
irrelevance, "but is there any necessity for prolonging this
interview?"
"None at all," sneered M. de Lugeac. "It is not our business to
comment on milor's conduct . . . at present," he added with audacious
significance.
But M. de Belle-Isle, who, in spite of his undignified adherence to
the Pompadour and her faction, was a sprig of the old noblesse of
France, was loath to see the humiliation of a high-born
gentleman—whatever his faults might be—before such an upstart as de
Lugeac. A kindly instinct, not altogether unexplainable, caused him to
say encouragingly:
"Let me assure you, milor—though perhaps in this I am overstepping my
official powers—that M. le Comte de Stainville has no desire to deal
harshly with you. The fact that he is the most noted swordsman in
France may perhaps be influencing you at this moment, but will you
trust to my old experience when I assure you that M. le Comte's noted
skill is your very best safeguard? He will be quite content to inflict
a slight punishment on you—being a past master with his sword he can
do that easily, without causing you graver injury. I am telling you
this in confidence of course, because I know that these are his
intentions. Moreover he starts on an important journey to-morrow and
would propose a very brief encounter with you at dawn, in one of the
spinneys of the Park. A mere scratch, I assure you, you need fear no
more. Less he could not in all honour concede."
A whimsical smile played round the corners of milor's mouth, chasing
momentarily the graver expression of his face.
"Your assurance is more than kind, M. de Belle-Isle," he said with
perfect courtesy, "but I can only repeat what I said just now, that I
will not fight M. de Stainville."
"And instead of repeating what I said just now, milor . . ." said de
Lugeac with a wicked leer.
"You will elect to hold your tongue," said M. de Belle-Isle
authoritatively, placing his hand on the younger man's wrist.
De Lugeac, who lived in perpetual fear of doing or saying something
which would inevitably betray his plebeian origin, meekly obeyed M. de
Belle-Isle's command. The latter, though very bewildered, would be
sure to know the correct way in which gentlemen should behave under
these amazing circumstances.
Lord Eglinton standing beside his secrétaire, his face in shadow, was
obviously waiting for these intruders to go. M. de Belle-Isle shrugged
his shoulders partly in puzzlement, partly in contempt; then he nodded
casually to milor, turned on his heel, and walked out of the doorway
into the octagonal room beyond, whilst M. de Lugeac imitated as best
he could the careless nod and the look of contempt of his older
friend. M. Achille stepping forward now closed the study doors behind
the two gentlemen, shutting out the picture of that grave, haughty man
who had just played the part of coward with such absolute perfection.
"Bah! these English!" said young de Lugeac, as he made the gesture of
spitting on the ground. "I had not believed it, par tous les
diables! had I not heard with mine own ears."
But de Belle-Isle gravely shook his head.
"I fear me the young man is only putting off the evil day. His skin
will have to be tough indeed if he can put up with . . . well! with
what he will get when this business becomes known."
"And it will become known," asserted de Lugeac spitefully. He had
always hated what he called the English faction. Madame Lydie always
snubbed him unmercifully, and milor had hitherto most conveniently
ignored his very existence. "By G—d I hope that my glove will be the
first to touch his cheek."
"Sh!—sh!—sh!" admonished de Belle-Isle, nodding toward Achille who
was busy with the candelabrum.
"Nay! what do I care," retorted the other; "had you not restrained me
I'd have called him a dirty coward then and there."
"That had been most incorrect, my good Lugeac," rejoined de Belle-Isle
drily, and wilfully ignoring the language which, in moments of
passion, so plainly betrayed the vulgar origin. "The right to insult
Lord Eglinton belongs primarily to Gaston de Stainville, and afterward
only to his friends."
And although M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle expressed himself in more
elegant words than his plebeian friend, there was none the less spite
and evil intent in the expression of his face as he spoke.
Then giving a sign to Achille to precede them with the light, the two
representatives of M. le Comte de Stainville finally strode out of the
apartments of the ex-Comptroller General of Finance.
M. Durand, with his bulky books and his papers under his arms,
followed meekly, repeatedly shaking his head.
Lydie waited a few moments while her father's brisk steps died away
along the stone-flagged corridors. In the silence of the evening, the
quietude which rested on this distant portion of the palace, she could
hear his brief word of command to the valet who had been stationed in
the antechamber; then the Duke's quick, alert descent down the marble
staircase, and finally the call for his coach oft repeated, when he
reached the terrace and began skirting the building on his way to the
main paved yard, where, no doubt, his horses were awaiting his return.
When everything in and around the palace seemed quiet again, Lydie
rang for her maid.
"A dark hood and cloak," she ordered as soon as the girl appeared, and
speaking very rapidly.
"Madame la Marquise goes out again?" asked the maid a little
anxiously, seeing that the hour was late and she herself very sleepy.
"Only within the palace," replied Lydie. "Quick, girl! the cloak!"
Within two or three minutes she was enveloped from head to foot in a
cloak of dark woollen material, that effectually hid the beautiful
gown beneath. Then she bade the girl wait for her in her boudoir, and,
not heeding the latter's anxious protestations, she walked quickly out
of the room.
The corridors and reception halls were now quite deserted. Even from
the main building of the palace, where the King himself was wont to
sup copiously and long, there no longer came the faintest echo of
revelry, of laughter or of music. The vast château built at the cost
of a nation's heart's blood, kept up at the cost of her tears and her
humiliation, now lay wrapped in sleep.
In this remote West Wing the silence was almost oppressive. From her
own apartments Lydie could reach those occupied by milor, without
going through the ante-chamber and corridors, where a few
night-watchmen were always stationed. Thus she could pass unperceived;
a dark, ghost-like figure, silent and swift, gliding through an
enchanted castle, inhabited mayhap only by a sleeping beauty and her
Court. From outside not a sound, save the occasional hoot of an owl or
the flap of a bat's wings against the projecting masonry.
Lydie drew her cloak closely round her figure; though the August night
was hot and heavy with the acrid scent of late summer flowers she felt
an inward shivering, whilst her temples throbbed and her eyes seemed
made of glowing charcoal. A few more rooms to traverse, a few moments
longer wherein to keep her trembling knees from giving way beneath
her, and she would be in milor's rooms.
She was a little astonished to find them just as deserted as the rest
of the palace. The great audience chamber with its monumental bed, the
antechamber wherein M. Durand's wizened figure always sat enthroned
behind the huge secrétaire, and the worthy Baptiste himself was wont
to hold intrusive callers at bay, all these rooms were empty, silent
and sombre.
At last she reached the octagonal room, out of which opened the study.
Here, too, darkness reigned supreme save for a thin streak of light
which gleamed, thin and weird, from beneath the study door. Darkness
itself fought with absolute stillness. Lydie came forward, walking as
if in her sleep.
She called to milor's valet: "Achille!" but only in a whisper, lest
milor from within should hear. Then as there was no sound, no
movement, she called once more:
"Achille! is milor still awake? Achille! are you here?"
She had raised her voice a little, thinking the man might be asleep.
But no sound answered her, save from outside the cry of a bird
frightened by some midnight prowler.
Then she walked up to the door. There behind it, in that inner sanctum
hung with curtains of dull gold, the man still sat whom she had so
often, so determinedly wronged, and who had wounded her to-night with
a cruelty and a surety of hand which had left her broken of spirit,
bruised of heart, a suffering and passionate woman. She put her hand
on the knob of the door. Nothing stirred within; milor was writing
mayhap! Perhaps he had dropped asleep! And Gaston preparing to ride to
Le Havre in order to send the swiftest ship to do its deed of
treachery!
No! no! anything but that!
At this moment Lydie had nerved herself to endure every rebuff, to
suffer any humiliation, to throw herself at her husband's feet,
embrace his knees if need be, beg, pray and entreat for money, for
help, anything that might even now perhaps avert the terrible
catastrophe.
Boldly now she knocked at the door.
"Milor! milor! open! . . . it is I! . . . ! Lydie. . . . !"
Then as there was no answer from within she knocked louder still.
"Milor! Milor! awake! Milor! in the name of Heaven I entreat you to
let me speak with you!"
At first she had thought that he slept, then that obstinate resentment
caused him to deny her admittance. She tried to turn the knob of the
door, but it did not yield.
"Milor! Milor!" she cried again, and then again.
Naught but silence was the reply.
Excitement grew upon her now, a febrile nervousness which caused her
to pull at the lock, to bruise her fingers against the gilt ornaments
of the panel, whilst her voice, hoarse and broken with sobs, rent with
its echoes the peace and solemnity of the night.
"Milor! Milor!"
She had fallen on her knees, exhausted mentally and physically, the
blood beating against her temples until the blackness around her
seemed to have become a vivid red. In her ear was a sound like that of
a tempestuous sea breaking against gigantic rocks, with voices calling
at intervals, voices of dying men, loudly accusing her of treachery.
The minutes were speeding by! Anon would come the dawn when Gaston
would to horse, bearing the hideous message which would mean her
lifelong infamy and the death of those who trusted her.
"Milor! milor! awake!" She now put her lips to the keyhole, breathing
the words through the tiny orifice, hoping that he would hear. "Gaston
will start at dawn . . . They will send Le Monarque, and she is
ready to put to sea . . . Milor! your friend is in deadly
peril. . . ! I entreat you to let me enter!"
She beat her hands against the door, wounding her delicate flesh. She
was not conscious of what she was doing. A mystic veil divided her
reasoning powers from that terrible mental picture which glowed before
her through the blood-red darkness. The lonely shore, the angry sea,
the French ship Le Monarque flying the pennant of traitors!
Then suddenly an astonished and deeply horrified voice broke in upon
her ears.
"Madame la Marquise, in the name of Heaven! Madame la Marquise!"
She heard quick footsteps behind her, and left off hammering against
the door, left off screaming and moaning, but she had not the power to
raise herself from her knees.
"Madame la Marquise," came in respectful, yet frightened accents,
"will Madame la Marquise deign to allow me to raise her—I fear Madame
la Marquise is not well!"
She recognized the voice of Achille, milor's valet, yet it never
entered her mind to feel ashamed at being found by a lacquey, thus
kneeling before her husband's door. The worthy Achille was very upset.
Etiquette forbade him to touch Madame la Marquise, but could he leave
her there? in that position? He advanced timidly. His behaviour was
superlatively correct even in this terrible emergency, and there was
nothing in his deferential attitude to indicate that he thought
anything abnormal had occurred.
"I thought I heard Madame la Marquise calling," he said, "and I
thought perhaps Madame la Marquise would wish to speak with milor
. . ."
But at the word she quickly interrupted him; rising to her feet even
as she spoke.
"Yes! yes . . . ! milor . . . I do wish to speak with him . . . open
the door, Achille . . . quick . . ."
