The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Nevertheless, he was a suitably magnificent figure. Pretending to ignore the Duc’s silent but visible mirth, he carefully leaned forward and peered in a mirror, rubbing one rouged cheek which was a shade too heavily tinted. Suddenly, they heard a distant fanfare, and the accelerated roar of the crowds outside. Simultaneously, he and the Duc leaped for the door, the valets in pursuit, desperately spraying them with perfume from huge flagons. The valets chased them down the entire length of the corridor outside, waving forgotten kerchiefs, brandishing the flagons. Servants appeared in doorways, open-mouthed and gasping, and watched incredulously the strange running figures of Arsène and the Duc, pursued by the leaping valets.

  The valets left them at the top of the great gold and marble staircase, and they flung themselves down, pushing through the streaming magnificence of the guests who were elegantly disporting themselves on the steps. The Duc seized Arsène’s arm, and rushed him to the spot where Madame de Tremblant, surrounded by her eight lovely daughters, was waiting. Even at a distance, it was evident that Madame was infuriated. Her large coarse face under the massive coiffure was flushed, the eyes gleaming dangerously. She was fanning herself with rapid fury, and her glance kept darting through the crowds with a speed that augured very badly for some one.

  The Duc touched her arm, and she swung about, breathing stertoriously. Her pale gray eye fell upon Arsène, and a vicious expression passed over her big plebeian features. “Ah, so our less important guest has finally condescended to arrive!” she shouted, in her hoarse and booming voice. She curtsied deeply, with much exaggeration. Her daughters, With the exception of Marguerite and Clarisse, tittered behind their lace fans. The guests within ear-shot, and they were many, tittered also, or smiled broadly.

  Arsène’s face was dark red, and he bowed speechlessly in return. The Duc leaned towards his sister-in-law and said: “Lucille, it is I who am to blame. I detained Arsène with some discussion—”

  But Madame de Tremblant was not to be placated. She surveyed Arsène minutely. “And the discussion evidently necessitated the wearing of one of your costumes,” she observed. The girls tittered again, as did the guests. Arsène’s hand clutched the hilt of his sword, and he glared about, helplessly.

  “I implore you, Lucille,” said the Duc, with sudden sternness, and his eye engaged the eyes of the listening others, so that each countenance became grave again.

  Madame de Tremblant tossed her head, and her wide thick mouth, heavily rouged, tightened ominously. Nevertheless, she said nothing more.

  She was a big buxom woman, of heroic stature and proportions, better fitted to the hunting saddle, to which she was enslaved, than to the drawing room. Her mauve velvet costume heightened her natural florid coloring to a purple tinge under the orange-red rouge, and her low bodice, foaming with lace, hardly concealed her full and enormous breasts. Her towering hair, elaborately arranged, was incongruous above her bold light eyes, thick broad nose and heavy mouth. She was a stout dragoon in delicate costume. She disdained and disliked elegant costumes, and her neck was browned by sun to a leathery texture, as were her large masculine hands, now heavily loaded with gems. The lustrous pearls about her throat contrasted alarmingly with its tint and texture. When she walked, she strode. Her character was compounded of honesty and guile, of obscenity and brusqueness, of lascivious stable laughter and brutality, of rude good nature and cruelty, of generosity and avarice. She was one of the most powerful and feared women in Paris. The King liked her, enjoyed her voice, however distant. As for the Cardinal, he was always refreshed by her, and would repeat her witticisms inexhaustibly.

