PART III

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PETTICOAT RULE

BY

BARONESS ORCZY

AUTHOR OF "THE ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL," "I WILL REPAY," "THE SCARLET

PIMPERNEL," ETC.

[Illustration]

HODDER & STOUGHTON

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

_Copyright, 1909,_

By Baroness Orczy

_Copyright, 1910,_

By George H. Doran Company

TO

THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON

THE KIND FRIEND WHOSE APPRECIATION HAS CHEERED ME, THE

IDEALIST WHOSE WORK HAS GUIDED ME, THE BRILLIANT

INTELLECT WHOSE PRAISE HAS ENCOURAGED ME

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

IN TOKEN OF ADMIRATION, REGARD, AND FRIENDSHIP

EMMUSKA ORCZY

CONTENTS

PART I

THE GIRL

CHAPTER PAGE

I.--A FAREWELL BANQUET 3

II.--THE RULERS OF FRANCE 10

III.--POMPADOUR'S CHOICE 23

IV.--A WOMAN'S SURRENDER 32

V.--THE FIRST TRICK 45

VI.--A FALSE POSITION 51

VII.--THE YOUNG PRETENDER 58

VIII.--THE LAST TRICK 72

IX.--THE WINNING HAND 82

PART II

THE STATESMAN

X.--THE BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 95

XI.--LA BELLE IRÈNE 103

XII.--THE PROMISES OF FRANCE 112

XIII.--THE WEIGHT OF ETIQUETTE 127

XIV.--ROYAL FAVOURS 136

XV.--DIPLOMACY 148

XVI.--STRANGERS 160

PART III

THE WOMAN

XVII.--SPLENDID ISOLATION 179

XVIII.--CLEVER TACTICS 185

XIX.--A CRISIS 201

XX.--A FAREWELL 212

XXI.--ROYAL THANKS 215

XXII.--PATERNAL ANXIETY 221

XXIII.--THE QUEEN'S SOIRÉE 228

XXIV.--GOSSIP 233

XXV.--THE FIRST DOUBT 238

XXVI.--THE AWFUL CERTITUDE 245

XXVII.--A FALL 267

XXVIII.--HUSBAND AND WIFE 276

XXIX.--THE FATE OF THE STUART PRINCE 294

XXX.--M. DE STAINVILLE'S SECONDS 308

XXXI.--THE FINAL DISAPPOINTMENT 321

XXXII.--THE DAWN 328

XXXIII.--THE RIDE 333

XXXIV.--"LE MONARQUE" 338

XXXV.--THE STRANGER 349

XXXVI.--REVENGE 359

XXXVII.--THE LETTER 370

XXXVIII.--THE HOME IN ENGLAND 375

PART I

THE GIRL

PETTICOAT RULE

CHAPTER I

A FAREWELL BANQUET

"D'Aumont!"

"Eh? d'Aumont!"

The voice, that of a man still in the prime of life, but already

raucous in its tone, thickened through constant mirthless laughter,

rendered querulous too from long vigils kept at the shrine of

pleasure, rose above the incessant babel of women's chatter, the din

of silver, china and glasses passing to and fro.

"Your commands, sire?"

M. le Duc d'Aumont, Marshal of France, prime and sole responsible

Minister of Louis the Well-beloved, leant slightly forward, with

elbows resting on the table, and delicate hands, with fingers

interlaced, white and carefully tended as those of a pretty woman,

supporting his round and somewhat fleshy chin.

A handsome man M. le Duc, still on the right side of fifty, courtly

and pleasant-mannered to all. Has not Boucher immortalized the

good-natured, rather weak face, with that perpetual smile of unruffled

amiability forever lurking round the corners of the full-lipped mouth?

"Your commands, sire?"

His eyes--gray and prominent--roamed with a rapid movement of enquiry

from the face of the king to that of a young man with fair, curly

hair, worn free from powder, and eyes restless and blue, which stared

moodily into a goblet full of wine.

There was a momentary silence in the vast and magnificent dining hall,

that sudden hush which--so the superstitious aver--descends three

times on every assembly, however gay, however brilliant or

thoughtless: the hush which to the imaginative mind suggests the

flutter of unseen wings.

Then the silence was broken by loud laughter from the King.

"They are mad, these English, my friend! What?" said Louis the

Well-beloved with a knowing wink directed at the fair-haired young man

who sat not far from him.

"Mad, indeed, sire?" replied the Duke. "But surely not more

conspicuously so to-night than at any other time?"

"Of a truth, a hundred thousand times more so," here interposed a

somewhat shrill feminine voice--"and that by the most rigid rules of

brain-splitting arithmetic!"

Everyone listened. Conversations were interrupted; glasses were put

down; eager, attentive faces turned toward the speaker; this was no

less a personage than Jeanne Poisson now Marquise de Pompadour; and

when she opened her pretty mouth Louis the Well-beloved, descendant of

Saint Louis, King of France and of all her dominions beyond the seas,

hung breathless upon those well-rouged lips, whilst France sat silent

and listened, eager for a share of that smile which enslaved a King

and ruined a nation.

"Let us have that rigid rule of arithmetic, fair one," said Louis

gaily, "by which you can demonstrate to us that M. le Chevalier here

is a hundred thousand times more mad than any of his accursed

countrymen."

"Nay, sire, 'tis simple enough," rejoined the lady. "M. le Chevalier

hath need of a hundred thousand others in order to make his insanity

complete, a hundred thousand Englishmen as mad as April fishes, to

help him conquer a kingdom of rain and fogs. Therefore I say he is a

hundred thousand times more mad than most!"

Loud laughter greeted this sally. Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour, so

little while ago simply Jeanne Poisson or Mme. d'Étioles, was not yet

_blasée_ to so much adulation and such fulsome flattery; she looked a

veritable heaven of angelic smiles; her eyes blue--so her dithyrambic

chroniclers aver--as the dark-toned myosotis, wandered from face to

face along the length of that gorgeously spread supper table, round

which was congregated the flower of the old aristocracy of France.

She gleaned an admiring glance here, an unspoken murmur of flattery

there, even the women--and there were many--tried to look approvingly

at her who ruled the King and France. One face alone remained

inscrutable and almost severe, the face of a woman--a mere girl--with

straight brow and low, square forehead, crowned with a wealth of soft

brown hair, the rich tones of which peeped daringly through the

conventional mist of powder.

Mme. de Pompadour's sunny smile disappeared momentarily when her eyes

rested on this girl's face; a frown--oh! hardly that; but a shadow,

shall we say?--marred the perfect purity of her brow. The next moment

she had yielded her much-beringed hand to her royal worshipper's

eager grasp and he was pressing a kiss on each rose-tipped finger,

whilst she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Brrr!" she said, with a mock shiver, "here is Mlle. d'Aumont frowning

stern disapproval at me. Surely, Chevalier," she asked, turning to the

young man beside her, "a comfortable armchair in your beautiful palace

of St. Germain is worth a throne in mist-bound London?"

"Not when that throne is his by right," here interposed Mlle. d'Aumont

quietly. "The palace of St. Germain is but a gift to the King of

England, for which he owes gratitude to the King of France."

A quick blush now suffused the cheeks of the young man, who up to now

had seemed quite unconscious of Mme. de Pompadour's sallies or of the

hilarity directed against himself. He gave a rapid glance at Mlle.

d'Aumont's haughty, somewhat imperious face and at the delicate mouth,

round which an almost imperceptible curl of contempt seemed still to

linger.

"La! Mademoiselle," rejoined the Marquise, with some acerbity, "do we

not all hold gifts at the hands of the King of France?"

"We have no sovereignty of our own, Madame," replied the young girl

drily.

"As for me," quoth King Louis, hastily interposing in this feminine

passage of arms, "I drink to our gallant Chevalier de St. George, His

Majesty King Charles Edward Stuart of England, Scotland, Wales, and of

the whole of that fog-ridden kingdom. Success to your cause,

Chevalier," he added, settling his fat body complacently in the

cushions of his chair; and raising his glass, he nodded benignly

toward the young Pretender.

"To King Charles Edward of England!" rejoined Mme. de Pompadour gaily.

And "To King Charles Edward of England!" went echoing all around the

vast banqueting-hall.

"I thank you all," said the young man, whose sullen mood seemed in no

way dissipated at these expressions of graciousness and friendship.

"Success to my cause is assured if France will lend me the aid she

promised."

"What right have you to doubt the word of France, Monseigneur?"

retorted Mlle. d'Aumont earnestly.

"A truce! a truce! I entreat," here broke in King Louis with mock

concern. "_Par Dieu_, this is a banquet and not a Council Chamber! Joy

of my life," he added, turning eyes replete with admiration on the

beautiful woman beside him, "do not allow politics to mar this

pleasant entertainment. M. le Duc, you are our host, I pray you direct

conversation into more pleasing channels."

Nothing loth, the brilliant company there present quickly resumed the

irresponsible chatter which was far more to its liking than talk of

thrones and doubtful causes. The flunkeys in gorgeous liveries made

the round of the table, filling the crystal glasses with wine. The

atmosphere was heavy with the fumes of past good cheer, and the scent

of a thousand roses fading beneath the glare of innumerable

wax-candles. An odour of perfume, of powder and cosmetics hovered in

the air; the men's faces looked red and heated; on one or two heads

the wig stood awry, whilst trembling fingers began fidgeting with the

lace-cravats at the throat.

Charles Edward's restless blue eyes searched keenly and feverishly the

faces around him; morose, gloomy, he was still reckoning in his mind

how far he could trust these irresponsible pleasure-lovers, that

descendant of the great Louis over there, fat of body and heavy of

mind, lost to all sense of kingly dignity whilst squandering the

nation's money on the whims and caprices of the ex-wife of a Parisian

victualler, whom he had created Marquise de Pompadour.

These men who lived only for good cheer, for heady wines, games of

dice and hazard, nights of debauch and illicit pleasures, what help

would they be to him in the hour of need? What support in case of

failure?

"What right have you to doubt the word of France?" was asked of him by

one pair of proud lips--a woman's, only a girl's.

Charles Edward looked across the table at Mlle. d'Aumont. Like

himself, she sat silent in the midst of the noisy throng, obviously

lending a very inattentive ear to the whisperings of the handsome

cavalier beside her.

