ANDRÉ IS THRICE SURPRISED
THE great historical buildings in Paris bear witness with eloquence
and beauty to the genius and ambition of the many royal rulers who
during three centuries of a wonderfully dramatic history have led a
nation itself gifted with genius and ambition. Versailles alone is the
exception, for in Versailles even the most ignorant and cold-blooded
of modern sightseers feels at every step that the years have vanished,
that he breathes the air of the grand age, that he is face to face with
the monument of one historic figure and one alone--Louis XIV. Gone is
the bitter memory of 1870; gone is the tragedy of Marie Antoinette.
Alike in the stately splendour of the Galerie des Glaces, in the
cold loneliness of the chapel, in the ordered magnificence of these
haughty gardens, most of all in the imperial pomp of the royal bedroom,
dominates the spirit of the Roi Soleil--the King who made kingship the
art and the science and the creed of a nation’s life.
As one steps to-day into the empty stillness of that memorable Œil de
Bœuf the light from the oval windows seems to fall only on those white
and gold doors beyond which lies the state bed-chamber. But wait in
patience and the loneliness will vanish; the room is now crowded with
the courtiers awaiting the grand lever of majesty; a hundred tongues
are discussing eagerly the events of the hour, a hundred eyes watch
with feverish eagerness all who have the right to pass and repass those
jealously-guarded portals, behind which monarchy, on whose caprice
turns the fate of ministers and nobles, is dressing.
“The King,” said Mont Rouge to St. Benôit, “is as playful this morning
as he was last night. Ah, you have not heard?” he added. “Well, when
the Duke de Richelieu was pulling off His Majesty’s boots, ‘How many
times, by the bye, Duke, have you been in the Bastille?’ asked the
King. ‘Three times, Sire,’ Richelieu replied stiffly. ‘Odd numbers
are unlucky,’ said the King in his slow way, and even Richelieu was
annoyed.”
“A pretty plain hint,” St. Benôit remarked. “What has Richelieu been
doing? Another love affair and a duel?”
“Oh, no; he was only saucy to the Pompadour at supper. That woman is
itching to show that dukes can be treated like kitchen wenches.”
“Perhaps. But she doesn’t get her way with every one. De Nérac has
positively refused to enter her service, and the King is more pleased
with him than ever.”
“It is true, then, that he has been given the Cordon Bleu?” Mont Rouge
demanded with a flash of jealousy.
“Quite true, the lucky dog,” answered the Duke of Pontchartrain, who
had joined them, “and the extraordinary thing is that the Pompadour,
who was very angry with De Nérac, jested about it last night.”
“But what has De Nérac done to get the Cordon Bleu?” Mont Rouge growled.
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “Have you forgotten the night before
Fontenoy, my friend?” His voice dropped. “This mysterious affair of
yesterday in the woods, too,” he whispered, “is all part of the same
infernal business.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“I do. The King and the ministers are convinced that the Vincennes
business, this affair of the woods, and that Fontenoy treachery all
come from the same hand--a hand near at home.”
Mont Rouge and St. Benôit drew the Duke into a corner.
“The traitor then is here? In Versailles?” St. Benôit asked.
“It is the only explanation.”
Mont Rouge passed a perplexed hand over his chin. “Good Lord!” he
ejaculated. “Think you that woman has--”
“No, no,” replied the Duke with sharp conviction. “The Pompadour is as
anxious to discover the traitor as the King or d’Argenson himself.
You may take your oath of that. Heavens! man, if she can lay bare this
inscrutable mystery she will earn the King’s gratitude for the rest of
her naughty life.”
“And what has De Nérac to do with----?”
“What De Nérac discovered last night,” St. Benôit interrupted, “is
known only to the King and himself. You will get nothing from him; he
is pledged to secrecy. But”--he paused to beckon to the Abbé de St.
Victor to join them--“but it makes it more necessary than ever for us
to have De Nérac on our side.”
“I do not see that,” Mont Rouge objected.
St. Benôit’s foot tapped impatiently. “If our scheme,” he urged, “to
persuade the King to expel the Pompadour is to succeed, De Nérac must
be our ally. It is as clear as daylight.”