"The door is locked on the outside, Madame la Marquise, but I have the
key by me," said M. Achille gravely. "I had fortunately recollected
that mayhap milor had forgotten to put out the lights, and would in
any case have come to see that all was safe . . . if Madame la
Marquise will deign to permit me . . ."
It was a little difficult to reconcile utmost respect of movement and
demeanour with the endeavour to open the door against which Madame la
Marquise was still standing. However, everything that was deferential
and correct was possible to Monsieur Achille; he fitted the key in the
lock and the next moment had thrown the door wide open, whilst he
himself stood immediately aside to enable Madame la Marquise to enter.
Four candles were burning in one of the candelabra; milor had
evidently forgotten to extinguish them. Everything else in the room
was perfectly tidy. On the secrétaire there were two or three heavy
books similar to those Monsieur Durand usually carried about with him
when he had to interview milor, also the inkpot and sand-well, with
two or three quills methodically laid on a silver tray. One window
must have been open behind the drawn curtains, for the heavy damask
hangings waved gently in the sudden current of air, caused by the
opening of the door. The candles too, flickered weirdly in the
draught. In the centre of the room was the armchair on which Lydie had
sat a while ago, the cushion of red embroidery which milor had put to
her back, and below the little footstool covered in gold brocade on
which her foot had rested . . . a while ago.
And beside the secrétaire his own empty chair, and on the table the
spot where his hand had rested, white and slightly tremulous, when she
proffered her self-accusation.
"Milor?" she murmured inquiringly, turning glowing eyes, dilated with
the intensity of disappointment and despair on the impassive face of
Achille, "milor . . . ? where is milor?"
"Milor has been gone some little time, Madame la Marquise," replied
Achille.
"Gone? Whither?"
"I do not know, Madame la Marquise . . . Milor did not tell me . . .
Two gentlemen called to see him at about ten o'clock; as soon as they
had gone milor asked for his outdoor clothes and Hector booted and
spurred him . . . whilst I dressed his hair and tied his cravat . . .
Milor has been gone about half an hour, I think."
"Enough . . . that will do!"
That is all that she contrived to say. This final disappointment had
been beyond the endurance of her nerves. Physically now she completely
broke down, a mist gathered before her eyes, the candles seemed to
flicker more and more weirdly until their lights assumed strange
ghoul-like shapes which drew nearer to her and nearer; faces in the
gloom grinned at her and seemed to mock, the walls of the room closed
in around her, her senses reeled, her very brain felt as if it
throbbed with pain, and without a cry or moan, only with one long sigh
of infinite weariness, she sank lifeless to the ground.
M. le Comte de Stainville only shrugged his shoulders when M. de
Belle-Isle and young de Lugeac brought him milor's reply.
"Bah!" he said with a sneer, "he'll have to fight me later on or I'll
hound him out of France! Never fear, gentlemen, we'll have our meed of
fun very soon."
On the whole Gaston was not sorry that this stupid so-called "affair
of honour" would not force him to rise before dawn. He had no special
ill-will against le petit Anglais, for whom he had always tried to
cultivate a modicum of contempt. He had not always succeeded in this
praiseworthy endeavour, for milor as a rule chose to ignore M. de
Stainville, as far as, and often more than, courtesy permitted.
The two men had not often met since the memorable evening when milor
snatched the golden prize which Gaston had so clumsily cast aside.
Their tastes were very dissimilar, and so was their entourage. Milor
was officially considered to belong to the Queen's set, whilst Gaston
clung to the more entertaining company of Madame de Pompadour and her
friends; nor had M. de Stainville had the bad grace to interfere with
his wife's obvious predeliction for Lord Eglinton's company.
The memorable day which was just drawing to its close had seen many
changes—changes that were almost upheavals of old traditions and of
habitual conditions of court life. Gaston had deceived and then
hideously outraged the woman whom long ago he had already wronged. A
year ago she had humiliated him, had snatched from him the golden
prize which his ambition had coveted, and which she made him
understand that he could not obtain without her. To-day had been his
hour; he had dragged her down to the very mire in which he himself had
grovelled, he had laid her pride to dust and shaken the pinnacle of
virtue and integrity on which she stood.
That she had partly revenged herself by a public affront against Irène
mattered little to Gaston. He had long ago ceased to care for la
belle brune de Bordeaux, the beautiful girl who had enchained his
early affections and thereby become a bar to his boundless ambition.
The social ostracism—applicable only by a certain set of puritanical
dévotes—and the disdain of Queen Marie Leszcynska which his wife
might have to endure would be more than compensated by the gratitude
of Pompadour and of His Majesty himself, for the services rendered by
Gaston in the cause of the proffered English millions.
But for him the expedition against the Stuart prince could never have
been undertaken; at any rate, it had been fraught with great
difficulties; delays and subsequent failure would probably have
resulted. Gaston de Stainville felt sure that in the future he could
take care that the King should never forget his services.
After his wife's indiscreet outburst he feared once more for the
success of the plan. Remembering Lydie's reliance on Le Monarque and
her commander, he declared himself prepared to start for Le Havre
immediately. He was quite ready to display that endurance and
enthusiasm, in the breakneck ride across the fields of Normandy, which
Lydie had thought to find in him for the good of a noble cause.
Gaston de Stainville's pockets were always empty; the two millions
which the King had promised him would be more than welcome. His
Majesty had even offered to supplement these by an additional half
million if Le Monarque sailed out of Le Havre before sunset on the
morrow.
The incident of the duel with milor would have delayed matters
and—who knows—perhaps have made that pleasant half million somewhat
problematical. Therefore Gaston received the news of the refusal with
a sardonic grin, but not with real impatience.
He felt really no great ill-will toward Lord Eglinton; but for that
incident when he was forcibly made to measure his length on the
parquet floor, Gaston would have willingly extended a condescending
hand to the man whose wife he had so infamously wronged.
The incident itself had angered him only to the extent of desiring to
inflict a physical punishment on milor. Sure of his own wrist as the
most perfect swordsman in France, he had fondled the thought of
slicing off a finger or two, mayhap a thumb, from the hand of le
petit Anglais, or better still of gashing milor's face across nose
and cheek so as to mar for ever those good looks which the ladies of
Versailles had so openly admired.
Well! all these pleasant little occurrences could happen yet. M. de
Stainville was quite sure that on his return from Le Havre he could
provoke the Englishman to fight. Milor might be something of a
coward—obviously he was one, else he had accepted so mild a
challenge—but he could not always refuse to fight in the face of
certain provocation, which would mean complete social ruin if
disregarded.
The hour was late by the time Gaston de Stainville had bade good-night
to Belle-Isle and Lugeac. Together the three men had drunk copiously,
had laughed much and sneered continually at the pusillanimous
Englishman.
"This comes of allowing all these aliens to settle amongst us," said
de Lugeac impudently; "soon there will be neither honour nor chivalry
left in France."
Whereupon de Stainville and Belle-Isle, both of whom bore ancient,
aristocratic names, bethought themselves that it was time to break up
the little party and to turn their backs on this arrogant
gutter-snipe.
The three men separated at midnight. De Lugeac had a room in the
palace, and Stainville and Belle-Isle repaired to their respective
lodgings in the little town itself.
Soon after dawn Gaston de Stainville was on horseback. He started
alone, for that extra half million was dangling before his eyes, and
he was afraid that companionship—even that of a servant—might cause
unlooked-for delay. He had a hundred and eighty leagues by road and
field to cover, and soon the day would become very hot. He meant to
reach Le Havre before five o'clock in the afternoon; within an hour
after that, he could have handed over his instructions to Captain
Barre, and seen Le Monarque unfurl her sails and glide gracefully
out of the harbour: an argosy anon to be laden with golden freight.
The little town of Versailles had scarce opened its eyes to the new
day when the clink of a horse's hoofs on her cobble stones roused her
from her morning sleep.
A few farmers, bringing in their produce from their gardens, gazed
with keen interest at the beautiful animal and her gallant rider. The
hour was indeed early for such a fine gentleman to be about.
Soon the rough paving of the town was left behind; the sun, who at
first had hidden his newly-awakened glory behind a bank of clouds, now
burnt his way through these heavy veils, and threw across the morning
sky living flames of rose, of orange, and of vivid gold and tipped the
towers and spires of distant Paris with innumerable tongues of fire.
Far away the clock of Notre Dame tolled the hour of five. Gaston
cursed inwardly. It was later than he thought, later than he had
intended to make a start. That business of the duel had kept him up
longer than usual and he had felt lazy and tired in the morning. Now
he would have to make top speed, and he did not feel as alert, nor so
well prepared for the fatigues of a long day's ride, as he would have
been two years ago, before the enervating dissipations of court life
at Versailles had undermined the activity of his youth.
Fortunately the ground was soft and dry, the air keen and pure, and
Gaston spurred his horse to a canter across the fields.
It is one hundred and fifty leagues from Versailles to the harbour of
Le Havre as the crow flies, one hundred and eighty most like by road
and across fields.
Gaston had twelve hours in which to cover the ground, a good horse,
and the enthusiasm born of empty pockets when two and a half million
livres loom temptingly at the end of the journey.
The fields, after the corn harvest, were excellent for a gallop,
yielding just sufficiently to the mare's hoofs to give her a pleasant
foothold, but not in any way spongy, with good stubble to give
resistance and the sandy soil below to prevent the slightest jar.
Riding under such conditions, in the cool hours of the morning, was
distinctly pleasant.
Gaston reached Nantes soon after seven, having covered close on forty
leagues of his journey without unduly tiring Belle Amie. He was a good
rider and knew how to ease her, and there was Arab blood in her. She
made light of the work, and enjoyed her gallops, being of the breed
that never shows fatigue, own daughter to Jedran who had carried
Maurice de Saxe on his famous ride from Paris to Saargemund, three
hundred leagues in eighteen hours.
At Nantes, Stainville partook of a frugal breakfast, and Belle Amie
had a rest and a mouthful of corn. He was again to horse within half
an hour, crossing the Seine here by the newly constructed stone
bridge, thence on toward Elboeuf. By ten o'clock the sun was high in
the heavens and was pouring heat like molten lead down on horse and
rider. Progress had become much slower. Several halts had to be made
at tiny wayside inns for a cooling drink and a rub down for Belle
Amie. The enjoyment had gone out of the ride. It was heavy, arduous
work, beside which despatch riding, with message of life and death,
was mere child's play.
But this was not a case of life and death, but of that which was far
dearer to Gaston than life without it. Money! money at the end of it
all! even if Belle Amie dropped on the roadside and he himself had to
cover the rest of the distance on foot. An extra half million if La
Monarque set sail before sunset to-day.
At Rouen, horse and rider had to part company. Belle Amie, who had
covered close on a hundred leagues, and most of it in the full glare
of the midday sun, wanted at least a couple of hours rest if she was
to get to Le Havre at all, and this her rider was unwilling to give
her. At the posting hostelry, which stands immediately at the rear of
the cathedral, Stainville bargained for a fresh horse, and left Belle
Amie in charge of mine host to be tended and cared for against his
return, probably on the morrow.
