Kitabı oku: «Petticoat Rule», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XII
THE PROMISES OF FRANCE
Indeed, if Irène de Stainville had possessed more penetration, or had at any rate studied Lydie's face more closely, she would never have imagined for a moment that thoughts of petty spite or of feminine pique could find place in the busiest brain that ever toiled for the welfare of France.
History has no doubt said the last word on the subject of that brief interregnum, when a woman's masterful hand tried to check the extravagances of a King and the ruinous caprices of a wanton, and when a woman's will tried to restrain a nation in its formidable onrush down the steep incline which led to the abyss of the Revolution.
Many historians have sneered – perhaps justly so – at this apotheosis of feminity, and pointed to the fact that, while that special era of petticoat government lasted, Louis XV in no way stopped his excesses nor did Pompadour deny herself the satisfaction of a single whim, whilst France continued uninterruptedly to groan under the yoke of oppressive taxation, of bribery and injustice, and to suffer from the arrogance of her nobles and the corruption of her magistrates.
The avowed partisans of Lydie d'Eglinton contend on the other hand that her rule lasted too short a time to be of real service to the country, and that those who immediately succeeded her were either too weak or too self-seeking to continue this new system of government instituted by her, and based on loftiness of ideals and purity of motives, a system totally unknown hitherto. They also insist on the fact that while she virtually held the reins of government over the heads of her indolent lord and her over-indulgent father, she brought about many highly beneficent social reforms which would have become firmly established had she remained several years in power; there is no doubt that she exercised a wholesome influence over the existing administration of justice and the distribution of the country's money; and this in spite of endless cabals and the petty intrigues and jealousies of numberless enemies.
Be that as it may, the present chronicler is bound to put it on record that, at the moment when Irène de Stainville vaguely wondered whether Madame la Marquise was looking reprovingly at her, when she hoped that she had at last succeeded in rousing the other woman's jealousy, the latter's mind was dwelling with more than usual anxiousness on the sad events of the past few months.
Her severe expression was only the outcome of a more than normal sense of responsibility. The flattering courtiers and meddlesome women who surrounded her seemed to Lydie this morning more than usually brainless and vapid. Her own father, to whose integrity and keen sense of honour she always felt that she could make appeal, was unusually absent and morose to-day; and she felt unspeakably lonely here in the midst of her immediate entourage– lonely and oppressed. She wanted to mix more with the general throng, the men and women of France, arrogant nobles or obsequious churls, merchants, attorneys, physicians, savants, she cared not which; the nation, in fact, the people who had sympathy and high ideals, and a keener sense of the dignity of France.
While these sycophants were for ever wanting, wanting, wanting, standing before her, as it were, with hands outstretched ready to receive bribes, commissions, places of influence or affluence, Charles Edward Stuart, lately the guest of the nation, the friend of many, whom France herself little more than a year ago had feasted and toasted, to whom she had wished "God-speed!" was now a miserable fugitive, hiding in peasants' huts, beneath overhanging crags on the deserted shores of Scotland, a price put upon his head, and the devotion of a few helpless enthusiasts, a girl, an old retainer, as sole barrier 'twixt him and death.
And France had promised that she would help him. She promised that she would succour him if he failed, that she would not abandon him in his distress – neither him nor his friends.
And now disaster had come – disaster so overwhelming, so appalling, that France at first had scarce liked to believe. Every one was so astonished; had they not thought that England, Scotland and Ireland were clamouring for a Stuart? That the entire British nation was wanting him, waiting for him, ready to acclaim him with open arms? The first successes – Falkirk, Prestonpans – had surprised no one. The young Pretender's expedition was bound to be nothing but a triumphal procession through crowded streets, decorated towns and beflagged villages, with church bells ringing, people shouting, deputations, both civic and military, waiting hat in hand, with sheaves of loyal addresses.
Instead of this, Culloden, Derby, the hasty retreat, treachery, and the horrible reprisals. All that was common property now.