Ah! if they were all like her, if she were a representative of the

whole nation of France, the young adventurer would have gone to his

hazardous expedition with a stauncher and a lighter heart. But, as

matters stood, what could he expect? What had he got as a serious

asset in this gamble for life and a throne? A few vague promises from

that flabby, weak-kneed creature over there on whom the crown of Saint

Louis sat so strangely and so ill; a few smiles from that frivolous

and vain woman, who drained the very heart's blood of an impoverished

nation to its last drop, in order to satisfy her costly whims or chase

away the frowns of ennui from the brow of an effete monarch.

And what besides?

A farewell supper, ringing toasts, good wine, expensive food offered

by M. le Duc d'Aumont, the Prime Minister of France--a thousand roses,

now fading, which had cost a small fortune to coax into bloom; a

handshake from his friends in France; a "God-speed" and "_Dieu vous

garde_, Chevalier!" and a few words of stern encouragement from a

girl.

With all that in hand, Chevalier St. George, go and conquer your

kingdom beyond the sea!

CHAPTER II

THE RULERS OF FRANCE

Great activity reigned in the corridors and kitchens of the old

château. M. le Chef--the only true rival the immortal Vatel ever

had--in white cap and apron, calm and self-possessed as a

field-marshal in the hour of victory, and surrounded by an army of

scullions and wenches, was directing the operations of dishing-up--the

crowning glory of his arduous labours. Pies and patties, haunches of

venison, trout and carp from the Rhine were placed on gold and silver

dishes and adorned with tasteful ornaments of truly architectural

beauty and monumental proportions. These were then handed over to the

footmen, who, resplendent in gorgeous liveries of scarlet and azure,

hurried along the marble passages carrying the masterpieces of

culinary art to the banqueting-hall beyond, whilst the butlers, more

sedate and dignified in sober garb of puce or brown, stalked along in

stately repose bearing the huge tankards and crystal jugs.

All of the best that the fine old Château d'Aumont could provide was

being requisitioned to-night, since M. le Duc and Mlle. Lydie, his

daughter, were giving a farewell banquet to Charles Edward Stuart by

the grace of God--if not by the will of the people--King of Great

Britain and Ireland and all her dependencies beyond the seas.

For him speeches were made, toasts drunk and glasses raised; for him

the ducal veneries had been ransacked, the ducal cellars shorn of

their most ancient possessions; for him M. le Chef had raged and

stormed for five hours, had expended the sweat of his brow and the

intricacies of his brain; for him the scullions' backs had smarted,

the wenches' cheeks had glowed, all to do honour to the only rightful

King of England about to quit the hospitable land of France in order

to conquer that island kingdom which his grandfather had lost.

But in the noble _salle d'armes_, on the other hand, there reigned a

pompous and dignified silence, in strange contrast to the bustle and

agitation of the kitchens and the noise of loud voices and laughter

that issued from the banqueting hall whenever a door was opened and

quickly shut again.

Here perfumed candles flickered in massive candelabra, shedding dim

circles of golden light on carved woodwork, marble floor, and

dull-toned tapestries. The majestic lions of D'Aumont frowned stolidly

from their high pedestals on this serene abode of peace and dignity,

one foot resting on the gilded shield with the elaborate coat-of-arms

blazoned thereon in scarlet and azure, the other poised aloft as if in

solemn benediction.

M. Joseph, own body servant to M. le Duc, in magnificent D'Aumont

livery, his cravat a marvel of costly simplicity, his elegant,

well-turned calves--encased in fine silk stockings--stretched lazily

before him, was sprawling on the brocade-covered divan in the centre

of the room.

M. Bénédict, equally resplendent in a garb of motley that recalled the

heraldic colours of the Comte de Stainville, stood before him, not in

an attitude of deference of course, but in one of easy friendship;

whilst M. Achille--a blaze of scarlet and gold--was holding out an

elegant silver snuff-box to M. Joseph, who, without any superfluous

motion of his dignified person, condescended to take a pinch.

With arm and elbow held at a graceful angle, M. Joseph paused in the

very act of conveying the snuff to his delicate nostrils. He seemed to

think that the occasion called for a remark from himself, but

evidently nothing very appropriate occurred to him for the moment, so

after a few seconds of impressive silence he finally partook of the

snuff, and then flicked off the grains of dust from his immaculate

azure waistcoat with a lace-edged handkerchief.

"Where does your Marquis get his snuff?" he asked with an easy

graciousness of manner.

"We get it direct from London," replied M. Achille sententiously. "I

am personally acquainted with Mme. Véronique, who is cook to Mme. de

la Beaume and the sweetheart of Jean Laurent, own body-servant to

General de Puisieux. The old General is Chief of Customs at Havre, so

you see we pay no duty and get the best of snuff at a ridiculous

price."

"Ah! that's lucky for you, my good Eglinton," said M. Bénédict, with a

sigh. "Your Marquis is a good sort, and as he is not personally

acquainted with Mme. Véronique, I doubt not but he pays full price for

his snuff."

"One has to live, friend Stainville," quoth Achille solemnly--"and I

am not a fool!"

"Exactly so; and with an English milor your life is an easy one,

Monsieur."

"Comme-ci! comme-ça!" nodded Achille deprecatingly.

"Le petit Anglais is very rich?" suggested Bénédict.

"Boundlessly so!" quoth the other, with conscious pride.

"Now, if perchance you could see your way to introducing me to Mme.

Véronique. Eh? I have to pay full price for my Count's snuff, and he

will have none but the best; but if I could get Mme. Véronique's

protection----"

Achille's manner immediately changed at this suggestion, made with

becoming diffidence; he drew back a few steps as if to emphasize the

distance which must of necessity lie between supplicant and patron. He

took a pinch of snuff, he blew his nose with stately deliberation--all

in order to keep the petitioner waiting on tenterhooks.

Finally he drew up his scarlet and gold shoulders until they almost

touched his ears.

"It will be difficult, very, very difficult my good Stainville," he

said at last, speaking in measured tones. "You see, Mme. Véronique is

in a very delicate position; she has a great deal of influence of

course, and it is not easy to obtain her protection. Still, I will see

what I can do, and you can place your petition before her."

"Do not worry yourself, my good Eglinton," here interposed M. Bénédict

with becoming hauteur. "I thought as you had asked me yesterday to use

my influence with our Mlle. Mariette, the fiancée of Colonel

Jauffroy's third footman, with regard to your nephew's advancement in

his regiment, that perhaps---- But no matter--no matter!" he added,

with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

"You completely misunderstood me, my dear Stainville," broke in M.

Achille, eagerly. "I said that the matter was difficult; I did not say

that it was impossible. Mme. Véronique is beset with petitions, but

you may rely on my friendship. I will obtain the necessary

introduction for you if you, on the other hand, will bear my nephew's

interests in mind."

"Say no more about it, my good Eglinton," said Bénédict, with easy

condescension; "your nephew will get his promotion on the word of a

Stainville."

Peace and amity being once more restored between the two friends, M.

Joseph thought that he had now remained silent far longer than was

compatible with his own importance.

"It is very difficult, of course, in our position," he said pompously,

"to do justice to the many demands which are made on our influence and

patronage. Take my own case, for instance--my Duke leaves all

appointments in my hands. In the morning, whilst I shave him, I have

but to mention a name to him in connection with any post under

Government that happens to be vacant, and immediately the favoured

one, thus named by me, receives attention, nearly always followed by a

nomination."

"Hem! hem!" came very discreetly from the lips of M. Bénédict.

"You said?" queried Joseph, with a slight lifting of the right

eyebrow.

"Oh! nothing--nothing! I pray you continue; the matter is vastly

entertaining."

"At the present moment," continued M. Joseph, keeping a suspicious eye

on the other man, "I am deeply worried by this proposal which comes

from the Parliaments of Rennes and Paris."

"A new Ministry of Finance to be formed," quoth M. Achille. "We know

all about it."

"With direct control of the nation's money and responsible to the

Parliaments alone," assented Joseph. "The Parliaments! Bah!" he added

in tones of supreme contempt, "_bourgeois_ the lot of them!"

"Their demands are preposterous, so says my milor. 'Tis a marvel His

Majesty has given his consent."

"I have advised my Duke not to listen to the rabble," said Joseph, as

he readjusted the set of his cravat. "A Ministry responsible to the

Parliaments! Ridiculous, I say!"

"I understand, though," here interposed M. Achille, "that the

Parliaments, out of deference for His Majesty are willing that the

King himself shall appoint this new Comptroller of Finance."

"The King, my good Eglinton," calmly retorted M. Joseph--"the King

will leave this matter to us. You may take it from me that we shall

appoint this new Minister, and an extremely pleasant post it will be.

Comptroller of Finance! All the taxes to pass through the Minister's

hands! Par Dieu! does it not open out a wide field for an ambitious

man?"

"Hem! hem!" coughed M. Bénédict again.

"You seem to be suffering from a cold, sir," said M. Joseph irritably.

"Not in the least," rejoined Bénédict hastily--"a slight tickling in

the throat. You were saying, M. Joseph, that you hoped this new

appointment would fall within your sphere of influence."

"Nay! If you doubt me, my good Stainville----" And M. Joseph rose with

slow and solemn majesty from the divan, where he had been reclining,

and walking across the room with a measured step, he reached an

escritoire whereon ink and pens, letters tied up in bundles, loose

papers, and all the usual paraphernalia commonly found on the desk of

a busy man. M. Joseph sat down at the table and rang a handbell.

The next moment a young footman entered, silent and deferential.

"Is any one in the ante-room, Paul?" asked Joseph.

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"How many?"

"About thirty persons."

"Go tell them, then, that M. Joseph is not receiving to-night. He is

entertaining a circle of friends. Bring me all written petitions. I

shall be visible in my dressing room to those who have a personal

introduction at eleven o'clock to-morrow. You may go!"

Silently as he had entered, the young man bowed and withdrew.

M. Joseph wheeled round in his chair and turned to his friends with a

look of becoming triumph.

"Thirty persons!" he remarked simply.

"All after this appointment?" queried Achille.

"Their representatives, you see," explained M. Joseph airily. "Oh! my

ante-chamber is always full--You understand? I shave my Duke every

morning; and every one, it seems to me, is wanting to control the

finances of France."

"Might one inquire who is your special _protégé_?" asked the other.

"Time will show," came with cryptic vagueness from the lips of M.