Here, too, he partook of a light midday meal whilst the horse was
being got ready for him. A good, solid Normandy mare this time, a
perfect contrast to Belle Amie, short and thick in the legs, with a
broad crupper, and a sleepy look in her eye. But she was a comfortable
mount as Gaston soon found out, with a smooth, even canter, and though
her stride was short, she got over the ground quickly enough. It was
still very hot, but the roads beyond Rouen were sandy and light; the
lanes were quite stoneless and shaded by tall trees; the Normandy mare
settled down along them to an easy amble. She had not the spirit of
Belle Amie but she made up in stolidity what she had lacked in
swiftness. Gaston's first impatience at the slowness of her gait soon
yielded to content, for she needed no checking, and urging being
useless—since she could go no faster—the rider was soon able to let
his mind rest and even to sink into semi-somnolence, trusting himself
to the horse entirely.
At half-past five the towers of Notre Dame du Havre were in sight; an
hour later than Gaston had dared to hope, but still far from the hour
of sunset, and if he could infuse a sufficiency of enthusiasm into the
commander of Le Monarque, the gallant ship could still negotiate the
harbour before dusk, the tide being favourable, and be out in the open
ere the first stars appeared in the heavens.
The little seaport town, whose tortuous, unpaved, and narrow streets
were ankle deep in slimy mud in spite of the persistent heat and
dryness of the day, appeared to Gaston like the golden city of his
dreams. On his left the wide mouth of the Seine, with her lonely shore
beyond, was lost in the gathering mist, which rose rapidly now after
the intense heat of the day. On his right, a few isolated houses were
dotted here and there, built of mud, thatched and plastered over, and
with diminutive windows not more than a few inches square, because of
the tax which was heavy; they testified to the squalor and misery of
their inhabitants, a few families earning an uncertain livelihood with
their nets. Soon along the length of the river, as it gradually
widened toward its mouth, a few isolated craft came to view; fishing
boats these mostly, with here and there a graceful brigantine laden
with timber, and a few barges which did a precarious coasting-trade
with salted fish and the meagre farm produce of the environs.
Gaston de Stainville took no heed of these, though the scene—if
somewhat mournful and desolate—had a certain charm of rich colouring
and hazy outline in the glow of the afternoon sun. The heat had
altogether abated, and the damp which rose from the spongy soil,
peculiar to the bed of the river, was already making itself felt.
Gaston shivered beneath the light cloth coat which he had donned in
the morning, in view of the fatigues of a hot summer's day. His eyes
peered anxiously ahead and to the left of him. His mare, who had borne
him stolidly for over five hours, was quite ready to give way; there
was no Arab blood in her to cause her to go on until she dropped. She
had settled down to a very slow jog-trot, which was supremely
uncomfortable to the rider, whose tired back could scarcely endure
this continuous jar. Fortunately the straggling, outlying portions of
the townlet were already far behind; the little mud houses appeared
quite frequently now, and from them, wizened figures came out to the
doorway; women in ragged kirtles and children half-naked but for a
meagre shift, gazed, wide-eyed, at the mud-bespattered cavalier and
his obviously worn-out mount.
From the fine old belfry the chime had long tolled the half hour.
Gaston vainly tried to spur the mare to a final effort. She had
reached a stage of fatigue when blows would not have quickened her
steps, whilst her rider, roused from his own somnolent weariness, was
suddenly alert and eager. Goal was indeed in sight. The mud huts even
had been left behind, and one or two stone houses testified to the
importance of the town and the well-being of its inhabitants; the
first inn—a miserable wooden construction quite uninviting even after
a day's ride—had already been passed. Ahead was the church of Notre
Dame, the fish market, and the residence of the governor; beyond were
some low wooden buildings, suggestive of barracks, whilst the Seine,
ever widening until her further shore was finally lost in the mist,
now showed an ever-varying panorama of light and heavy craft upon her
breast; brigantines, and fishing boats, and the new-fashioned top-sail
schooners, and far ahead, majestic and sedate, one or two
three-deckers of His Majesty's own navy.
Gaston strained his eyes, wondering which of these was Le Monarque!
A few minutes later he had reached the principal inn of the town,
"L'Auberge des Trois Matelots," immediately opposite the rough wooden
jetty, and from the bay window of which Gaston immediately thought
that a magnificent view must be obtainable of the stretch of the river
and the English Channel far away.
He turned into the gate. The house itself was low, one-storied only,
and built entirely of wood round a central court-yard, which was as
deep in slime as the rest of the town of Le Havre. Opposite Gaston as
he rode in, were some primitive stablings, and on his right some
equally primitive open sheds; the remaining two sides apparently stood
for the main portion of the building, as several doors gave upon a
covered verandah, to which some four or five steps gave access.
A weary-eyed ostler in a blue blouse and huge wooden sabots, from
which bunches of straw protruded at the heel came leisurely forward
when Gaston drew rein. He seemed to have emerged from nowhere in
particular, risen out of the mud mayhap, but he held the mare none too
clumsily when M. le Comte dismounted.
The next moment a portly figure appeared in one of the doorways under
the verandah, clad precisely like the ostler, save for the gorgeous
scarlet kerchief round the gargantuan neck, whilst another, equally
bright in hue, peeped out of the pocket of the blouse.
Above the scarlet neckerchief a round face, red as a Normandy apple,
was turned meditatively on the mud-stained cavalier, whilst a pair of
small, beady eyes blinked drowsily at the afternoon sun.
"See that the mare gets a good rub down at once, then a feed of corn
with a dash of eau-de-vie in it, a litter of straw, and a drink of
water; she is done to death," said Gaston, peremptorily to the
sleepy-looking ostler. "I'll be round in a quarter of an hour to see
if she is comfortable, and give you a taste of my whip if she is not."
The ostler did not reply, neither did he touch his forelock in token
of obedience. He smothered a yawn and with slow, dragging steps he led
the over-tired mare toward the rough stabling in the rear. Gaston then
turned toward the verandah and to the few wooden steps which led up to
the doorway, wherein the apple-faced man still stood with his hands
behind him, drowsily blinking at the unexpected visitor.
"Are you the innkeeper?" asked Gaston curtly.
"Yes, M'sieu," replied the other with great deliberation.
"I shall want a good room for the night, and a well-cooked supper. See
to it at once."
Mine host's placidity gave way somewhat at these peremptory orders,
which were accompanied by a loud and significant tapping of a whip
across a riding boot. But the placidity did not yield to eagerness,
only to a certain effort at sulky protest, as Gaston, having mounted
the steps, now stood facing him in his own doorway.
"My house is full, M'sieu . . ." he began.
"I am on the King's business," shouted Gaston now with angry
impatience, "so none of this nonsense. Understand?"
Evidently mine host not only understood, but thought it best to obey
with as good grace as he could muster. He stepped aside still somewhat
grudgingly, and allowed Gaston de Stainville to enter: but he did not
condescend to bow nor did he bid M'sieu the visitor welcome in his
house.
Gaston however was not minded to notice the fat man's sulky temper.
The moodiness of provincial innkeepers had become proverbial in
France; they seemed to look upon all guests, who brought money into
their pockets, as arrogant intruders, and treated them accordingly.
"See to a decent supper at once," repeated de Stainville now with that
peremptoriness which he knew would alone ensure civility, "and send a
wench into my room to see that it is properly aired, and that clean
linen is put upon the bed."
The warning was no doubt necessary, judging by the appearance of the
room in which Gaston now found himself. It was low and stuffy in the
extreme. He was conscious of nothing else for the moment, as only two
diminutive windows, hermetically closed, admitted a tiny modicum of
light through four dirty and thick panes of rough glass. On the left
there was a door evidently leading to another and larger room from
which—as this door was ajar—came the sound of voices and also
suffocating gusts of very pungent tobacco.
Obviously there was some light and air in that further room, whereas
here it seemed to Gaston as if only cave-dwellers and moles could live
and breathe.
"You had best serve my supper in there," he said, pointing with his
riding whip toward that half-open door, and without waiting for the
protests which mine host was obviously preparing himself to make, he
strode boldly toward it and pushed it fully open.
The place was certainly very different to the one which he had just
quitted. The floor was strewn with clean white sand, and, though the
air was thick with the fumes of that same pungent tobacco, which
already had offended Gaston's nostrils, it was not hopelessly
unpleasant, as the deep and square oriel window at the extreme end of
this long, low room was wide open, freely admitting the sweet, salt
breeze which blew straight from the English Channel; affording too—as
Gaston had originally surmised—a magnificent view of a panorama which
embraced the mouth of the Seine, the rough harbour and tiny jetty,
with the many small craft lying at anchor on the calm bosom of the
river, and the graceful schooners and majestic three-deckers further
away, all lit by the slanting rays of the slowly-sinking sun.
Gaston, without hesitation, walked straight up to a bench and trestle
table, which to his pleasurable surprise he found was unoccupied.
These were just inside the bay of the window, and he deliberately
placed his hat, coat and whip upon the table in token that he took
possession of it. Then he once more turned to mine host, who, much
torn between respect for a man who travelled on the King's business—a
nobleman mayhap—and pride of peasant at contact with an unwelcome
visitor, had slowly followed Gaston, lolling with that peculiar gait
which betrays the ex-sailor whilst firm if deferential protest was
writ all over his rubicund countenance.
Jean Marie Palisson was born at Le Havre; he had been armateur ere
the welcome death of a relative put him in possession of the most
frequented inn in the town together with a very comfortable
competence, and the best furnished cellars this side of Rouen. He
greatly resented the appearance of a stranger in the midst of his
usual habitués, which distinguished circle embraced M. le Général
commanding the fortress, M. the Military Governor of the port, M. the
Civil Governor of the town, MM. the commanders on His Majesty's ships,
not to speak of M. le Maire, and M. le Député of the Parliament of
Rouen, in fact all the notabilities and dignitaries of the town and
the harbour.
These gentlemen were wont to assemble in this the best room of "Les
Trois Matelots" at five o'clock, "l'heure de l'apéritif," when
eau-de-vie, punch or mulled wine were consumed, in order to coax
recalcitrant appetites to a pleasurable anticipation of supper. It was
an understood thing, between the worthy Jean Marie Palisson and his
distinguished customers, that no strangers were to be admitted within
this inner sanctum, save by the vote of the majority, nor had it ever
occurred before that any one had thus forced an entrance past that
magic door which mine host guarded with jealous care.
Now when Gaston thus arrogantly took possession of the best table in
the best portion of the best room in "Les Trois Matelots," Jean Marie
was so taken aback, and so awed by the masterfulness which could rise
to such complete disregard of the etiquette pertaining to the social
circles of Le Havre, that he found himself unable to do aught but
shrug his broad shoulders at intervals, and blink his beady eyes in
token of helpless distress.
