Kitobni o'qish: «Petticoat Rule», sahifa 6

PART II
THE STATESMAN

CHAPTER X
THE BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK

Monsieur le Marquis d'Eglinton, Comptroller-General of Finance, Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, Peer of England and of France, occupied the west wing of the Château of Versailles. His Majesty the King had frequent and urgent need of him; Mme. de Pompadour could scarce exist a day without an interview behind closed doors with the most powerful man in France: with him, who at the bidding of the nation, was set up as a bar to the extravagances of her own caprice.

And le petit lever of M. le Contrôleur was certainly more largely attended than that of M. le Duc d'Aumont, or even – softly be it whispered – than that of His Majesty himself. For although every one knew that M. le Marquis was but a figurehead, and that all graces and favours emanated direct from the hand of Mme. la Marquise Lydie, yet every one waited upon his good pleasure, for very much the same reason that those who expected or hoped something from the King invariably kissed the hand of Mme. de Pompadour.

M. le Contrôleur very much enjoyed these petits levers of his, which were considered the most important social events in Versailles. He was very fond of chocolate in the morning, and M. Achille – that prince of valets – brought it to his bedside with such inimitable grace and withal the beverage itself so aromatic and so hot, that this hour between ten and eleven each day had become extremely pleasant.

He had no idea that being Comptroller-General of Finance was quite so easy and agreeable an occupation, else he had not been so diffident in accepting the post. But in reality it was very simple. He governed France from the depths of his extremely comfortable bed, draped all round with rich satin hangings of a soft azure colour, embroidered with motifs of dull gold, which were vastly pleasing to the eye. Here he was conscious of naught save fine linen of a remarkably silken texture, of a lace coverlet priceless in value, of the scent of his steaming chocolate, and incidentally of a good many pleasant faces, and some unamiable ones, and of a subdued hive-like buzz of talk, which went on at the further end of the room, whilst M. Achille administered to his comforts and Mme. de Pompadour or Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville told him piquant anecdotes.

Yes, it was all very pleasant, and not at all difficult. A wave of the hand in the direction of Mme. la Marquise, his wife, who usually sat in a window embrasure overlooking the park, was all that was needed when petitioners were irksome or subjects too abstruse.

Lydie was so clever with all that sort of thing. She had the mind of a politician and the astuteness of an attorney, and she liked to govern France in an energetic way of her own which left milor free of all responsibility if anything happened to go wrong.

But then nothing ever did go wrong. France went on just the same as she had done before some of her more meddlesome Parliaments insisted on having a Comptroller of Finance at the head of affairs. Mme. de Pompadour still spent a great deal of money, and the King still invariably paid her debts; whereupon, his pockets being empty, he applied to M. le Contrôleur for something with which to replenish them. M. le Contrôleur thereupon ordered M. Achille to bring one more cup of aromatic chocolate for Mme. de Pompadour, whilst His Majesty the King spent an uncomfortable quarter of an hour with Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton.

The usual result of this quarter of an hour was that His Majesty was excessively wrathful against Mme. Lydie for quite a fortnight; but no one could be angry with "le petit Anglais," for he was so very amiable and dispensed such exceedingly good chocolate.

Par ma foi! it is remarkably easy to govern a country if one happen to have a wife – that, at least, had been milor's experience – a wife and a perfect valet-de-chambre.

M. Achille, since his Marquis's elevation to the most important position in France, had quite surpassed himself in his demeanour. He stood on guard beside the azure and gold hangings of his master's bed like a veritable gorgon, turning the most importunate petitioners to stone at sight of his severe and repressive visage.

Oh! Achille was an invaluable asset in the governing of this kingdom of France. Achille knew the reason of each and every individual's presence at the petit lever of milor. He knew who was the most likely and most worthy person to fill any post in the country that happened to be vacant, from that of examiner of stars and planets to His Majesty the King down to that of under-scullion in the kitchen of Versailles.

Had he not been the means of introducing Baptiste Durand to the special notice of M. le Marquis? Durand's daughter being girl-in-waiting to M. Joseph, valet-de-chambre to M. le Duc d'Aumont, and personal friend of M. Achille, what more natural than, when milor wanted a secretary to make notes for him, and to – well, to be present if he happened to be wanted – that the worthy Baptiste should with perfect ease slip into the vacant post?