Joseph.

"Hem! hem!"

In addition to a slight tickling of the throat, M. Bénédict seemed to

be suffering from an affection of the left eye which caused him to

wink with somewhat persistent emphasis:

"This is the third time you have made that remark, Stainville," said

Joseph severely.

"I did not remark, my dear D'Aumont," rejoined Bénédict

pleasantly--"that is, I merely said 'Hem! hem!'"

"Even so, I heard you," said Joseph, with some acerbity; "and I would

wish to know precisely what you meant when you said 'Hem! hem!' like

that."

"I was thinking of Mlle. Lucienne," said Bénédict, with a sentimental

sigh.

"Indeed!"

"Yes! I am one of her sweethearts--the fourth in point of favour.

Mlle. Lucienne has your young lady's ear, my good D'Aumont, and we all

know that your Duke governs the whole of France exactly as his

daughter wishes him to do."

"And you hope through Mlle. Lucienne's influence to obtain the new

post of Comptroller for your own Count?" asked M. Joseph, with assumed

carelessness, as he drummed a devil's tattoo on the table before him.

A slight expression of fatuity crept into the countenance of M.

Bénédict. He did not wish to irritate the great man; at the same time

he felt confident in his own powers of blandishments where Mlle.

Lucienne was concerned, even though he only stood fourth in point of

favour in that influential lady's heart.

"Mlle. Lucienne has promised us her support," he said, with a

complacent smile.

"I fear me that will be of little avail," here interposed M. Achille.

"We have on our side, the influence of Mme. Auguste Baillon, who is

housekeeper to M. le Docteur Dubois, consulting physician to Mlle.

d'Aumont. M. le Docteur is very fond of haricots cooked in lard--a

dish in the preparation of which Mme. Baillon excels--whilst, on the

other hand, that lady's son is perruquier to my Eglinton. I think

there is no doubt that ours is the stronger influence, and that if

this Ministry of Finance comes into being, we shall be the Chief

Comptroller."

"Oh, it will come into being, without any doubt," said Bénédict. "I

have it from my cousin François, who is one of the sweethearts of

Mlle. Duprez, confidential maid to Mme. Aremberg, the jeweller's wife,

that the merchants of Paris and Lyons are not at all pleased with the

amount of money which the King and Mme. de Pompadour are spending."

"Exactly! People of that sort are a veritable pestilence. They want us

to pay some of the taxes--the _corvée_ or the _taille_. As if a Duke

or a Minister is going to pay taxes! Ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous, I say," assented Achille, "though my Marquis says that in

England even noblemen pay taxes."

"Then we'll not go to England, friend Eglinton. Imagine shaving a Duke

or a Marquis who had paid taxes like a shopkeeper!"

A chorus of indignation from the three gentleman rose at the

suggestion.

"Preposterous indeed!"

"We all know that England is a nation of shopkeepers. M. de Voltaire,

who has been there, said so to us on his return."

M. Achille, in view of the fact that he represented the Marquis of

Eglinton, commonly styled "le petit Anglais," was not quite sure

whether his dignity demanded that he should resent this remark of M.

de Voltaire's or not.

Fortunately he was saved from having to decide this delicate question

immediately by the reëntry of Paul into the room.

The young footman was carrying a bundle of papers, which he

respectfully presented to M. Joseph on a silver tray. The great man

looked at Paul somewhat puzzled, rubbed his chin, and contemplated the

papers with a thoughtful eye.

"What are these?" he asked.

"The petitions, M. Joseph," replied the young man.

"Oh! Ah, yes!" quoth the other airily. "Quite so; but--I have no time

to read them now. You may glance through them, Paul, and let me know

if any are worthy of my consideration."

M. Joseph was born in an epoch when reading was not considered an

indispensable factor in a gentleman's education. Whether the petitions

of the thirty aspirants to the new post of Comptroller of Finance

would subsequently be read by M. Paul or not it were impossible to

say; for the present he merely took up the papers again, saying quite

respectfully:

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"Stay! you may take cards, dice, and two flagons of Bordeaux into my

boudoir."

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"Have you dismissed every one from the ante-chamber?"

"All except an old man, who refuses to go."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know; he----"

Further explanation was interrupted by a timid voice issuing from the

open door.

"I only desire five minutes' conversation with M. le Duc d'Aumont."

And a wizened little figure dressed in seedy black, with lean shanks

encased in coarse woollen stockings, shuffled into the room. He seemed

to be carrying a great number of papers and books under both arms, and

as he stepped timidly forward some of these tumbled in a heap at his

feet.

"Only five minutes' conversation with M. le Duc."

His eyes were very pale, and very watery, and his hair was of a pale

straw colour. He stooped to pick up his papers, and dropped others in

the process.

"M. le Duc is not visible," said M. Joseph majestically.

"Perhaps a little later----" suggested the lean individual.

"The Duke will not be visible later either."

"Then to-morrow perhaps; I can wait--I have plenty of time on my

hands."

"You may have, but the Duke hasn't."

In the meanwhile the wizened little man had succeeded in once more

collecting his papers together. With trembling eager hands he now

selected a folded note, which evidently had suffered somewhat through

frequent falls on dusty floors; this he held out toward M. Joseph.

"I have a letter to Monsieur le valet de chambre of the Duke," he said

humbly.

"A letter of introduction?--to me?" queried Joseph, with a distinct

change in his manner and tone. "From whom?"

"My daughter Agathe, who brings Monsieur's chocolate in to him every

morning."

"Ah, you are Mlle. Agathe's father!" exclaimed Joseph with pleasant

condescension, as he took the letter of introduction, and, without

glancing at it, slipped it into the pocket of his magnificent coat.

Perhaps a thought subsequently crossed his mind that the timorous

person before him was not quite so simple-minded as his watery blue

eyes suggested, and that the dusty and crumpled little note might be a

daring fraud practised on his own influential personality, for he

added with stern emphasis: "I will see Mlle. Agathe to-morrow, and

will discuss your affair with her."

Then, as the little man did not wince under the suggestion, M. Joseph

said more urbanely:

"By the way, what is your affair? These gentlemen"--and with a

graceful gesture he indicated his two friends--"these gentlemen will

pardon the liberty you are taking in discussing it before them."

"Thank you, Monsieur; thank you, gentlemen," said the wizened

individual humbly; "it is a matter of--er--figures."

"Figures!"

"Yes! This new Ministry of Finance--there will be an auditor of

accounts wanted--several auditors, I presume--and--and I thought----"

"Yes?" nodded M. Joseph graciously.

"My daughter does bring you in your chocolate nice and hot, M. Joseph,

does she not?--and--and I do know a lot about figures. I studied

mathematics with the late M. Descartes; I audited the books of the

Société des Comptables of Lyons for several years; and--and I have

diplomas and testimonials----"

And, carried away by another wave of anxiety, he began to fumble among

his papers and books, which with irritating perversity immediately

tumbled pell-mell on to the floor.

"What in the devil's name is the good of testimonials and diplomas to

us, my good man?" said M. Joseph haughtily. "If, on giving the matter

my serious consideration, I come to the conclusion that you will be a

suitable accountant in the new Ministerial Department, _ma foi_! my

good man, your affair is settled. No thanks, I pray!" he added, with a

gracious flourish of the arm; "I have been pleased with Mlle. Agathe,

and I may mention your name whilst I shave M. le Duc to-morrow. Er--by

the way, what is your name?"

"Durand, if you please, M. Joseph."

The meagre little person with the watery blue eyes tried to express

his gratitude by word and gesture, but his books and papers encumbered

his movements, and he was rendered doubly nervous by the presence of

these gorgeous and stately gentlemen, and by the wave of voices and

laughter which suddenly rose from the distance, suggesting that

perhaps a brilliant company might be coming this way.

The very thought seemed to completely terrify him; with both arms he

hugged his various written treasures, and with many sideway bows and

murmurs of thanks he finally succeeded in shuffling his lean figure

out of the room, closely followed by M. Paul.

CHAPTER III

POMPADOUR'S CHOICE

M. Durand's retreat had fortunately occurred just in time; men's

voices and women's laughter sounded more and more distinct, as if

approaching toward the _salle d'armes_.

In a moment, with the swiftness born of long usage, the demeanour of

the three gentlemen underwent a quick and sudden change. They seemed

to pull their gorgeous figures together; with practised fingers each

readjusted the lace of his cravat, reëstablished the correct set of

his waistcoat, and flickered the last grain of dust or snuff from the

satin-like surface of his coat.

Ten seconds later the great doors at the east end of the hall were

thrown open, and through the embrasure and beyond the intervening

marble corridor could be seen the brilliantly lighted supper-room,

with its glittering company broken up into groups.

Silent, swift and deferential, MM. Joseph, Bénédict, and Achille

glided on flat-heeled shoes along the slippery floors, making as

little noise as possible, effacing their gorgeous persons in window

recesses or carved ornaments whenever a knot of gentlemen or ladies

happened to pass by.

Quite a different trio now, MM. Joseph, Bénédict, and Achille--just

three automatons intent on their duties.

From the supper-room there came an incessant buzz of talk and

laughter. M. Joseph sought his master's eye, but M. le Duc was busy

with the King of England and wanted no service; M. Achille found his

English milor, "le petit Anglais," engaged in conversation with his

portly and somewhat overdressed mamma; whilst M. Bénédict's master was

nowhere to be found.

The older ladies were beginning to look wearied and hot, smothering

yawns behind their painted fans. Paniers assumed a tired and crumpled

appearance, and feathered aigrettes nodded dismally above the high

coiffures.

Not a few of the guests had taken the opportunity of bringing cards or

dice from a silken pocket, whilst others in smaller groups, younger

and not yet wearied of desultory talk, strolled toward the _salle

d'armes_ or the smaller boudoirs which opened out of the corridor.

One or two gentlemen had succumbed to M. le Duc's lavish hospitality;

the many toasts had proved too exacting, the copious draughts

altogether too heady, and they had, somewhat involuntarily, exchanged

their chairs for the more reliable solidity of the floor, where their

faithful attendants, stationed under the table for the purpose, deftly

untied a cravat which might be too tight or administered such cooling

antidotes as might be desirable.

The hot air vibrated with the constant babel of voices, the frou-frou

of silk paniers, and brocaded skirts, mingled with the clink of swords

and the rattle of dice in satinwood boxes.