And this in spite of the fact that several pairs of eyebrows were
lifted in token of pained surprise.
Gaston was equally unconscious of the disapproval which his entry had
evoked, as of Jean Marie's want of alacrity in his service. When he
entered, he noted that the several occupants of the room were
gentlemen like himself, and he always felt thoroughly at home and
unabashed amongst his kind: as for the landlord of a tumbledown
provincial inn, Gaston thought him quite unworthy of close attention.
He sat himself down on the edge of the table, dangling one well-booted
leg with easy nonchalance, and from this elevated position he surveyed
leisurely and with no small amount of impertinence, the company there
assembled. He had scarce time to note the scowling looks of haughty
disapproval which were levelled at him from every side, when the door
was vigorously pushed open and an aggressively cheerful young man,
loud of voice, jocose of manner, boisterously entered the room.
"Par ma foi! my worthy Jean Marie," he said in stentorian tones, "is
this the latest fashion in Le Havre? the host not at the door to
receive his guests? . . . Hé! . . ." he added, suddenly realizing the
presence of a stranger in the room, "whom have we here?"
But already, at the first words uttered by the newcomer, Gaston de
Stainville had jumped to his feet, and as soon as the young man ceased
talking, he went forward to greet him.
"None other than Gaston de Stainville, my good Mortémar, and pleased
indeed to look into a friend's face."
"Gaston de Stainville!" exclaimed the other gaily, "par tous les
diables! but this is a surprise! Who would have thought to see you
in this damned and God-forsaken hole!"
"The King's business, my good Mortémar," said Gaston, "and if you'll
forgive me I'll see to it at once and then we'll sup together, eh?
. . . Palsambleu! and I who thought I'd die of ennui during this
enforced halt on this lonely shore."
"Ennui? perish the thought! Gentlemen," added the young Comte de
Mortémar, with a graceful flourish of the arm which embraced the
entire company, "allow me to present unto you the most accomplished
cavalier of the day, whom I have the honour to call my friend, and
whom I hope we will all have the honour to call our guest to-night, M.
le Comte Gaston Amédé de Stainville."
Gaston had no cause now to complain of want of welcome. Once the
stranger duly accredited and presented by a member of the intimate
circle, he was cheered to the echo. Every one rose to greet him, many
pressed forward to shake him by the hand: the presence of a cavalier
of Versailles with all the Court gossip, the little intrigues, the
laughable anecdotes which he would of necessity bring with him was
indeed a veritable God-send to the little official world of Le Havre,
who spent most of its life in mortal ennui.
"As for thee, my good Jean Marie," now interposed Mortémar with mock
severity, "let me tell thee at once that if within an hour this table
here doth not groan under the weight of the finest and best cooked
capon that Normandy can produce, neither I nor these gentlemen here
will e'er darken thy doors again. What say you, gentlemen?"
There was loudly expressed assent, accompanied by much laughter and
vigorous clinking of pewter mugs against the deal tables.
"And in the meanwhile," continued Mortémar, who seemed to have taken
the lead in this general desire to bid the visitor a substantial
welcome, "a bowl of punch with half a glass of eau-de-vie and a dozen
prunes soaked in kirsch therein. Never fear, friend Stainville," he
added, slapping Gaston boisterously on the shoulder, "I tell you mine
host knows how to brew a bowl of punch, which will send you reeling
under one of his tables in less than half an hour."
A round of applause greeted this cheerful sally.
"Nay, in that case," said Gaston, on whom the strenuous fatigues of
the day were telling severely after the preliminary excitement of
arrival, "I'll to my business, ere your good cheer, friend, render me
quite helpless."
"Perish the thought of business," retorted Mortémar. "Your head in a
bucket of cold water after the punch, and you can meet the most astute
notary on even ground and beat him at his own game. The punch, knave!"
he shouted to the fat landlord, "the punch, this instant, M. le Comte
de Stainville is wearied and is waiting for refreshment."
But Gaston's frame of mind was far too grave, his purpose far too
important, to allow himself to be led into delaying business with
Captain Barre a moment longer than was necessary. Mortémar and his
convivial friends could not know that half a million livres would be
the price paid for that bowl of punch, since it might mean an hour's
carousing and the full of dusk before Le Monarque received her
orders. He was deadly fatigued undoubtedly, faint too from the heat
and want of proper food, but when money was at stake Gaston de
Stainville always displayed an enthusiasm and an amount of courageous
endurance worthy of a better cause.
"A thousand thanks, my good Mortémar, and to you all, gentlemen," he
now said courteously but firmly, "do not, I beseech you, think me
churlish if I must momentarily refuse your kind hospitality. One glass
of eau-de-vie to give me a modicum of strength, and I must to my
business first. Gentlemen, I see by your coats that most of you serve
the King in some capacity or other, you know as well as I do that the
laws which govern the King's commands cannot be broken. I will not be
gone long, half an hour at most; after that I am at your commands, and
will be the most grateful as well as the most joyous of you all."
"Well spoken, friend Stainville," declared Mortémar "and you, Jean
Marie, serve a small refreshment to M. le Comte immediately. Nay,
friend," he added pleasantly, "I fear I have been importunate . . .
'twas the joy of seeing so elegant a cavalier grace this unhallowed
spot."
Every one nodded approval; as Gaston had surmised, there were
soldiers, sailors there present, all of whom understood duty and
obedience to the King's commands.
"Perhaps some of us could be of assistance to M. le Comte de
Stainville," suggested a grave gentleman who wore His Majesty's
colours. "If he is a stranger at Le Havre he might be glad of help."
"Indeed well said," spoke another; "could one of us here accompany you
anywhere, Monsieur le Comte?"
"I am more than grateful, gentlemen," replied Gaston, to whom the host
was even now offering a cup of mulled wine. He drank the liquor at
one draught, then set down the cup ere he spoke further:
"And gladly will I accept these kindly offers of assistance," he now
said. "I am indeed a stranger here, and did feel doubtful how I could
most speedily accomplish my business. I must have speech with Captain
Barre, gentlemen, commanding His Majesty's ship Le Monarque and that
with as little delay as possible. . . ."
To his intense astonishment he was interrupted by a ringing laugh from
his friend Mortémar.
"Nay, then my good Stainville," said the lively young man, "you'll
have plenty of time for that bowl of punch, aye! and for getting right
royally drunk and fully sober again if your business is with Captain
Barre."
"What do you mean?" queried Gaston with a sudden frown.
"Le Monarque sailed out of Le Havre an hour ago; methinks you can
still see her sails against the evening sun."
And the young man pointed through the open window out toward the West.
Mechanically Gaston's eyes followed the direction in which his friend
pointed. There, far away in the mist-laden distance, a graceful
three-decker, with sails unfurled, was distinctly visible in the glow
of the setting sun. She was gaily riding the waves, the soft
south-easterly breeze having carried her swiftly and lightly already
far out to sea.
Gaston felt an awful dizziness in his head. An icy sweat broke out
upon his brow, he passed a hand across his eyes for he did not feel
that he could trust them.
"That is not Le Monarque," he murmured.
"By my faith, but it is," said Mortémar, a little perturbed, for he
had not thought to be conveying evil news. "I was bidding her captain
'God-speed' myself little more than an hour ago. A gallant sailor, and
a personal friend," he added, "and he seemed mighty glad to get on the
way."
"Whither was he bound?" asked Gaston mechanically.
"Nay! that I do not know. Barre had received secret orders only an
hour before he started. . . ."
But now Gaston felt his senses reeling.
"She must be stopped! . . . she must be stopped!" he shouted wildly.
"I have orders for her . . . she must be stopped, at any cost!"
And breaking through the compact group of his newly found friends he
made a wild dash for the door.
But the excitement, the terrible keenness of this disappointment had
been too much for him, after the strenuous fatigues and the
overpowering heat of the day. The dizziness turned to an intolerable
feeling of sickness, the walls of the room spun round and round him,
he felt as if a stunning blow had been dealt him on the head, and with
a final shriek of "Stop her!" he staggered and would have fallen
headlong, but that a pair of willing arms were there to break his
fall.
It was M. des Coutures—a middle-aged man, military governor of Le
Havre—who had caught Gaston de Stainville in his arms when the latter
all but lost consciousness. A dozen willing pairs of hands were now
ready to administer to the guest's comforts, from the loosening of his
cravat to the pulling off of his heavy riding boots.
"The mulled wine was too heavy for him," said M. le Maire Valledieu,
"no doubt he had been fasting some hours and his stomach refused to
deal with it."
"Tell the kitchen wench to hurry with that supper, Jean Marie," said
Mortémar to mine host, "he'll be himself again when he has eaten."
"If there's a plate of soup ready, bring that," added M. Valledieu.
"Anything's better than an empty paunch."
"I thank you, friends," now murmured Stainville feebly. "I fear me I
must have turned giddy . . . the heat and . . ."
He was recovering quickly enough. It had been mere dizziness caused by
fatigue; and then that awful blow which had staggered him physically
as well as mentally! His newly found friends had dragged him back to
the table close to the open window: the keen sea-breeze quickly
restored him to complete consciousness.
Already he had turned his head slowly round to watch that fast
disappearing three-decker, gleaming golden now in the distant haze.
His argosy which he had hoped to see returning from her voyage laden
with golden freight! Somehow as first the hulk and then the graceful
sails were gradually merged into the Western glow, Gaston knew—by one
of those inexplainable yet absolutely unerring instincts which baffle
the materialist—that all hopes of those coveted millions were
vanishing as surely as did the ship now from before his gaze. He was
still weak in body as well as in mind, and it was as if in a dream,
that he listened to de Mortémar's carelessly given explanations of the
event which meant the wreckage of so many fondly cherished hopes.
"Captain Barre broke his fast in this very room this morning," said
the young man lightly, "several of these gentlemen here, as well as
myself, had speech with him. He had no idea then that he would have to
start on a voyage quite so soon. He left here at eleven o'clock and
went back to his ship. An hour later when I was strolling along the
shore I met him again. He seemed in a vast hurry and told me in a few
curt words that Le Monarque had received orders to be under way as
soon as the tide permitted."
"You did not ask him whither the ship was bound?" queried Gaston,
speaking hoarsely like a man who has been drinking.
"He could not tell me," replied the other, "her orders were secret."
"Do you know who was the bearer of these secret orders?"
"No, but I heard later that a stranger had ridden into Le Havre at
midday to-day. His mare—a beautiful creature so I understand—dropped
not far from here; she had been ridden to her death, poor thing; and
her rider, so they say, was near to dropping too."
