THE DUC DE CHOISEUL’S RECEPTION
Choiseul’s position in the world was a doubly difficult one. He was
continually fighting for his life, and he had to conduct the battle in
a silk coat that must never be creased and ruffles that must ever be
immaculate. He had to parry dagger thrusts with a smile, kiss hands
whose owners he hated, laugh when most severely smitten and turn
defeats into epigrams.
The Comte de Stainville, now Duc de Choiseul, was well qualified,
however, by nature and by training for the difficult position that he
held.
The genius that had prompted him, when Comte de Stainville, to make an
ally of his enemy the Pompadour, did not desert him when, under the
title of Duc de Choiseul, he was created Prime Minister in 1758.
Choiseul was the man who almost averted the French Revolution. He was
the first of the real friends of Liberty not dressed as a Philosopher,
and the greatest Minister after Colbert. He had his littlenesses,
his weaknesses; he made great mistakes, allowed impulse to sway him
occasionally, and could be extremely pitiless on occasion. He did not
disdain to use the meanest weapons, yet he was great and far more human
than the majority of the men of his time, than Terray, or de Maupeou,
or de Sartines, or d’Aiguillon, or d’Argeson, more human even than
the men who were beginning to babble about Humanity. He did not write
“The Social Contract,” but he destroyed the tyranny of the Jesuits in
France. He did not profess to love his own family, but at least he did
not desert his own children after the fashion of M. Jean Jacques.
To-night, as he stood to receive his guests, he looked precisely the
same as on the last occasion, less than a week ago, when, standing in
his own house, he had received his guests with the certainty in his
mind that the Presentation would not take place. But he showed nothing
of his defeat.
De Sartines was among the first to arrive. As Minister of Police it
was his duty to guard the safety of the Prime Minister of France on
all occasions, and more especially at State functions, balls, and
receptions, even when these receptions, functions or balls took place
at the Minister’s own house.
There were always dangerous people ready for mischief—Damiens was an
example of that—lunatics and fanatics, and to-night, as usual, several
agents of the Hôtel de Sartines were among the servants of Choiseul and
indistinguishable from them. But to-night, for certain reasons, the
occasion was so especial that Lavenne was present, watchful, seeing all
things, but unseen, or rather unnoticed, by everyone.
Sartines passed with the first of the crowd into the great _salon_
where Madame de Choiseul was receiving. Here, when he had made his bow,
he found himself buttonholed by M. de Duras, the old gentleman who
knew everything about everyone and their affairs. The same, it will
be remembered, who had explained Camille Fontrailles to Camus on that
night of the ball.
“Ah, M. le Comte,” cried this purveyor of news,
“I thought I was too early, but now that I see you, I feel my position
more regular. I came here chiefly to-night to make sure that Madame la
Princesse de Guemenée was not present. You have heard the news? No?
Well, there has been a great quarrel. It is entirely between ourselves,
but the Princesse de Guemenée and Madame de Choiseul have quarrelled,
so much so that the Princesse has not been invited.”
“Indeed!” said de Sartines, “I have heard nothing of it.”
“All the same, it is a fact—and the fact is rather scandalous. It was
this way——”
“Madame la Princesse de Guemenée,” came the voice of the usher as the
Princesse, smiling, entered and made her bow to Madame de Choiseul.
“Yes,” said Sartines, “you were going to say?”
“Why, that is the lady herself. Yet the facts were given to me on
unimpeachable authority. They must have made the matter up between
them. _Ma foi_! women are adaptable creatures. One can never count on
them—as, for instance, the Dubarry. She is hand in glove with the
Choiseuls now, and that great fat Jean Dubarry swears by his friend
Choiseul; one might fancy them brothers to hear Jean talking, but I
would like to hear Choiseul’s view of the matter. Ah, there is Count
Camus, he seems quite recovered from the blow that M. de Rochefort gave
him—what an affair!—a fine, open-hearted man, Camus, and only for
that vile smallpox he would not be bad-looking, but beauty is only skin
deep and it is the man who counts after all. Have you heard the news
about Rochefort?”
“No,” said Sartines with a little start. “Have you heard anything
fresh?”
“Oh, _ma foi_! yes. He is in Germany. Managed to make his escape,
fool. I always said he would make a mess of his affairs, but I never
thought he would have gone the length he did.”
“Oh, in Germany, is he?” said Sartines, wishing sincerely that the news
was true.
“Yes. He made his escape from France in the disguise of a pedlar. I
had the news only yesterday. Ah, there is Mademoiselle Fontrailles,
with Mademoiselle Chon Dubarry and the Vicomte Jean. What did I tell
you? Hand in glove, hand in glove. She looks well, the Fontrailles.