“Of course,” said the Duke, “of course. Drive De Nérac into the
Pompadour’s arms and together they will discover the traitor, and the
Comte de Mont Rouge will presently be compelled to prefer the village
wenches on his estates in Poitou to the ladies of Versailles.”
“Yes,” the Abbé assented. “We must have De Nérac, for he knows more
than any of us, and he has courage. Courage is a rare thing in
Versailles.”
“I agree,” Mont Rouge said slowly. “But if he won’t join us in getting
rid of that detestable woman then he must share her fate.”
“There is André,” St. Benôit gladly remarked. “Let us congratulate
him on his refusal to stain his honour by obedience to a wanton of the
_bourgeoisie_.”
But they were anticipated by the Chevalier. “My felicitations,
Vicomte,” the young man was saying, “for you are the first to teach our
new and high-born marquise her place.”
“You are very kind,” André replied sweetly, to the disgust and
astonishment of his friends.
“_Mon Dieu!_” Mont Rouge growled as the Chevalier smilingly left them
to pass into the King’s bedroom, for as a royal favourite he had that
privileged _entrée_, “I would sooner pull that coxcomb’s ears than
accept his congratulations even if I were a Cordon Bleu.”
“My dear Mont Rouge,” André answered, “the King will not permit us now
to pull a coxcomb’s ears, but some day I hope to have that pleasure.”
“Oh, to be sure, some day?” Mont Rouge sneered.
“To be sure. When you have turned out our mistress, Madame la Marquise
de Pompadour, you shall help me to pull the ears of the Chevalier de
St. Amant.”
André in fact was in a rare humour. His plans were now arranged to
a nicety. With the Pompadour’s help “No. 101” was to be discovered
and Denise won. The mystery of last night had suggested half a dozen
clues. His star was once more in the ascendant. The great game to be
played required courage, resource, and Machiavellian cunning. This was
the beginning. The rest would follow. Ah! the white and gold doors
were thrown open; hats came off; the King had entered, and all eagerly
surveyed his bored, inscrutable countenance.
“Is the Vicomte de Nérac here?” Louis demanded presently, and
André stepped forward to kiss his hand. “Monsieur le Vicomte,” he
proceeded in his slow, soft, yet clear voice, “you will bear my humble
salutations to her Majesty the Queen and say that I offer her Majesty,
for the vacant place of the captain of her guard, the services of the
bravest officer in the Chevau-légers of my Guards--yourself.”
A loud hum, partly of warm approval, partly of excited and jealous
comment, drowned André’s thanks.
“By G-Gad,” stammered Des Forges, “another s-slap for the fishy
g-grisette--eh?”
“She’s going, yes, she’s going; God be praised!” muttered the Abbé St.
Victor.
“What did I tell you?” St. Benôit cried, “more than ever we must keep
De Nérac on our side,” and Mont Rouge sulkily assented.
The Duke de Pontchartrain thoughtfully stroked his lace ruffles. “I am
puzzled,” he remarked aside to St. Benôit; “I wonder if it really means
that the King has thrown over the grisette, or whether--” he paused.
“Well?” St. Benôit demanded impatiently.
“De Nérac is deep, devilish deep,” the Duke mused, “and so is the King.
If De Nérac is not on our side it will play old Harry with our plot to
have him ruling the roost in her Majesty’s apartments.”
But his friends laughed his suspicions away. De Nérac had insulted the
Pompadour and he had been rewarded with the captaincy of the Queen’s
Guards. What could be better?
Meanwhile André, having executed his commission and been flattered by
the joyful reception of the news by the Queen’s ladies, was somewhat
grimly reflecting in the Hall of the Queen’s Guards on this new turn
of fortune’s wheel. Truly the Pompadour was a wonderful woman. She
had promised to arrange and she had kept her word. To be placed in an
office which must daily bring him into touch with Denise was better
than he had ever dreamed. A genius the Pompadour as he had said, and
this was the woman whom the priests and ministers and courtiers hoped
to expel. Poor blind fools! They little knew the whole truth. Yes, his
star was in the ascendant. The Machiavellian game must be played out;
it promised victory and Denise.