And Baptiste Durand was remarkably useful.

A small ante-chamber had been allotted for his occupation, through which all those who were on their way to the petit lever held in milor's own bedchamber had of necessity to pass; and Baptiste knew exactly who should be allowed to pass and who should not. Without venturing even to refer to His Majesty, to Mme. de Pompadour, to Monseigneur le Dauphin, or persons of equally exalted rank, the faithful chroniclers of the time tell us that no gentleman was allowed a private audience with M. le Contrôleur-Général if his valet-de-chambre was not a personal friend of Monsieur Durand.

There sat the worthy Baptiste enthroned behind a secretaire which was always littered with papers, petitions, letters, the usual paraphernalia that pertains to a man of influence. His meagre person was encased in a coat and breeches of fine scarlet cloth, whereon a tiny fillet of gold suggested without unduly flaunting the heraldic colours of the house of Eglinton. He wore silk stockings – always; and shoes with cut-steel buckles, whilst frills of broidered lawn encircled his wrists and cascaded above his waistcoat.

He invariably partook of snuff when an unknown and unrecommended applicant presented himself in his sanctum. "My good friend, it is impossible," he was saying on this very morning of August 13, 1746, with quiet determination to a petitioner who was becoming too insistent. "Milor's chamber is overcrowded as it is."

"I'll call again – another day perhaps; my master is anxious for a personal interview with yours."

Whereupon M. Durand's eyebrows were lifted upward until they almost came in contact with his perruque; he fetched out a voluminous handkerchief from his pocket and carefully removed a few grains of dust from his cravat. Then he said, without raising his voice in the slightest degree or showing impatience in any way at the man's ignorance and stupidity —

"My good – What is your name? I forgot."

"I am Hypolite François, confidential valet to M. le Maréchal de Coigni and – "

M. Durand's thin and delicately veined hand went up in gentle deprecation.

"Ma foi! my worthy Coigni, 'tis all the same to me if you are a maréchal or a simple lieutenant. As for me, young man," he added, with dignified severity, "remember in future that I serve no one. I assist M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances to – to – " – he paused a second, waving his hand and turning the phrase over in his mouth, whilst seeking for its most appropriate conclusion – "to, in fact, make a worthy selection amidst the hundreds and thousands of petitions which are presented to him."

And with a vague gesture he indicated the papers which lay in a disordered heap on his secretaire.

"For the rest, my good Coigni," he added, with the same impressive dignity, "let me assure you once again that M. le Marquis's bedchamber is overcrowded, that he is busily engaged at the present moment, and is likely to be so for some considerable time to come. What is it your maréchal wants?"

"His pension," replied Hypolite curtly, "and the vacant post in the Ministry of War."

"Impossible! We have fourteen likely applicants already."

"M. le Maréchal is sure that if he could speak with M. le Contrôleur – "

"M. le Contrôleur is busy."

"To-morrow, then – "

"To-morrow he will be even more busy than to-day."

"M. Durand!" pleaded Hypolite.

"Impossible! You are wasting my time, my good Coigni; I have hundreds to see to-day."

"Not for your daughter's sake?"

"My daughter?"

"Yes; didn't you know? You remember Henriette, her great friend?"

"Yes, yes – little Henriette Dessy, the milliner," assented M. Durand with vast condescension. "A pretty wench; she was at the Ursulines convent school with my daughter; they have remained great friends ever since. What about little Henriette?"

"Mlle. Henriette is my fiancée," quoth the other eagerly, "and I thought – "

"Your fiancée? Little Henriette Dessy?" said M. Durand gaily. "Pardieu my good Coigni, why did you not tell me so before? My daughter is very fond of Henriette – a pretty minx, par ma foi! Hé! hé!"

"You are very kind, M. Durand."

"Mais non, mais non," said the great man, with much affability; "one is always ready to oblige a friend. Hé, now! give me your hand, friend Coigni. Shoot your rubbish along – quoi! – your Maréchal; he may pass this way. Anything one can do to oblige a friend."

