A WISHED-FOR MIRACLE
THE wished-for miracle had happened after all. Yet the news that the
King had suddenly fainted, which spread like wildfire through the
palace, was at first made light of. “The King,” said the Abbé de St.
Victor, “likes to show a touch of human and feminine weakness; he
faints as women do, to relieve the ennui of perpetual flattery.” In two
or three hours, however, it was known that after being put to bed His
Majesty had fainted again and again, that he had scarcely rallied, that
the doctors whispered of palsy and a stroke, and that his condition
was truly critical. The excitement slowly rose to feverish anxiety,
mingled with no little exultation. Versailles was thrilled as Paris and
France had been thrilled in 1743, when the King’s dangerous illness at
Metz had fired every class into touching demonstrations of passionate
loyalty. About midnight the watchers could relate that urgent couriers
had been despatched, on what errands no one could precisely say, but it
was certain that Monsieur le Dauphin, absent on a hunting expedition,
had been summoned to return at once, that mesdames the princesses were
being fetched from their convent, that a council of ministers would be
held as soon as the Dauphin arrived, that the Archbishop of Paris and
the saintly Bishop of Bordeaux, then in the capital, had been invited
by the King’s confessor to come to Versailles. Towards dawn the doctors
reported that His Majesty had been twice bled, that he had rallied for
an hour and then slowly slipped back into virtual unconsciousness.
Unless--unless, the whispers ran, a change for the better came soon,
France would have a new king.
And Madame de Pompadour? Her name was on every one’s lips. A new king!
Would it be the Bastille or Vincennes for the grisette then? Fierce joy
throbbed in the Queen’s apartments when the rumour was confirmed that
Madame de Pompadour, on hearing of her royal lover’s illness, had at
once hurried to his room, but that the door had been shut in her face,
by whose orders no one knew, nor whether it was with the King’s consent
or not. What was certain was that the King’s confessor had refused to
prepare his Sovereign for absolution so long as he remained in mortal
sin, and that the Archbishop of Paris and the Bishop of Bordeaux would
without doubt presently support the confessor. The dramatic scene at
Metz was in fact repeating itself at Versailles. The King must be
reconciled to his Queen and wife, must confess his sin, and promise to
dismiss the partner in his guilt from his Court and his presence before
he could receive the most solemn ministrations of the Church. And when
Queen Marie Leczinska’s ladies were aware that their royal mistress
had on her own initiative gone to her husband’s sick couch, had been
admitted, and had not yet returned, a sigh of thankfulness, exultation,
and vengeance went up. The hours of Madame de Pompadour’s supremacy
were numbered. A just Heaven had intervened. Madame de Pompadour was
doomed.
By nine o’clock next morning the _noblesse_ had flocked, or were still
flocking, in crowds from Paris to Versailles, thirsting for news,
pining for revenge, on the tiptoe of excitement. The court-yards and
stables were blocked with their carriages and every minute brought
fresh arrivals. The Œil de Bœuf was filled with officers, nobles,
clerics, officials, who overflowed into the Galerie des Glaces, in the
noble windows of which chattered groups of eager questioners. In the
Œil de Bœuf itself the subdued babble of talk rose and fell, but all
eyes were alertly watching the white and gold doors so jealously kept
by the Swiss Guards. Beyond was the royal bed-chamber, but what was
passing within who could say? The physicians had forbidden the _entrée_
to every one save the King’s valet, a couple of menial servants, the
royal confessor, and now the Bishop of Bordeaux. How critical affairs
were reckoned to have become could be judged by the presence of the
Chevalier de St. Amant, the Duke of Pontchartrain, and the Comte de
Mont Rouge, who had dared thus to defy the exile imposed by the sick
King.
“I t-tell you,” Des Forges was saying, “he s-saw a d-devil and
f-fainted. I d-don’t w-wonder.”
“It wasn’t a devil nor the devil; it was a woman,” the Abbé corrected.
“Some women are devils, but all devils are not women. That is logic and
truth together, which is rare.”
“Yes, it was a woman,” Mont Rouge added. “A woman in the shape of a
vampire.”
“It was only a flower girl,” Pontchartrain laughed, and he threw in a
ribald story which set his hearers choking with laughter.
“Well, when he was bled the blood came out black----”
“No, no; purple”--“yellow”--“blue”--corrected half a dozen voices, and
each had a witness who had seen the bleeding and could swear to the
colour; and so the speculation as to the causes of the King’s illness
gaily ran on. The most extraordinary theories were afloat, for that the
King had “seen something” was now a matter of common knowledge. But
all were agreed on one point--Madame de Pompadour’s fate was sealed.
Whether the King recovered or whether the Dauphin succeeded him the
grisette was ruined.