"I saw him," here interposed a young soldier, "he was just outside
that God-forsaken hole, 'Le Gros Normand' and politely asked me if it
were the best inn in Le Havre."
"I hope you told him it was," said des Coutures with a growl, "we want
no stranger here."
"Nor do we want Le Havre to have a reputation for dirt and
discomfort," corrected M. le Maire.
"And I certainly could not allow a gentlemen—for he was that—I'll
lay any wager on it, with any one—to be made superlatively
uncomfortable on the broken beds of 'Le Gros Normand,'" asserted the
young soldier hotly.
"You advised him to come here?" gasped Mortémar with genuine horror.
He was the chief of that clique which desired to exclude, with utmost
rigour from the sacred precincts of "Les Trois Matelots," every
stranger not properly accredited.
"Ma foi! what would you have me do?" retorted the other sulkily.
"You did quite right, Lieutenant le Tellier," rejoined M. le Maire,
who was jealous of the reputation of Le Havre. "Gentlemen must be
under no misapprehension with regard to the refinement and hospitality
of this town."
The entrance of mine host carrying a steaming bowl of soup broke up
the conversation for awhile. Jean Marie was followed by a fat and
jovial-looking wench, who quickly spread a white cloth for Monsieur le
Comte's supper and generally administered to his wants.
De Mortémar, Général des Coutures, and M. le Maire Valledieu had
constituted themselves the nominal hosts of Gaston. They too sat round
the table, and anon when Jean Marie brought huge jugs of red wine,
they fell to and entertained their guest, plying him with meat and
drink.
This broke up the company somewhat. The other gentlemen had withdrawn
with all the respect which Frenchmen always feel for the solemnity of
a meal; they had once more assumed their old places at the various
tables about the room. But no one thought yet of returning home:
"l'heure de l'apéritif" was being indefinitely prolonged.
Conversation naturally drifted back again and again to Le Monarque
and her secret orders. Every one scented mystery, for was it not
strange that a noble cavalier like Monsieur le Comte de Stainville
should have ridden all the way from Versailles on the King's business,
in order to have speech with the commander of one of His Majesty's own
ships, only to find that he had been forestalled? The good ship had
apparently received orders which the King knew naught about, else His
Majesty had not sent Monsieur de Stainville all this way on a fool's
errand.
Eager, prying eyes watched him as he began to eat and drink, dreamily
at first, almost drowsily. Obviously he was absorbed in thought. He
too must be racking his brains as to who the stranger might be who had
so unexpectedly forestalled him.
His three genial hosts plied him continually with wine and soon the
traces of fatigue in him began to yield to his usual alertness and
vigour. The well-cooked food, the rich liquors were putting life back
into his veins. And with renewed life came a seething, an ungovernable
wrath.
He had lost a fortune, the gratitude of the King, the goodwill of
Pompadour, two and a half millions of money through the interference
of a stranger!
He tried to think, to imagine, to argue with himself. Treacherous and
false himself, he at once suspected treachery. He imagined that some
sycophant, hanging to the Pompadour's skirts, had succeeded in winning
her good graces sufficiently to be allowed to do this errand for her,
instead of himself.
Or had the King played him false, and sent another messenger to do the
delicate business and to share in the spoils?
Or had Lydie . . . ? But no! this was impossible! What could she have
done at a late hour of the night? How could she have found a messenger
whom she could trust? when earlier in the day she had herself admitted
that there was no one in whom she could confide, and thus turned
almost unwillingly to the friend of her childhood.
Jean Marie's favoured customers sat at the various tables sipping
their eau-de-vie; some had produced dice and cards, whilst others were
content to loll about, still hoping to hear piquant anecdotes of that
distant Court of Versailles, toward which they all sighed so
longingly.
But the elegant guest was proving a disappointment. Even after the
second bumper of wine Gaston de Stainville's tongue had not loosened.
He was speculating on the identity of that mysterious stranger, and
would not allow his moodiness to yield to the joys of good cheer.
To-morrow he would have to ride back to Versailles hardly more
leisurely than he had come, for he must find out the truth of how he
came to be forestalled. But he could not start before dawn, even
though fiery impatience and wrath burned in his veins.
To all inquisitive queries and pointed chaff he replied with a sulky
growl, and very soon the delight of meeting an interesting stranger
gave place to irritation at his sullen mood. He was drinking heavily,
and did not seem cheerful in his cups, and anon even Mortémar's
boisterous hilarity gave way before his persistent gloom.
After an hour or two the company started yawning: every one had had
enough of this silent and ill-tempered stranger, who not only had
brought no new life and animation into the sleepy town, but was ill
repaying the lavish hospitality of "Les Trois Matelots" by his
reticence and sulky humour.
One by one now the habitués departed, nodding genially to mine host,
as they settled for their consommations, and bidding as hearty a
good-night to the stranger as their disappointment would allow.
De Mortémar and Valledieu had tried to lure M. le Comte de Stainville
to hazard or even to a more sober game of piquet, but the latter had
persistently refused and sat with legs stretched out before him, hands
buried in breeches' pockets, his head drooping on his chest, and a
meditative scowl between his eyes.
The wine had apparently quite dulled his brilliant wit, and now he
only replied in curt monosyllables to queries addressed directly to
him.
Anon Valledieu and old Général de Coutures pleading the ties of family
and home, begged to be excused. Now de Mortémar alone was left to
entertain his surly guest, bored to distraction, and dislocating his
jaws in the vain efforts which he made to smother persistent yawns.
It was then close on half-past seven. The final glory of the setting
sun had yielded to the magic wand of night which had changed the vivid
crimson and orange first to delicate greens and mauves and then to the
deep, the gorgeous blue of a summer's evening sky. The stars one by
one gleamed in the firmament, and soon the crescent moon, chaste and
cold, added her incomparable glory to the beauty and the silent peace
of the night.
Tiny lights appeared at masthead or prow of the many craft lying at
anchor in the roadsteads, and from far away through the open window
there came wafted, on the sweet salt breeze, the melancholy sound of
an old Normandy ditty sung by a pair of youthful throats.
Fatigue and gloom had oppressed Gaston at first, now it was
unconquerable rage, seething and terrible, which caused him to remain
silent. De Mortémar was racking his brains for an excuse to break up
this wearisome tête-à-tête without overstepping the bounds of
good-breeding, whilst cursing his own impetuosity which had prompted
him to take this surly guest under his wing.
Jean Marie now entered with the candles, causing a welcome diversion.
He placed one massive pewter candelabrum on the table occupied by
Gaston and de Mortémar: the other he carried to the further end of the
room. Having placed that down too, he lolled back toward de Mortémar.
His rubicund face looked troubled, great beads of perspiration stood
out upon his forehead, and his fat fingers wandered along the velvety
surface of his round, closely-cropped crown.
"M'sieu le Comte . . ." he began hesitatingly.
"What is it?" asked Mortémar smothering a yawn.
"A stranger, M'sieu le Comte . . ." stammered Jean Marie.
"What, another? . . . I mean," added the young man with a nervous
little laugh, feeling that the sudden exclamation of undisguised
annoyance was not altogether courteous to his guest, "I mean a . . .
an . . . an . . . unknown stranger? . . . altogether different to M.
le Comte de Stainville, of course!"
"A stranger, M'sieu," repeated Jean Marie curtly. "He came at midday.
. . ."
"And you told us nothing about him?"
"I did not think it was necessary, nor that the stranger would trouble
M'sieu le Comte. He asked for a clean room and a bed and said nothing
about supper at the time. . . . He seemed very tired and gave me a
couple of louis, just if as they were half livres."
"No doubt 'twas the stranger with whom Lieutenant Tellier had speech
outside 'Le Gros Normand!'" suggested de Mortémar.
"Mayhap! mayhap!" rejoined Jean Marie thoughtfully. "I took him up a
bowl of sack and half a cold capon, but what he wanted most was a
large wash-tub and plenty of water . . . it seems he needed a bath!"
"Then he was English," commented Mortémar decisively.
But at these words, Gaston, who had been listening with half an ear to
mine host's explanations, roused himself from his heavy torpor.
The stranger who had forestalled him and sent Le Monarque on her
secret voyage to-day was English!
Then it was . . .
"Where is that stranger now?" he demanded peremptorily.
"That's just it, M'sieu le Comte!" replied Jean Marie, obstinately
ignoring Gaston and still addressing de Mortémar, "he slept all the
afternoon. Now he wants some supper. He throws louis about as if they
were dirt, and I can't serve him in there!" he added with unanswerable
logic and pointing to the stuffy room in the rear.
"Pardi! . . ." began Mortémar.
But Gaston de Stainville was fully alert now; with sudden vigour he
jumped to his feet and brought his fist crashing down on the table so
that the candelabrum, the mugs, and decanters of wine shook under the
blow.
"I beseech you, friend, admit the stranger into this room without
delay," he said loudly. "Ma foi! you have found me dull and listless,
ill-humoured in spite of your lavish hospitality; I swear to you by
all the devils in hell that you'll not yawn once for the next
half-hour, and that Gaston de Stainville and the mysterious stranger,
who thwarts his will and forestalls his orders, will afford you a
measure of amusement such as you'll never forget."
His face was flushed, and his eyes, somewhat hazy from the copiousness
of his libations, had an evil leer in them and an inward glow of
deadly hate. There was no longer any weakness, nor yet ill-humour,
visible in his attitude. His hands were clenched, one resting on the
table, the other roughly pushing back the chair on which he had been
sitting.
"Admit the stranger, friend host!" he shouted savagely. "I'll vouch
for it that your patron will not regret his presence in this room."
"Ma foi! I trust not," said a quiet voice, which seemed to come
suddenly from out the gloom. "Gentlemen, your servant!"
Mortémar turned toward the door, whence had proceeded that gentle,
courteous voice. Lord Eglinton was standing under the lintel,
elegantly attired in full riding dress, with top boots and
closely-fitting coat. He wore no sword, and carried a heavy cloak on
his arm.
He made a comprehensive bow which included every one there present,
then he stepped forward into the room.
We must surmise that surprise and rage had rendered Gaston speechless
for the moment.
Of all the conjectures which had racked his brains for the past two
hours none had come near this amazing reality. Gaston was no fool, and
in one vivid flash he saw before his mental vision not only his own
discomfiture, the annihilation of all his hopes, but also the failure
of King Louis' plans, the relegation of those fifteen millions back
into the pockets of His Grace the Duke of Cumberland.
That Eglinton had not ridden to Le Havre on the King's business but on
his own, that he had not sent Le Monarque to Scotland in order that
he might share in those millions was of course obvious.
No! no! it was clear enough! Lydie having found that Gaston had failed
her, had turned to her husband for help: and he, still nominally
Comptroller-General of Finance, had found it quite easy to send
Captain Barre on his way with secret orders to find Charles Edward
Stuart and ensure the safety of the Jacobites at once and at any cost.