With the affairs of M. le Maréchal de Coigni the present chronicle hath no further concern; but we know that some ten minutes later on this same August 13, 1746, he succeeded in being present at the petit lever of M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances. Once within the secret precincts of the bedchamber he, like so many other petitioners and courtiers, was duly confronted by the stony stare of M. Achille, and found himself face to face with an enormous bedstead of delicately painted satinwood and ormulu mounts, draped with heavy azure silk curtains which hung down from a gilded baldachin, the whole a masterpiece of the furniture-maker's art.

The scent of chocolate filled his nostrils, and he vaguely saw a good-looking young man reclining under a coverlet of magnificent Venetian lace, and listening placidly to what was obviously a very amusing tale related to him by well-rouged lips. From the billowy satins and laces of the couch a delicate hand was waved toward him as he attempted to pay his respects to the most powerful man in France; the next moment the same stony-faced gorgon clad in scarlet and gold beckoned to him to follow, and he found himself being led through the brilliantly dressed crowd toward a compact group of backs, which formed a sort of living wall, painted in delicate colours of green and mauve and gray, and duly filled up the approach to the main window embrasure.

It is interesting to note from the memoirs of M. le Comte d'Argenson that the Maréchal de Coigni duly filled the post of State Secretary to the Minister of War from the year 1746 onward. We may, therefore, presume that he succeeded in piercing that wall of respectful backs and in reaching sufficiently far within the charmed circle to attract the personal attention of Mme. la Marquise Lydie d'Eglinton née d'Aumont.

He had, therefore, cause to bless the day when his valet-de-chambre became the fiancé of Mlle. Henriette Dessy, the intimate friend of M. Baptiste Durand's dearly beloved daughter.

CHAPTER XI
LA BELLE IRÈNE

Monsieur Durand had indeed not exaggerated when he spoke of M. le Contrôleur's bedchamber being overcrowded this same eventful morning.

All that France possessed of nobility, of wit and of valour, seemed to have found its way on this beautiful day in August past the magic portal guarded by Baptiste, the dragon, to the privileged enclosure beyond, where milor in elegant robe de chambre reclined upon his gorgeous couch, whilst Madame, clad in hooped skirt and panniers of dove-gray silk, directed the affairs of France from the embrasure of a window.

"Achille, my shoes!"

We must surmise that his lordship had been eagerly awaiting the striking of the bracket clock which immediately faced the bed, for the moment the musical chimes had ceased to echo in the crowded room he had thrown aside the lace coverlet which had lain across his legs and called peremptorily for his valet.

"Only half-past ten, milor!" came in reproachful accents from a pair of rosy lips.

"Ma foi, so it is!" exclaimed Lord Eglinton, with well-feigned surprise, as he once more glanced up at the clock.

"Were you then so bored in my company," rejoined the lady, with a pout, "that you thought the hour later?"

"Bored!" he exclaimed. "Bored, did you say, Madame? Perish the very thought of boredom in the presence of Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville!"

But in spite of this gallant assertion, M. le Contrôleur seemed in a vast hurry to quit the luxuriance of his azure-hung throne. M. Achille – that paragon among flunkeys – looked solemnly reproachful. Surely milor should have known by now that etiquette demanded that he should stay in bed until he had received every person of high rank who desired an intimate audience.

There were still some high-born, exalted, and much beribboned gentlemen who had not succeeded in reaching the inner precincts of that temple and fount of honours and riches – the bedside of M. le Contrôleur. But Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai was there – he in whose veins flowed royal blood, and who spent a strenuous life in endeavouring to make France recognize this obvious fact. He sat in an arm-chair at the foot of the bed, discussing the unfortunate events of June 16th at Piacenza and young Comte de Maillebois's subsequent masterly retreat on Tortone, with Christian Louis de Montmorenci, Duc de Luxembourg, the worthy son of an able father and newly created Marshal of France.

Close to them, Monsieur le Comte de Vermandois, Grand Admiral of France, was intent on explaining to M. le Chancelier d'Aguesseau why England just now was supreme mistress of the seas. M. d'Isenghien talked poetry to Jolyot Crébillon, and M. le Duc d'Harcourt discussed Voltaire's latest play with ex-comedian and ex-ambassador Néricault-Destouche, whilst Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, still called "la belle brune de Bordeaux" by her many admirers, had been endeavouring to divert M. le Contrôleur's attention from this multiplicity of abstruse subjects.