  Her daughters surrounded her like graceful flowers about the huge statue of a peasant which was arrayed in incongruous frippery. Annette, Yvonne, Bernadette, Louise, Antoinette and Marie were there with their elegant and patrician young husbands. Clarisse stood at her right hand, and near her, standing with bent and gentle head and air of sweet humility, stood Marguerite. Clarisse was the most beautiful of the Tremblant demoiselles, taller, more graceful, more exquisite of figure and manner, more artful and languishing. Her flesh was like luminous alabaster; the roses in her cheeks needed no artifice to enhance them. Her arms were rivals of those famous appendages of the queen, herself, and her shoulders gleamed as though polished by some loving hand. A man could span her delicate waist with his hands; her bosom was perfect. Her costume of shimmering white satin and cascades of the finest convent lace attracted every envious female eye. She had a profusion of silky flaxen curls which fell over her white neck and shoulders like a faery drift. Her oval face was daintily pointed; her eyes were wide and blue, set apart and shining with points of light. Her mouth was a smiling rosy flower. Nothing could have been sweeter than her expression, or more fascinating in its changes, which were at once demure and malicious, full of vivacity and bewitching merriment. The gestures of her entrancing hands were accompanied by the flashing of jewels on the fingers. If her beauty was not artificial, her soul was. Her mother, her confessor, her betrothed, knew no more about her than she chose to allow. This was part of her enchanting charm. She had a thousand moods, each more graceful, more magical, more magnetic and lovely than the others. She was her mother’s favorite. Even that hoarse and bellicose grande dame could not resist the girl’s fascinations, though, unlike others, Madame de Tremblant suspected that under that beauty and exquisiteness lived a small and greedy soul, without charity, love, tenderness or mind. Nevertheless, she remained enslaved, consumed with pride.

  Arsène, who in her absence forgot her completely, could not resist her presence. She dazzled his sight, threw him into worshipping confusion. She had only to flash the blue lucidity of her eyes upon him to make him forget all else. She had only to smile to make him grovel. When he kissed her hand, he was utterly lost.

  She pouted her full and vivid lips upon him, and inclined her head capriciously as he whispered his apologies. When his breath was too ardent upon her cheek, she daintily covered her face with her fan and her curls fell over her neck and brow. But tonight, for some reason, he soon tired of all this play. He turned from her to Marguerite, whom he loved tenderly.

  Clad in blue velvet and pale lace, Marguerite was hardly less lovely than her sister, but so shy and humble was she that her beauty was not so evident to the careless eye. The bright pure vapor of her soul illuminated her face and deep innocent eyes. Smaller, more fragile than Clarisse, she was yet all perfection. Arsène kissed her hand with gentleness. When he looked up into her face he saw that it wasshiningand blushing. Nevertheless, his acute sensibilities felt a strange sadness. The girl seemed more ethereal than usual, more frail. The blue veins in her temples throbbed feverishly. The hand he held was hot and trembling. He knew how her rude mother constantly upbraided her for her steadfast refusal of innumerable suitors. He had heard that she contemplated entering a convent, something which outraged Madame de Tremblant, who was considerable of a pagan. Yet, in spite of her trials, no one had ever heard a word of complaint, anger or impatience from this poor child. She was seventeen years old, a year older than Clarisse. This was a dángerous age for an unmarried woman, and young noblemen had already begun to woo younger ladies.

  Arsène, never too subtle in the past, tonight felt a vague alarm for the girl, and a deeper tenderness such as one feels in the presence of a child upon whom an early doom appears to portend. The light in her eyes was too bright, too febrile, her color too hot and vagrant, her flesh too tenuous. Now he saw that her lids were swollen and discolored, as though she wept too much. Even as he spoke to her gently, her gaze left him, searched feverishly through the surging crowds about her, and her trembling was more evident. He followed her glances, wonderingly. For whom was she waiting? Was that virginal heart touched at last?

  The great drawing rooms were flooded with the light of the enormous crystal chandeliers that glittered overhead. The silken-shrouded walls were almost hid by tall flowers and branches of blossoming trees. The floors, polished to a mirrored brilliance, reflect
ed back the colorful figures of the guests and their vivacious movements, so that they appeared to be a myriad tall flowers imaged in a bright lake. The air was permeated with thousands of languorous scents and the murmurs and laughter of hundreds of gay voices, and the distant strains of sweet music. The senses soon became confused by the light, the heat, the dazzling colors and costumes, the restless and rapid gestures, the swaying of tinted garments, the turning and bending of hundreds of curled heads and the flashing of a thousand jeweled hands. The vision became confused by the gleaming of countless white arms and the glittering of many eyes, and the blaze of innumerable gems. It was a magnificent assemblage. Madame de Tremblant was bored excessively, She loathed courtiers, though they, themselves, adored her, thronged about her to hear her latest indecent witticism, which they repeated to those behind them, who carried it to the farthest walls on tides of increasing laughter. There was much snuff-taking, much flourishing of lace kerchiefs, much leg-making. The ladies affected to blush, but in spite of the coquetting, not a cheek was honestly dyed.