The rustle of a dress roused him. It was Denise, and surely that was
the Chevalier de St. Amant parting from her.
“You have heard the King’s will, Mademoiselle,” André said quietly.
“Yes,” she answered. Very lovely she looked at that moment, though her
manner was strangely cold.
“You do not congratulate me?”
“No.”
[Illustration: Madame de Pompadour.]
André glanced at her with sharp surprise.
“After your kind words on my return,” he began, “I had hoped,
Mademoiselle, more for your congratulations than for those of any other
in Versailles.”
Denise made no reply; she quietly moved away.
“Denise,” he broke out passionately. “Denise----”
“Mademoiselle la Marquise, if you please, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she
interrupted with her head high in air, and André could only gaze at her
in mute astonishment.
“Yes,” she continued, “Mademoiselle la Marquise for the future. And if
you would know the reason ask your conscience, the conscience of one
who was once a noble and soldier of France.” André would have spoken,
but she made a peremptory sign with her hand. “It is the second time,”
she resumed, “I have been bitterly disappointed. Our world believes
that you have had the courage to refuse the temptation of that woman,
that the King’s reward was due to your courage and your loyalty.
Unhappily I know better. You are Captain of the Queen’s Guards because
it is the wish of the Marquise de Pompadour.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“You deny it?” She paused. “That, Monsieur le Vicomte, unfortunately
does not make it less true. But do not be alarmed. I shall not betray
your secret. And if you will, let my silence be due to the friendship
of the past, a friendship that you yourself by your own act have
severed.”
She turned her back on him. But André had swiftly opened the door for
her.
“It would be impertinent for me to ask for a hearing,” he said slowly.
“That you will not betray my secret as you are pleased to call it is
very kind. In return, Mademoiselle, I promise that I will not betray
yours.”
Their eyes met. André faced her unflinchingly.
“My secret?” Denise demanded, but she could not quite control her voice.
“Your secret, Marquise.” He bowed low.
He had the bitter satisfaction, if satisfaction it was, to see a faint
thrill of fear--or was it trouble?--pass into her eyes. And now that
he was alone he strode about the room letting his anger master him,
once more a prey to all the black doubts and fears. There was only one
explanation--that the Chevalier had wormed out the truth, and for his
own purposes had hastened to share his knowledge with Denise. The Court
was hoodwinked, but they were not. Cruelest of all, he could not deny
it, and the disdain in the face and figure of the woman he loved had
cut more sharply than her words. He clenched his fist. He could not go
back now--no, he had chosen his path; but the day would come, he swore,
when he should prove that it was his love and the ambition that it
inspired which had driven him to defy the Court, his class, and herself.
There was work to be done which could not wait. He galloped away into
the woods. “Yvonne,” he called out, dismounting at the stables of “The
Cock with the Spurs of Gold.”
“Monseigneur,” she exclaimed, flinging back her matted yellow hair and
springing up. He had surprised her with skirt pinned up to the knees
milking her sleek cow. She was indeed Yvonne of the Spotted Cow, Yvonne
of the Spotless Ankles. Bah! it was a pity her face was so smudged, her
bodice so ragged and dirty, for her figure was excellently straight and
supple. “Monseigneur!” she humbly kissed his hand.
André felt strange qualms as he surveyed her in silence. Something
inexplicable in this peasant wench seemed to make the task he had
undertaken disagreeable, almost revolting, yet she was only a farm slut
and he was a noble. And the secret perhaps of “No. 101” was the prize.
“I want your help, Yvonne,” he said abruptly.
“My help?” she repeated as if she did not understand, but there was a
momentary gleam in her eyes. “My help? He is not happy, Monseigneur?
Ah,” she gave a little cry, “the lady that he loves, the Marquise, is
faithless.”
“No,” he interrupted fiercely. “No, no! It is----”
She put her finger on her lip. “Some one is coming,” she whispered.
“Monseigneur has enemies, many enemies. He must not be seen here. Come,
quick, quick!”
She half pushed him into the stables, closed and locked the door and
left him. André from within could hear steps coming to and fro on the
stones, could hear voices. They ceased. The door opened.