France knew that the young prince whom she had féted was perhaps at this moment dying of want, and yet these hands which had grasped his were not stretched out to help him, the lips which had encouraged and cheered him, which had even gently mocked his gloomy mood, still smiled and chatted as irresponsibly as of yore, and spoke the fugitive's name at careless moments 'twixt a laugh and a jest.
And this in spite of promises.
She had dismissed her entourage with a curt nod just now, when her father first joined her circle. At any rate, her position of splendid isolation should give her the right this morning to be alone with him, since she so wished it. At first glance she saw that he was troubled, and her anxious eyes closely scanned his face. But he seemed determined not to return her scrutinizing glance, and anon, when one by one M. de Coigni, the Count de Bailleul, and others who had been talking to Lydie, discreetly stepped aside, he seemed anxious to detain them, eager not to be left quite alone with his daughter.
Seeing his manœuvres, Lydie's every suspicion was aroused; something had occurred to disturb her father this morning, something which he did not intend to tell her. She drew him further back into the window embrasure and made room for him close to her on the settee. She looked up impatiently at the Dowager Lady Eglinton, who had calmly stood her ground whilst the other intimates were being so summarily dismissed. Miladi appeared determined to ignore her daughter-in-law's desire to be alone with her father, and it even seemed to Lydie as if a look of understanding had passed between the Duke and the old lady when first they met.
She felt her nervous system on the jar. Thoroughly frank and open in all political dealings herself, she loathed the very hint of a secret understanding. Yet she trusted her father, even though she feared his weakness.
She talked of Charles Edward Stuart, for that was her chief preoccupation. She lauded him and pitied him in turn, spoke of his predicament, his flight, the devotion of his Scotch adherents, and finally of France's promise to him.
"God grant," she said fervently, "that France may not be too late in doing her duty by that ill-starred prince."
"Nay, my dear child, it is sheer madness to think of such a thing," said the Duke, speaking in tones of gentle reproof and soothingly, as if to a wilful child.
"Hé! pardieu!" broke in miladi's sharp, high-pitched voice: "that is precisely what I have been trying to explain to Lydie these past two weeks, but she will not listen and is not even to be spoken to on that subject now. Do you scold her well, M. le Duc, for I have done my best – and her obstinacy will lead my son into dire disgrace with His Majesty, who doth not favour her plans."
"Miladi is right, Lydie," said the Duke, "and if I thought that your husband – "
"Nay, my dear father!" interrupted Lydie calmly; "I pray you do not vent your displeasure on Lord Eglinton. As you see, Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville is doing her best to prevent his thoughts from dwelling on the fate of his unfortunate friend."
It was the Duke's turn to scrutinize his daughter's face, vaguely wondering if she had spoken in bitterness, not altogether sorry if this new train of thought were to divert her mind from that eternal subject of the moribund Stuart cause, which seemed to have become an obsession with her. He half-turned in the direction where Lydie's eyes were still fixed, and saw a patch of bright rose colour, clear and vivid against the dull hangings of M. le Contrôleur's couch, whilst the elegant outline of a woman's stately form stood between his line of vision and the face of his son-in-law.
The Duc d'Aumont dearly loved his daughter, but he also vastly admired her intellectual power, therefore at sight of that graceful, rose-clad figure he shrugged his shoulders in amiable contempt. Bah! Lydie was far too clever to dwell on such foolish matters as the vapid flirtations of a brainless doll, even if the object of such flirtations was the subjugation of milor.
Lady Eglinton had also perceived Lydie's fixity of expression just now when she spoke of Irène, but whilst M. le Duc carelessly shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the matter from his mind, miladi boldly threw herself across her daughter-in-law's new trend of thought.
"My son for once shows sound common sense," she said decisively; "why should France be led into further extravagance and entangle herself, perhaps, in the meshes of a hopeless cause by – "
"By fulfilling a solemn promise," interrupted Lydie quietly, whilst she turned her earnest eyes on her mother-in-law in the manner so characteristic of her – "a promise which the very hopelessness of which you speak has rendered doubly sacred."
"His Majesty is not of that opinion," retorted the older woman testily, "and we must concede that he is the best judge of what France owes to her own honour."
