Bewildered, almost as much as on the former occasion, by all the
splendors of Versailles, which this evening was not empty, the
chevalier walked in the great gallery, looking on every side and doing
all he could to learn why he was there; but nobody seemed to think of
accosting him. At the end of an hour he became wearied and was about
to leave, when two masks, exactly alike, seated on a bench, stopped him
on his way. One of them took aim at him with her finger as if with a
pistol; the other rose and went to him:
“It appears, monsieur,” said the mask, carelessly taking his arm, “that
you are on very good terms with our marquise.”
“I beg your pardon, madame, but of whom are you speaking?”
“You know well enough.”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Oh! but indeed you do.”
“Not at all.”
“All the court knows it.”
“I do not belong to the court.”
“You are playing the child. I tell you it is well known!”
“That may be, madame, but I am ignorant of it.”
“You are not ignorant, however, of the fact that the day before
yesterday a page fell from his horse at the gate of Trianon. Were you
not there by chance?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Did you not help him to rise?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And did not you enter the château?”
“Certainly.”
“And was not a paper given to you?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And did you not take it to the King?”
“Assuredly.”
“The King was not at Trianon; he was hunting; the marquise was
alone--is not that so?”
“Yes, madame.”
“She had just risen; she was scarcely clad, excepting, as it is
rumored, in a wide dressing-gown.”
“People whom one can not prevent from speaking tell all that runs
through their heads.”
“That is all well enough, but it appears that there passed between your
eyes and hers a look which did not offend her.”
“What do you mean by that, madame?”
“That you did not displease her.”
“I know nothing about that, and I should be distressed that such sweet
and rare good-will, which I did not expect, and which touched me to the
bottom of my heart, should give occasion to any idle speeches.”
“You take fire too quickly, chevalier; one would think that you were
challenging the whole court; you would never succeed in killing so many
people.”
“But, madame, if the page fell, and if I carried his message--allow me
to ask you why I am interrogated.”
The mask pressed his arm and said to him:
“Listen, monsieur.”
“As much as you please, madame.”
“This is what we are thinking about now: The King no longer loves the
marquise, and nobody believes that he ever loved her. She has just
committed an imprudence; she has set the whole Parliament against her
with her ‘two sous’ tax, and to-day she dares attack a far greater
power--the Society of Jesuits. She will fail, but she has weapons, and,
before perishing, she will defend herself.”
“Well, madame, what can I do?”
“I will tell you. M. de Choiseul has half quarreled with M. de Bernis;
neither of them is sure what it is he would like to attempt. Bernis is
going away; Choiseul will take his place. A word from you can decide
it.”
“In what way, madame, pray?”
“By allowing your story of the other day to be told.”
“What earthly connection can there be between my visit, the Jesuits,
and the Parliament?”
“Write me one word and the marquise is lost. And do not doubt that the
warmest interest, the most complete gratitude--”
“I humbly beg your pardon again, madame, but what you are asking of me
would be an act of cowardice.”
“Is there any honor in politics?”
“I know nothing of all that. Madame de Pompadour let her fan fall
before me; I picked it up; I gave it back to her; she thanked me; she
permitted me with that peculiar grace of hers to thank her in my turn.”
“A truce to ceremonies: time flies; my name is the Countess d’Estrades;
you love Mademoiselle d’Annebault, my niece; do not say no, it is
useless. You are seeking a cornetcy; you shall have it to-morrow, and
if you care for Athénaïs you will soon be my nephew.”
“Ah! madame, what excess of goodness!”
“But you must speak.”
“No, madame.”
“I have been told that you love that little girl.”
“As much as it is possible to love; but if ever my love is to declare
itself in her presence my honor must also be there.”
“You are very obstinate, chevalier! Is that your final reply?”
“It is the last, as it was the first.”
“You refuse to enter the Guards? You refuse the hand of my niece?”
“Yes, madame, if that be the price.”
Madame d’Estrades cast upon the chevalier a piercing look, full of
curiosity; then seeing in his face no sign of hesitation she slowly
walked away, losing herself in the crowd.
The chevalier, unable to make anything of this singular adventure, went
and sat down in a corner of the gallery.
“What does that woman mean to do?” said he to himself. “She must be a
little mad. She wishes to upset the state by means of a silly calumny,
and she proposes to me that in order to merit the hand of her niece I
should dishonor myself. But Athénaïs would no longer care for me, or,
if she lent herself to such an intrigue, I would no longer care for
her. What! Strive to harm this good marquise, to defame her, to blacken
her character. Never! no, never!”
Always intent upon his own thoughts, the chevalier very probably would
have risen and spoken aloud, but just then a small rosy finger touched
him on the shoulder.
He raised his eyes and saw before him the pair of masks who had stopped
him.
“You do not wish to help us a little then?” said one of the masks,
disguising her voice. But although the two costumes were exactly alike,
and all seemed calculated to mislead, the chevalier was not deceived.
Neither the look nor the tone was the same.
“Will you answer, sir?”
“No, madame.”
“Will you write?”
“Neither will I write.”
“It is true that you are obstinate. Good-night, lieutenant.”
“What do you say, madame?”
“There is your commission and your marriage contract.” And she threw
the fan to him.
It was the one which the chevalier had already twice picked up. The
little cupids of Boucher sported on the parchment of the gilded
mother-of-pearl masterpiece. There was no longer any doubt; it was the
fan of Madame de Pompadour.
“Heavens! Marquise, is it possible?”
“Very possible,” said she, raising the little piece of black veil on
her chin.
“I know, madame, how to answer--”
“It is not necessary. You are a loyal gentleman, and we shall see each
other again, for we are to be in the same house. The King has placed
you in the ‘cornette blanche.’ Remember that for a petitioner there is
no greater eloquence than to know how to be silent if need be--”
“And forgive us,” added she, laughing as she ran away, “if before
bestowing upon you our niece’s hand, we thought it expedient to find
out your true worth.”[9]