THE KING’S HANDKERCHIEF
IN December the Duchesse de Châteauroux, the _maîtresse en titre_ of
the King of France, had died, some said of poison, some of a broken
heart at her treatment at Metz when she had been driven by her enemies
from the sick King’s bedside and from the Court, a few because she
had caught a chill and even _maîtresses en titre_ were mortal. Would
Louis select another lady to take her place? Who would she be? That was
the question. France was at war--that dreary war called in the books
the “War of the Austrian Succession”--and this spring--1745--under
the Maréchal de Saxe, (the son of a king and Aurora von Konigsmarck,
himself the idol of women of quality as he had been the idol of
Adrienne Lecouvreur) great efforts were to be made to drive from the
Low Countries the red-coated English and white-coated Austrians, to
win for the Fleurs-de-Lis the boundaries that, since the days of Henri
IV., God, nature, and French genius had destined to be French. Was not
Louis, _Le Bien Aimé_, himself going to the campaign with the flower
of his nobility and with his son and heir? Yes, surely great things
would be accomplished before the September winds shook the apples off
the trees in the orchards of Normandy or they trod the wine-vats on the
sun-clad slopes of Gascony. Paris was in a fever of excitement; the
Court was still _en fête_ for the marriage of Monsieur le Dauphin to a
Saxon princess. But would there be a successor to the hapless Duchesse
de Châteauroux? That was the only question about which the Paris that
counted really cared.
André of course went to tell St. Benôit how he had won his bet, and he
found him gossiping in the salon of the Comtesse des Forges.
“The King has already chosen,” Madame remarked, fanning herself
placidly. “But Monseigneur the Archbishop and the royal confessor are
still able to work on his remorse, so for the present His Majesty
affects to play at being a _dévot_.”
“I don’t believe it,” St. Benôit retorted. “The King will be a _dévot_
for one day in the week and a lover for the other six, as all kings of
France and their subjects, too, ought to be. Naturally he does not wish
to shock Madame la Dauphine, but wait till the campaign is over; Mars
will give way to Venus, and then we shall have one of the De Nesles
back again.”
Whereat Madame lifted her heavy-lidded eyes, of which she was so proud,
and said contemptuously, “Pooh!”
“I have won the wager,” André interposed, “and I will undertake to win
another. I will bet that it will not be a De Nesles, but a _bourgeoise_
that the King will select.”
“Impossible!” both St. Benôit and Madame cried, genuinely shocked.
“A _bourgeoise_ at Versailles! It would be a scandal, unheard of,
monstrous, not to be tolerated.”
But André only smiled, and press him as they might he refused to say
more.
“Well,” said the Comtesse, “if you will go to-night, my dear De Nérac,
to the ball at the Hôtel-de-Ville you will learn whether I am not
right.” And after André had taken his leave she turned to St. Benôit,
with genuine concern. “England,” she said, “has demoralised our dear
friend. The English have made him incredibly vulgar. As if the King
of France would so far forget himself or be so impertinent to us as
to introduce into our Versailles a _bourgeoise_. There would be a
revolution.”
“I can see you, Madame,” he answered, “giving the lady her footstool.”
He kneeled mockingly at her feet. “God bless my soul! you might as
well expect me to kiss the hand of your _fille de chambre_. André was
joking; he knows if the King were to bring her to Court she would not
stay a week.”
“A week!” Madame threw up her noble head. “Not twenty-four hours.”
But André, who had heard the crystal’s story, had his good reasons.
Already fertile schemes were fermenting in his brain; his ambition,
too, was daily soaring upwards, and he dimly guessed that in this
strange circling of Fortune’s wheel the opportunity for which he
thirsted would at last come. And so like the rest of the gay world he
went that night to the grand ball given by the municipality of Paris at
the Hôtel-de-Ville in honour of the marriage of the Dauphin; for the
King had promised to be present, and it was to be one of those rare
occasions when the _noblesse_ had consented to rub shoulders with the
middle class in doing honour to the royal bride and bridegroom. Coming
events were in the air. André felt, though why he could not say, that
to-night would somehow prove a decisive turning-point in the history of
himself and of France.
