THE FOUNTAIN OF NEPTUNE
THE autumn evening had already closed in on the noble gardens of
Versailles. Alleys, parterres, and walks alike were deserted save by
the Fountain of Neptune, where on a seat under the sombre shadows
of the stately trees a woman, cloaked to her feet and hooded, sat
patiently watching the ghostly glimmer of the statues in the dusk. She
had not to wait long before a man cloaked also had quietly joined her.
“I am late, Mademoiselle,” he said, “but it is not my fault.”
“It does not matter, Chevalier,” Denise replied calmly, “the later the
better for both of us.”
“No doubt. Ah, it is noble of you to come here alone, you who have so
much to lose if----”
“We will not talk of that, please. I am here of my own free will and I
would risk much more for the sake of the Queen, my mistress, and for
France.”
“Yet I would it were not necessary.”
“Unhappily it is. That woman’s spies have made it impossible that
you can any longer come to confer with the Queen’s friends by the
secret passage; if we are to succeed in our plan it must not be known
that you, who are in the King’s private service, are an ally of the
Ministers and of the Queen’s party; nor can you now openly visit her
Majesty’s apartments as you did----”
“No,” said the Chevalier, “the new Captain of the Queen’s Guards has
prevented that.”
For a minute or two Denise was silent. “Secrecy is necessary to
success,” she resumed in a restrained voice; “I am here as you know on
behalf of the Queen’s advisers; what others may think cannot affect
those who are my friends, who believe in me because they believe in
my--our--cause.”
“Not merely your friends, Marquise, but those who love you.”
“Monsieur, up there,” she pointed to the majestic front of the palace,
where the lights were beginning to twinkle, “you can speak like that if
you think fit. Down here I beg you to remember I am an orphan, a girl
alone.”
And then both were silent.
“Are you sure, really quite sure,” Denise began, “that the Vicomte de
Nérac owes his appointment to the intrigues of that woman?”
“I am absolutely sure.”
Denise sighed very faintly. “You will remember your promise not to
reveal this discovery to any one else.”
“Certainly. But is it necessary?”
“No, not necessary. I ask it as a favour.”
The Chevalier bowed. Again there was silence, for her tone did not
invite further question. “Have you discovered anything fresh of
importance?” Denise asked presently.
“Several things, Mademoiselle.”
“Do they concern the Vicomte de Nérac?” she demanded quickly.
“Yes.”
“Then I do not wish to hear them. I cannot, I will not,” she added in a
low voice of emotion.
The Chevalier made a gesture of despairing dismay. “But speak I must,”
he said, “for things cannot be worse than they are. The King is
absolutely infatuated. The Pompadour is wise enough to see that that
may not last; she will not rest therefore till she has his Majesty
completely in her power. This mysterious treachery is her chance. Let
her discover the truth and the traitor and no one will prevail against
her.” He paused to add, “And the man who will discover it for her is
her friend and servant in secret, the Vicomte de Nérac.”
“You believe that?” she faced him eagerly.
“Mademoiselle, if there is any man in Versailles who can do it the
Vicomte is that man.”
Denise clasped her hands. “What can we do, Chevalier?” she asked. “What
can we do?”
The Chevalier took a step or two up and down. “There are only two
courses,” he said very gravely. “Either the Vicomte must be compelled
to break with the Pompadour--or--” he paused--“the King must be
persuaded to dismiss him from Versailles--in plain words ruin him.”
Denise drew a deep breath. “Ah, God!” she murmured, “that woman, how
I hate her! She steals the honourable soldiers of France and corrupts
them; she corrupts the King, she wrongs a Queen who has wronged no one.
Yes, I hate her because I am a woman, to whom because I believe in God
and my _noblesse_ these things are hateful.”
“You are right, Mademoiselle,” sincerity rang in the boyish voice, “to
me, too, she is the symbol in a woman’s form of all that is evil in
France, and it is your France that will suffer for her ambition and her
sins.”
“She will be punished,” said Denise, “God will punish her. _Dieu le
Vengeur!_” she murmured.
The Chevalier had drawn a deep breath. “_Dieu le Vengeur!_” he repeated
to himself almost mockingly. “It is a fine motto, _Dieu le Vengeur!_”
“It is strange,” she mused, “that you, Chevalier, who were not born a
French noble, should feel as we do.”