Outside this magic circle there was a gap, a barrier of parquet flooring which no one would dare to traverse without a distinct look of encouragement from M. Achille. His Majesty had not yet arrived, and tongues wagged freely in the vast and gorgeous room, with its row of tall windows which gave on the great slopes of the Park of Versailles. Through them came the pleasing sound of the perpetual drip from the monumental fountains, the twitter of sparrows, the scent of lingering roses and of belated lilies. No other sound from that outside world, no other life save the occasional footstep of a gardener along the sanded walks. But within all was chatter and bustle; women talked, men laughed and argued, society scandals were commented upon and the newest fashions in coiffures discussed. The men wore cloth coats of sober hues, but the women had donned light-coloured dresses, for the summer was at its height and this August morning was aglow with sunshine.

Mme. de Stainville's rose-coloured gown was the one vivid patch of colour in the picture of delicate hues. She stood close to M. le Contrôleur's bedside and unceremoniously turned her back on the rest of the company; we must presume that she was a very privileged visitor, for no one – not even Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai – ventured to approach within earshot. It was understood that in milor's immediate entourage la belle Irène alone was allowed to be frivolous, and we are told that she took full advantage of this permission.

All chroniclers of the period distinctly aver that the lady was vastly entertaining; even M. de Voltaire mentions her as one of the sprightliest women of that light-hearted and vivacious Court. Beautiful, too, beyond cavil, her position as the wife of one of the most brilliant cavaliers that e'er graced the entourage of Mme. de Pompadour gave her a certain dignity of bearing, a self-conscious gait and proud carriage of the head which had considerably added to the charms which she already possessed. The stiff, ungainly mode of the period suited her somewhat full figure to perfection; the tight corslet bodice, the wide panniers, the ridiculous hooped skirt – all seemed to have been specially designed to suit the voluptuous beauty of Irène de Stainville.

M. d'Argenson when speaking of her has described her very fully. He speaks of her abnormally small waist, which seemed to challenge the support of a masculine arm, and of her creamy skin which she knew so well how to veil in transparent folds of filmy lace. She made of dress a special study, and her taste, though daring, was always sure. Even during these early morning receptions, when soft-toned mauves, tender drabs or grays were mostly in evidence, Irène de Stainville usually appeared in brocade of brilliant rosy-red, turquoise blue, or emerald green; she knew that these somewhat garish tones, mellowed only through the richness of the material, set off to perfection the matt ivory tint of her complexion, and detached her entire person from the rest of the picture.

Yet even her most ardent admirers tell us that Irène de Stainville's vanity went almost beyond the bounds of reason in its avidity for fulsome adulation. Consciousness of her own beauty was not sufficient; she desired its acknowledgment from others. She seemed to feed on flattery, breathing it in with every pore of her delicate skin, drooping like a parched flower when full measure was denied to her. Many aver that she marred her undoubted gifts of wit through this insatiable desire for one sole topic of conversation – her own beauty and its due meed of praise. At the same time her love of direct and obsequious compliments was so ingenuous, and she herself so undeniably fascinating, that, in the hey-day of her youth and attractions, she had no difficulty in obtaining ready response to her wishes from the highly susceptible masculine element at the Court of Louis XV.

M. le Contrôleur-Général – whom she specially honoured with her smiles – had certainly no intention of shirking the pleasing duty attached to this distinction, and, though he was never counted a brilliant conversationalist, he never seemed at a loss for the exact word of praise which would tickle la belle Irène's ears most pleasantly.

And truly no man's heart could be sufficiently adamant to deny to that brilliantly-plumaged bird the tit-bits which it loved the best. Milor himself had all the sensitiveness of his race where charms – such as Irène freely displayed before him – were concerned, and when her smiling lips demanded acknowledgment of her beauty from him he was ready enough to give it.

"Let them settle the grave affairs of State over there," she had said to him this morning, when first she made her curtsey before him. And with a provocative smile she pointed to the serious-looking group of grave gentlemen that surrounded his bedside, and also to the compact row of backs which stood in serried ranks round Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton in the embrasure of the central window. "Life is too short for such insignificant trifles."

"We only seem to last long enough to make love thoroughly to half a dozen pretty women in a lifetime," replied M. le Contrôleur, as he gallantly raised her fingers to his lips.