For the purpose of dancing, the court of the Hôtel-de-Ville had been
converted into a ballroom, superbly festooned and illuminated, and
the crowd that had gathered was immense. Nobles of the realm, great
ladies, peers, peeresses, and the Court here jostled in the wildest
confusion with the gentlemen of the robe, with aldermen, shopkeepers,
and even flower girls and the _danseuses_ of the royal ballet. The
company was supposed to be masked, but many had already discarded the
flimsy covering; and for all who still wore it the disguise was the
merest affectation. Most of the ladies of the middle class had donned
fancy attire, but the _noblesse_ for the most part showed their quality
by refusing to imitate the _canaille_. André of course was content
with his uniform of the Chevau-légers de la Garde, that beautiful and
famous livery of scarlet with white facings, silver buttons, spurs of
gold, and hat with white plumes which in itself conferred an enviable
distinction, and about his neck, more proudly still, he carried that
Croix de St. Louis, whose possession sufficed to make any soldier happy.
For a few minutes he stood gazing at the brilliant spectacle presented
by the moving throng,--one vast arena of human beings in which the
uniforms, the stars and ribbons, the jewels, the bright eyes, and
the fair shoulders were blended into a magic and inspiring panorama,
over which floated the tender music of harp, violin, and flute. And
as he moved slowly forward kissing noble hands, receiving gentle
congratulations, or looking into eyes to which in past days he had
whispered devotion in the Œil de Bœuf or beneath the balmy fragrance
of a _fête champêtre_ at Rambouillet his ambition soared still higher.
But dance he would not; he had come to watch, to teach, and to learn.
The Chevalier to his joy was not here; he had been despatched, André
discovered with grim satisfaction, on special business of the King. But
yonder was Denise, holding a miniature court. As André edged his way
towards her, her glance fell on the familiar uniform, and it plainly
said: “Here at least let us forget the past--I have forgiven you--come
let us be friends as we were before.” And André replied to her graceful
reverence with his stiffest bow, as he had deliberately come to do, and
then moved slowly off, but not before he had marked with a lover’s joy
the pained surprise in Denise’s eyes, the angry flush that coloured her
cheek. But the lesson must be completed. A partner must be found and at
once. He paused--looked about him--started.
“You, Madame!” he ejaculated, checking his astonishment, for Denise was
watching him.
“I, Monsieur le Vicomte,” was the serene reply. “This is more fun than
spelling the truth from a crystal,” and she laughed wickedly.
Yes, it was indeed the wise woman from “The Cock with the Spurs of
Gold,” wearing her diamond cross and dressed in adorably pale blue
satin, just such a colour as her eyes covered by the pale blue mask.
Strangest of all, André felt at that moment there was not a woman in
all this throng who carried herself with more of the true air of the
_noblesse_ than did this young sorceress, who plied a charlatan’s trade
for hire.
“The Vicomte looks to-night as the Vicomte de Nérac should,” she
remarked quietly. “But is it my presence here or is it my perfume that
perplexes you?”
And André started again at her unerring divination.
“Surely it is very simple,” she proceeded. “Recall, if you please, a
supper party in London--the perfume was there then--now it is here.
That is all.”
“What?” He stopped in sheer amazement. “You are that--that woman?”
“Certainly. The same, only a trifle disguised. In London I was dark, in
Paris I am fair, because,” she shrugged her shoulders, “I love change
and I hate being recognised unless I choose. You will not betray my
secret, will you?”
“No. But why are you in Paris?”
“Women like myself,” she answered cynically, “are always dying of
_ennui_, and I was born a Parisienne. Can a Parisienne live without
Paris? Well, I cannot. London, _mon Dieu!_ Those suffocating English!