Milor was immensely rich; that had helped him too, of course; bribes,
promises, presents of money were nothing to him. Mentally he was
weak—reasoned Gaston's vanity—and Lydie had commanded him.
But physically he was as strong as a horse, impervious to fatigue, and
whilst Gaston rested last night preparing for his journey, le petit
Anglais was in the saddle at midnight and had killed a horse under
him ere de Stainville was midway.
What King Louis' attitude would be over this disappointment it were
premature to conjecture. Royal disfavour coupled with Pompadour's
ill-humour would make itself felt on innocent and guilty alike.
That he himself was a ruined man and that, through the interference of
that weak-kneed young fop, whom it had been the fashion in Versailles
mildly to despise, was the one great, all-absorbing fact which seemed
to turn Gaston's blood into living fire within his veins.
And the man who had thus deliberately snatched a couple of millions or
more from his grip stood there, not twenty paces away, calm, somewhat
gauche in manner, yet with that certain stiff dignity peculiar to
Englishmen of high rank, and withal apparently unconscious of the fact
that the rival whom he had deprived of a fortune was in this same room
with him, burning with rage and thirsting for revenge.
Gaston watched his enemy for awhile as he now settled himself at the
table, with Jean Marie ministering obsequiously to his wants. Soon
mine host had arranged everything to his guest's liking, had placed a
dish of stewed veal before him, a bottle of wine, some nice fresh
bread, then retired walking backwards, so wonderfully deferential was
he to the man who dealt with gold as others would with tin.
One grim thought had now risen in Stainville's mind, the revival of a
memory, half-faded: an insult, a challenge, refused by that man, who
had thwarted him!
A coward? Eh?
These English would not fight! 'twas well known; in battle, yes! but
not in single combat, not in a meeting 'twixt gentlemen, after a heady
bottle of wine when tempers wax hot, and swords skip almost of
themselves out of the scabbard.
Aye! he would ride a hundred and eighty leagues, to frustrate a plan,
or nathless to dip into the well-filled coffers of the Jacobite
Alliance—such things were possible—but he would not fight!
Gaston hugged the thought! it was grim but delicious! revenge, bitter,
awful, complete revenge was there, quite easy of accomplishment.
Fortune was lost to him, but not revenge! Not before his hand had
struck the cheek of his enemy.
This was his right. No one could blame him. Not even the King, sworn
foe of duelling though he might profess to be.
A long laugh now broke from Gaston's burning throat! Was it not all
ridiculous, senseless, and puerile?
His Majesty the King, Pompadour, the Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of
France, and he himself, Gaston de Stainville, the most ruthlessly
ambitious man in the kingdom, all fooled, stupidly fooled and tricked
by that man, who was too great a coward to meet the rival whom he had
insulted.
At Gaston's laugh Eglinton turned to look in his direction, and his
eyes met those of de Mortémar fixed intently upon him.
"Surely it is M. le Contrôleur-Général," said the latter, jumping to
his feet.
He had paid no heed to his guest's curious outburst of merriment,
putting it down as another expression of his strange humour, else to
the potency of Jean Marie's wine; but he had been deeply interested in
the elegant figure of the stranger, that perfect type of a high-born
gentleman which the young man was quick enough to recognise. The face,
the quaintly awkward manner, brought back certain recollections of two
days spent at the Court of Versailles.
Now when Eglinton turned toward him, he at once recognised the
handsome face, and those kind eyes, which always looked grave and
perfectly straight at an interlocutor.
"Milor Eglinton, a thousand pardons," he now said as he moved quickly
across the room. "I had failed to recognise you at first, and had
little thought of seeing so great a personage in this sleepy old
town."
Eglinton too had risen at his first words and had stepped forward,
with his habitual courtesy, to greet the young man. De Mortémar's hand
was cordially stretched out toward him, the next moment he would have
clasped that of the young Englishman, when with one bound and a rush
across the room and with one wild shout of rage, Gaston de Stainville
overtook his friend and, catching hold of his arm, he drew him roughly
back.
"Nay! de Mortémar, my friend," he cried loudly, "be warned in time
lest your honest hand come in contact with that of a coward."
His words echoed along the vast, empty room. Then there was dead
silence. Instinctively Mortémar had stepped back as if he had been
stung. He did not of course understand the meaning of it all, and was
so taken aback that he could no nothing but stare amazed at the figure
of the young man before him. Eglinton's placidity had in no sense
given way before the deadly insult; only his face had become pale as
death, but the eyes still looked grave, earnest and straight at his
enemy.
"Aye! a coward," said Gaston, who during these few moments of silence
had fought the trembling of his limbs, the quiver of his voice. He saw
the calm of the other man and with a mighty effort smothered the
cryings of his rage, leaving cool contempt free play. "Or will you
deny here, before my friend le Comte de Mortémar, who was about to
touch your hand, that last night having insulted me you refused to
give me satisfaction? Coward! you have no right to touch another's
hand . . . the hand of an honourable gentleman. . . . Coward! . . . Do
you hear me? I'll say it again—coward—and coward again ere I shout
it on the house-tops of Versailles—coward!—even now when my hand has
struck your cheek—coward!"
How it all happened Mortémar himself could not afterward have said,
the movement must have been extraordinarily quick, for even as the
last word "Coward!" rose to Gaston's lips it was drowned in an
involuntary cry of agony, whilst his hand, raised ready to strike, was
held in a grip which indeed seemed like one of steel.
"'Tis done, man! 'tis done!" said the gentle, perfectly even voice,
"but in the name of Heaven provoke me no further, or it will be murder
instead of fight. There!" he added, releasing the other man's wrist,
who staggered back faint and giddy with the pain, "'tis true that I
refused to meet you in combat yester e'en; the life of my friend,
lonely and betrayed, out there in far-off Scotland, had been the price
of delay if I did not ride out of Versailles before cock-crow, but
now 'tis another matter," he added lightly, "and I am at your
service."
"Aye!" sneered Gaston, still writhing with pain, "at my service now,
when you hope that my broken wrist will ensure your impunity."
"Nay, sir, but at your service across the width of this table,"
responded Eglinton coldly, "a pair of pistols, one unloaded. . . . And
we'll both use the left hand."
An exclamation of protest broke from Mortémar's lips.
"Impossible! . . ."
"Why so, Monsieur le Comte?"
"'Twere murder, milor!"
"Does M. le Comte de Stainville protest?" queried the other calmly.
"No! damn you! . . . Where are the pistols?"
"Yours, M. le Comte, an you will; surely you have not ridden all the
way from Versailles without a pair in your holster."
"Well guessed, milor," quoth Gaston lightly. "Mortémar, I pray you, in
the pocket of my coat . . . a pair of pistols."
Mortémar tried again to protest.
"Silence!" said Gaston savagely, "do you not see that I must kill
him?"
"'Tis obvious as the crescent moon yonder, M. de Mortémar," said
Eglinton with a whimsical smile. "I entreat you, the pistols."
The young man obeyed in silence. He strode across the room to the
place lately vacated by Gaston, and near which his cloak was lying
close to his hat and whip. Mortémar groped in the pockets: he found
the two pistols and then rejoined the antagonists.
"I used one against a couple of footpads in the early dawn," said
Gaston, as he took the weapons from Mortémar's hands and placed them
on the table.
"'Twas lucky, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Eglinton gravely, "then all
we need do is to throw for the choice."
"Dice," said Stainville curtly.
On a table close by there was a dice-box, left there by one of Jean
Marie's customers: Mortémar, without a word, handed it to Eglinton. He
could not understand the placidity of the man: Gaston's attitude was
simple enough, primitive animal rage, blinding him to the possibility
of immediate death; excitement too, giving him a sense of bravado, an
arrogant disregard of the consequences of his own provocation.
Eglinton was within his rights. He was now the insulted party, he
could make his own conditions, but did he wish to die? or was he so
supremely indifferent to life that he could view with perfect serenity
that pair of pistols, one of which death-dealing of a surety across a
narrow table, and that box of dice the arbiter of his fate?
Of a truth Eglinton was perfectly indifferent as to the issue of the
combat. He did not care if he killed Gaston, nor did he care to live.
Lydie hated him, so what mattered if the sky was blue, or if the sun
ceased to shed radiance over the earth?
It was the supreme indifference of a man who with life had nothing
else to lose.
His hand was absolutely steady as he took the dice-box and threw:
"Blank!" murmured Mortémar under his breath, as he saw the result of
the throw. Yet the face of milor was as impassive as before, even
though now by all the rules of chance Gaston's was the winning hand.
"Three!" he said calmly, as the dice once more rolled on to the table.
"Monsieur le Comte, the choice of weapon rests with you."
Once more Mortémar tried to interpose. This was monstrous! horrible! a
shocking, brutal murder!
"Monsieur de Stainville knows his own weapons," he said impulsively,
"he discharged one this morning and . . ."
"Milor should have thought of this before!" retorted Stainville
savagely.
"The remark did not come from me, Monsieur," rejoined Eglinton
passively, "an you will choose your weapon, I am fully satisfied."
But his grave eyes found occasion to send a kindly glance of gratitude
to young de Mortémar. The latter felt a tightening of his very heart
strings: he would at this moment have willingly given his fortune to
avert the awful catastrophe.
"Mortémar, an you interfere," said Gaston, divining his thoughts,
"I'll brand you as a meddler before the Court of Versailles. An you
are afraid to see bloodshed, get you gone in the name of hell."
By all the unwritten laws which governed such affairs of honour,
Mortémar could not interfere. He did not know the right or wrong of
the original enmity between these two men, but had already guessed
that mere disappointment with regard to the voyage of Le Monarque
had not been sufficient to kindle such deadly hate: vaguely he
surmised that somewhere in the background lurked the rustle of a silk
petticoat.
Without the slightest hesitation now Gaston took one of the pistols in
his left hand: his right still caused him excruciating pain; and every
time he felt the agony, his eyes gleamed with more intense savagery,
the lust of a certain revenge.
He had worked himself up into a passion of hate. Money has the power
to do that sometimes; that vanished hope of fortune had killed every
instinct in the man, save that of desire for vengeance. He was sure of
himself. The pistols were his as de Mortémar had said, and he had
handled them but a few hours ago: he could apprise their
weight—loaded or unloaded—and he was quite satisfied.
It was hatred alone that prompted him to a final thrust, a blow, he
thought, to a dying man. Eglinton was as good as dead, with the muzzle
of a loaded pistol a foot away from his breast, and an empty weapon in
his own hand; but his serenity irritated Gaston; the blood which
tingled in his own veins, which had rushed to his head almost
obscuring his vision clamoured for a sight of a shrinking enemy, not
of a wooden puppet, calm, impassive even before certain death.