To this challenge it was obviously impossible to reply in the negative, and if Lydie's heart whispered "Not always!" her lips certainly did not move.
She looked appealingly at her father; she wanted more than ever to be alone with him, to question him, to reassure herself as to certain vague suspicions which troubled her and which would not be stilled. She longed, above all, to be rid of her mother-in-law's interfering tongue, of the platitudes, which she uttered, and which had the knack of still further jarring on Lydie's over-sensitive nerves.
But the Duke did not help her. Usually he, too, was careful to avoid direct discussions with Lady Eglinton, whose rasping voice was wont to irritate him, but this morning he seemed disinclined to meet Lydie's appealing eyes. He fidgeted in his chair, and anon he crossed one shapely leg over the other and thoughtfully stroked his well-turned calf.
"There are moments in diplomacy, my dear child – " he began, after a moment of oppressive silence.
"My dear father," interrupted Lydie, with grave determination, "let me tell you once for all that over this matter my mind is fully made up. While I have a voice in the administration of this Kingdom of France, I will not allow her to sully her fair name by such monstrous treachery as the abandonment of a friend who trusted in her honour and the promises she made him."
Her voice had shaken somewhat as she spoke. Altogether she seemed unlike herself, less sure, less obstinately dominant. That look of understanding between her father and Lady Eglinton had troubled her in a way for which she could not account. Yet she knew that the whole matter rested in her own hands. No one – not even His Majesty – had ever questioned her right to deal with Treasury money. And money was all that was needed. Though the final word nominally rested with milor, he left her perfectly free, and she could act as she thought right, without let or hindrance.
Yet, strangely enough, she felt as if she wanted support in this matter. It was a purely personal feeling, and one she did not care to analyse. She had no doubt whatever as to the justice and righteousness of her desire, but in this one solitary instance of her masterful administration she seemed to require the initiative, or at least the approval, of her father or of the King.
Instead of this approval she vaguely scented intrigue.
She rose from the settee and went to the window behind it. The atmosphere of the room had suddenly become stifling. Fortunately the tall casements were unlatched. They yielded to a gentle push, and Lydie stepped out on to the balcony. Already the air was hot, and the sun shone glaringly on the marble fountains, and drew sparks of fire from the dome of the conservatories. The acrid, pungent smell of cannas and of asters rose to her nostrils, drowning the subtler aroma of tea roses and of lilies; the monotonous drip of the fountains was a soothing contrast in her ear to the babel of voices within.
At her feet the well-sanded walks of the park stretched out like ribbons of pale gold to the dim, vast distance beyond; the curly heads of Athenian athletes peeped from among the well-trimmed bosquets, showing the immaculate whiteness of the polished marble in the sun. A couple of gardeners clad in shirts of vivid blue linen were stooping over a bed of monthly roses, picking off dead leaves and twigs that spoilt the perfect symmetry of the shrubs, whilst two more a few paces away were perfecting the smoothness of a box hedge, lest a tiny leaflet were out of place.
Lydie sighed impatiently. Even in this vastness and this peace, man brought his artificiality to curb the freedom of nature. Everything in this magnificent park was affected, stilted and forced; every tree was fashioned to a shape not its own, every flower made to be a counterpart of its fellow.
This sense of unreality, of fighting nature in its every aspect, was what had always oppressed her, even when she worked at first in perfect harmony with her father, when she still had those utopian hopes of a regenerate France, with a wise and beneficent monarch, an era of truth and of fraternity, every one toiling hand-in-hand for the good of the nation.
What a child she had been in those days! How little she had understood this hydra-headed monster of self-seeking ambition, of political wire-pulling, of petty cabals and personal animosities which fought and crushed and trampled on every lofty ideal, on every clean thought and high-minded aspiration.
She knew and understood better now. She had outgrown her childish ideals: those she now kept were a woman's ideals, no less pure, no less high or noble, but lacking just one great quality – that of hope. She had continued to work and to do her best for this country which she loved – her own beautiful France. She had – with no uncertain hand – seized the reins of government from the diffident fingers of her lord, she still strove to fight corruption, to curb excesses and to check arrogance, and made vain endeavours to close her eyes to the futility of her noblest efforts.