They make love as they eat beef and drink beer. Their women are prudes,
their men heavy as bull-dogs made of lead. London is a _ville de
province_--no wit, no ideas, no life. Here,” she pointed with her fan,
“it is far different. Where will you find the like of that for gaiety
of heart, and sparkle of the soul? It is the city of breeding, of
philosophers, of poets, of chivalry, and of lovers. Why, that grisette
over there can be more _spirituelle_ than an Englishman of genius. And
when even the lovers who make love with ardour and in couplets that
sing of themselves become annoying I go elsewhere.”
André listened with a puzzled delight. It was not the perfume--it was
the mystery that enveloped her which kept him silent. Something in her
voice, her manner, reminded him in the most tantalising way of somebody
else and for the life of him he could not think who that somebody was.
“No,” she replied to his invitation, “I will not disgrace you by
dancing--you the Vicomte de Nérac and I--” she smiled. “Besides you
have seen me dance in the only kind of dancing that I care about. But
see,” she added, dropping her voice, “do you not recognise a friend,
perhaps a partner? Is she not charming--conquering and to conquer?”
“Name of a dog!” he ejaculated.
Away at the other end of the ballroom was a raised dais on which was
gathered a bevy of the fairest of the _bourgeoisie_. One of them,
escorted by three or four gentlemen, was descending the stairs into the
throng--a woman in the guise of Diana, clad in the airiest, gauziest,
purest white, with a silver bow in her hand and a quiver on her
shoulder and a jewelled half-moon in her powdered hair. It was--yes, it
was--the fair huntress of the woods of Versailles, to-night a matchless
spectacle of majestic beauty which rippled over into the gayest, most
provocative coquetry imaginable--Juno and Venus and Diana in one and
defying you to say which was the more divine. And that cunningly
arranged robe of glittering white, with its artful jewels to suggest
every curve and line, was just what witchery would have chosen to be
the foil to the laughter of her eyes and the subtle sheen of her skin.
What other woman could have worn it? But for the one who dared, it was
the homage of a woman’s art to the triumph of nature’s womanhood.
André watched her with absorbing interest. Fate had ordained that this
woman’s ambitions should be bound up with his. But how? how?
“She has a mind,” his companion was saying, “as well as
incomparable beauty. That Abbé at her elbow is Monsieur de Bernis, a
poverty-stricken poet who writes her love-letters for her, whom she
will make great some day, perhaps, and if Monsieur de Voltaire cared as
much for balls as for the muses, he, too, would be snarling his honeyed
venom in her ear. She can act and dance and sing. She will not always
be Madame d’Étiolles.”
The plans of years were sweeping through André’s brain. What if the
crystal--the thought was cut short by a stately flourish of trumpets
and the loud hum of applause.
“See,” the sorceress whispered, “the King has arrived.”
Men and women pressed to the entrance and then fell back--on all sides
the lowliest reverences. The King, the master of France, had entered
and was facing the crowd. And a truly royal figure he made in his
splendid dress, for Louis XV. knew how to present himself as a worthy
grandson of the Sun God who had created Versailles and made monarchy
in Europe sublime: the pose of his handsome head, the dignity of his
carriage, the matchless air of command that conveyed an air of majesty
such as could only belong to one whose wish since boyhood was law,
whose words were orders, whose will was the inspiration of a nation.
And when you marked that faint mysterious smile, those blue eyes
delicately dull, was he not just like his grandfather, indefinable
and impenetrable? What was the real man concealed behind that regal
presence? What were the real thoughts masked by that gaze, slightly
bored yet caressing and sweet?
“You do not like the King?” André asked quickly, for he had caught
behind the pale blue mask a swift glance which sent a shiver down his
spine.
“I love him,” she answered, “as all we women do. But I was thinking of
the day when I am to be burnt for a witch.”
It was not the truth and André knew it. A woman’s jealousy, he
thought--but that, too, he knew it was not.
“My friend,” she said, “go you and salute Madame d’Étiolles. Perhaps
you will see something later on to amuse you,” and as if to assist him
she glided from him and was lost in the crowd.
She had divined his mind again. To speak with the fair huntress was
the resolve that had mastered him. And to his satisfaction Madame no
sooner recognised him than she beckoned with her fan, smiling a shy and
intoxicating welcome.