Cold as an icicle, but beautiful. And they say she has a fortune of a
million francs. Why, there is Madame Camus, she has come with Madame
de Courcelles; and look at Camus, he seems to have no eyes but for his
wife.”
Sartines gazed in the direction of a group consisting of Camus, his
wife, Camille Fontrailles and Jean Dubarry. They were all laughing and
talking, and now, apropos of some remark, Camus, with a little bow,
took his wife’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. The others
laughed at the joke, whatever it was.
“Look,” said de Sartines, “what a charming husband. And yet it seemed
to me, for I have been watching them all since they came in, that
this charming husband slipped a little note behind his back to the
Fontrailles, and that she took it quite in the orthodox way—that is to
say, without being seen.”
“Except by you.”
“Except by me, but then, you see, I am the Minister of Police, and I
am supposed to see what other people do not see, and know what other
people do not know.” De Sartines, as he finished speaking, turned again
towards the group and contemplated them with a brooding eye, his hands
behind his back, and his lips slightly thrust out.
“But she can have no hopes, since Madame Camus is alive and, despite
her lameness, evidently in the best of health,” said M. de Duras.
“My dear fellow,” said de Sartines, “that is not a girl to build on
hopes. If she cares for Camus, as I believe she does, he has only to
wink and she will follow him. She is of that type. The type of the
perverse prude. The creature who would refuse herself to an honest man,
and yet is quite ready to roll in the gutter if the gutter pleases her.
Here has this one refused a man whom she might have made something
of—that is to say, Rochefort, and who has welcomed the advances of a
speckled toad—that is to say, Camus. You say Camus is an open-hearted
man, at least I fancy you made some curious remark of that sort; you
are wrong, just as wrong as when you said Madame de Guemenée had
quarrelled with Madame de Choiseul; just as wrong as when you said de
Rochefort was in Germany. M. de Rochefort is in Paris—and there he is
in the flesh.”
“Monsieur le Vicomte de Chartres. Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort,” came
the usher’s voice.
An earthquake would not have shaken de Choiseul more than that
announcement, and just as he would have remained unmoved after the
first shock of the earthquake, so did he now after the first shock of
the announcement.
Rochefort, accompanying Chartres, advanced a hair’s-breadth behind the
Vicomte, and with that half-smiling, easy grace which was one of his
attractions. He was beautifully dressed in a suit of Chartres’ which a
tailor had been half a day altering to suit his fastidious tastes. He
bowed to his hostess and host.
Had de Choiseul changed colour or expression, Rochefort would have
been far better pleased; but the Minister received him with absolute
courtesy, as though they had parted in friendship but a few hours
ago, and as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a
man against whom he had issued a warrant, and for whom he was hunting
throughout France, to appear as his guest. The appalling _sang-froid_
of de Choiseul, who would have suffered anything rather than that a
scene should be created in his house, disconcerted Rochefort. The idea
clutched his mind that he had taken another false step. He had come to
meet a man, he found himself face to face with etiquette. He had hoped,
by an explosion, to create the warmth that would lead to a mutual
understanding; he found no materials for an explosion—nothing but ice.
Against the faultless reception of de Choiseul, his intrusion now
seemed bad taste.
All this passed through his mind, leaving no trace, however, on his
manner or expression as he turned from his host and hostess and calmly
surveyed the people in his immediate neighbourhood.
Not a person present that was not filled with astonishment, yet not
a person betrayed his or her feelings. Rochefort had, then, made his
position good again, and Choiseul had invited him to his reception. How
had Rochefort worked this miracle? Impossible to say, yet there was the
fact, and if Choiseul was satisfied it was nobody’s business to grumble.
Camus was the most astonished of all, yet he said nothing, only turning
to the Vicomte Jean Dubarry with eyebrows lifted as though to say,
“Well, what do you think of that?”
Sartines alone knew the truth of the whole business and Sartines wished
himself well away, for he knew that Rochefort would come and speak to
him, Sartines—the man who ought to take M. de Rochefort by the arm and
lead him out to arrest, an action that would have pleased his vexed
soul, and which he would promptly have taken were it not impossible.
To arrest Rochefort now would mean simply to hand him over to the
agents of Choiseul, to be questioned and to reveal to them everything
he knew. He would sacrifice the Dubarrys most certainly rather than
suffer for them, that was patently apparent now, for Rochefort, passing
the Dubarry group, turned on Mademoiselle Fontrailles, on Chon, on Jean
Dubarry and on Camus, a glance in which hatred was half veiled and
contempt clearly manifested.
