PLAY AND POLITICS
“Ces hommes étaient doués d’une étrange souplesse vitale: pour eux
l’apprentissage avait été nul, et la tache fut terrible. Au cours de
la tempête révolutionnaire, ils firent preuve d’un courage, d’une
fierté, d’un stoicisme qu’on s’étonne de rencontrer chez des hommes
qu’une existence frivole n’avait préparé qu’au plaisir et à la
mollesse.”
—G. LENOTRE, _Le Marquis de la Rouërie_.
Eight o’clock had just struck from the great timepiece whose dial had
the privilege of being upheld in the arms of two hooped and painted
china shepherdesses. The dying daylight fought a losing fight with the
host of candles in the large, well-furnished room. These stood on half
a dozen tables, where they lit up the players’ faces and their gold,
and from their silver sconces on the walls they chiefly joined issue
with the few shafts of daylight slipping between the heavy window
curtains. Behind those same curtains lay, shut out from view alone,
the turmoil of the Rue Saint-Honoré. It must be confessed that, if
this was loud, it was occasionally equalled by the noise within the
room itself, when a group of talkers burst into laughter over an
anecdote, or an unlucky player declared with vehemence, and amid
expostulation, that he would stake no more.
There was no woman present, and the general appearance of the room and
the occupation of its inmates might have led to the supposition that
it existed for the sole purpose of gambling. Nevertheless, it was
really an apartment in a private house, and, as such, it testified
merely to the Comte de Larny’s method of entertaining his friends.
Were the monarchy going swiftly to perdition, and its supporters
involved in the same downfall, the latter must amuse themselves; and
if the host and every one of his guests knew that each card-party
might be his last, the knowledge apparently added zest to the game.
The gathering numbered scarcely a score. Amongst it were visible a few
black figures, those of the _noirs_, the _aristocrates enragés_, who
affected to wear mourning for the monarchy which they considered—and
very truly—to have breathed its last when its holder was brought from
Versailles. The greater number, however, wore a less sombre style of
dress, and several were in uniform. This was, like Coblentz, the camp
of ultra-Royalism, the last stronghold of a loyalty pushed to the
point of fanaticism, where the champions of a lost cause brought to
its defence a zeal far more ardent than their leader’s own. Leader,
indeed, the King was not; his name served as a rallying-cry, his
person as a symbol, but the passive and patient Louis XVI. was neither
chief nor divinity to these his most fervent partisans. They were all
of them very literally _plus royalistes que le roi_. For them the King
was almost a traitor to himself. He had stripped himself of what he
had no right to lay aside, but above him still burnt the throne from
which he had been dragged, and it was on the steps of that desecrated
altar that their lives were offered up. They were many of them young,
and most of them doomed; they were gay with a gaiety which was
spontaneous if it was extravagant, and brave with a courage no less
real for its utter futility. And if the stake for which they played
was the existence and the privileges of their own order as well as
those of their King, if they sometimes condemned the sovereign in
whose name they held the dice, if they cast the last throws with
defiant recklessness, theirs was none the less a tragic and a
desperate devotion. But certainly none of the company seemed in the
slightest degree conscious of this. They talked, they laughed, they
lost or won; and the Comte de Larny, who prided himself on his
personal resemblance to the King, went round the room at intervals,
exchanging a jest with the talkers and bestowing an occasional word of
advice on a player if he overlooked his cards.
The table nearest to the door was unoccupied, but round that beyond it
sat four gentlemen playing quadrille. One of them was a _noir_, whose
peculiarly cadaverous appearance was heightened by his black dress.
He had on his right a Chevalier de Saint Louis, and on his left a
personage, no longer young, whose dark features bore the stamp of
mingled sensuality and cynicism.
The fourth player was a young man of exceptional good looks, wearing
the somewhat extravagantly cut fashions of 1792, but with no trace of
the amazing war of colours by which the young bloods of the Court
party usually protested against the levelling tendencies of Jacobinism
in sartorial as in other matters. The protest, however, was visible
enough in the striped pearl-grey satin which glimmered upon his
handsome person, and in his carefully dressed and powdered hair,
becoming unmistakable in the silver buttons with the fleur-de-lys,
which testified to his political opinions in a manner more courageous
than prudent. A half-amused expression seemed habitual to him, and he
staked with great nonchalance from a rapidly diminishing heap of coins
in front of him. Eyes of the darkest grey, a straight nose neither
long nor short, and an unusually well-turned mouth and chin made up a
face instinct with life and vivacity. The eyes had that rare setting
so full of charm, when the outer corner is at a slightly lower level
than the inner—the slope which stamps a face sometimes with hauteur,
sometimes with dreaminess, but always with a nameless fascination. In
the present case it seemed impossible that melancholy should sit
there; the glance was too direct and keen, too little likely to
be veiled in introspection—a look at once indolent and daring.
Despite their beauty and their delicacy, the features were scarcely
effeminate. They were those of a man who could at need both think and
act; and yet there were strong indications that the hour for either
necessity was never a very welcome one. An inborn airy gaiety, an
almost ardent carelessness reigned in them at present, and by too
clear a natural tenure ever to be wholly dethroned.