The agony as he lifted the half-broken wrist to his coat was
intolerable, but he almost welcomed it now, for it added a strange,
lustful joy to the excitement of this deed. His eyes, glowing and
restless with fumes of wine and passion of hate, were fixed upon the
marble-like face of his enemy. Then from the breast-pocket of his
coat, he drew a packet of papers.
And although he was nigh giddy with the pain in his wrist, he clutched
that packet tightly, toyed with it for a while, smoothed out the
creases with a hand which shook with the intensity of his excitement,
the intensity of his triumph.
The proofs in Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton's own writing that she was
at one with the gang who meant to sell the Stuart prince for gold! The
map revealing his hiding-place! and her letter to him bidding him
trust the bearer whose orders—now affixed to map and letter—were
that he deliver the young Pretender into the hands of the English
authorities.
That these orders to Le Monarque had been forestalled by milor
Eglinton could not exonerate Madame la Marquise from having been at
one with Gaston de Stainville and Madame de Pompadour, and others who
might remain nameless, in the blackest treachery ever planned against
a trusting friend.
No wonder Gaston de Stainville forgot physical suffering when he toyed
lovingly with this packet of papers in his hand, the consummation of
his revenge.
At last 'twas done. A subtle, indefinable change had come over the
calm face of Lord Eglinton, an ashen grey hue which had chased the
former pallor of the cheeks, and the slender hand, which held the
pistol, trembled almost imperceptibly.
Serenity had given way at sight of that packet of papers.
"Friend de Mortémar," said Gaston lightly, but with glowing eyes still
fixed on his opponent, "the chances of my demise being at least equal
to those of milor's—seeing that I know not, on my honour, which is
the loaded pistol, and that methinks at this moment I can read murder
in his eye—I pray you to take charge of this packet. It is a sacred
trust. In case of my death promise me that you will deliver it into
the hands of my wife, and into no other. Madame la Comtesse de
Stainville will know how to deal with it."
The young Comte de Mortémar took the packet from Gaston.
"I will do as you desire," he said coldly.
"You promise that no one shall touch these papers except my wife,
Irène Comtesse de Stainville," reiterated Gaston solemnly.
"On my word of honour," rejoined the young man.
The request was perfectly proper and natural, very usual in such
cases; de Mortémar could not help but comply. He could not know that
the fulfilment of this promise would mean public dishonour to an
innocent and noble woman, and the supreme revenge of a baffled
traitor.
If Gaston expected protest, rage, or excitement from his foe he was
certainly disappointed. Eglinton had all the characteristics of his
race, perfect sang-froid in the face of the inevitable, and an almost
morbid consciousness of pride and dignity. He could not filch those
papers from Gaston nor prevent de Mortémar from accepting and
fulfilling a trust, which had all the appearance of being sacred.
He knew that by this act he had wrested a fortune from a man whose
fetish was money, and the power which money gives: true that being an
honest man himself, he had never thought of such an infamous revenge.
If he died now Heaven help his proud Lydie! but if he lived then
Heaven help them both!
De Mortémar had stowed the packet carefully away inside his coat,
Gaston keenly watching his antagonist the while.
"Are you ready, milor?" he asked now with marked insolence of manner.
"At your service," replied the other quietly. "M. de Mortémar, will
you give the word?"
The two men stood opposite to one another, a table not four feet wide
between them. Each held a pistol in his left hand. Of these one was
loaded, the other not. De Mortémar had cleared the table, pushing
aside the decanter of wine, the tureen of soup, the glasses. The
window was still open, and from that outside world which to these men
here present seemed so far away, there came the sound of the old
church belfry tolling the hour of eight, and still from afar that
melancholy tune, the Norman ditty sung by young throats:
"C'est les Normands, qu'à dit ma mère,
"C'est les Normands qu'ont conquis l'Angleterre!"
"Fire!" said de Mortémar.
Two arms were raised. Eye was fixed to eye for one brief second, then
lowered for the aim. There was a slight dull sound, then a terrible
curse muttered below the breath, as the pistol which Gaston de
Stainville had vainly tried to fire dropped from his hand.
Had his excitement blinded him when he chose his weapon, or was it
just fate, ruthless, inscrutable, that had placed the loaded pistol in
Lord Eglinton's hand?
"A blank!" he shouted with a blasphemous oath. "À vous, milor! Curse
you, why don't you fire?"
"Fire, milor, in Heaven's name," said Mortémar, who was as pale as
death. "'Tis cruelty to prolong."
But Eglinton too had dropped his arm.
"M. le Comte de Stainville," he said calmly, "before I use this weapon
against you, as I would against a mad dog, I'll propose a bargain for
your acceptance."
"You'd buy that packet of precious documents from me, eh?" sneered
Gaston savagely, "nay, milor, 'tis no use offering millions to a dying
man. . . . Shoot, shoot, milor! the widowed Comtesse de Stainville
will deal with those documents and no one else. . . . They are not for
sale, I tell you, not for all your millions now!"
"Not even for this pistol, M. le Comte?"
And calm, serene with that whimsical smile again playing round the
corners of his expressive mouth, Lord Eglinton offered the loaded
pistol to his enemy.
"My life? . . ." stammered Gaston, "you would? . . ."
"Nay, mine, M. le Comte," rejoined milor. "I'll not stir from this
spot. I offer you this pistol and you shall use it at your pleasure,
after you have handed me that packet of letters."
Instinctively Gaston had drawn back, lost in a maze of surprise.
"An you'll not take the weapon, M. le Comte," said Eglinton
decisively, "I shoot."
There was a moment's silence, whilst Gaston's pride fought a grim
battle with that awful instinct of self-preservation, that strange
love of fleeting life to which poor mortals cling.
Men were not cowards in those days; life was cheap and oft sold for
the gratification of petty vanity, yet who shall blame Gaston if, with
certain death before him, he chose to forego his revenge?
"Give me that pistol, milor," he said dully, "de Mortémar, hand over
that packet to Lord Eglinton."
He took the pistol from milor, and it was his own hand that trembled.
Silently de Mortémar obeyed. Milor took the packet of papers from him,
then held them one by one to the flame of the candle: first the map,
then the letter which bore Lydie's name writ so boldly across it. The
black ash curled and fell from his hand on to the table, he gripped
the paper until his seared fingers could hold it no longer.
Then he once more stood up, turning straight toward Gaston.
"I am ready, M. le Comte," he said simply.
Gaston raised his left arm and fired. There was a wild, an agonized
shriek which came from a woman's throat, coupled with one of horror
from de Mortémar's lips, as le petit Anglais stood for the space of
a few seconds, quite still, firm and upright, with scarce a change
upon his calm face, then sank forward without a groan.
"Madame, you are hurt!" shouted de Mortémar, who was almost dazed with
surprise at the sight of a woman at this awful and supreme moment. He
had just seen her, in the vivid flash when Gaston raised his arm and
fired: she had rushed forward then, with the obvious intention of
throwing herself before the murderous weapon, and now was making
pathetic and vain efforts to raise her husband's inanimate body from
the table against which he had fallen.
"Coward! coward!" she sobbed in anguish, "you have stilled the bravest
heart in France!"
"Pray God that I have not," murmured Gaston fervently, as, impelled by
some invisible force, he threw the pistol from him, then sank on his
knees and buried his face in his hands.
But Mortémar had soon recovered his presence of mind, and had already
reached his wounded friend, calling quickly to Jean Marie who
apparently had followed in the wake of Madame la Marquise in her wild
rush from her coach to the inner room.
Together the two men succeeded in lifting Lord Eglinton and in gently
insinuating his body backward into a recumbent position. Thus
Lydie—still on her knees—received her lord in her arms. Her eyes
were fixed upon his pallid face with passionate intensity. It seemed
as if she would wrest from those closed lids the secret of life or
death.
"He'll not die? . . ." she whispered wildly; "tell me that he'll not
die!"
A deep red stain was visible on the left side, spreading on the fine
cloth of the coat. With clumsy though willing fingers, Mortémar was
doing his best to get the waistcoat open, and to stop temporarily the
rapid flow of blood with Lydie's scarf, which she had wrenched from
her shoulders.
"Quick, Jean Marie! the leech!" he ordered, "and have the rooms
prepared . . ."
Then, as Jean Marie obeyed with unusual alacrity and anon his
stentorian voice calling to ostler and maids echoed through the
silence of the house, Lydie's eyes met those of the young man.
"Madame! Madame! I beseech you," he said appalled at the terrible look
of agony expressed on the beautiful, marble-like face, "let me attend
you . . . I vow that you are hurt."
"No! no!" she rejoined quickly, "only my hand . . . I tried to clutch
the weapon . . . but 'twas too late . . ."
But she yielded her hand to him. The shot had indeed pierced the
fleshy portion between thumb and forefinger, leaving an ugly gash: the
wound was bleeding profusely and already she felt giddy and sick. De
Mortémar bound up the little hand with his handkerchief as best he
could. She hardly heeded him, beyond that persistent appeal, terrible
in its heartrending pathos:
"He'll not die . . . tell me that he'll not die."
Whilst not five paces away, Gaston de Stainville still knelt, praying
that the ugly stain of murder should not for ever sully his hand.
The first words which milor uttered when presently consciousness
returned were:
"The letter . . . Madonna . . . 'tis destroyed . . . I swear. . . ."
He was then lying in Jean Marie's best bed, between lavender-scented
sheets. On his right a tiny open window afforded a glimpse of sea and
sky, and of many graceful craft gently lolling on the breast of the
waves, but on his left, when anon he turned his eyes that way, there
was a picture which of a truth was not of this earth, and vaguely,
with the childish and foolish fancy of a sick man who hath gazed on
the dark portals, he allowed himself to think that all the old tales
of his babyhood, about the first glimpse of paradise after death, must
indeed be true.
He was dead and this was paradise.
What he saw was a woman's face, with grave anxious eyes fixed upon
him, and a woman's smile which revealed an infinity of love and
promised an infinity of happiness.
"Madonna!" he murmured feebly. Then he closed his eyes again, for he
was weak from loss of blood and from days and nights of fever and
delirium, and he was so afraid that the vision might vanish if he
gazed at it too long.
The leech—a kindly man—visited him frequently. Apparently the wound
was destined to heal. Life was to begin anew, with its sorrows, its
disappointments, its humiliations, mayhap.
Yet a memory haunted him persistently—a vision, oh! 'twas a mere
flash—of his madonna standing with her dear, white hand outstretched,
betwixt him and death.
It was a vision, of course; such as are vouchsafed to the dying: and
the other picture?—nay! that was a fevered dream; there had been no
tender, grave eyes that watched him, no woman's smile to promise
happiness.
One day M. le Duc d'Aumont came to visit him. He had posted straight
from Paris, and was singularly urbane and anxious when he pressed the
sick man's hand.
"You must make a quick recovery, milor," he said cordially; "par
Dieu! you are the hero of the hour. Mortémar hath talked his fill."
