Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Perhaps Mademoiselle de la Force will go with her, and see that nothing is omitted,” Bassompierre said with malice.

  The laughter and applause with which this proposal was received took me by surprise; but later I learned that the two young women were rivals. “Yes, yes,” the Queen said. “Go, mademoiselle, and see that she does not keep us waiting.”

  Knowing what I did, I had by this time a fair idea of the discovery which Bassompierre had made; but the mass of courtiers and ladies round me, who had not this advantage, knew not what to expect — nor, especially, what part M. Bassompierre had in the business — but made most diverting suggestions, the majority favouring the opinion that Mademoiselle Paleotti had repulsed him, and that this was his way of avenging himself. A few of the ladies even taxed him with this, and tried, by random reproaches, to put him at least on his defence; but, merrily refusing to be inveigled, he made to all the same answer that when Mademoiselle Paleotti returned they would see. This served only to whet a curiosity already keen, insomuch that the door was watched by as many eyes as if a miracle had been promised; and even MM. Epernon and Vendome, leaving the King’s side, pressed into the crowd that they might see the better. I took the opportunity of going to him, and, meeting his eyes as I did so, read in them a look of pain and distress. As I advanced he drew back a pace, and signed to me to stand before him.

  I had scarcely done so when the door opened and Mademoiselle Paleotti, pale, and supported on one side by her rival, appeared at it; but so wondrously transformed by a wig, hat, and redingote that I scarcely knew her. At first, as she stood, looking with shamed eyes at the staring crowd, the impression made was simply one of bewilderment, so complete was the disguise. But Bassompierre did not long suffer her to stand so. Advancing to her side, his hat under his arm, he offered his hand.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, “will you oblige me by walking as far as the end of the gallery with me?”

  She complied involuntarily, being almost unable to stand alone. But the two had not proceeded half-way down the gallery before a low murmur began to be heard, that, growing quickly louder, culminated in an astonished cry of “Madame de Conde! Madame de Conde!”

  M. Bassompierre dropped her hand with a low bow, and turned to the Queen. “Madame,” he said, “this, I find, is the lady whom I saw on the Terrace when Madame Paleotti was so good as to invite me to walk on the Bois-le-Roi road. For the rest, your Majesty may draw your conclusions.”

  It was easy to see that the Queen had already drawn them; but, for the moment, the unfortunate girl was saved from her wrath. With a low cry, Mademoiselle Paleotti did that which she would have done a little before, had she been wise, and swooned on the floor.

  I turned to look at the King, and found him gone. He had withdrawn unseen in the first confusion of the surprise; nor did I dare at once to interrupt him, or intrude on the strange mixture of regret and relief, wrath and longing, that probably possessed him in the silence of his closet. It was enough for me that the Italians’ plot had failed, and that the danger of a rupture between the King and Queen, which these miscreants desired, and I had felt to be so great and imminent, was, for this time, overpast.

  The Paleottis were punished, being sent home in disgrace, and a penury, which, doubtless, they felt more keenly. But, alas, the King could not banish with them all who hated him and France; nor could I, with every precaution, and by the unsparing use of all the faculties that, during a score of years, had been at the service of my master, preserve him for his country and the world. Before two months had run he perished by a mean hand, leaving the world the poorer by the greatest and most illustrious sovereign that ever ruled a nation. And men who loved neither France nor him entered into his labours, whose end also I have seen.

  THE RED COCKADE

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  “‘MESSIEURS,’ HE CRIED.” See page 21.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE MARQUIS DE ST. ALAIS.

  When we reached the terraced walk, which my father made a little before his death, and which, running under the windows at the rear of the Château, separates the house from the new lawn, St. Alais looked round with eyes of scarcely-veiled contempt.

  “What have you done with the garden?” he asked, his lip curling.

  “My father removed it to the other side of the house,” I answered.

  “Out of sight?”

  “Yes,” I said; “it is beyond the rose garden.”

  “English fashion!” he answered with a shrug and a polite sneer. “And you prefer to see all this grass from your windows?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I do.”

  “Ah! And that plantation? It hides the village, I suppose, from the house?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I notice that that is the way of all who prate of the people, and freedom, and fraternity. They love the people; but they love them at a distance, on the farther side of a park or a high yew hedge. Now, at St. Alais I like to have my folks under my eye, and then, if they do not behave, there is the carcan. By the way, what have you done with yours, Vicomte? It used to stand opposite the entrance.”

  “I have burned it,” I said, feeling the blood mount to my temples.

  “Your father did, you mean?” he answered, with a glance of surprise.

  “No,” I said stubbornly, hating myself for being ashamed of that before St. Alais of which I had been proud enough when alone. “I did. I burned it last winter. I think the day of such things is past.”

  The Marquis was not my senior by more than five years; but those five years, spent in Paris and Versailles, gave him a wondrous advantage, and I felt his look of contemptuous surprise as I should have felt a blow. However, he did not say anything at the moment, but after a short pause changed the subject and began to speak of my father; recalling him and things in connection with him in a tone of respect and affection that in a moment disarmed my resentment.