"Half a dozen!" she retorted, with a pout. "Ah, milor, I see that your countrymen are not maligned! The English have such a reputation for perfidy!"

"But I have become so entirely French!" he protested. "England would scarce know me now."

And with a whimsical gesture he pointed to the satin hangings of his bed, the rich point lace coverlet, and to his own very elaborate and elegant robe de chambre.

"Is that said in regret?" she asked.

"Nay," he replied, "there is no more place for regret than there is for boredom in sight of smiles from those perfect lips."

She blushed, and allowed her hands – which were particularly beautiful – to finger idly the silks and laces which were draped so tastefully about his person. As her eyes were downcast in dainty and becoming confusion, she failed to notice that M. le Contrôleur was somewhat absent-minded this morning, and that, had he dared, he would at this juncture undoubtedly have yawned. But of this she was obviously unconscious, else she had not now murmured so persuasively.

"Am I beautiful?"

"What a question!" he replied.

"The most beautiful woman here present?" she insisted.

"Par ma foi!" he protested gaily. "Was ever married man put in so awkward a predicament?"

"Married man? Bah!" and she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"I am a married man, fair lady, and the law forbids me to answer so provoking a question."

"This is cowardly evasion," she rejoined. "Mme. la Marquise, your wife, only acknowledges one supremacy – that of the mind. She would scorn to be called the most beautiful woman in the room."

"And M. le Comte de Stainville, your lord, would put a hole right through my body were I now to speak the unvarnished truth."

Irène apparently chose to interpret milor's equivocal speech in the manner most pleasing to her self-love. She looked over her shoulder toward the window embrasure. She saw that Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton's court was momentarily dismissed, and that M. le Duc d'Aumont had just joined his daughter. She also saw that Lydie looked troubled, and that she threw across the room a look of haughty reproof.

Nothing could have pleased Irène de Stainville more.

Apart from the satisfaction which her own inordinate vanity felt at the present moment by enchaining milor's attention and receiving his undivided homage in full sight of the élite of aristocratic Versailles, there was the additional pleasure of dealing a pin-prick or so to a woman who had once been her rival, and who was undoubtedly now the most distinguished as she was the most adulated personality in France.

Irène had never forgiven Lydie Gaston's defalcations on that memorable night, when a humiliating exposure and subsequent scene led to the disclosure of her own secret marriage, and thus put a momentary check on her husband's ambitious schemes.

From that check he had since then partially recovered. Mme. de Pompadour's good graces which she never wholly withdrew from him had given him a certain position of influence and power, from which his lack of wealth would otherwise have debarred him. But even with the uncertain and fickle Marquise's help Gaston de Stainville was far from attaining a position such as his alliance with Lydie would literally have thrown into his lap, such, of course, as fell to the share of the amiable milor, who had succeeded in capturing the golden prey. In these days of petticoat government feminine protection was the chief leverage for advancement; Irène, however, could do nothing for her husband without outside help; conscious of her own powers of fascination, she had cast about for the most likely prop on which she could lean gracefully whilst helping Gaston to climb upward.

The King himself was too deeply in the toils of his fair Jeanne to have eyes for any one save for her. M. le Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of France, was his daughter's slave; there remained M. le Contrôleur-Général himself – a figure-head as far as the affairs of State were concerned, but wielding a great deal of personal power through the vastness of his wealth which Lydie rather affected to despise.

Irène, therefore —faute de mieux– turned her languishing eyes upon M. le Contrôleur. Her triumph was pleasing to herself, and might in due course prove useful to Gaston, if she succeeded presently in counterbalancing Lydie's domineering influence over milor. For the moment her vanity was agreeably soothed, although "la belle brune de Bordeaux" herself was fully alive to the fact that, while her whispered conversations at milor's petits levers, her sidelong glances and conscious blushes called forth enough mischievous oglings and equivocal jests from the more frivolous section of society butterflies, Lydie only viewed her and her machinations with cold and somewhat humiliating indifference.

"And," as M. d'Argenson very pertinently remarked that self-same morning, "would any beautiful woman care to engage the attentions of a man unless she aroused at the same time the jealousy or at least the annoyance of a rival?"