André had hurried from the Queen’s antechamber to learn what could
be learned. A glimpse of Denise’s proud, pale face had been granted
him as his spurs rang along the galleries. He had read in it pity
wrestling with joy, and his soul was bitter within him. And the cold
glances, the silence of his friends if he drew near, the shrugs of
the shoulders, completed the tale. He, too, was ruined if the Court
could have its way. His foes, though they had not published their
evidence yet, could prove that he was the ally of Madame de Pompadour.
His success inspired their jealousy, his ability their fear. They had
tried to murder him in order to procure the final damning proof, and
they had failed. But he could never be forgiven for the humiliation
of the Duke of Pontchartrain, and Mont Rouge’s arm, not yet healed,
cried out for vengeance. To-morrow it would be his turn for exile to
Nérac, stripped of his honours, happy if permitted to eat his heart
out in a debt-loaded château far from Paris and Versailles. André had
played for a great stake; he had been within an ace of winning and now
he had lost. Yet alone, shunned, neglected in this seething crowd, he
found himself despising as he had never despised before the _noblesse_
to which he belonged. The Court of a dying king does not show even
an ancient and haughty nobility, justly proud of its manners and its
refinement, at its best. Of the hundreds here were there any who felt
any pity, any real affection, for the Sovereign over whose vices they
were jesting, at whose weaknesses they jibed? Ambition, curiosity,
greed, avarice, jealousy, could be read in many faces; the _noblesse_
were here to worship and honour the rising sun, to flatter the Dauphin,
to intrigue, to traffic at the foot of a new throne in the squalid and
sleepless scuffle for places, pensions, ribbons, honours, power. André
turned away and gazed out of the window, at the serenely noble gardens
where the autumn sun was shining on the autumn trees, on the dewy
grass, and gleaming statues. Yes, the peace of Nérac near the Loire
would be welcome though bought by failure in this Court of Versailles.
But there remained “No. 101,” and the fascination of that unsolved
riddle gripped him to-day more mercilessly than ever before. The key
to the mystery was so near. Was he, too, like all the others, to be
baffled? And then there was Denise. He could have had her love; never
could he forget that supreme moment when they had stood hand in hand,
and life had given him all that a man’s soul could dream or desire; but
he had lost Denise. Had he? Ah, had he? And as he stared out towards
the Fountain of Neptune the gardens melted into a dark and secret
staircase, and once again he heard the beating of the heart of the
Pompadour. The vision filled him with a great pity. She was no worse
than he had been. There were women in this Court--did he of all men not
know it?--on whose carriages glowed coronets and haughty coats of arms,
with as little right to absolution as Madame de Pompadour and the dying
King. But they confessed and were absolved. Confession and absolution!
The mummery of priests. She at least had sinned from ambition, because
the flesh and the spirit would not permit her to remain Antoinette
de Poisson. But she was a _bourgeoise_ and they were noble. For all
that, could those noble women or these men ever understand--would the
world ever understand before it judged the heart of such a woman as
the Pompadour? To him, perhaps, alone some of the inscrutable riddles
of the spirit had been revealed because his heart, too, beat as hers
did, and assuredly to that hated and feared woman to-day the bitterness
of death would be sweet and welcome compared with the bitterness--the
tragic bitterness--of failure. God alone--if there was a God--could
know all and judge aright. For her and for him, in this hour of defeat,
a great pity was surely fittest.
No one came to speak to him. The renegade Vicomte de Nérac, alone
there in the window, scarcely moved even compassion. He had deserted
his order; he deserved punishment--to be an example to traitors
who betrayed their blood and their dignity--and the punishment had
begun. No one? Yes, one; the Chevalier de St. Amant. André was
surprised--touched.
“Pardon my presumption,” the young man said, “but you and I, Vicomte,
have more than once crossed swords. I at least have done my best to
defeat you; you have done yours to defeat me.”
“Certainly,” André admitted readily.
“And you have won.”
“Have I?” André smiled as he looked down the crowded Galerie des Glaces
and back at the empty space where they stood.
“Yes, Vicomte, you are victor.” His tones trembled with emotion.
“Victor in the one prize that matters--a woman’s heart. Do not you
forget that. I at least cannot.”
André looked into his eyes, but he said nothing.
“Whether,” the Chevalier continued, “I go to Italy or you go to Nérac
is a little thing; but the other is a great thing, and the result will
always be what it is--always. It has been a fair fight if fights for a
woman’s love can ever be fair. Will you give me the pleasure of shaking
hands?”
“Yes,” André answered, with much emotion. “And if I am not sent to
Nérac you shall not go to Italy.”
“We will see.” The Chevalier had resumed his jesting tone, for they
were both being jealously watched. He nodded and slipped away. André,
muttering, “Always, always,” slipped away, too. “Always.” Was Denise
still to be won, or why had a tear stood in the boy’s eye when he had
spoken?
