Kitabı oku: «Petticoat Rule», sayfa 18
CHAPTER XXX
M. DE STAINVILLE'S SECONDS
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.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE FINAL DISAPPOINTMENT
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.