"I trust not," rejoined Eglinton gravely.
M. le Duc looked conscious and perturbed.
"Nay! he is a gallant youth," he said reassuringly, "and knows exactly
how to hold his tongue, but Belle-Isle and de Lugeac had to be taught
a lesson . . . and 'twas well learned I'll warrant you. . . . As for
Gaston. . . ."
"Yes! M. le Duc? what of M. le Comte de Stainville?"
"He hath left the Court momentarily . . . somewhat in disgrace . . .
'twas a monstrous encounter, milor," added the Duke gravely. "Had
Gaston killed you it had been murder, for you never meant to shoot, so
says de Mortémar."
The sick man's head turned restlessly on the pillow.
"De Mortémar's tongue hath run away with him," he said impatiently.
"The account of the duel . . . nothing more, on my honour," rejoined
the Duke. "No woman's name has been mentioned, but I fear me the Court
and public have got wind of the story of a conspiracy against the
Stuart prince, and connect the duel with that event—hence your
popularity, milor," continued the older man with a sigh, "and Gaston's
disgrace."
"His Majesty's whipping-boy, eh? the scapegoat in the aborted
conspiracy?"
"Poor Gaston! You bear him much ill-will, milor, no doubt?"
"I? None, on my honour."
M. le Duc hesitated a while, a troubled look appeared on his handsome
face.
"Lydie," he said tentatively. "Milor, she left Paris that night alone
. . . and travelled night and day to reach Le Havre in time to help
you and to thwart Gaston . . . she had been foolish of course, but her
motives were pure . . . milor, she is my child and . . ."
"She is my wife, M. le Duc," interrupted Lord Eglinton gravely; "I
need no assurance of her purity even from her father."
There was such implicit trust, such complete faith expressed in those
few simple words, that instinctively M. le Duc d'Aumont felt ashamed
that he could ever have misunderstood his daughter. He was silent for
a moment or two, then he said more lightly:
"His Majesty is much angered of course."
"Against me, I hope," rejoined Eglinton.
"Aye!" sighed the Duke. "King Louis is poorer by fifteen million
livres by your act, milor."
"And richer by the kingdom of honour. As for the millions, M. le Duc,
I'll place them myself at His Majesty's service. My château and
dependencies of Choisy are worth that," added milor lightly. "As soon
as this feeble hand can hold a pen, I'll hand them over to the crown
of France as a free gift."
"You will do that, milor?" gasped the Duke, who could scarce believe
his ears.
"'Tis my firm intention," rejoined the sick man with a smile.
A great weight had been lifted from M. le Duc's mind. Royal
displeasure would indeed have descended impartially on all the friends
of "le petit Anglais" and above all on milor's father-in-law, whose
very presence at Court would of a surety have become distasteful to
the disappointed monarch. Now this unparalleled generosity would more
than restore Louis' confidence in a Prime Minister whose chief virtue
consisted in possessing so wealthy and magnanimous a son-in-law.
Indeed we know that M. le Duc d'Aumont continued for some time after
these memorable days to enjoy the confidence and gratitude of Louis
the Well-beloved and to bask in the sunshine of Madame de Pompadour's
smiles, whilst the gift of the château and dependencies of Choisy by
Milor the Marquis of Eglinton to the crown of France was made the
subject of a public fête at Versailles and of an ode by M. Jolyot
Crébillon of the Institut de France, writ especially for the occasion.
But after the visit of M. le Duc d'Aumont at his bedside in the
"auberge des Trois Matelots" the munificent donor of fifteen millions
livres felt over-wearied of life.
The dream which had soothed his fevered sleep no longer haunted his
waking moments, and memory had much ado to feed love of life with the
rememberance of one happy moment.
Milor the Marquis of Eglinton closed his eyes, sighing for that dream.
The little room was so still, so peaceful, and from the tiny window a
gentle breeze from across the English Channel fanned his aching brow,
bringing back with its soothing murmur the memory of that stately home
in England, for which his father had so often sighed.
How peaceful it must be there among the hills!
The breeze murmured more persistently, and anon with its dreamlike
sound there mingled the frou-frou of a woman's skirts.
The sick man ventured to open his eyes.
Lydie, his wife, was kneeling beside his bed, her delicate hands
clasped under her chin, her eyes large, glowing and ever grave fixed
upon his face.
"Am I on earth?" he murmured quaintly.
"Of a truth, milor," she replied, and her voice was like the most
exquisite music he had ever heard; it was earnest and serious like her
own self, but there was a tremor in it which rendered it unspeakably
soft.
"The leech saith there's no longer any danger for your life," she
added.
He was silent for awhile, as if he were meditating on a grave matter,
then he said quietly:
"Would you have me live, Lydie?"
And as she did not reply, he repeated his question again:
"Do you wish me to live, Lydie?"
She fought with the tears, which against her will gathered in her
eyes.
"Milor, milor, are you not cruel now?" she whispered through those
tears.
"Cruel of a truth," he replied earnestly, "since you would have saved
me at peril of your own dear life. . . . Yet would I gladly die to see
you happy."
"Will you not rather live, milor?" she said with a smile of infinite
tenderness, "for then only could I taste happiness."
"Yet if I lived, you would have to give up so much that you love."
"That is impossible, milor, for I only love one thing."
"Your work in France?" he asked.
"No. My life with you."
Her hands dropped on to the coverlet, and he grasped them in his own.
How oft had she drawn away at his touch. Now she yielded, drawing
nearer to him, still on her knees.
"Would you come to England with me, Lydie? to my home in England,
amongst the hills of Sussex, far from Court life and from politics?
Would you follow me thither?"
"To the uttermost ends of the world, good milor," she replied.
THE END
Transcriber's Note: Obvious punctuation errors, such as missing periods
or unpaired quotation marks, have been corrected. In addition, the
following typographical errors present in the original edition have been
corrected.
In Chapter V, "The King sleeps, Monseiur" was changed to "The King
sleeps, Monsieur".
In Chapter VI, "the Marèchal de Saint Romans, friend and mentor" was
changed to "the Maréchal de Saint Romans, friend and mentor",
"unscrupluous ambition" was changed to "unscrupulous ambition",
"'Iréne,' he said earnestly" was changed to "'Irène,' he said
earnestly", and "the appearance of Jeanne Poisson d'Étoiles" was changed
to "the appearance of Jeanne Poisson d'Étioles".
In Chapter VII, "the enthusiasm of Mlle. de.Aumont" was changed to "the
enthusiasm of Mlle. d'Aumont".
In Chapter VIII, "cause Louis XV, to make comparisons" was changed to
"cause Louis XV to make comparisons", and "no longer though of flight"
was changed to "no longer thought of flight".
In Chapter X, "anything one can do to oblige a friend" was changed to
"Anything one can do to oblige a friend".
In Chapter XI, "if she succeded presently" was changed to "if she
succeeded presently", and "Iréne, therefore" was changed to "Irène,
therefore".
In Chapter XII, "whom she had féted" was changed to "whom she had
fêted", and "Why,? Why?" was changed to "Why? Why?"
In Chapter XIII, "mandate of usuage" was changed to "mandate of usage",
"pettis levers of kings" was changed to "petits levers of kings", and
"Louis XV a the end of his progress" was changed to "Louis XV at the end
of his progress".
In Chapter XIV, "And l'Anglias?" was changed to "And l'Anglais?", "T'is
fairly simple" was changed to "'Tis fairly simple", and "thought,
anxiety. and a wealth of eloquence" was changed to "thought, anxiety,
and a wealth of eloquence".
In Chapter XVI, "cöoperation of a man" was changed to "coöperation of a
man", "he had blundered" was changed to "He had blundered", and "all
matters Madame" was changed to "all matters, Madame".
In Chapter XVII, "either more of less" was changed to "either more or
less", and "load of oppresson" was changed to "load of oppression".
In Chapter XVIII, "in which case. . . ." was changed to "in which case
. . .", "privileged to. . . ." was changed to "privileged to . . .", "I
if hold aloof" was changed to "if I hold aloof", and "met by M. le duc
d'Aumont" was changed to "met by M. le Duc d'Aumont".
In Chapter XIX, "additonal message" was changed to "additional message",
and "bracken and foxgloxes" was changed to "bracken and foxgloves".
In Chapter XX, "to the palace now, Monseur" was changed to "to the
palace now, Monsieur".
In Chapter XXII, "His Majesty' hands" was changed to "His Majesty's
hands", and "so compeletly condoned" was changed to "so completely
condoned".
In Chapter XXIV, "English husband's always beat their wives" was changed
to "English husbands always beat their wives".
In Chapter XXVI, "whilst la belle Iréne" was changed to "whilst la belle
Irène", "his partners's attitude" was changed to "his partner's
attitude", "d'Amont, never a very keen observer" was changed to
"d'Aumont, never a very keen observer", and "came to the foot of the
Royal dais" was changed to "came to the foot of the Royal daïs".
In Chapter XXVII, "fatuous innundoes" was changed to "fatuous
innuendoes", and "take the matter so throughly" was changed to "take the
matter so thoroughly".
In Chapter XXVIII, "between herself and Iréne" was changed to "between
herself and Irène".
In Chapter XXIX, "spoke up to indiscreetly" was changed to "spoke up so
indiscreetly".
In Chapter XXX, "bent his ear so listen" was changed to "bent his ear to
listen", "Achille looked at M. Druand" was changed to "Achille looked at
M. Durand", "M. Durand's was about to" was changed to "M. Durand was
about to", and "have insulted M. le Comte de Stainivlle" was changed to
"have insulted M. le Comte de Stainville".
In Chapter XXXI, "those accupied by milor" was changed to "those
accupied by milor", and "Achille! ar you here?" was changed to "Achille!
are you here?".
In Chapter XXXII, a semicolon was added after "ill-will toward Lord
Eglinton".
In Chapter XXXV, "from the sacred precints" was changed to "from the
sacred precincts", "His Majesty's had not sent" was changed to "His
Majesty had not sent", "occupied by Gaston and de Montémar" was changed
to "occupied by Gaston and de Mortémar", "Lieutenant Tellier had speech
oustide" was changed to "Lieutenant Tellier had speech outside", "still
addresing de Mortémar" was changed to "still addressing de Mortémar",
and "weakness nor, yet ill-humour, visible" was changed to "weakness,
nor yet ill-humour, visible".
In Chapter XXXVI, "for even at the last word rose" was changed to "for
even as the last word rose", and "my wife, Iréne" was changed to "my
wife, Irène".
In Chapter XXXVIII, "Me. le Duc looked conscious" was changed to "M. le
Duc looked conscious", "That is impossilbe, milor" was changed to "That
is impossible, milor", and "the rememberance of one happy moment" was
changed to "the remembrance of one happy moment".