The atmosphere, surcharged with perfumes, had become overpoweringly

close.

His Majesty, flushed with wine, and with drowsy lids drooping over his

dulled eyes, had pushed his chair away from the table and was

lounging lazily toward Mme. de Pompadour, his idle fingers toying with

the jewelled girdle of her fan. She amused him; she had quaint sayings

which were sometimes witty, always daring, but which succeeded in

dissipating momentarily that mortal ennui of which he suffered.

Even now her whispered conversation, interspersed with profuse

giggles, brought an occasional smile to the lips of the sleepy

monarch. She chatted and laughed, flirting her fan, humouring the

effeminate creature beside her by yielding her hand and wrist to his

flabby kisses. But her eyes did not rest on him for many seconds at a

time; she talked to Louis, but her mind had gone a-wandering about the

room trying to read thoughts, to search motives or divine hidden

hatreds and envy as they concerned herself.

This glitter was still new to her; the power which she wielded seemed

as yet a brittle toy which a hasty movement might suddenly break. It

was but a very little while ago that she had been an insignificant

unit in a third-rate social circle of Paris--always beautiful, but

lost in the midst of a drabby crowd, her charms, like those of a

precious stone, unperceived for want of proper setting. Her ambition

was smothered in her heart, which at times it almost threatened to

consume. But it was always there, ever since she had learnt to

understand the power which beauty gives.

An approving smile from the King of France, and the world wore a

different aspect for Jeanne Poisson. Her whims and caprices became the

reins with which she drove France and the King. Why place a limit to

her own desires, since the mightiest monarch in Europe was ready to

gratify them?

Money became her god.

Spend! spend! spend! Why not? The nation, the bourgeoisie--of which

she had once been that little insignificant unit--was now the

well-spring whence she drew the means of satisfying her

ever-increasing lust for splendour.

Jewels, dresses, palaces, gardens--all and everything that was rich,

beautiful, costly, she longed for it all!

Pictures and statuary; music, and of the best; constant noise around

her, gaiety, festivities, laughter; the wit of France and the science

of the world all had been her helpmeets these past two years in this

wild chase after pleasure, this constant desire to kill her Royal

patron's incurable ennui.

Two years, and already the nation grumbled! A check was to be put on

her extravagance--hers and that of King Louis! The parliaments

demanded that some control be exercised over Royal munificence. Fewer

jewels for Madame! And that palace at Fontainebleau not yet completed,

the Parc aux Cerfs so magnificently planned and not even begun! Would

the new Comptroller put a check on that?

At first she marvelled that Louis should consent. It was a humiliation

for him as well as for her. The weakness in him which had served her

own ends seemed monstrous when it yielded to pressure from others.

He had assured her that she should not suffer; jewels, palaces,

gardens, she should have all as heretofore. Let Parliament insist and

grumble, but the Comptroller would be appointed by D'Aumont, and

D'Aumont was her slave.

D'Aumont, yes! but not his daughter--that arrogant girl with the

severe eyes, unwomanly and dictatorial, who ruled her father just as

she herself, Pompadour, ruled the King.

An enemy, that Lydie d'Aumont! Mme. la Marquise, whilst framing a

witticism at which the King smiled, frowned because in a distant

alcove she spied the haughty figure of Lydie.

And there were others! The friends of the Queen and her clique, of

course; they were not here to-night; at least not in great numbers;

still, even the present brilliant company, though smiling and

obsequious in the presence of the King, was not by any means a close

phalanx of friends.

M. d'Argenson, for instance--he was an avowed enemy; and Marshal de

Noailles, too--oh! and there were others.

One of them, fortunately, was going away; Charles Edward Stuart,

aspiring King of England; he had been no friend of Pompadour. Even

now, as he stood close by, lending an obviously inattentive ear to M.

le Duc d'Aumont, she could see that he still looked gloomy and out of

humour, and that whenever his eyes rested upon her and the King he

frowned with wrathful impatience.

"You are distraite, ma mie!" said Louis, with a yawn.

"I was thinking, sire," she replied, smiling into his drowsy eyes.

"For God's sake, I entreat, do not think!" exclaimed the King, with

mock alarm. "Thought produces wrinkles, and your perfect mouth was

only fashioned for smiles."

"May I frame a suggestion?" she queried archly.

"No, only a command."

"This Comptroller of Finance, your future master, Louis, and mine----"

"Your slave," he interrupted lazily, "and he values his life."

"Why not milor Eglinton?"

"Le petit Anglais?" and Louis's fat body was shaken with sudden

immoderate laughter. "Par Dieu, ma mie! Of all your witty sallies this

one hath pleased us most."

"Why?" she asked seriously.

"Le petit Anglais!" again laughed the King. "I'd as soon give the

appointment to your lapdog, Marquise. Fido would have as much capacity

for the post as the ornamental cypher that hangs on his mother's

skirts."

"Milor Eglinton is very rich," she mused.

"Inordinately so, curse him! I could do with half his revenue and be a

satisfied man."

"Being a cypher he would not trouble us much; being very rich he would

need no bribe for doing as we wish."

"His lady mother would trouble us, ma mie."

"Bah! we would find him a wife."

"Nay! I entreat you do not worry your dainty head with these matters,"

said the King, somewhat irritably. "The appointment rests with

D'Aumont; an you desire the post for your protégé, turn your bright

eyes on the Duke."

Pompadour would have wished to pursue the subject, to get something of

a promise from Louis, to turn his inveterate weakness then and there

to her own account, but Louis the Well-beloved yawned, a calamity

which the fair lady dared not risk again. Witty and brilliant, forever

gay and unfatigued, she knew that her power over the monarch would

only last whilst she could amuse him.

Therefore now with swift transition she turned the conversation to

more piquant channels. An anecdote at the expense of the old Duchesse

de Pontchartrain brought life once more into the eyes of the King. She

was once more untiring in her efforts, her cheeks glowed even through

the powder and the rouge, her lips smiled without intermission, but

her thoughts drifted back to the root idea, the burden of that control

to be imposed on her caprices.

She would not have minded Milor Eglinton, the courteous, amiable

gentleman, who had no will save that expressed by any woman who

happened to catch his ear. She felt that she could, with but very

little trouble, twist him round her little finger. His dictatorial

mamma would either have to be got out of the way, or won over to Mme.

la Marquise's own views of life, whilst Milor could remain a bachelor,

lest another feminine influence prove antagonistic.

Pompadour's bright eyes, whilst she chatted to the King, sought amidst

the glittering throng the slim figure of "le petit Anglais."

Yes, he would suit her purpose admirably! She could see his handsome

profile clearly outlined against the delicate tones of the wall;

handsome, yes! clear-cut and firm, with straight nose and the low,

square brow of the Anglo-Saxon race, but obviously weak and yielding;

a perfect tool in the hands of a clever woman.

Elegant too, always immaculately, nay daintily dressed, he wore with

that somewhat stiff grace peculiar to the English gentleman the showy

and effeminate costume of the time. But there was weakness expressed

in his very attitude as he stood now talking to Charles Edward Stuart:

the kindly, pleasant expression of his good-looking face in strange

contrast to the glowering moodiness of his princely friend.

One Lord Eglinton had followed the deposed James II into exile. His

son had risked life and fortune for the restoration of the old

Pretender, and having managed by sheer good luck to save both, he felt

that he had done more than enough for a cause which he knew was doomed

to disaster. But he hated the thought of a German monarch in England,

and in his turn preferred exile to serving a foreigner for whom he had

scant sympathy.

Immensely wealthy, a brilliant conversationalist, a perfect gentleman,

he soon won the heart of one of the daughters of France. Mlle. de

Maille brought him, in addition to her own elaborate trousseau and a

dowry of three thousand francs yearly pin-money, the historic and

gorgeous chateau of Beaufort which Lord Eglinton's fortune rescued

from the hands of the bailiffs.

Vaguely he thought that some day he would return to his own ancestral

home in Sussex, when England would have become English once again; in

the meanwhile he was content to drift on the placid waters of life,

his luxurious craft guided by the domineering hand of his wife.

Independent owing to his nationality and his wealth, a friend alike of

the King of France and the Stuart Pretender, he neither took up arms

in any cause, nor sides in any political intrigue.

Lady Eglinton brought up her son in affluence and luxury, but detached

from all partisanship. Her strong personality imposed something of her

own national characteristics on the boy, but she could not break the

friendship that existed between the royal Stuarts and her husband's

family. Although Charles Edward was her son's playmate in the gardens

and castle of Beaufort, she nevertheless succeeded in instilling into

the latter a slight measure of disdain for the hazardous attempts at

snatching the English crown which invariably resulted in the betrayal

of friends, the wholesale slaughter of adherents, and the ignominious

flight of the Pretender.

No doubt it was this dual nationality in the present Lord Eglinton,

this detachment from political conflicts, that was the real cause of

that inherent weakness of character which Mme. de Pompadour now wished

to use for her own ends. She was glad, therefore, to note that whilst

Charles Edward talked earnestly to him, the eyes of "le petit Anglais"

roamed restlessly about the room, as if seeking for support in an

argument, or help from a personality stronger than his own.

Lady Eglinton's voice, harsh and domineering, often rose above the

general hum of talk. Just now she had succeeded in engaging the Prime

Minister in serious conversation.

The King in the meanwhile had quietly dropped asleep, lulled by the

even ripple of talk of the beautiful Marquise and the heavily scented

atmosphere of the room. Pompadour rose from her chair as noiselessly

as her stiff brocaded skirt would allow; she crossed the room and

joined Lady Eglinton and M. le Duc d'Aumont.

She was going to take King Louis's advice and add the weighty

influence of her own bright eyes to that of my lady's voluble talk in

favour of the appointment of Lord Eglinton to the newly created

Ministry of Finance.

CHAPTER IV

A WOMAN'S SURRENDER

In a small alcove, which was raised above the level of the rest of the

floor by a couple of steps and divided from the main banqueting hall

by a heavy damask curtain now partially drawn aside, Mlle. d'Aumont

sat in close conversation with M. le Comte de Stainville.