André kissed her hand, looking into her eyes, imperial eyes in which
slumbered imperial ambitions, such wonderful eyes, now blue, now
grey, now softly dark as the violet, now glittering with the lightest
mockery. “_Un morceau de roi_,” he muttered. “Yes, by God! a _morceau
de roi!_”
“Conduct me to yonder pillar,” she said presently, “we can talk better
there.”
But that was not her reason, for to reach the pillar they must pass
near the King. Clearly Madame d’Étiolles was bent on playing to-night
the game of the woods at closer quarters. André as he escorted her now
felt that all eyes, including Denise’s, were on him, but he enjoyed it,
walking slowly on the giddiest tiptoes of bravado. In front of Louis,
he paused to make his reverence. Madame paused too, and as she unslung
her quiver to curtsey with more graceful ease André could feel her
tremble. The King’s roaming gaze rested on them both. André’s salute
he acknowledged with a smile, a word or two of kind greeting, but it
was on the jewels on the breast of the huntress that his bored eyes
lingered.
“Fair archeress,” he said, “surely the shafts you loose are mortal.”
Madame d’Étiolles flushed with pleasure, curtsied again, and promptly
passed on, without attempting to reply.
“_Mon Dieu!_ what a figure! Who the devil is she?” André heard one of
the gentlemen of the Chamber mutter.
“You did that to perfection,” his partner whispered by the pillar. “You
are a man who understands women, and they are so rare. And now we will
dance if you please.”
The sorceress was right. Madame d’Étiolles danced divinely. She had
been taught by the best masters, but it was only art that she owed to
their science. The rest was her own.
[Illustration: “Fair archeress,” he said, “surely the shafts you loose
are mortal.”]
“Will you please do what I tell you?” she whispered as the violins
tripped out a stately minuet. “And trust me.”
“Rely on me, Madame,” he answered.
Imperceptibly Madame d’Étiolles in her minuet drew nearer and nearer
to the King, who began to observe them closely. A gleam of animation
crept into his face and the courtiers parted a little to permit His
Majesty a better view of this dainty dancer. Covert whispers, knowing
looks, commenced to run through the group. Yes, the King was distinctly
interested. But the fair Diana paid no heed. She had only eyes for the
superb officer in the scarlet and white of the Chevau-légers de la
Garde, who was dancing as he had never danced before.
“Throw your handkerchief,” came the soft command.
Completely puzzled André obeyed as in a dream. His partner caught the
handkerchief dexterously on her fan and was rewarded by a ripple of
delighted laughter from the spectators.
“A forfeit, Vicomte,” she said loud enough for all to hear, “I give you
tit for tat,” and she pressed her own to her lips, and tossed it back
to him.
But it was not intended to reach him. The huntress had calculated
carefully and the handkerchief lightly hit the King.
A flush shot into Louis’s face; Madame coloured over neck and
shoulders, she dropped her eyes, after one swift glance at His
Majesty. Silence, save for the dying lullaby of the music. André’s
heart beat fast, but not so fast surely as was beating that ambitious
heart of the huntress prisoned in its jewels and white satin.
What would the King do? Would he resent or accept the challenge?
Gentlemen and ladies, nobles and _bourgeois_ alike, drew a deep breath.
Ah! the King had picked up the handkerchief--a second’s pause, the
pause in which a nation’s destiny may be decided--and then the King
smilingly threw the handkerchief back, fair and true, at the audacious
dancer.
A pent-up cry arose, hands were clapped. “The King has thrown the
handkerchief, the King has thrown the handkerchief,” was the ringing
sentence on the lips of all.
Madame caught the royal gift and melted into an enchanting reverence.
One alluring side-glance under demure eyelashes, a glance of challenge
and of submission, and she had taken André’s arm and glided swiftly
back to the dais.
“The King has thrown the handkerchief” still rang round the crowded
room. But where was the dancer? She was gone--yes, actually gone
without waiting to follow up her victory. And of the expectant, excited
throng André alone recognised how unerring was her tact. The huntress
had accomplished her object. Henceforward it would not be she who
must hunt, for defiance to royal hunters can be more triumphant than
obedience.
