CHAPTER I. THE 'SALLE DES GARDES'
In a large salon of the palace at Versailles, opening upon a terrace,and with a view of the vast forest beneath it, were assembled a numberof officers, whose splendid uniforms and costly equipments proclaimedthem to be of the bodyguard of the king. They had just risen from table,and were either enjoying their coffee in easy indolence, gathered inlittle knots for conversation, or arranging themselves into parties forplay.
The most casual glance at them would have shown what it is but fairto confess they never sought to conceal--that they were the pamperedfavourites of their master. It was not alone the richness of theirembroidered dress, the boundless extravagance that all around themdisplayed, but, more than even these, a certain air of haughtypretension, the carriage and bearing of a privileged class, proclaimedthat they took their rank from the high charge that assigned them theguard of the person of the sovereign.
When the power and sway of the monarchy suffered no check--so long asthe nation was content to be grateful for the virtues of royalty,and indulgent to its faults--while yet the prestige of past reigns ofsplendour prevailed, the 'Garde du Corps' were great favourites withthe public: their handsome appearance, the grace of their horsemanship,their personal elegance, even their very waste and extravagance had itsmeed of praise from those who felt a reflected pride from the glitteringdisplay of the court. Already, however, signs of an approachingchange evidenced themselves: a graver tone of reprehension was usedin discussing the abandoned habits of the nobility; painfully drawnpictures of the poor were contrasted with the boundless waste ofprincely households; the flatteries that once followed every new capriceof royal extravagance, and which imparted to the festivities of theTrianon the gorgeous colours of a romance, were now exchanged for barerecitals, wherein splendour had a cold and chilling lustre. If thecloud were no bigger than a man's hand, it was charged with deadliestlightning.
The lack of that deference which they had so long regarded as theirdue, made these haughty satraps but haughtier and more insolent in theirmanner toward the citizens. Every day saw the breach widen between them;and what formerly had been oppression on one side and yielding on theother, were now occasions of actual collision, wherein the proud soldierwas not always the victor. If the newspapers were strong on one side,the language of society was less measured on the other. The whole toneof conversation caught its temper from the times; and 'the bourgeois'was ridiculed and laughed at unceasingly. The witty talker sought noother theme; the courtly epigrammatist selected no other subject; andeven royalty itself was made to laugh at the stage exhibitions of thosewhose loyalty had once, at least, been the bulwark of the monarchy.
In the spacious apartment already mentioned, and at a small table beforean open window, sat a party of three, over their wine. One was a tall,spare, dark-complexioned man, with something Spanish in his look, theDuc de Bourguignon, a captain in the Garde; the second was a handsomebut over-conceited-looking youth, of about twenty-two or three, theMarquis de Maurepas. The third was Gerald, or as he was then and therecalled, Le Chevalier de Fitzgerald. Though the two latter were simplesoldiers, all their equipment was as costly as that of the officerat their side. As little was there any difference in their manner ofaddressing him. Maurepas, indeed, seemed rather disposed to take thelead in conversation, and assumed a sort of authority in all he said, towhich the Duke gave the kind of assent usually accorded to the 'talkersby privilege.' The young Marquis had all the easy flippancy of apractised narrator, and talked like one who rarely fell upon anunwilling audience.
'It needs but this, Duke,' said he, after a very energetic burst ofeloquence; 'it needs but this, and our corps will be like a regiment ofthe line.'
'_Parbleu!_' said the Duke, as he stroked his chin with the puzzledair of a man who saw a difficulty, but could not imagine any means ofescape.
'I should like to know what your father or mine would have said to suchpretension,' resumed the Marquis. 'You remember what the great monarchsaid to Colonna, when he asked a place for his son?--"You must askHonore if he has a vacancy in the kitchen!" And right, too. Are we to beall mixed up together! Are the employments of the State to be filled bymen whose fathers were lackeys! Is France going to reject the traditionsthat have guided her for centuries?'
'To what is all this apropos, Gaston!' asked Fitzgerald calmly.
'Haven't you heard that M. Lescour has made interest with the king tohave his son appointed to the Garde?'
'And who is M. Lescour?'
'I 'll tell you what he is, which is more to the purpose: he himselfwould be puzzled to say who. M. Lescour is a fermier-general--very rich,doubtless, but of an origin the lowest.'
'And his son?'
'His son! What do I know about his son? I conclude he resembles hisfather: at all events, he cannot be one of us.'
'Pardon me if I am not able to see why,' said Gerald calmly. 'There isnothing in the station of a fermier-general that should not have openedto his son the approach to the very highest order of education, all thatliberal means could bestow----'
'But, _mon cher_, what do we care for all that? We want good blood andgood names among our comrades; we want to know that our friendships andour intimacies are with those whose fathers were the associates of ourfathers. Ask the Duke here, how he would fancy companionship with thedescendants of the rabble. Ask yourself, is it from such a class youwould select your bosom friends?'
'Grant all you say to be correct: is not the king himself a good judgeof those to whom he would intrust the guardianship of his person?'interposed Gerald. 'The annals of the world have shown that loyalty andcourage are not peculiar to a class.'