And the group did not fail to respond.
On the way towards Sartines, Rochefort was stopped by M. de Duras.
“Why, M. de Rochefort,” said the old gentleman, “this is an unexpected
pleasure.”
“Which, monsieur?”
“Why, to meet you here to-night.”
“Well, M. de Duras, unexpected pleasures are always the sweetest; but
why should the pleasure be unexpected?”
“Why——?” stammered the old fellow—“Well, monsieur, it was rumoured
that you were in Germany.”
“Ah! it was rumoured that I was in Germany—well, Rumour has told a lie
for the first time. Ah, Sartines, you see I have kept my promise; how
are you this evening—charmingly, I hope?”
Rochefort had recovered his spirits. The sight of Camus, the
Fontrailles, Chon, and Jean Dubarry all in one group laughing and
talking together, had clinched the business with him and given the
last blow to his half-dead passion for Camille Fontrailles. But a dead
passion makes fine combustible material when it is bound together
with wounded pride. This dead passion of Rochefort’s burst into flame
like a lit tar-barrel, and his anger against the Dubarry group became
furiously alive and the next worse thing to hatred.
“Hush, my dear fellow,” said de Sartines, drawing him aside. “I do not
know what has driven you to this mad act, but at least remember that
I am your friend. You have kept no promise to me. I could not help
receiving your letter; had I been in communication with you, I would
have been the first to warn you against what you have done.”
“And you know perfectly well,” replied Rochefort, “that I have never
taken warnings—or at least only once, when I was foolish enough to
take a cell in that rat-haunted old barrack of Vincennes at your
advice, instead of facing Choiseul like a man.”
“Facing Choiseul like a man! And what do you expect from that?”
“I expect that he will listen to reason, hear my story, which I would
have told him had he not tried to arrest me as I was just starting to
Paris to keep an appointment, and release me.”
“You do not know Choiseul.”
“Excuse me, but I believe I do. He is a gentleman, he knows that I am a
gentleman and he will take my word.”
“Choiseul will have you arrested the instant you leave this hôtel. He
would arrest you now only he does not wish to make a scene.”
“I am going to explain to him.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“And how are you going to obtain an interview with him?”
“You must do that for me.”
“I?”
“Yes, you are the proper person. Go to him and say, ‘Rochefort wishes
to speak to you on a matter of great importance.’ You can say to him
also if you like, ‘He asked me to say that he came here to-night
not as your guest, but as a gentleman who has been lied against and
misunderstood and who wishes to lay his case before the first gentleman
in France, after his Majesty.’”
“Words, words,” said Sartines. “He will crumple them up and fling them
in your face.”
“He will not. Choiseul is a gentleman and will listen to me.”
“Ay, he will listen to you—you are like a child with your talk of
‘gentleman—gentleman.’ However, you are not quite lost. You had a
letter of Choiseul’s.”
“I?”
“Yes, you took it from the saddle-bag of a horse.”
“Oh, that!”
“Yes. Well, I have that letter in my pocket.”
“How did you get it?”
“You gave it to a girl—like a fool—to send back to Choiseul, and the
girl, who seems to have cared for you a lot, opened it.”
“Ah, Javotte! Little meddler——”
“Read it.”
“Yes—yes!”
“And found that it was a—what shall I say?—a revelation of how
Choiseul had plotted against the Dubarry and a libel on his Majesty.
It was written in a moment of anger, it was one of the false steps men
make who have not control of their temper. With this letter in your
hand you are safe from Choiseul. He, of course, knows that the thing
was taken from the saddle-bag of the horse, but I doubt if he suspects
you as having taken it, simply because in the ordinary course you would
have used it against him before this.”
“How did you get this letter?”
“The girl gave it to my agent, Lavenne, making him promise that it was
to be used only for your protection. Now we have some honour amongst
us at the Hôtel de Sartines, otherwise this—um—treasonable document
would have been laid by this before his Majesty for the good of the
State. Lavenne, to-night, knowing that you would be here, gave it to me
to give to you.”
“Let me have it.”
“Come into this corridor, then.”
Sartines led the way between two curtains into a corridor giving
entrance to the _salon_ where to-night refreshments were being served.
He handed the letter to Rochefort, who hastily put it in his pocket.
“Thanks,” said Rochefort. “This will make the matter easier for me. Or
at least it will serve as an introduction to our business. And now,
like a good fellow, obtain for me my interview with Choiseul.”
They went back against a tide of people setting in the direction of the
room where the buffet was laid out and where little tables were set
about for the guests.
Rochefort waited in a corridor whilst Sartines advanced towards
Choiseul and buttonholed him.