This attitude of King Louis toward the Young Pretender had brought it all home to her; the intrigues, the lying, the falseness of everything, the treachery which lurked in every corner of this sumptuous palace, the egoism which was the sole moving power of those overdressed dolls.
Perhaps for the first time since – in all the glory and pride of her young womanhood – she became conscious of its power over the weaker and sterner vessel, she felt a sense of discouragement, the utter hopelessness of her desires. Her heart even suggested contempt of herself, of her weak-minded foolishness in imagining that all those empty heads in the room yonder could bring forth one single serious thought from beneath their powdered perruques, one single wholly selfless aspiration for the good of France; any more than that stultified rose-tree could produce a bloom of splendid perfection or that stunted acacia intoxicate the air with the fragrance of its bloom.
Solitude had taken hold of Lydie's fancy. She had allowed her mind to go roaming, fancy-free. Her thoughts were melancholy and anxious, and she sighed or frowned more than once. The air was becoming hotter and hotter every moment, and a gigantic bed of scarlet geraniums sent a curious acrid scent to her nostrils, which she found refreshing. Anon she succeeded in shutting out from her eyes the picture of those gardeners maiming the rose-trees and bosquets, and in seeing only that distant horizon with the vague, tiny fleecy clouds which were hurrying quite gaily and freely to some unknown destination, far, no doubt, from this world of craft and affectation. She shut her ears to the sound of miladi's shrill laugh and the chatter of senseless fools behind her, and only tried to hear the rippling murmur of the water in the fountains, the merry chirrup of the sparrows, and far, very far away, the sweet, sad note of a lark soaring upward to the serene morning sky.
The sound of a footstep on the flag-stones of the balcony broke in on her meditations. Her father, still wearing that troubled look, was coming out to join her. Fortunately miladi had chosen to remain indoors.
Impulsively now, for her nerves were still quivering with the tension of recent introspection, she went straight up to this man whom she most fully trusted in all the world, and took his hands in both hers.
"My dear, dear father," she pleaded, with her wonted earnestness, "you will help me, will you not?"
He looked more troubled than ever at her words, almost pathetic in his obvious helplessness, as he ejaculated feebly:
"But what can we do, my dear child?"
"Send Le Monarque to meet Prince Charles Edward," she urged; "it is so simple."
"It is very hazardous, and would cost a vast amount of money. In the present state of the Treasury – "
"My dear father, France can afford the luxury of not selling her honour."
"And the English will be furious with us."
"The English cannot do more than fight us, and they are doing that already!" she retorted.
"The risks, my dear child, the risks!" he protested again.
"What risks, father dear?" she said eagerly. "Tell me, what do we risk by sending Le Monarque with secret orders to the Scottish coast, to a spot known to no one save to Lord Eglinton and myself, confided to my husband by the unfortunate young Prince before he started on this miserable expedition? Captain Barre will carry nothing that can in any way betray the secret of his destination nor the object of his journey – my husband's seal-ring on his finger, nothing more; this token he will take on shore himself – not even the ship's crew will know aught that would be fatal if betrayed."
"But the English can intercept Le Monarque!"
"We must run that risk," she retorted. "Once past the coast of England, Scotland is lonely enough. Le Monarque will meet no other craft, and Captain Barre knows the secrets of his own calling – he has run a cargo before now."
"This is childish obstinacy, Lydie, and I do not recognize the statesman in this sentimental chit, who prates nonsense like a schoolgirl imbued with novel-reading," said the Duke now with marked impatience; "and pray, if His Majesty should put a veto on your using one of his ships for this privateering expedition?"
"I propose sending Le Monarque to-morrow," rejoined Lydie quietly. "Captain Barre will have his orders direct from the Ministry of Finance; and then we'll obtain His Majesty's sanction on the following day."
"But this is madness, my child!" exclaimed the Duke. "You cannot openly set at defiance the wishes of the King!"