From this secluded spot these two dominated the entire length and

breadth of the room; the dazzling scene was displayed before them in a

gorgeous kaleidoscope of moving figures, in an ever-developing

panorama of vividly coloured groups, that came and went, divided and

reunited; now forming soft harmonies of delicate tones that suggested

the subtle blending on the palette of a master, anon throwing on to

the canvas daring patches of rich magentas or deep purples, that set

off with cunning artfulness the masses of pale primrose and gold.

Gaston de Stainville, however, did not seem impressed with the

picturesqueness of the scene. He sat with his broad back turned toward

the brilliant company, one elbow propped on a small table beside him,

his hand shielding his face against the glare of the candles. But

Lydie d'Aumont's searching eyes roamed ceaselessly over the gaily

plumaged birds that fluttered uninterruptedly before her gaze.

With one delicate hand holding back the rich damask curtain, the other

lying idly in her lap, her white brocaded gown standing out in stiff

folds round her girlish figure, she was a picture well worth looking

at.

Lydie was scarcely twenty-one then, but already there was a certain

something in the poise of her head, in every movement of her graceful

body, that suggested the woman accustomed to dominate, the woman of

thought and action, rather than of sentiment and tender emotions.

Those of her own sex said at that time that in Lydie's haughty eyes

there was the look of the girl who has been deprived early in life of

a mother's gentle influence, and who has never felt the gentle yet

firm curb of a mother's authority on her childish whims and caprices.

M. le Duc d'Aumont, who had lost his young wife after five years of an

exceptionally happy married life, had lavished all the affection of

his mature years on the girl, who was the sole representative of his

name. The child had always been headstrong and self-willed from the

cradle; her nurses could not cope with her babyish tempers; her

governesses dreaded her domineering ways. M. le Duc was deaf to all

complaints; he would not have the child thwarted, and as she grew up

lovable in the main, she found her father's subordinates ready enough

to bend to her yoke.

From the age of ten she had been the acknowledged queen of all her

playmates, and the autocrat of her father's house. Little by little

she obtained an extraordinary ascendancy over the fond parent, who

admired almost as much as he loved her.

He was deeply touched when, scarce out of the school room, she tried

to help him in the composition of his letters, and more than

astonished to see how quick was her intelligence and how sharp her

intuition. Instinctively, at first he took to explaining to her the

various political questions of the day, listening with paternal

good-humour, to her acute and sensitive remarks on several important

questions.

Then gradually his confidence in her widened. Many chroniclers aver

that it was Lydie d'Aumont who wrote her father's celebrated memoirs,

and those who at that time had the privilege of knowing her intimately

could easily trace her influence in most of her father's political

moves. There is no doubt that the Duc himself, when he finally became

Prime Minister of France, did very little without consulting his

daughter, and even l'Abbé d'Alivet, in his "Chroniques de Louis XV,"

admits that the hot partisanship of France for the Young Pretender's

ill-conceived expeditions was mainly due to Mlle. d'Aumont's

influence.

When Vanloo painted her a little later on, he rendered with consummate

and delicate skill the haughty look of command which many of Lydie's

most ardent admirers felt to be a blemish on the exquisite purity and

charm of her face.

The artist, too, emphasized the depth and earnestness of her dark

eyes, and that somewhat too severe and self-reliant expression which

marked the straight young brow.

Perhaps it was this same masterful trait in the dainty form before him

that Gaston de Stainville studied so attentively just now; there had

been silence for some time between the elegant cavalier and the

idolized daughter of the Prime Minister of France. She seemed restless

and anxious, even absent-minded, when he spoke. She was studying the

various groups of men and women as they passed, frowning when she

looked on some faces, smiling abstractedly when she encountered a pair

of friendly eyes.

"I did not know that you were such a partisan of that young

adventurer," said Gaston de Stainville at last, as if in answer to her

thoughts, noting that her gaze now rested with stern intentness on

Charles Edward Stuart.

"I must be on the side of a just cause," she rejoined quietly, as with

a very characteristic movement of hers she turned her head slowly

round and looked M. de Stainville full in the face.

She could not see him very well, for his head was silhouetted against

the dazzling light beyond, and she frowned a little as she tried to

distinguish his features more clearly in the shadow.

"You do believe, Gaston, that his cause is just?" she asked earnestly.

"Oh!" he replied lightly; "I'll believe in the justice of any cause to

which you give your support."

She shrugged her shoulders, whilst a slightly contemptuous curl

appeared at the corner of her mouth.

"How like a man!" she said impatiently.

"What is like a man?" he retorted. "To love--as I love you?"

He had whispered this, hardly above his breath lest he should be

overheard by some one in that gay and giddy throng who passed

laughingly by. The stern expression in her eyes softened a little as

they met his eager gaze, but the good-humoured contempt was still

apparent, even in her smile; she saw that as he spoke he looked

through the outspread fingers of his hand to see if he was being

watched, and noted that one pair of eyes, distant the whole length of

the room, caught the movement, then was instantly averted.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans is watching you," she said quietly.

He seemed surprised and not a little vexed that she had noticed, and

for a moment looked confused; then he said carelessly:

"Why should she not? Why should not the whole world look on, and see

that I adore you?"

"Meseems you protest over-much, Gaston," she said, with a sigh.

"Impossible!"

"You talk of love too lightly."

"I am in earnest, Lydie. Why should you doubt? Are you not beautiful

enough to satisfy any man's ardour?"

"Am I not influential enough, you mean," she said, with a slight

tremor in her rich young voice, "to satisfy any man's ambition?"

"Is ambition a crime in your eyes, Lydie?"

"No; but----"

"I am ambitious; you cannot condemn me for that," he said, now

speaking in more impressive tone. "When we were playmates together,

years ago, you remember? in the gardens at Cluny, if other lads were

there, was I not always eager to be first in the race, first in the

field--first always, everywhere?"

"Even at the cost of sorrow and humiliation to the weaker ones."

He shrugged his shoulders with easy unconcern.

"There is no success in life for the strong," he said, "save at the

cost of sorrow and humiliation for the weak. Lydie," he added more

earnestly, "if I am ambitious it is because my love for you has made

me humble. I do not feel that as I am, I am worthy of you; I want to

be rich, to be influential, to be great. Is that wrong? I want your

pride in me, almost as much as your love."

"You were rich once, Gaston," she said, a little coldly. "Your father

was rich."

"Is it my fault if I am poor now?"

"They tell me it is; they say that you are over-fond of cards, and of

other pleasures which are less avowable."

"And you believe them?"

"I hardly know," she whispered.

"You have ceased to love me, then?"

"Gaston!"

There as a tone of tender reproach there, which the young man was

swift enough to note; the beautiful face before him was in full light;

he could see well that a rosy blush had chased away the usual matt

pallor of her cheeks, and that the full red lips trembled a little

now, whilst the severe expression of the eyes was veiled in delicate

moisture.

"Your face has betrayed you, Lydie!" he said, with sudden vehemence,

though his voice even now hardly rose above a whisper. "If you have

not forgotten your promises made to me at Cluny--in the shadow of

those beech trees, do you remember? You were only thirteen--a mere

child--yet already a woman, the soft breath of spring fanned your

glowing cheeks, your loose hair blew about your face, framing your

proud little head in a halo of gold--you remember, Lydie?"

"I have not forgotten," she said gently.

"Your hand was in mine--a child's hand, Lydie, but yours for all

that--and you promised--you remember? And if you have not

forgotten--if you do love me, not, Heaven help me! as I love you, but

only just a little better than any one else in the world; well, then,

Lydie, why these bickerings, why these reproaches? I am poor now, but

soon I will be rich! I have no power, but soon I will rule France,

with you to help me if you will!"

He had grown more and more vehement as he spoke, carried along by the

torrent of his own eloquence. But he had not moved; he still sat with

his back to the company, and his face shaded by his hand; his voice

was still low, impressive in its ardour. Then, as the young girl's

graceful head drooped beneath the passionate expression of his gaze,

bending, as it were, to the intensity of his earnest will, his eyes

flashed a look of triumph, a premonition of victory close at hand.

Lydie's strong personality was momentarily weakened by the fatigue of

a long and arduous evening, by the heavy atmosphere of the room; her

senses were dulled by the penetrating odours of wine and perfumes

which fought with those of cosmetics.

She seemed to be yielding to the softer emotions, less watchful of her

own dignity, less jealous of her own power. The young man felt that at

this moment he held her just as he wished; did he stretch out his hand

she would place hers in it. The recollections of her childhood had

smothered all thoughts of present conflicts and of political

intrigues. Mlle. d'Aumont, the influential daughter of an all-powerful

Minister, had momentarily disappeared, giving way to madcap little

Lydie, with short skirts and flying chestnut curls, the comrade of the

handsome boy in the old gardens at Cluny.

"Lydie, if you loved me!" whispered Stainville.

"If I loved you!" and there was a world of pathos in that girlish

"if."

"You would help me instead of reproaching."

"What do you want me to do, Gaston?"

"Your word is law with your father," he said persuasively. "He denies

you nothing. You said I was ambitious; one word from you--this new

Ministry----"

He realized his danger, bit his lip lest he had been too precipitate.

Lydie was headstrong, she was also very shrewd; the master-mind that

guided the destinies of France through the weak indulgence of a father

was not likely to be caught in a snare like any love-sick maid. Her

woman's instinct--he knew that--was keen to detect self-interest; and

if he aroused the suspicions of the wealthy and influential woman

before he had wholly subjugated her heart, he knew that he would lose

the biggest stake of his life.

Lately she had held aloof from him, the playmates had become somewhat

estranged; the echoes of his reckless life must, he thought, have

reached her ears, and he himself had not been over-eager for the

companionship of this woman, who seemed to have thrown off all the

light-heartedness of her sex for the sake of a life of activity and

domination.

She was known to be cold and unapproachable, rigidly conscientious in

transacting the business of the State, which her father with easy

carelessness gradually left on her young shoulders, since she seemed

to find pleasure in it.

But her influence, of which she was fully conscious, had rendered her

suspicious. Even now, when the call of her youth, of her beauty, of

the happy and tender recollections of her childhood loudly demanded

to be heard, she cast a swift, inquiring glance at Gaston.

He caught the glance, and, with an involuntary movement of impatience,

his hand, which up to now had so carefully masked the expression of

his face, came crashing down upon the table.