“Who was it?” he demanded.
“Monsieur the Chevalier de St. Amant,” she replied quietly.
“Name of a dog!” he ejaculated. He drew the girl into the stables, put
his hands on her shoulders. Such firm, well-shaped shoulders under her
dirty, ill-laced bodice. “Now tell me,” he said peremptorily, “what you
know of the Chevalier de St. Amant.”
Yvonne faced him with a humble simplicity. Involuntarily André dropped
his hands, mastered by that indefinable feeling. “Monsieur the
Chevalier comes here from time to time,” she answered; “he inquires for
the wise woman who lived here, but he also would know if Monseigneur
visits the inn and why?”
“Ah! And your answer?”
“That I know nothing.”
André scrutinised her remorselessly. Either she told the truth or she
was a consummate actress.
“Did I do right, Monseigneur,” she asked in her simple way, “to say
what was not true?”
“Yes,” he replied quickly, but not without a stab of shame. “And my
enemies, Yvonne, what of my enemies?”
“They are great gentlemen of the Court. They and their servants come
here, too, they watch Monseigneur. They seek a traitor, so they say.”
André reflected. It was what he feared. “I also seek a traitor,
Yvonne,” he began quietly, “and I am in great trouble. I need your
help.”
“Monseigneur is pleased to jest. My help--the help of a peasant girl?”
“Yes, your help, Yvonne. The King, my master, is betrayed. The traitor
is unknown, but at this inn perhaps one may learn what will reveal the
truth. You are here, you have eyes and ears. Will you promise to tell
me all that you can learn?”
The girl was looking at him, but her smudged face disclosed nothing
save a natural fear.
“Some might promise you,” he pursued, “money, wealth, love. Money I
have not got; love is not mine to give----”
“It is an honour for a peasant girl,” she interrupted softly, “to be
loved by a noble who can give her jewels and fine clothes and pleasure.
And then when his love is cold, as needs must be, he can make her happy
with a good dowry.”
“Oh, yes, that is so. But,” he took her hand, “I will not----”
“I am not pretty, alas!” she interrupted again, but the coquetry in her
figure was strangely provocative.
“Peace, child, peace! and listen. I cannot and will not treat you as
others might. Love is not mine to give. But I ask your help, although I
promise you nothing in return save the grateful thanks of a soldier of
France.”
“I would be your servant,” she whispered, “your servant, Monseigneur.”
André felt her hand tremble. For the moment swift passion tempted him,
and Yvonne was watching him closely though he did not know it.
“Yes,” he said brusquely, “you shall be my servant, but nothing more.”
She was silent, and he feared he had made a fatal mistake. “Your help,
that is all I ask, and I ask it because I trust you.”
“I will help,” she said in a low voice. “I will help.”
He raised her hand to his lips as if it were the hand of a gentlewoman.
Why he did so strange a thing he could not have explained.
“No, no,” she cried. “I am not worthy. Ah! Monseigneur is not as other
nobles. He has pity and respect even for a peasant wench. He shall
not dishonour himself, and I--I will help because I am grateful, yes,
grateful.” For a moment she hid her face overcome.
“Adieu, Yvonne,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “Adieu, and remember!”
He mounted and rode away. As he turned into the woods a man rapidly
crossed the bridle track and disappeared, but not before he had caught
a sight of his face. Somewhere in the past he had seen that face--when?
Where? He knew he was not mistaken, though in vain he racked his
brains. And with this fresh torturing thought he rode into Paris.
Yvonne had stood like one in a dream long after he had disappeared. Now
she surveyed with ill-concealed disgust her pinned-up skirt and clumsy
sabots, now impatiently brushed a tear from under the matted hair over
her eyes. “_Dieu le Vengeur!_” She suddenly threw up her arms with a
gesture of pain, “_Dieu le Vengeur!_” Then furtively glancing round she
walked slowly towards the house. On the threshold some one met her and
for a half-hour she might have been heard conversing earnestly, almost
pleading. The voices ceased. A moment later the Chevalier de St. Amant
stepped out from the inn, jauntily flung his gay cloak about him, and
galloped swiftly in the direction of Versailles.