“Madame!” he cried, aghast, as he stepped into the Marquise de
Pompadour’s salon.
She was sitting in her _peignoir_ in front of the fire, her hair
about her lovely shoulders, staring at the smouldering logs. Trunks
half-packed littered the room. Papers torn up and drawers half-open
met the eye in every corner. And when she wearily turned round at his
exclamation her face was the face of a woman sleepless, haggard, and
worn--the face of one quieted by fear, misery, and failure.
“Ruined, Vicomte,” she murmured hopelessly, “ruined, and you, too.”
“Not yet,” he answered, with such poor courage as he could summon.
She flung back her hair and pointed at him with a bare arm. “Look in
the glass, miserable fellow-gambler; your eyes are as mine, hunted by
despair and defeat, and we are both right. My God, have I ever passed
such a night? And unless I am gone from this palace in six hours--oh,
they have warned me--I shall sleep in a cell at Vincennes. Courage,
pshaw! The King alone could save me and I have lost him for ever.”
“Are you sure?”
She waved the question on one side. “It is a plot,” she cried
passionately, “a plot of my enemies. They tried to murder you and they
failed. Now this--this is their last device. They have poisoned the
King, that his sick body may fall into the hands of the priests, who
will torture his soul till they have frightened him into dismissing
me. What can one woman do against the Church, whose bishops keep
mistresses as the King does? Nothing, nothing. I am ruined. I fly from
here that I may leave Versailles free. Do you save yourself. I can
protect you no longer. Give me up, go back to the Court, trample on the
unfortunate--it is not too late for you. Even my wenches know that, and
dare to insult me.”
“No, Madame, I will not give you up.”
“Poor, mad fool!” But the sudden, radiant flush in that haggard face
would have inspired a man under sentence of death to hope and joy.
“And I will save you yet, Marquise.”
She looked at him, fixedly. “Vicomte,” she moaned, with an exceeding
bitter cry, “save me. Yes, save me, I implore you.”
Her helplessness and her misery, she, who twenty-four hours ago had
been the Queen of Love to the Sovereign of France, did not appeal in
vain.
“The King may recover,” he said, “do not fly yet. If in twelve hours I
do not return you will never see me again. Then, but not till then, for
God’s sake save yourself, Madame.”
“You have a clue--know something?”
“Adieu.”
She strove to keep him, but he bowed himself resolutely out, and he
knew she had flung herself back into that chair in front of the fire to
watch her fortunes and her ambitions flicker out with the dying flames
in the remorseless march of the hours.
This time he boldly left by the public entrance.
Twelve hours! Twelve hours! he had no clue, no information. He had
spoken from the infatuation of sheer pity; alas! he had nothing but a
fierce and meaningless resolve.
“André,” called softly a voice he knew only too well. Denise was
standing in the empty gallery, and in her eyes there was something
of the hunted despair and fear Madame de Pompadour had read in his.
“André, you have been to see her?”
“Yes.”
“She is ruined.” She paused. “And they will ruin you too. Let me save
you; I can.”
“No,” he said, very quietly, “you cannot.” Denise looked at him,
trembling. “You can only save me if I now at once go on my knees to my
foes. To you I would gladly do it, for I have wronged you, and I love
you, but to them, never! never!”
Her head bowed in appealing silence.
“The Marquise de Pompadour,” he drew himself up, “the Marquise honoured
me with her friendship when she was powerful. Now that she is fallen
and in misery I will not be such a dastard as to save myself by helping
to ruin her. No, I will not!”
“You are mad,” she cried incoherently. But his chivalry fired her heart.
“You must do as you think right, Denise,” he said gently, “and so must
I. It is cruel for me--how cruel--no, I must not speak.” He broke off
and returned to the Œil de Bœuf.
The crowd was denser than ever. Monsieur le Dauphin had just passed
through the heated, suffocating room and was now in the royal
bed-chamber. Suddenly the subdued babel of tongues ceased as if by
magic. The doors were opening. Dukes, ministers, nobles, lackeys pushed
and fought to get to the front. The King was dead! Resolutely the Swiss
Guards stemmed the surging tide. Ha! the King’s physician. Dead silence.
“Nobles of the realm, and gentlemen,” cried the physician, “I am happy
to say that the sacred person of His Majesty is no longer in danger.”
A dull roar as of inarticulate wild beasts rose and fell. “With God’s
help the King of France will, we trust, be shortly restored to perfect
health.”
The doors were closed again. The Comte de Mont Rouge wiped his brow.
“It is now or never,” he whispered savagely to the Duke of
Pontchartrain.
“Yes, now or never,” smiled the Duke, “for I prefer the society of
the ladies of Versailles and Paris to that of the drabs and bigots of
Pontchartrain.”