  “The first time that I shot a bird on the wing I was in his company!” he said, with the wonderful charm of manner that had been St. Alais’ even in boyhood.

  “Twelve years ago,” I said.

  “Even so, Monsieur,” he replied with a laughing bow. “In those days there was a small boy with bare legs, who ran after me, and called me Victor, and thought me the greatest of men. I little dreamed that he would ever live to expound the rights of man to me. And, Dieu! Vicomte, I must keep Louis from you, or you will make him as great a reformer as yourself. However,” he continued, passing from that subject with a smile and an easy gesture, “I did not come here to talk of him, but of one, M. le Vicomte, in whom you should feel even greater interest.”

  I felt the blood mount to my temples again, but for a different reason. “Mademoiselle has come home?” I said.

  “Yesterday,” he answered. “She will go with my mother to Cahors to-morrow, and take her first peep at the world. I do not doubt that among the many new things she will see, none will interest her more than the Vicomte de Saux.”

  “Mademoiselle is well?” I said clumsily.

  “Perfectly,” he answered with grave politeness, “as you will see for yourself to-morrow evening, if we do not meet on the road. I daresay that you will like a week or so to commend yourself to her, M. le Vicomte? And after that, whe
never Madame la Marquise and you can settle the date, and so forth, the match had better come off — while I am here.”

  I bowed. I had been expecting to hear this for a week past; but from Louis, who was on brotherly terms with me, not from Victor. The latter had indeed been my boyish idol; but that was years ago, before Court life and a long stay at Versailles and St. Cloud had changed him into the splendid-looking man I saw before me, the raillery of whose eye I found it as difficult to meet as I found it impossible to match the aplomb of his manner. Still, I strove to make such acknowledgments as became me; and to adopt that nice mixture of self-respect, politeness, and devotion which I knew that the occasion, formally treated, required. But my tongue stumbled, and in a moment he relieved me.

  “Well, you must tell that to Denise,” he said pleasantly; “doubtless you will find her a patient listener. At first, of course,” he continued, pulling on his gauntlets and smiling faintly, “she will be a little shy. I have no doubt that the good sisters have brought her up to regard a man in much the same light as a wolf; and a suitor as something worse. But, eh bien, mon ami! women are women after all, and in a week or two you will commend yourself. We may hope, then, to see you to-morrow evening — if not before?”

  “Most certainly, M. le Marquis.”

  “Why not Victor?” he answered, laying his hand on my arm with a touch of the old bonhomie. “We shall soon be brothers, and then, doubtless, shall hate one another. In the meantime, give me your company to the gates. There was one other thing I wanted to name to you. Let me see — what was it?”

  But either he could not immediately remember, or he found a difficulty in introducing the subject, for we were nearly half-way down the avenue of walnut trees that leads to the village when he spoke again. Then he plunged into the matter abruptly.

  “You have heard of this protest?” he said.

  “Yes,” I answered reluctantly and with a foresight of trouble.

  “You will sign it, of course?”

  He had hesitated before he asked the question; I hesitated before I answered it. The protest to which he referred — how formal the phrase now sounds, though we know that under it lay the beginning of trouble and a new world — was one which it was proposed to move in the coming meeting of the noblesse at Cahors; its aim, to condemn the conduct of our representatives at Versailles, in consenting to sit with the Third Estate.

  Now, for myself, whatever had been my original views on this question — and, as a fact, I should have preferred to see reform following the English model, the nobles’ house remaining separate — I regarded the step, now it was taken, and legalised by the King, as irrevocable; and protest as useless. More, I could not help knowing that those who were moving the protest desired also to refuse all reform, to cling to all privileges, to balk all hopes of better government; hopes, which had been rising higher, day by day, since the elections, and which it might not now be so safe or so easy to balk. Without swallowing convictions, therefore, which were pretty well known, I could not see my way to supporting it. And I hesitated.

  “Well?” he said at last, finding me still silent.

  “I do not think that I can,” I answered, flushing.

  “Can support it?”

  “No,” I said.

  He laughed genially. “Pooh!” he said. “I think that you will. I want your promise, Vicomte. It is a small matter; a trifle, and of no importance; but we must be unanimous. That is the one thing necessary.”

  I shook my head. We had both come to a halt under the trees, a little within the gates. His servant was leading the horses up and down the road.

  “Come,” he persisted pleasantly: “you do not think that anything is going to come of this chaotic States General, which his Majesty was mad enough to let Neckar summon? They met on the 4th of May; this is the 17th of July; and to this date they have done nothing but wrangle! Nothing! Presently they will be dismissed, and there will be an end of it!”

  “Why protest, then?” I said rather feebly.

  “I will tell you, my friend,” he answered, smiling indulgently and tapping his boot with his whip. “Have you heard the latest news?”

  “What is it?” I replied cautiously. “Then I will tell you if I have heard it.”

  “The King has dismissed Neckar!”

  “No!” I cried, unable to hide my surprise.