'A'nt they--_parbleu!_' cried Maurepas. 'Why, those sentiments areworthy of the Rue Montmartre. Messieurs,' added he, rising, andaddressing the others, scattered in groups through the room,'congratulate yourselves that the enlightened opinions of the age havepenetrated the darkness of our benighted corps. Here is the Chevalier deFitzgerald enunciating opinions that the most advanced democracy wouldbe proud of.'
The company thus addressed rose from their several places and camecrowding around the table where the three were seated. Gerald knew notvery accurately the words he had just uttered, and turned from oneface to the other of those around to catch something like sympathyor encouragement in this moment of trial, but none such was there.Astonishment and surprise were, perhaps, the most favourable among theexpressions of those who now regarded him.
'I was telling the Duc de Bourguignon of the danger that impendedour corps,' began Maurepas, addressing the company generally. 'I wasalluding to what rumour has been threatening us with some time back,the introduction into the Garde of men of ignoble birth. I mentionedspecifically one case, which, if carried through, dissolves for ever theprestige of that bond that has always united us, when our comrade hereinterposes and tells me that the person of his Majesty will be as safein the guardianship of the vile "Koturier" as in that of our best andpurest blood. I will not for an instant dispute with him as toknowledge of the class whose merits he upholds.' A faint murmur, halfastonishment, half reproof, arose throughout the room at these words;but Gerald never moved a muscle, but sat calm and still awaiting theconclusion of the speech.
'I say this without offence, resumed Maurepas, who quickly saw thathe had not the sympathy of his hearers in his last sally; 'withoutthe slightest offence, for, in good truth, I have no acquaintanceshipoutside the world of my equals. Our comrade's views are doubtless,therefore, wider and broader; but I will also say that these used not tobe the traditions of our corps, and that not only our duty, but our veryexistence, was involved in the idea that we were a noble guard.'
'Well said!' 'True!' 'Maurepas is right!' resounded through the room.
'We are, then, agreed in this,' resumed Maurepas, following up hissuccess with vigour; 'and there is only one among us who deems that theblood of the plebeian is wanting to lend us chivalry and devotion.'
'Shame! shame!' cried several together, and looks of di
sapprobation werenow turned on Fitzgerald.
'If I have unintentionally misrepresented the Chevalier,' resumedMaurepas, 'he is here to correct me.'
Gerald arose, his face crimson, the flush spreading over his foreheadand his temples. There was a wild energy in his glance that showed thepassion that worked within him; but though his chest heaved with highindignation and his heart swelled, his tongue could not utter a word,and he stood there mute and confounded.
'There, there--enough of it!' exclaimed an old officer, whose venerableappearance imparted authority to his words. 'The Chevalier retracts, andthere is an end to it.'
'I do not. I withdraw nothing--not a syllable of what I said,' criedGerald wildly.
'It is far better thus, then,' cried Maurepas; 'let the corps decidebetween us.'
'Decide what,' exclaimed Gerald passionately. 'Monsieur de Maurepaswould limit the courage and bravery of France to the number of those whowear our uniform. I am disposed to believe that there are some hundredsof thousands just as valiant and just as loyal who carry less lace ontheir coats, and some even----' here he stopped confused and abashed,when a deep voice called out--
'And some even who have no coats at all. Is it not so you would say,Chevalier?'
'I accept the words as my own, though I did not use them,' cried Geraldboldly.
'There is but one explanation of such opinions as these,' broke inMaurepas; 'the Chevalier de Fitzgerald has been keeping other companythan ours of late.'
Gerald rose angrily to reply, but ere he could utter a word an arm wasslipped within his own, and a deep voice said--
'Come away from this--come to my quarters, Gerald, and let us talk overthe matter.' It was Count Dillon, the oldest captain of the corps, whospoke, and Gerald obeyed him without a word of remonstrance.
'Don't you perceive, boy,' said the Count, as soon as they reached theopen air, 'that we Irish are in a position of no common difficulty here?They expect us to stand by an order of nobility that we do not belongto. To the king and the royal family you and I will be as loyal and trueas the best among them; but what do we care--what can we care--for thefeuds between noble and bourgeois? If this breach grows wider every day,it was none of our making; as little does it concern us how to repairit.'
'I never sought for admission into this corps,' said Gerald angrily.'Madame de Bauffremont promised me my grade in the dragoons, and thenI should have seen service. Two squadrons of the very regiment I shouldhave joined are already off to America, and instead of that, I am hereto lounge away my life, less a soldier than a lackey!'
'Say nothing to disparage the Garde, young fellow, or I shall forgetwe are countrymen,' said Dillon sternly; and then, as if sorry for theseverity of the rebuke, added, 'Have only a little patience, and you caneffect an exchange. It is what I have long desired myself.'
'You too, Count?' cried Gerald eagerly.
'Ay, boy. This costly life just suits my pocket as ill as its indolenceagrees with my taste. As soldiers, we can be as good men as they,but neither you nor I have three hundred thousand livres a year, likeMaurepas or Noailles. We cannot lose ten rouleaux of Louis every eveningat ombre, and sleep soundly after; our valets do not drink Pomard atdinner, nor leave our service rich with two years of robbery.'