  The fanfare which Arsène and the Duc de Tremblant had heard in the latter’s apartments had heralded the approach of the Cardinal. Now, the mighty brazen doors were flung open, the Captain of the Cardinal’s Musketeers appeared, followed by his men, who formed passage and lifted swords to create an arch.

  Now the Cardinal entered. Clad in black velvet, with severe white linen at his throat and sleeves, he was, as always, an impelling and majestic sight. His cloak had been removed to reveal his frail and slender figure, upright and graceful. Nothing could have been more aristocratic than that narrow countenance with its pointed imperial. Nothing could have been more haughty yet benign than that arrowed glance from those tiger eyes, which saw everything with one rapier flash. The slow and noble movements of that small and royal head compelled reverence and awe. The smile, sardonic and subtle, inspired apprehension and respect. Increasing illness had increased his pallor, so that he had the aspect of a specter; the delicate bones of his face were outlined under the pale and transparent flesh. Power radiated from him, and a lofty and amused condescension. Not an eye touched him without fear, hatred, dislike or servility. Not a heart but beat quicker at the sight of him. Every smile was artificial and nervous. A cool psychic dampness blew over the gay faces, hushed the frivolous voices.

  He was too great, too powerful a man, to feel much satisfaction at the effect he created. Moreover, he had too much contempt for his fellows to experience any gratification, other than that which a man might feel upon entering a jungle and seeing the eyes of lower animals fixed fearfully upon him. Yet, he was all graciousness, inclining his head gravely and smilingly as he approached his hostess.

  Madame de Tremblant extended her red hand to him and winked fully and coarsely, grinning lecherously. “How, now, Monsieur le Duc,” she boomed. “I had heard your Eminence was too indisposed to grace our assemblage this evening.”

  “A summons from Madame de Tremblant is a royal command,” replied the Cardinal. At this, the woman laughed outright. She tapped him impudently on the shoulder with her fan. “Ah, what a courtier it is!” she exclaimed. “One might almost believe Monseigneur, and be deceived that it was not a priest with such addresses!”

  The Cardinal took no offense. A smile of genuine amusement touched those pale and delicate lips, and the cold and baleful light in his eyes warmed.

  She leaned towards him and whispered hoarsely: “The piece of iron flies to the magnet: is it not so? But the magnet has not yet arrived.”

  “But soon,” replied the Cardinal, with a cool stare. Madame de Tremblant was disappointed. She had expected some flush, some start, some angry glance, some attempt at intimidation. She had bearded the Cardinal, and in return he gazed at her emptily.

  She tapped him again, and essayed a grotesque archness. “Ah, what is man? Even a priest?” she murmured. “Nevertheless, women can forgive, and understand, and feel gratitude.”

  The Cardinal smiled faintly, and turned his attention to the beautiful daughters of Madame. Now an ardent warmth crept over his transparent features. He accepted the flurry of curtsies with the utmost majesty and benevolence. When he gave his attention to Marguerite, there was a long and inscrutable reflection in his eye, and a little sadness.

  “May I inquire as to Mademoiselle’s health?” he asked, gently. “She seems to be melting before the eye.”

  The girl blushed violently, and moisture appeared in her golden eyes. Madame de Tremblant interposed: “Ah, what it is to be a mother! This girl is not yet betrothed, and still speaks of the convent. Can Monseigneur not dissuade her, and receive a mother’s gratitude?”

  But the Cardinal was gazing at the girl intently. He held her hand strongly, and felt its instinctive and trembling efforts at withdrawal. Now his expression was stern. He said nothing.

  He became aware of Arsène, who was watching him with caution and uncertainty. He smiled, laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He shook his head. “Ah, I little expected such a disappointment!” he exclaimed. “Nevertheless, I am not resigned, not without hope. I have not accepted the final word.”

  He paused, absently marked Arsène’s nervous smile, and vague shaking of the head. He spoke in a slightly louder voice, and now his eye, rapid and brilliant, touched, without seeming to do so, the lovely countenance of Marguerite de Tremblant.