“You have taught me,” he answered quietly. “Yes, yes, when I entered
the King’s service I found a strange court and a strange master. It was
you who taught me, what I could scarcely believe, that there are still
in France women worthy to be called noble, aye, and men, too. It is for
your sake that I work, that I would help to overthrow and punish that
low-born adventuress who would ruin the King. No, Marquise,” he added,
“I do not forget your warning, and I say no more than this, that your
love alone keeps me true to my task, to your--our--cause.”
“I thank you,” she answered with simple dignity. “Let us work for
France, Chevalier, and for the right, and we shall win.”
He bid her adieu and vanished, for safety required that he should leave
her first. Denise sank back into her seat lost in the bitter thought
that André, the friend of her girlhood, the lover of whom for all her
indignation she was proud, must either ruin her cause or be ruined by
herself and her friends. A step on the gravel startled her.
“What is it, Chevalier?” she asked quickly.
The man peered into her face apparently as startled as she was. “It is
not the Chevalier unfortunately,” André said with icy slowness, “but I
am obliged for the information, Marquise.”
“Ah!” It was an exquisitely cruel moment. Flight on her part was
impossible. “Ah, you came to spy,” she burst out, beside herself.
“Why deny it?” was the cool answer. “You would not believe me. So it
was the Chevalier de St. Amant who avoided me so successfully in the
dark just now. Happy Chevalier.”
“I will, I can explain,” she began incoherently.
“Pardon,” he interrupted. “The conduct of Mademoiselle la Marquise de
Beau Séjour is no affair of mine. I regret, however, that as I have
intruded on you I cannot offer you my escort, for it is neither in my
interest nor in yours, Mademoiselle, that you and I should run the risk
of being seen here by the Chevalier de St. Amant or by any one else who
talks of secrets to all his friends. With your permission, therefore, I
will leave you.”
Denise dropped into her seat with a sob. That André of all men should
discover her here was anguish. Nor was it only that his discovery
might mean the frustration of the schemes that were being so carefully
planned; it was the cruel humiliation of herself against which all the
womanhood in her cried out. If he had reproached her, accused her,
denounced her, insulted her! No; he had only been cold as one who was
indifferent or was ready to believe any evil.
Yet André was as unhappy as she, could she have but known it. Purely
by accident on his return from Paris had he stumbled on Denise in the
dark, and torturing thoughts made him feel bitter and then reckless.
Denise, his Denise! Surely there was nothing to live for now. Love was
a mockery and a sham. Women were all alike, faithless, vain, frivolous,
worthless. He would do the Pompadour’s work without a twinge of
conscience now, he would take what life had to offer of pleasure and
revenge. Yes; he would revenge himself to the full on this perjured,
intriguing, and immoral Court, and then he would go to die in the Low
Countries.
Meanwhile Denise had returned safely to the Queen’s apartments and
after supper sat alone in her misery in the room which opened off the
hall of the Queen’s Guards. The curtains were drawn, but the door was
ajar and she could hear a group of young nobles chattering as they
played cards. Scattered remarks broke in on her bitter self-reproaches.
Women’s names, some of them her friends, some of them dancers at the
opera, were being freely bandied about. It was intolerable, vile, and
her cheek burned to think that it was with these men that the priests
and the ministers and herself were working to overthrow the Pompadour.
She rose to close the door and shut out the scandalous babble, when a
remark stammered out by the Comte des Forges sent a shiver through her.
“I t-tell you it is quite t-true,” he was saying. “Mont Rouge has
l-learned that she m-met the Chevalier by the F-fountain of Neptune
this very evening.”
“Quite true,” Mont Rouge assented in his most cynical tone. “But don’t
spill the wine on the dice, dear friend.”
“But how did you learn?” several voices demanded.
“As one always does, from another woman, of course.” Mont Rouge was
carelessly rattling the dice-box.
“And you believe it?”
“Certainly. Your turn to throw, Des Forges. Gad! your hand is shaky
to-night. Why should I not believe it? The Marquise, I suppose, is like
the rest of her sex, and,” he laughed softly, “the Chevalier is--the
Chevalier.”
Des Forges sniggered fatuously. “Sixes--s-sixes. Name of St. Denys! You
speak like a m-married m-man, Mont Ro-ouge.”