"Lydie," he said impetuously, "in the name of God throw aside your

armour for one moment! Is life so long that you can afford to waste

it? Have you learned the secret of perpetual youth that you

deliberately fritter away its golden moments in order to rush after

the Dead Sea fruit of domination and power? Lydie!" he whispered with

passionate tenderness; "my little Lydie of the crisp chestnut hair, of

the fragrant woods around Cluny, leave those giddy heights of

ambition; come down to earth, where my arms await you! I will tell you

of things, my little Lydie, which are far more beautiful, far more

desirable, than the sceptre and kingdom of France; and when I press

you close to my heart you will taste a joy far sweeter than that which

a crown of glory can give. Will you not listen to me, Lydie? Will you

not share with me that joy which renders men the equal of God?"

His hand had wandered up the damask curtain, gently drawing its heavy

folds from out her clinging fingers. The rich brocade fell behind him

with a soft and lingering sound like the murmured "Hush--sh--sh!" of

angels' wings shutting out the noise and glare beyond, isolating them

both from the world and its conflicts, its passions, and its ceaseless

strife.

Secure from prying eyes, Gaston de Stainville threw all reserve from

him with a laugh of pride and of joy. Half kneeling, wholly leaning

toward her, his arms encircled her young figure, almost pathetic now

in its sudden and complete abandonment. With his right hand he drew

that imperious little head down until his lips had reached her ear.

"Would you have me otherwise, my beautiful proud queen?" he whispered

softly. "Should I be worthy of the cleverest woman in France if my

ambition and hopes were not at least as great as hers? Lydie," he

added, looking straight into her eyes, "if you asked me for a kingdom

in the moon, I swear to God that I would make a start in order to

conquer it for you! Did you, from sheer caprice, ask to see my life's

blood ebbing out of my body, I would thrust this dagger without

hesitation into my heart."

"Hush! hush!" she said earnestly; "that is extravagant talk, Gaston.

Do not desecrate love by such folly."

"'Tis not folly, Lydie. Give me your lips and you, too, will

understand."

She closed her eyes. It was so strange to feel this great gladness in

her heart, this abasement of all her being; she, who had so loved to

dictate and to rule, she savoured the inexpressible delight of

yielding.

He demanded a kiss and she gave it because he had asked it of her,

shyly wondering in her own mind how she came to submit so easily, and

why submission should be so sweet.

Up to now she had only tasted the delights of power; now she felt that

if Gaston willed she would deem it joy to obey. There was infinite

happiness, infinite peace in that kiss, the first her vestal lips had

ever granted to any man. He was again whispering to her now with that

same eager impetuosity which had subjugated her. She was glad to

listen, for he talked much of his love, of the beautiful days at

Cluny, which she had feared that he had wholly forgotten.

It was sweet to think that he remembered them. During the past year or

two when evil tongues spoke of him before her, of his recklessness,

his dissipations, his servility to the growing influence of the

Pompadour, she had not altogether believed, but her heart, faithful to

the child-lover, had ached and rebelled against his growing neglect.

Now he was whispering explanations--not excuses, for he needed none,

since he had always loved her and only jealousies and intrigues had

kept him from her side. As he protested, she still did not altogether

believe--oh, the folly of it all! the mad, glad folly!--but he said

that with a kiss she would understand.

He was right. She did understand.

And he talked much of his ambitions. Was it not natural? Men were so

different to women! He, proud of his love for her, was longing to show

her his power, to rule and to command; she, half-shy of her love for

him, felt her pride in submitting to his wish, in laying down at his

feet the crown and sceptre of domination which she had wielded up to

now with so proud and secure a hand.

Men were so different. That, too, she understood with the first touch

of a man's kiss on her lips.

She chided herself for her mistrust of him; was it not natural that he

should wish to rule? How proud was she now that her last act of

absolute power should be the satisfaction of his desire.

That new Ministry? Well, he should have it as he wished. One word from

her, and her father would grant it. Her husband must be the most

powerful man in France; she would make him that, since she could: and

then pillow her head on his breast and forget that she ever had other

ambitions save to see him great.

Smiling through her tears, she begged his forgiveness for her mistrust

of him, her doubts of the true worth of his love.

"It was because I knew so little," she said shyly as her trembling

fingers toyed nervously with the lace of his cravat; "no man has ever

loved me, Gaston--you understand? There were flatterers round me and

sycophants--but love----"

She shook her head with a kind of joyous sadness for the past. It was

so much better to be totally ignorant of love, and then to learn

it--like this!

Then she became grave again.

"My father shall arrange everything this evening," she said, with a

proud toss of her head. "To-morrow you may command, but to-night you

shall remain a suppliant; grant me, I pray you, this fond little

gratification of my overburdened vanity. Ask me again to grant your

request, to be the means of satisfying your ambition. Put it into

words, Gaston, tell me what it is you want!" she insisted, with a

pretty touch of obstinacy; "it is my whim, and remember I am still the

arbiter of your fate."

"On my knees, my queen," he said, curbing his impatience at her

childish caprice; and, striving to hide the note of triumph in his

voice, he put both knees to the ground and bent his head in

supplication. "I crave of your bountiful graciousness to accord me the

power to rule France by virtue of my office as Chief Comptroller of

her revenues."

"Your desire is granted, sir," she said with a final assumption of

pride; "the last favour I shall have the power to bestow I now confer

on you. To-morrow I abdicate," she continued, with a strange little

sigh, half-tearful, half-joyous, "to-morrow I shall own a master. M.

le Comte de Stainville, Minister of the Exchequer of France, behold

your slave, Lydie, bought this night with the priceless currency of

your love! Oh, Gaston, my lord, my husband!" she said, with a sudden

uncontrollable outburst of tears, "be a kind master to your slave--she

gives up so much for your dear sake!"

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST TRICK

A shrill laugh suddenly broke on their ears. So absorbed had Lydie

been in her dream that she had completely forgotten the other world,

the one that laughed and talked, that fought and bickered on the other

side of the damask curtain which was the boundary of her own universe.

Gaston de Stainville, we may assume, was not quite so unprepared for

interruption as the young girl, for even before the shrill laugh had

expended itself, he was already on his feet, and had drawn the damask

curtain back again, interposing the while his broad figure between

Lydie d'Aumont and the unwelcome intruder on their privacy.

"Ah! at last you are tracked to earth, _mauvais sujet_," said Mme. de

Pompadour, as soon as the Comte de Stainville stood fully revealed

before her. "Faith! I have had a severe task. His Majesty demanded

your presence a while ago, sir, and hath gone to sleep in the interval

of waiting. Nay! nay! you need make neither haste nor excuses. The

King sleeps, Monsieur, else I were not here to remind you of duty."

She stood at the bottom of the steps looking up with keen, malicious

eyes at Gaston's figure framed in the opening of the alcove, and

peering inquisitively into the sombre recesses, wherein already she

had caught a glimpse of a white satin skirt and the scintillation of

many diamonds.

"What say you, milady?" she added, turning to the florid, somewhat

over-dressed woman who stood by her side. "Shall we listen to the

excuses M. de Stainville seems anxious to make; meseems they are clad

in white satin and show a remarkably well-turned ankle."

But before Lady Eglinton could frame a reply, Lydie d'Aumont had

risen, and placing her hand on Stainville's shoulder, she thrust him

gently aside and now stood smiling beside him, perfectly

self-possessed, a trifle haughty, looking down on Jeanne de

Pompadour's pert face and on the older lady's obviously ill-humoured

countenance.

"Nay, Mme. la Marquise," she said, in her own quiet way, "M. le Comte

de Stainville's only excuse for his neglect of courtly duties stands

before you now."

"_Ma foi_, Mademoiselle!" retorted the Marquise somewhat testily. "His

Majesty, being over-gallant, would perhaps be ready enough to accept

it, and so, no doubt, would the guests of M. le Duc, your

father--always excepting Mlle, de St. Romans," she added, with more

than a point of malice, "and she is not like to prove indulgent."

But Lydie was far too proud, far too conscious also of her own worth,

to heed the petty pinpricks which the ladies of the Court of Louis XV

were wont to deal so lavishly to one another. She knew quite well that

Gaston's name had oft been coupled with that of Mlle. de St.

Romans--"_la belle brune de Bordeaux_," as she was universally

called--daughter of the gallant Maréchal just home from Flanders. This

gossip was part and parcel of that multifarious scandal to which she

had just assured her lover that she no longer would lend an ear.

Therefore she met Mme. de Pompadour's malicious look with one of

complete indifference, and ignoring the remark altogether, she said

calmly, without the slightest tremor in her voice or hint of annoyance

in her face:

"Did I understand you to say, Madame, that His Majesty was tired and

desired to leave?"

The Marquise looked vexed, conscious of the snub; she threw a quick

look of intelligence to Lady Eglinton, which Lydie no doubt would have

caught had she not at that moment turned to her lover in order to give

him a smile of assurance and trust.

He, however, seemed self-absorbed just now, equally intent in avoiding

her loving glance and Mme. de Pompadour's mocking gaze.

"The King certainly asked for M. de Stainville a while ago," here

interposed Lady Eglinton, "and M. le Chevalier de Saint George has

begun to make his adieux."

"We'll not detain Mlle. d'Aumont, then," said Mme. de Pompadour. "She

will wish to bid our young Pretender an encouraging farewell! Come, M.

de Stainville," she added authoritatively, "we'll to His Majesty, but

only for two short minutes, then you shall be released man, have no

fear, in order to make your peace with _la belle brune de Bordeaux_.

Brrr! I vow I am quite frightened; the minx's black eyes anon shot

daggers in this direction."

She beckoned imperiously to Gaston, who still seemed ill at ease, and

ready enough to follow her. Lydie could not help noting with a slight

tightening of her heartstrings with what alacrity he obeyed.

"Men are so different!" she sighed.

She would have allowed the whole world to look on and to sneer whilst

she spent the rest of the evening beside her lover, talking foolish

nonsense, planning out the future, or sitting in happy silence,

heedless of sarcasm, mockery, or jests.

Her eyes followed him somewhat wistfully as he descended the two steps

with easy grace, and with a flourishing bow and a "_Mille grâces_,

Mlle. Lydie!" he turned away without another backward look, and became

merged with the crowd.

Her master and future lord, the man whose lips had touched her own!

How strange!

She herself could not thus have become one of the throng. Not just

yet. She could not have detached herself from him so readily. For some

few seconds--minutes perhaps--her earnest eyes tried to distinguish

the pale mauve of his coat in the midst of that ever-changing

kaleidoscope of dazzling colours. But the search made her eyes burn,

and she closed them with the pain.