"The wishes of the King?" she cried, with sudden vehemence. "Surely, surely, my dear, dear father, you cannot mean what you suggest! Think! oh, think just for one moment! That poor young man, who was our guest, whom we all liked – he broke bread with us in our own house, our beautiful château de la Tour d'Aumont, which has never yet been defiled by treachery. And you talk of leaving him there in that far-off land which has proved so inhospitable to him? Of leaving him there either to perish miserably of want and starvation or to fall into the hands of that Hanoverian butcher whose name has become a by-word for unparalleled atrocities?"
She checked herself, and then resumed more calmly:
"Nay, my dear father, I pray you let us cease this argument; for once in the history of our happy life together you and I look at honour from opposite points of view."
"Yes, my dear, I see that, too," he rejoined, speaking now with some hesitation. "I wish I could persuade you to abandon the idea."
"To abandon the unfortunate young Prince, you mean, to break every promise we ever made to him – to become the by-word in our turn for treachery and cowardice in every country in Europe – and why?" she added, with helpless impatience, trying to understand, dreading almost to question. "Why? Why?"
Then, as her father remained silent, with eyes persistently fixed on some vague object in the remote distance, she said, as if acting on a sudden decisive thought:
"Father, dear, is it solely a question of cost?"
"Partly," he replied, with marked hesitation.
"Partly? Well, then, dear, we will remove one cause of your unexplainable opposition. You may assure His Majesty in my name that the voyage of Le Monarque shall cost the Treasury nothing."
Then as her father made no comment, she continued more eagerly:
"Lord Eglinton will not deny me, as you know; he is rich and Charles Edward Stuart is his friend. What Le Monarque has cost for provisioning, that we will immediately replace. For the moment we will borrow this ship from His Majesty's navy. That he cannot refuse! and I give you and His Majesty my word of honour that Le Monarque shall not cost the Treasury one single sou – even the pay of her crew shall be defrayed by us from the moment that she sails out of Le Havre until the happy moment when she returns home with Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends safe and sound aboard."
There was silence between them for awhile. The Duc d'Aumont's eyes were fixed steadily on a distant point on the horizon, but Lydie's eyes never for a second strayed away from her father's face.
"Will Le Monarque have a long journey to make?" asked the Duke lightly.
"Yes!" she replied.
"To the coast of Scotland?"
"Yes."
"The west coast, of course?"
"Why should you ask, dear?"
She asked him this question quite casually, then, as he did not reply, she asked it again, this time with a terrible tightening of her heart-strings. Suddenly she remembered her suspicions, when first she caught the glance of intelligence which passed swiftly from him to miladi.
With a quick gesture of intense agitation she placed a hand on his wrist.
"Father!" she said in a scarce audible murmur.
"Yes, my dear. What is it?"
"I don't know. I – I have been much troubled of late. I do not think that my perceptions are perhaps as keen as they were – and as you say, this matter of the Stuart Prince has weighed heavily on my mind. Therefore, will you forgive me, dear, if – if I ask you a question which may sound undutiful, disloyal to you?"
"Of course I will forgive you, dear," he said, after a slight moment of hesitation. "What is it?"
He had pulled himself together, and now met his daughter's glance with sufficient firmness, apparently to reassure her somewhat, for she said more quietly:
"Will you give me your word of honour that you personally know of no act of treachery which may be in contemplation against the man who trusts in the honour of France?"
Her glowing eyes rested upon his; they seemed desirous of penetrating to the innermost recesses of his soul. M. le Duc d'Aumont tried to bear the scrutiny without flinching but he was no great actor, nor was he in the main a dishonourable man, but he thought his daughter unduly chivalrous, and he held that political considerations were outside the ordinary standards of honour and morality.
Anyway he could not bring himself to give her a definite reply; her hand still grasped his wrist – he took it in his own and raised it to his lips.
"My father!" she pleaded, her voice trembling, her eyes still fixed upon him, "will you not answer my question?"
"It is answered, my dear," he replied evasively. "Do you think it worthy of me – your father – to protest mine honesty before my own child?"
She looked at him no longer, and gently withdrew her hand from his grasp. She understood that, indeed, he had answered her question.