  “I had hoped that your brother Louis might accompany me this evening,” he said, “but unfortunately he pleaded indisposition and the press of duty.”

  He felt, rather than saw fully, the girl’s start, her sudden whiteness, the faint dropping of her eyelids, and her shrinking. But this was not evident to any one else but the Cardinal. Even as he smiled, the sternness increased about his mouth, and he sighed. He observed that the girl retreated until she melted into the throng, and that her head had fallen on her breast as she drifted away.

  The Marquis du Vaubon had finally forced a passage through the multitude of guests, bowing, swaying, smirking, arching his brows, flourishing his scented kerchief. He was followed by scores of envious and scrutinizing manly eyes, which marked every item of his costume, which was of golden velvet with black touches. His curled black wig was enormous; there was an unusual wide flare to his jewelled cuffs, and the excessively full skirts of his coat were embroidered and glittering with jewelled embroidery. The lace at his throat was a fountain of airy foam, sparkling with diamonds. Gratified and smug at the sensation he created, he remarked to himself that tomorrow would be an unusually busy day for tailors and jewelers and lace-and-wig-makers in Paris. What it was to be the creator of fashion! Ladies sniffed avariciously at his new scents, and openly admired his costume, and his excellent slender legs which gleamed and shone in their golden silk stockings. He bestowed amorous glances upon them in his passage, and his arching brows were implicit with indulgent promise. The debauchery and fatigue of his thin malicious face was hidden under skillful layers of rouge and powder. There were black patches cut in the intriguing shapes of stars, flowers, hearts and squares on his bony cheeks, and, daringly! on his chin and forehead.

  “Ah,” murmured the Cardinal, “the arbitor of elegance and the glass of fashion approaches in his exaggerated splendor!” The Marquis invariably amused him. He thought him a fool, but a fool who was malevolently witty, which excused his folly.

  He bowed deeply. “Hail, Phoebus!” he said. “But where is your chariot?”

  A spray of titters burst from the avid guests nearby. Arsène’s hand tightened on his sword at this gibe at his foolish father. But the Marquis was well able to defend himself. For a moment his little black eyes darted, gleamed and rolled malignantly, though his painted lips remained fixed in a grimace of a smile.

  . Then he returned the bow, even more elaborately, and said: “Hail Pluto! But where is Proserpine?”

  Bravo! thought Arsène, delighted by his father’s wit. He looked about him for approving and astonished smiles. What he saw alarmed him. For the Cardinal had beco
me deadly pale at this enormous and foolhardy insult, and its wider implications. The guests, horrified and uneasy, began to retreat like the edges of a wave, leaving the insulted priest and the Marquis facing each other in a little empty space. The Marquis wore a satisfied smirk and looked the Cardinal full in the eyes. His small brain had not yet encompassed the enormity of his folly.

  Then, thought the Cardinal, it is common knowledge.

  Madame de Tremblant was an astute woman. She burst into a loud hoarse laugh. “What classicists are these!” she exclaimed. “You must pardon us, Messieurs, if we are too ignorant to comprehend these subtle allusions.” She glanced about her with a hard look, and as at a command, the edges of the wave advanced once more and surrounded the Cardinal and the foolish Marquis, who was still pluming himself on his dangerous witticism and trying to gather admiring eyes as one gathers flowers.

  A diversion came in the person of a great lady whom no one but Madame de Tremblant had known was in Paris at this time, believing that she was still secluded at her home in La Rochelle. So seldom did she appear in Paris, that only the older guests were immediately aware of her identity. But Huguenot and Catholic alike regarded her with admiration and deep respect. For the lady was the old Duchesse de Rohan, a life-long friend of Madame de Tremblant, and a very old friend indeed of Monseigneur.

  A hush followed as she made her way tranquilly through the crushing and glittering assembly, which parted instinctively before her as though she were royalty. And most certainly, there was something most royal in her walk and her manner. She glided towards her hostess with an imperious and magnificent air, for her blood was nobler than the blood of those who sat on the thrones of France. Her dainty and diminutive figure was exquisite in its perfection. Authority and pride, hauteur and aristocracy, were inherent in her slightest gesture, her slightest word, the briefest sentence which she uttered in a voice singularly strong and calm for such a small person. The flash of her eye was imperious, intimidating.