Men were so different!

And though she had learned much, understood much, with that first

kiss, she was still very ignorant, very inexperienced, and quite at

sea in those tortuous paths wherein Gaston and Mme. de Pompadour and

all the others moved with such perfect ease.

In the meanwhile, M. de Stainville and the Marquise had reached the

corridor. From where they now stood they could no longer see the

alcove whence Lydie's aching eyes still searched for them in vain;

with a merry little laugh Madame drew her dainty hand away from her

cavalier's arm.

"There! am I not the beneficent fairy, you rogue?" she said, giving

him a playful tap with her fan. "Fie! Will you drive in double

harness? You'll come to grief, fair sir, and meseems 'twere not good

to trifle with either filly."

"Madame, I entreat!" he protested feebly, wearied of the jest. But he

tried not to scowl or to seem impatient, for he was loth to lose the

good graces of a lady whose power and influence were unequalled even

by Lydie d'Aumont.

Pompadour had favoured him from the very day of her first entry in the

brilliant Court of Versailles. His handsome face, his elegant manners,

and, above all, his reputation as a consummate _mauvais sujet_ had

pleased Mme. la Marquise. Gaston de Stainville was never so occupied

with pleasures or amours, but he was ready to pay homage to one more

beautiful woman who was willing to smile upon him.

But though she flirted with Gaston, the wily Marquise had no wish to

see him at the head of affairs, the State-appointed controller of her

caprices and of the King's munificence. He was pleasant enough as an

admirer, unscrupulous and daring; but as a master? No.

The thought of a marriage between Mlle. d'Aumont and M. de Stainville,

with its obvious consequences on her own future plans, was not to be

tolerated for a moment; and Madame wondered greatly how far matters

had gone between these two, prior to her own timely interference.

"There!" she said, pointing to an arched doorway close at hand; "go

and make your peace whilst I endeavour to divert His Majesty's

thoughts from your own wicked person; and remember," she added

coquettishly as she bobbed him a short, mocking curtsey, "when you

have reached the blissful stage of complete reconciliation, that you

owe your happiness to Jeanne de Pompadour."

Etiquette demanded that he should kiss the hand which she now held

extended toward him; this he did with as good a grace as he could

muster. In his heart of hearts he was wishing the interfering lady

back in the victualler's shop of Paris; he was not at all prepared at

this moment to encounter the jealous wrath of "la Belle _brune de

Bordeaux_."

Vaguely he thought of flight, but Mme. de Pompadour would not let him

off quite so easily. With her own jewelled hand she pushed aside the

curtain which masked the doorway, and with a nod of her dainty head

she hinted to Gaston to walk into the boudoir.

There was nothing for it but to obey.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans," said the Marquise, peeping into the room in

order to reassure herself that the lady was there and alone, "see, I

bring the truant back to you. Do not be too severe on him; his

indiscretion has been slight, and he will soon forget all about it, if

you will allow him to make full confession and to do penance at your

feet."

Then she dropped the curtain behind Gaston de Stainville, and, as an

additional precaution, lest those two in there should be interrupted

too soon, she closed the heavy folding doors which further divided the

boudoir from the corridor.

"Now, if milady plays her cards cleverly," she murmured, "she and I

will have done a useful evening's work."

CHAPTER VI

A FALSE POSITION

"Gaston!"

M. de Stainville shook off his moodiness. The vision of la belle Irène

standing there in the satin-hung boudoir, the soft glow of well-shaded

candles shedding an elusive, rosy light on the exquisite figure, with

head thrown back and arms stretched out in a gesture of passionate

appeal, was too captivating to permit of any other thought having sway

over his brain, for the next second or two at any rate.

"I thought you had completely forgotten me to-night," she said as he

came rapidly toward her, "and that I should not even get speech of

you."

She took his hand and led him gently to a low divan; forcing him to

sit down beside her, she studied his face intently for a moment or

two.

"Was it necessary?" she asked abruptly.

"You know it was, Irène," he said, divining her thoughts, plunging

readily enough now into the discussion which he knew was inevitable.

His whole nature rebelled against this situation; he felt a distinct

lowering of his manly pride; his masterful spirit chafed at the

thought of an explanation which Irène claimed the right to demand.

"I told you, Irène," he continued impatiently, "that I would speak to

Mlle. d'Aumont to-night, and if possible obtain a definite promise

from her."

"And have you obtained that definite promise?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Lydie d'Aumont promised you that you should be the new

State-appointed Minister of Finance?" she insisted.

"Yes! I have her word."

"And--what was the cost?"

"The cost?"

"Yes, the cost," she said, with what was obviously enforced calm.

"Lydie d'Aumont did not give you that promise for nothing; you gave

her or promised her something in return. What was it?"

Her lips were trembling, and she had some difficulty in preventing her

nervous fingers from breaking into pieces the delicate mother-of-pearl

fan which they held. But she was determined to appear perfectly calm,

and that he should in no way suspect her of working up to a vulgar

scene of jealousy.

"You are foolish, Irène!" he said, with his characteristic nonchalant

shrug of the shoulders.

"Foolish?" she repeated, still keeping her temper well under control,

though it was her voice which was shaking now. "Foolish? Ma foi! when

my husband obtains----"

"'Sh! 'sh! 'sh!" he said quickly, as with rough gesture he grasped her

wrist, and gave it a warning pressure.

"Bah!" she retorted; "no one can hear."

"The walls have ears!"

"And if they have? I cannot keep up this deception for ever, Gaston."

"'Twere worse than foolish to founder within sight of port."

"You trust Lydie d'Aumont's word then?"

"If you will do nothing to spoil the situation!" he retorted grimly.

"Another word such as you said just now, too long a prolongation of

this charming _tête-à-tête_, and Mlle. d'Aumont will make a fresh

promise to some one else."

"I was right, then?"

"Right in what?"

"Mlle. d'Aumont promised you the appointment because you made love to

her."

"Irène!"

"Why don't you tell me?" she said with passionate vehemence. "Can't

you see that I have been torturing myself with jealous fears? I am

jealous--can I help it? I suffered martyrdom when I saw you there with

her! I could not hear your words, but I could see the earnestness of

your attitude. Do I not know every line of your figure, every gesture

of your hand? Then the curtain fell at your touch, and I could no

longer see--only divine--only tremble and fear. Mon Dieu! did I not

love you as I do, were my love merely foolish passion, would I not

then have screamed out the truth to all that jabbering crowd that

stood between me and you, seeming to mock me with its prattle, and its

irresponsible laughter? I am unnerved, Gaston," she added, with a

sudden breakdown of her self-control, her voice trembling with sobs,

the tears welling to her eyes, and her hands beating against one

another with a movement of petulant nervosity. "I could bear it, you

know, but for this secrecy, this false position; it is humiliating to

me, and--Oh, be kind to me--be kind to me!" she sobbed, giving finally

way to a fit of weeping. "I have spent such a miserable evening, all

alone."

Stainville's expressive lips curled into a smile. "Be kind to

me!"--the same pathetic prayer spoken to him by Lydie a very short

while ago. Bah! how little women understood ambition! Even Lydie! Even

Irène!

And these two women were nothing to him. Lydie herself was only a

stepping-stone; the statuesque and headstrong girl made no appeal to

the essentially masculine side of his nature, and he had little love

left now for the beautiful passionate woman beside him, whom in a

moment of unreasoning impulse he had bound irrevocably to him.

Gaston de Stainville aspired to military honours a couple of years

ago; the Maréchal de Saint Romans, friend and mentor of the Dauphin,

confidant of the Queen, seemed all-powerful then. Unable to win the

father's consent to his union with Irène--for the Maréchal had more

ambitious views for his only daughter and looked with ill-favour on

the young gallant who had little to offer but his own handsome person,

an ancient name, and a passionate desire for advancement--Gaston, who

had succeeded in enchaining the young girl's affections, had no

difficulty in persuading her to agree to a secret marriage.

But the wheel of fate proved as erratic in its movements as the

flights of Stainville's ambition. With the appearance of Jeanne

Poisson d'Étioles at the Court of Versailles, the Queen's gentle

influence over Louis XV waned, and her friends fell into disfavour and

obscurity. The Maréchal de Saint Romans was given an unimportant

command in Flanders; there was nothing to be gained for the moment

from an open alliance with his daughter. Gaston de Stainville, an

avowed opportunist, paid his court to the newly risen star and was

received with smiles, but he could not shake himself from the

matrimonial fetters which he himself had forged.

The rapid rise of the Duc d'Aumont to power and the overwhelming

ascendancy of Lydie in the affairs of State had made the young man

chafe bitterly against the indestructible barrier which he himself had

erected between his desires and their fulfilment. His passion for

Irène did not yield to the early love of his childhood's days; it was

drowned in the newly risen flood of more boundless ambition. It was

merely the casting aside of one stepping-stone for another more firm

and more prominent.

Just now in the secluded alcove, when the proud, reserved girl had

laid bare before him the secrets of her virginal soul, when with

pathetic abandonment she laid the sceptre of her influence and power

at his feet, he had felt neither compunction nor remorse; now, when

the woman who had trusted and blindly obeyed him asked for his help

and support in a moral crisis, he was conscious only of a sense of

irritation and even of contempt, which he tried vainly to disguise.

At the same time he knew well that it is never wise to tax a woman's

submission too heavily. Irène had yielded to his wish that their

marriage be kept a secret for the present only because she, too, was

tainted with a touch of that unscrupulous ambition which was the chief

characteristic of the epoch. She was shrewd enough to know that her

husband would have but little chance in elbowing his way up the ladder

of power--"each rung of which was wrapped in a petticoat," as M. de

Voltaire had pertinently put it--if he was known to be dragging a wife

at his heels; Gaston had had no difficulty in making her understand

that his personality as a gay and irresponsible butterfly, as a man

of fashion, and a squire of dames, was the most important factor in

the coming fight for the virtual dominion of France.

She had accepted the position at first with an easy grace; she knew

her Gaston, and knew that he must not be handled with too tight a

curb; moreover, her secret status pleased her, whilst he remained

avowedly faithful to her she liked to see him court and smile, a

_preux chevalier_ with the ladies; she relished the thought of being

the jailer to that gaily-plumaged bird, whom bright eyes and smiling

lips tried to entice and enchain.