  “Yes,” he answered; “the banker is dismissed. In a week his States General or National Assembly, or whatever he pleases to call it, will go too, and we shall be where we were before. Only, in the meantime, and to strengthen the King in the wise course he is at last pursuing, we must show that we are alive. We must show our sympathy with him. We must act. We must protest.”

  “But, M. le Marquis,” I said, a little heated, perhaps, by the news, “are you sure that the people will quietly endure this? Never was so bitter a winter as last winter; never a worse harvest, or such pinching. On the top of these, their hopes have been raised, and their minds excited by the elections, and ——

  “Whom have we to thank for that?” he said, with a whimsical glance at me. “But, never fear, Vicomte; they will endure it. I know Paris; and I can assure you that it is not the Paris of the Fronde, though M. de Mirabeau would play the Retz. It is a peaceable, sensible Paris, and it will not rise. Except a bread riot or two, it has seen no rising to speak of for a century and a half: nothing that two companies of Swiss could not deal with as easily as D’Argenson cleared the Cour des Miracles. Believe me, there is no danger of that kind: with the least management, all will go well!”

  But his news had roused my antagonism. I found it more easy to resist him now.

  “I do not know,” I said coldly; “I do not think that the matter is so simple as you say. The King must have money, or be bankrupt; the people have no money to pay him. I do not see how things can go back to the old state.”

  M. de St. Alais looked at me with a gleam of anger in his eyes.

  “You mean, Vicomte,” he said, “that you do not wish them to go back?”

  “I mean that the old state was impossible,” I said stiffly. “It could not last. It cannot return.”

  For a moment he did not answer, and we stood confronting one another — he just without, I just within, the gateway — the cool foliage stretching over us, the dust and July sunshine in the road beyond him; and if my face reflected his, it was flushed, and set, and determined. But in a twinkling his changed; he broke into an easy, polite laugh, and shrugged his shoulders with a touch of contempt.

  “Well,” he said, “we will not argue; but I hope that you will sign. Think it over, M. le Vicomte, think it over. Because” — he paused, and looked at me gaily— “we do not know what may be depending upon it.”

  “That is a reason,” I answered quickly, “for thinking more before I ——

  “It is a reason for thinking more before you refuse,” he said, bowing very low, and this time without smiling. Then he turned to his horse, and his servant held the stirrup while he mounted. When he was in the saddle and had gathered up the reins, he bent his face to mine.

  “Of course,” he said, speaking in a low voice, and with a searching look at me, “a contract is a contract, M. le Vicomte; and the Montagues and Capulets, like your carcan, are out of date. But, all the same, we must go one way — comprenez-vous? — we must go one way — or separate! At least, I think so.”

  And nodding pleasantly, as if he had uttered in these words a compliment instead of a threat, he rode off; leaving me to stand and fret and fume, and finally to stride back under the trees with my thoughts in a whirl, and all my plans and hopes jarring one another in a petty copy of the confusion that that day prevailed, though I guessed it but dimly, from one end of France to the other.

  For I could not be blind to his meaning; nor ignorant that he had, no matter how politely, bidden me choose between the alliance with his family, which my father had arranged for me, and the political views in which my father had brought me up, and which a year’s
residence in England had not failed to strengthen. Alone in the Château since my father’s death, I had lived a good deal in the future — in day-dreams of Denise de St. Alais, the fair girl who was to be my wife, and whom I had not seen since she went to her convent school; in day-dreams, also, of work to be done in spreading round me the prosperity I had seen in England. Now, St. Alais’ words menaced one or other of these prospects; and that was bad enough. But, in truth, it was not that, so much as his presumption, that stung me; that made me swear one moment and laugh the next, in a kind of irritation not difficult to understand. I was twenty-two, he was twenty-seven; and he dictated to me! We were country bumpkins, he of the haute politique, and he had come from Versailles or from Paris to drill us! If I went his way I might marry his sister; if not, I might not! That was the position.

  No wonder that before he had left me half an hour I had made up my mind to resist him; and so spent the rest of the day composing sound and unanswerable reasons for the course I intended to take; now conning over a letter in which M. de Liancourt set forth his plan of reform, now summarising the opinions with which M. de Rochefoucauld had favoured me on his last journey to Luchon. In half an hour and the heat of temper! thinking no more than ten thousand others, who that week chose one of two courses, what I was doing. Gargouf, the St. Alais’ steward, who doubtless heard that day the news of Neckar’s fall, and rejoiced, had no foresight of what it meant to him. Father Benôit, the cure, who supped with me that evening, and heard the tidings with sorrow — he, too, had no special vision. And the innkeeper’s son at La Bastide, by Cahors — probably he, also, heard the news; but no shadow of a sceptre fell across his path, nor any of a bâton on that of the notary at the other La Bastide. A notary, a bâton! An innkeeper, a sceptre! Mon Dieu! what conjunctions they would have seemed in those days! We should have been wiser than Daniel, and more prudent than Joseph, if we had foreseen such things under the old régime — in the old France, in the old world, that died in that month of July, 1789!