A diamond sparkled on one of his hands as, tilting back his
spindle-legged chair, the young man clasped them at the back of his
head, looking with a smile and a raising of the eyebrows at his
partner, the _noir_. The smile was a very charming one.
“We have no luck to-night, it seems,” he remarked, as the Chevalier de
Saint Louis raked in the gains. “I should advise you to change your
partner, Comte.”
The melancholy _noir_ shook his head. “I could not find a better loser
to bear me company,” he said with courtesy, “and if you will honour me
so far, I should like to continue our alliance.”
“It is I who am honoured,” replied the young man, bringing back his
chair to its normal position; “but I hope that our opponents will not
object to my making sure that I am still solvent. I confess that I
feel somewhat doubtful on the point.” He laughed, plunged a hand into
his breeches pocket, and pulled out five louis d’or.
“Then we shall make your pockets as empty as Vergniaud’s last speech,”
said the Chevalier de Saint Louis, with the air of one contributing a
witty remark.
But his partner was recounting his gains, the _noir_ was dealing very
slowly and methodically, and the player in grey, with his hands in his
depleted pockets, was looking a little abstractedly round the room.
“A thousand pardons!” he exclaimed, as the Chevalier touched his arm;
“I did not know that you were ready. Is it my turn to stake?”
The _noir_ nodded, and the possessor of five louis pushed three of
them towards the centre of the table. The slim hand, however, never
reached the little rosewood centre of its goal, for it was arrested by
the sudden opening of the heavily gilded folding-door.
“Monsieur le Marquis de Château-Foix!” announced the strident voice of
a lackey.
The arrival sufficed to divert most people’s attention. As for the
_noir’s_ partner, he had sprung to his feet, upsetting his chair, his
gaze riveted upon the newcomer. “Gilbert! as I live!” he exclaimed in
accents of the profoundest astonishment.
For the handsome player in grey was no other than Louis-Adrien-Marie-Hyacinthe
de Chantemerle, Vicomte de Saint-Ermay, and a visitor from the shades
could not have surprised him more.
For a moment the Marquis stood on the threshold, a tall dark
figure, glancing swiftly round the company with an air of quiet
self-possession. Then he moved forward to take the outstretched hand
of the Comte de Larny, who had hurried from the other side of the
room.
“This is indeed a surprise,” said the latter—“and a pleasure!” he
hastened to add with effusion. The Marquis bowed slightly. He was
perfectly aware of the falsity of the last statement. No one of his
Liberal views was likely to be popular in the present assembly—nay,
would probably be regarded as something worse than a Jacobin. Since M.
de Larny was also aware of this fact, his usually suave manner became
a little flustered, but, as he had every wish to be polite to the
cousin of his kinsman Saint-Ermay, he caught hold of the two nearest
guests and presented them to the newcomer.
By this time the Vicomte had definitely abandoned his game (which at
one moment he had seemed to have a wish to continue) and had advanced
to greet his cousin. The Marquis was exchanging civilities with an
acquaintance, but as the young man approached he broke off, and held
out his hand with a smile. “I want a word or two with you presently,
Louis,” he said carelessly, and resumed his conversation.
The Vicomte de Saint-Ermay nodded rather disconsolately, and strolled
back to his fellow-players. But they had broken up and the table was
deserted. He threw himself down in his former chair, crossed his
legs, put an elbow on the table, and waited. He was not sure that
he was glad to see his cousin in the present company. In spite of
temperamental gulfs, there subsisted between them a very sincere if
limited affection, and he knew how far from friendly to the Marquis
were the dispositions of most present. And though he permitted himself
free criticism, not to say mockery, of his kinsman’s views and
actions, he very rarely indulged in it except to Gilbert’s face, and
at no time encouraged it in others. The smiles and glances around him
were therefore highly galling to the feeling of mingled affection,
amusement, and family pride with which he regarded Château-Foix.
“You appear to be sulking, Saint-Ermay,” said a voice suddenly behind
him. “Can it be that you are bankrupt?” And the speaker, a young
exquisite like himself, powdered and point-devise, but lacking his
own good looks, perched himself on the table and leant towards him.
“Are your pockets quite empty?”
“Very nearly,” responded the Vicomte, with a shrug. “You are in the
same condition yourself, I expect, De Périgny, if what I hear is true.
But if you think I was sulking (which I was not), favour me with a
little of your conversation.”
“I see—I am to enact David before Saul,” retorted the newcomer,
slipping off the table. “Or rather, since I find myself so scriptural,
I fancy that it is a case of ‘Occupy till I come.’” He punctuated his
remark with a glance at the other side of the room, where Château-Foix
was visible in conversation. “Monsieur le Cousin will want a word with
you presently, I suspect.”
“I suppose so,” said Saint-Ermay resignedly. “Meanwhile you can tell
me all you know about the Lafayette affair. The accounts are so
confoundedly conflicting.”