“What is Mont Rouge’s last scandal?” André had entered.
Half a dozen tongues eager with malice repeated the story. There was a
pause. Denise stood thrilled. Her fate was in his hands.
“This is not scandal,” André said slowly and very clearly. “It is a
lie.”
Chairs were excitedly pushed back. Dice-boxes and a table rolled over.
Then dead silence.
“Yes,” said the clear voice. “I repeat it is a lie.”
“Monsieur le Vicomte,” Mont Rouge was speaking with an affectation
of marked politeness but his voice shook with passion, “I beg you to
remember who is responsible for the story. You will withdraw that
insult.”
“At half-past six,” André proceeded calmly, “I was at the Fountain of
Neptune. The Chevalier de St. Amant was not there. The Marquise de Beau
Séjour was not there. The Comte de Mont Rouge will therefore no doubt
see fit to withdraw his insult.”
“Where is the Chevalier de St. Amant?” “Have the Chevalier fetched,”
suggested two or three.
“No,” said André firmly. “This is not the Chevalier’s affair. The Comte
de Mont Rouge can deal with him when and how he pleases. For my part
I repeat that the statement about the Marquise de Beau Séjour, for
which apparently Monsieur le Comte is responsible, is a lie, and I have
proved it.”
“The Vicomte de Nérac talks,” Mout Rouge answered fiercely, “as if
_his_ honour had been questioned.”
“Yes, sir, it has until you have withdrawn what you said.”
“And supposing I refuse to withdraw at your dictation?”
“It would be only what I expect. Gentlemen, I now assert in the
presence of you all that the Comte de Mont Rouge is a liar, and I shall
continue to repeat it until----”
“No, sir,” Mont Rouge interrupted. “You will not repeat it. But at
half-past six to-morrow morning you will also in the presence of these
gentlemen doubtless permit me to teach you that I am not to be insulted
even by a Cordon Bleu!”
André bowed. “The Comte de St. Benôit will make the necessary
arrangements,” he said quietly, “with the gentleman whom you will name.”
The room slowly emptied. André paced to and fro. The curtain was
sharply flung aside, and he saw Denise pale and trembling.
[Illustration: The curtain was sharply flung aside, and he saw
Denise.]
“You will not fight?” she pleaded.
“I have no choice, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, why did you say it?” she questioned passionately.
“It is surely very simple. Mademoiselle la Marquise has no father,
husband, nor brother to maintain her honour. To me as Captain of the
Queen’s Guards belongs by right the duty of defending her Majesty’s
ladies from insults and lies.”
“But it was true,” she whispered brokenly.
“No,” he answered. “What was said and implied was not true. It was a
lie, and you, Mademoiselle, please God, know it as I hope to do.”
The colour leaped into Denise’s cheeks. The thanks in her eyes were
intoxicating.
“But if you are killed?” she murmured.
“Why, then, I suppose the Marquise de Pompadour will have the pleasure
of appointing my successor.”
Denise shrank at the remorseless taunt. André’s face was pitiless.
“Do not be distressed,” he added as if he were addressing the wall.
“I have a long account with the Comte de Mont Rouge and I welcome
the opportunity of settling it so satisfactorily. Besides it is high
time that these shameless tongues should be silenced. I do assure you
that after to-morrow the Marquise de Beau Séjour will have nothing to
fear--but the truth.”
Denise turned appealingly to him. “André!” she whispered softly.
“André!”
For a moment his hands clenched. “Monsieur le Vicomte,” he corrected,
frigidly, “who is your servant, Marquise.”
He raised the curtain with a stately reverence. In silence she walked
past him, her head bowed, and in silence he saluted as became the
Captain of the Queen’s Guard, to a maid of honour and a marquise. The
gleam of the candles in their gilt sconces fell on her hair and neck,
on the jewels on her breast. Then the curtain slowly swung between them.
* * * * *
When the woman of the Marquise de Beau Séjour brought in the morning
cup of chocolate she found her mistress had passed a sleepless night
of tears; but she was able to tell her that the Vicomte de Nérac had
for the fiftieth time vindicated his superb swordsmanship, and that the
Comte de Mont Rouge would not use his right arm for many weeks to come.
And Denise knew that the Court had heard the last of that meeting by
the Fountain of Neptune.