André went over to Madame des Forges and St. Benôit. “You have lost
again,” he said, “and you will confess it now.”
“It is infamous,” replied the Comtesse, with fierce indignation.
“Infamous! But that grisette has not won yet; the road from the
Hôtel-de-Ville to Versailles is long and difficult!”
“Ah, no,” André answered; “not when you can travel in a royal carriage.
You will see what you will see when the campaign is over. The
_bourgeoise_ before long will have the heel of her slipper on all our
necks.”
“And you believe,” said the Comtesse, “that we will permit her to be
forced on us. You are as mad as she is.”
She promptly took St. Benôit’s arm to mark her anger at the part André
had played. But he only shrugged his shoulders in infinite amusement. A
week ago, true enough, he had scorned to lend himself to such tactics,
but to-night he was insensible to the reproach that his noble blood
should have felt. For he, too, was under the spell of fate and of a
witchery far more potent than the drug of any magician. It was not in
mortal man to resist the sorcery of that fair huntress who played on
human and royal passion as a musician on a stringed instrument. But
there was more than mere passion in that dainty wimple of cambric and
lace: “_La Petite d’Étiolles_” was gambling for a great stake. What if
she were to be his ally in his great game? Before André there unrolled
a wonderful vision of the future. He was necessary to these women.
_Bien!_ They should be necessary to him, and bitter as was the contempt
in Denise’s pure eyes it only steeled his determination remorselessly
to tread the path he had planned towards his goal--Denise.
The King had lost his interest and left the ball. He had entered it a
free man; he left it in thraldom. And all Paris knew now that for good
or evil the reversed crown of the Duchesse de Châteauroux lay in the
lap of another. How long would she be permitted to wear it?
As André hastened to leave, a touch was laid on his arm. “Do you
believe in the crystal now?” asked a gently derisive voice.
Ah! the sorceress! he had forgotten her. “You are a true witch,” he
said, “you will certainly be burnt. But I thank you.”
“I understand,” she replied and she took the arm he offered. They
walked in silence in search of her carriage.
“Why do you hate politics?” André demanded suddenly.
“Because,” she answered slowly, “it is the women to whom politics
are a passion who ruin kingdoms.” The vehemence of the reply was as
surprising as its nature. “Women,” she added, “governed the great Louis
Quatorze, they corrupted the Regent, they will bring our sovereign and
his kingdom to be the scorn of the world. Better a hundred witches, a
hundred wantons, than one woman whose passion it is to govern a kingdom
through its King. That is the woman who should be burnt.”
It was a new idea to André: it would have been a new idea to the salons
of the Faubourg St. Germain, to the galleries of Versailles.
“Yes,” she continued, “when a woman is not content to be a wife and
a mother she deserves to be treated only as the idol of an hour, the
pastime of a fleeting passion.”
“O Madame!”
“O Monsieur!” she retorted. “Believe me, it is pleasanter for the women
in the end and better for the men that such women should be denied
everything except that for which they live--pleasure.”
They had reached the carriage.
“Do you remember the pay for which you asked?” he questioned, taking
her hand.
“Yes, I can never forget it.”
“Then----”
She stepped serenely into the carriage. “Then,” she whispered, “I shall
get it, I suppose, when I really want it,” and she swiftly shut the
door in his face. “Drive to the hotel of the Duc de Pontchartrain,” was
her order.
André swore softly. The Duke was his friend and also perhaps the
greatest libertine in Paris. She should not escape him. In a quarter
of an hour he was supping with the Duke and his merry crew; women there
were in plenty, but this sorceress, the daughter of a Paris flower
girl, had neither been invited nor had so much as exchanged a word
with his grace. And when André, weary of lansquenet, ribald songs, and
copious toasts, slunk to bed with the rising sun he was strangely glad
that she had tricked him. But if she was not what she so cynically
professed to be what did it mean? And why in her presence did he always
have that irritating feeling that somewhere and somehow he had met her
before?