For answer his companion hailed a passing friend. “We want news of
General Morpheus,” he called out. “D’Aubeville, you will know. Has he
gone back to his army—is he going back at all? Has the Assembly hanged
him or the National Guard made him dictator?”
The young man addressed shook his head, and a smile flickered for an
instant over his kindly and melancholy visage. “I am probably little
wiser than you, gentlemen. You know that their Majesties received the
Marquis very coldly the day before yesterday, and that the Queen is
reported to have said that she would rather perish than be saved by
Lafayette.”
“Wherein I applaud her,” observed the Comte de Périgny.
“He could have closed the Jacobins that day, for most of the National
Guard were eager to do so. But he dismissed them, and lost his chance,
for at the review which he held yesterday in the Champs Elysées only a
hundred or so put in an appearance.”
The others laughed, for they were emphatically of the Queen’s opinion.
“So the hero has gone back to his camp with his tail between his
legs?” asked M. de Périgny amiably. “I only regret that Guadet’s vote
of censure on him for leaving it was lost.”
“Yes; he went back this morning,” answered D’Aubeville gravely. “His
life would probably not have been safe in Paris a day longer—so much
has his coming excited and alarmed the Jacobins and Orleanists.”
“Then we shall see him burnt in effigy yet,” remarked De Périgny with
satisfaction.
“Ma foi, that would be something to live for!” exclaimed Louis de
Chantemerle. “We will all go and dance round the pile.”
“Too late, Messieurs,” interposed a fourth young man, stopping as he
passed. “I have just come through the Palais-Royal, and there was M.
Marie-Jean-Paul-Roch-Yves-Gilbert du Mottier blazing away merrily in
the middle of the garden.”
“I suspect your cousin does not share your views on bonfires,
Saint-Ermay,” put in D’Aubeville quietly. “Look at old Du Mesnou’s
long face; M. de Château-Foix is probably telling him that he
considers Lafayette the one man who could have saved us.”
“My cousin,” said the Vicomte ruefully, “has the misfortune to possess
the same Christian name as General Morpheus—a fact of which you have
just reminded me, M. de Monroux. Perhaps that accounts for it.”
“Honneur à Lafayette,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,”
hummed the Comte de Périgny, and continued:
“Sa tête est toujours nette
Car il ne pense à rien;
Aussi dort-il fort bien.”
Louis knitted his brows. “I have never been able to arrive at a clear
comprehension of my cousin’s creed,” he said. “I know that it leads
him to the erection of model pig-styes for his tenantry, and all that
sort of thing; but disobey his orders, and see what happens! The
pig-styes have not altered a jot of his authority down there, and as
for his politics, I have my suspicions that his views are changing. A
few days in Paris will change them still more. And after all,” he
concluded lightly, “these things are freaks; one has generally to put
up with something of the kind in one’s relations.”
“One has,” assented D’Aubeville. “Sometimes one has to put up with
them in oneself.”
“I had a great-aunt,” observed the Comte de Périgny sympathetically,
“who always wanted to be kind to parrots. She thought they were
unhappy in cages, and bought up all she could find, and had them loose
in her house—one of those old houses in the Marais. It was as much
as one’s life was worth to go in. But she meant well, you know; and
I expect it is much the same with Monsieur le Marquis. Only, of
course, people who do not understand take these things seriously,
and you cannot be surprised if they class your cousin with the La
Rochefoucauld and the rest of that crew.”
“At any rate, he is with us in heart, whether he knows it or not,”
muttered Saint-Ermay a trifle moodily. And having uttered this
apologia for his erring kinsman, the young Royalist abruptly excused
himself and crossed the room towards him.
His friends looked after him.
“Saint-Ermay is always _bon enfant_,” remarked D’Aubeville reflectively,
“but I fancy he is not disposed to welcome his cousin’s visit with
enthusiasm.”
“But, parbleu, it must be trying to have a near relative with Jacobin
views,” suggested the latest comer; “especially when one is so devoted
a Royalist as Monsieur le Vicomte.”
“Good heavens, man, M. de Château-Foix is not a Jacobin!” cried De
Périgny, shocked. “He’s only one of those Liberal and constitutional
people.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said D’Aubeville with unusual emphasis.
“_Le beau_ Saint-Ermay is losing his head over . . . a certain
Royalist widow, now Girondin in her tastes and . . . alliances!”
Octave de Périgny laughed. “_Le beau_ Saint-Ermay lose his head! Not
in the figurative sense! He is only amusing himself with that lady,
and Madame d’Espaze knows it. They both understand the game.”
“H’m!” said D’Aubeville meditatively, “I have not been feeling so
sure. I almost thought the butterfly was caught at last.”
“Had you known Saint-Ermay as long as I have,” returned De Périgny,
smiling, “you would have thought that so often that you would have
learned to distrust your own opinion on the matter. Though even I
believed that last winter——”
“What? What?” cried his auditors in a breath.
The Comte de Périgny hesitated. “Considering who is present,” he
observed with a significant glance, “I should be indiscreet if I
finished the sentence. And, at any rate, I was wrong, for it never
came to anything.”
“A good thing for all concerned,” observed D’Aubeville drily.