'I never play,' said Gerald gravely.
'So I remarked,' continued Dillon; 'you lived like one whose means didnot warrant waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.'
By this time they had reached a small pavilion in the wood, at the doorof which a sentry was stationed.
'Here we are,' cried Dillon; 'this is my quarter: come up and see howluxuriously a Chef d'Escadron is lodged.'
Nothing, indeed, could be more simple or less pretentious than theapartment into which Gerald was now ushered. The furniture was of a darknut-wood, and the articles few and inexpensive.
'I know you are astonished at this humble home. You have heard many astory of the luxury and splendour of the superior officers of our corps,how they walk on Persian carpets and lounge on ottomans covered withOriental silks. Well, it's all true, Gerald; the only exception is thispoor quarter before you. I, too, might do like them. I might tell theroyal commissary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I pleased. Thecivil list never questions or cavils--it only pays. Perhaps, were I aFrenchman born, I should have little scruple about this; but, like you,Fitzgerald, I am an alien--only a guest, no more.'
The Count, without summoning a servant, produced a bottle and glassesfrom a small cupboard in the wall, and drawing a table to the window,whence a view extended over the forest, motioned to Gerald to be seated.
'This is not the first time words have passed between you and Maurepas,'said Dillon, after they had filled and emptied their glasses.
'It happens too frequently,' said Gerald, with warmth. 'From the day Ibought that Limousin horse of his we have never been true friends.'
'I heard as much. He thought him unrideable, and you mounted him onparade, and that within a week.'
'But I offered to let him have the animal back when I subdued him. Iknew what ailed the horse; he wanted courage--all his supposed vice wasonly fear.'
'You only made bad worse by reflecting on Maurepas's riding,' saidDillon, smiling.
'_Par Dieu!_ I never thought of that,' broke in Fitzgerald.
'Then there was something occurred at court, wasn't there?'
'Oh, a mere trifle. He could not dance the second figure in the minuetwith the Princesse de Cleves, and the Queen called me to take hisplace.'
'Worse than the affair of the horse, far worse,' muttered Dillon;'Maurepas cannot forgive you either.'
'I shall assuredly not ask him, sir,' was the prompt rejoinder.
'And then you laughed at his Italian, didn't you? The "Nonce" said thatyou caught him up in a line he had misquoted.'
'He asked me himself if he were right, and I told him he was not; but Inever laughed at his mistake.'
'They said you did, and that the Princesse de Lamballe made you repeatthe story. No matter, it was still another item in the score he owesyou.'
'I am led by these remarks of yours to suppose that you have latterlybestowed some interest in what has befallen me, Count: am I justified inthis belief?'
'You have guessed aright, Fitzgerald. Thirty-eight years and sevenmonths ago I entered this service, knowing less of the world than youdo now. So little aware was I what was meant by a provocation, that Iattributed to my own deficiency in the language and my ignorance of lifewhat were intended as direct insults. They read me differently, and wentso far as to deliberate whether I ought not to be called on to leavethe corps. This at last aroused my indolence. I fought four of them onemorning, and three the next--two fell fatally wounded. I never got butthis--and he showed a deep scar on the wrist of his sword-arm. 'Fromthat time I have had no trouble.'
'And this is an ordeal I must pass also, said Gerald calmly.
'I scarcely know how it is to be avoided, nor yet complied with. Theking has declared so positively against duelling, that he who sends achallenge must consent to forgo his career in the service.'
'But, surely, not he who only accepts a provocation?'
'That is a difficulty none seems to have answered. Many think that allwill be treated alike--the challenger and the challenged, and even theseconds. My own opinion is different.'
'It is not impossible, then, that M. de Maurepas desired to push me todemand satisfaction,' said Gerald slowly, for the light was beginning tobreak upon his mind.
Dillon nodded in silence.
'And _you_ saw this, Count?'
Another nod was the reply.
'And, doubtless, the rest also?'
'Doubtless!' said Dillon slowly.
Fitzgerald leaned his head on his hand, and sat in deep reflection forsome time.
'This is a puzzle,' said he at last. 'I must be frank with you, CountDillon. Madame de Bauffremont cautioned me, on my entrance into thecorps, against whatever might involve me in any quarrel. There arecircum
stances, family circumstances, which might provoke publicity, andbe painful--so, at least, she said--to others, whose fame and happinessshould be dearer to me than my own. Now, I know nothing of these. I onlyknow that there are no ties nor obligations which impose the necessityof bearing insult. If you tell me, then, that Maurepas seeks a quarrelwith me, that he has been carrying a grudge against me for weeks back,I will ask of you--and, as my countryman, you 'll not refuse me--to callon him for satisfaction.'
'It can't be helped,' said Dillon, speaking to himself.
'Why should it be helped?' rejoined Gerald, overhearing him.
'And then, Maurepas is the very man to do it,' muttered the Count again.Then lifting his head suddenly, he said: 'The Marquise de Bauffremontis at Paris, I believe. I 'll set off there to-night; meanwhile do youremain where you are. Promise me this; for it is above all essentialthat you should take no step till I return.'
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 20