But to-night a crisis had come; something in Gaston's attitude toward

Lydie had irritated her beyond what she was prepared to endure. His

love for her had begun to wane long ago; she knew that, but she was

not inclined to see it bestowed on another. Stainville feared that she

was losing self-control, and that she might betray all and lose all if

he did not succeed in laying her jealous wrath to rest. He was past

master in the art of dealing with a woman's tears.

"Irène," he said earnestly, "I have far too much respect for you to

look upon this childish outburst of tears as representing the true

state of your feelings. You are unnerved--you own it yourself. Will

you allow me to hold your hand?" he said with abrupt transition.

Then as she yielded her trembling hand to him he pressed a lingering

kiss in the icy cold palm.

"Will you not accept with this kiss the assurance of my unswerving

faith and loyalty?" he said, speaking in that low, deep-toned voice of

his which he knew so well how to make tender and appealing to the

heart of women. "Irène, if I have committed an indiscretion to-night,

if I allowed my ambition to soar beyond the bounds of prudence, will

you not believe that with my ambition my thoughts flew up to you and

only came down to earth in order to rest at your feet?"

He had drawn her close to him, ready to whisper in her ear, as he had

whispered half an hour ago in those of Lydie. He wanted this woman's

trust and confidence just a very little while longer, and he found

words readily enough with which to hoodwink and to cajole. Irène was

an easier prey than Lydie. She was his wife and her ambitions were

bound up with his; her mistrust only came from jealousy, and jealousy

in a woman is so easily conquered momentarily, if she be beautiful and

young and the man ardent and unscrupulous.

Gaston as yet had no difficult task; but every day would increase

those difficulties, until he had finally grasped the aim of his

ambitious desires and had rid himself of Lydie.

"Irène!" he whispered now, for he felt that she was consoled, and

being consoled, she was ready to yield. "Irène, my wife, a little more

patience, a little more trust. Two days--a week--what matter? Shut

your eyes to all save this one moment to-night, when your husband is

at your feet and when his soul goes out to yours in one long, and

tender kiss. Your lips, ma mie!"

She bent her head to him. Womanlike, she could not resist. Memory came

to his aid as he pleaded, the memory of those early days on the

vine-clad hills near Bordeaux, when he had wooed and won her with the

savour of his kiss.

CHAPTER VII

THE YOUNG PRETENDER

And Lydie d'Aumont's eyes had watched his disappearing figure through

the crowd, until she could bear the sight no longer, and closed them

with the pain.

An even, pleasant, very courteous voice roused her from her reverie.

"You are tired, Mlle. d'Aumont. May I--that is, I should be very proud

if you would allow me to--er----"

She opened her eyes and saw the handsome face of "le petit Anglais"

turned up to her with a look of humility, a deprecatory offer of

service, and withal a strange mingling of compassion which somehow at

this moment, in her sensitive and nervous state, seemed to wound and

sting her.

"I'm not the least tired," she said coldly; "I thank you, milor. The

colours and the light were so dazzling for the moment, my eyes closed

involuntarily."

"I humbly beg your pardon," said Eglinton with nervous haste; "I

thought that perhaps a glass of wine----"

"Tush child!" interposed Lady Eglinton in her harsh dry voice; "have

you not heard that Mlle. d'Aumont is not fatigued. Offer her the

support of your arm and take her to see the Chevalier de Saint George,

who is waiting to bid her 'good-bye.'"

"Nay! I assure you I can walk alone," rejoined Lydie, taking no heed

to the proffered arm which Lord Eglinton, in obedience to his mother's

suggestion, was holding out toward her. "Where is His Majesty the King

of England?" emphasizing the title with marked reproof, and looking

with somewhat good-natured contempt at the young Englishman who, with

a crestfallen air, had already dropped the arm which she had disdained

and stepped quickly out of her way, whilst a sudden blush spread over

his good-looking face.

He looked so confused and sheepish, so like a chidden child, that she

was instantly seized with remorse, as if she had teased a defenseless

animal, and though the touch of contempt was still apparent in her

attitude, she said more kindly:

"I pray you forgive me, milor. I am loth to think that perhaps our

gallant Chevalier will never bear his rightful title in his own

country. I feel that it cheers him to hear us--who are in true

sympathy with him--calling him by that name. Shall we go find the King

of England and wish him 'God-speed'?"

She beckoned to Lord Eglinton, but he had probably not yet

sufficiently recovered from the snub administered to him to realize

that the encouraging glance was intended for him, and he hung back,

not daring to follow, instinctively appealing to his mother for

guidance as to what he should do.

"He is modest," said Lady Eglinton, with the air of a proud mother

lauding her young offspring. "A heart of gold, my dear Mlle.

d'Aumont!" she whispered behind her fan, "under a simple exterior."

Lydie shrugged her shoulders with impatience. She knew whither Lady

Eglinton's praises of her son would drift presently. The pompous lady

looked for all the world like a fussy hen, her stiff brocaded gown and

voluminous paniers standing out in stiff folds each side of her portly

figure like a pair of wings, and to Lydie d'Aumont's proud spirit it

seemed more than humiliating for a man, rich, young, apparently in

perfect health, to allow himself to be domineered over by so vapid a

personality as was milady Eglinton.

Instinctively her thoughts flew back to Gaston; very different

physically to "le petit Anglais;" undoubtedly not so attractive from

the point of view of manly grace and bearing, but a man for all that!

with a man's weaknesses and failings, and just that spice of devilry

and uncertainty in him which was pleasing to a woman.

"So unreliable, my dear Mlle. d'Aumont," came in insinuating accents

from Lady Eglinton. "Look at his lengthy entanglement with Mlle. de

Saint Romans."

Lydie gave a start sudden; had she spoken her thoughts out loudly

whilst her own mind was buried in happy retrospect? She must have been

dreaming momentarily certainly, and must have been strangely

absent-minded, for she was quite unconscious of having descended the

alcove steps until she found herself walking between Lord Eglinton and

his odious mother, in the direction of the corridors, whilst milady

went prattling on with irritating monotony:

"You would find such support in my son. The Chevalier de Saint

George--er--I mean the King of England--trusts him absolutely, you

understand--they have been friends since boyhood. Harry would do more

for him if he could, but he has not the power. Now as Comptroller of

Finance--you understand? You have such sympathy with the Stuart

pretensions, Mademoiselle, and a union of sympathies would do much

towards furthering the success of so just a cause; and if my son--you

understand----"

Lydie's ears were buzzing with the incessant chatter. Had she not been

so absorbed in her thoughts she would have laughed at the absurdity of

the whole thing. This insignificant nonentity beside her, with the

strength and character of a chicken, pushed into a place of influence

and power by that hen-like mother, and she--Lydie--lending a hand to

this installation of a backboneless weakling to the highest position

of France!

The situation would have been supremely ridiculous were it not for the

element of pathos in it--the pathos of a young life which might have

been so brilliant, so full of activity and interest, now tied to the

apron-strings of an interfering mother.

Lydie herself, though accustomed to rule in one of the widest spheres

that ever fell to woman's lot, wielded her sceptre with discretion and

tact. In these days when the King was ruled by Pompadour, when Mme. du

Châtelet swayed the mind of Voltaire, and Marie Thérèse subjugated the

Hungarians, there was nothing of the blatant petticoat government in

Lydie's influence over her father. The obtrusive domination of a woman

like milady was obnoxious and abhorrent to her mind, proud of its

feminity, gentle in the consciousness of its strength.

Now she feared that, forgetful of courtly manners, she might say or do

something which would offend the redoubtable lady. There was still the

whole length of the banqueting-hall to traverse, also the corridor,

before she could hope to be released from so unwelcome a

companionship.

Apparently unconscious of having roused Lydie's disapproval, milady

continued to prattle. Her subject of conversation was still her son,

and noting that his attention seemed to be wandering, she called to

him in her imperious voice:

"Harry! Harry!" she said impatiently. "Am I to to be your spokesman

from first to last? Ah!" she added, with a sigh, "men are not what

they were when I was wooed and won. What say you, my dear Mlle. Lydie?

The age of chivalry, of doughty deeds and bold adventures, is indeed

past and gone, else a young man of Lord Eglinton's advantages would

not depute his own mother to do his courting for him."

A shriek of laughter which threatened to be hysterical rose to Lydie's

throat. How gladly would she have beaten a precipitate retreat.

Unfortunately the room was crowded with people, who unconsciously

impeded progress. She turned and looked at "le petit Anglais," the

sorry hero of this prosaic wooing, wondering what was his _rôle_ in

this silly, childish intrigue. She met his gentle eyes fixed upon hers

with a look which somehow reminded her of a St. Bernard dog that she

had once possessed; there was such a fund of self-deprecation, such

abject apology in the look, that she felt quite unaccountably sorry

for him, and the laughter died before it reached her lips.

Something prompted her to try and reassure him; the same feeling would

have caused her to pat the head of her dog.

"I feel sure," she said kindly, "that Lord Eglinton will have no need

of a proxy once he sets his mind on serious wooing."

"But this is serious!" retorted Lady Eglinton testily. Lydie shook her

head:

"As little serious as his lordship's desire to control the finances of

France."

"Oh! but who better fitted for the post than my son. He is so

rich--the richest man in France, and in these days of bribery and

corruption--you understand, and--and being partly English--not wholly,

I am thankful to say--for I abominate the English myself; but we must

own that they are very shrewd where money is concerned--and----"

"In the name of Heaven, milady," said Lydie irritably, "will you not

allow your son to know his own mind? If he has a request to place

before M. le Duc my father or before me, let him do so for himself."

"I think--er--perhaps Mlle. d'Aumont is right," here interposed Lord

Eglinton gently. "You will--er--I hope, excuse my mother,

Mademoiselle; she is so used to my consulting her in everything that

perhaps---- You see," he continued in his nervous halting, way, "I--I

am rather stupid and I am very lazy; she thinks I should understand

finance, because I--but I don't believe I should; I----"

Her earnest eyes, fixed with good-humoured indulgence upon his anxious

face, seemed to upset him altogether. His throat was dry, and his

tongue felt as if it were several sizes too large for his parched

mouth. For the moment it looked as if the small modicum of courage

which he possessed would completely give out, but noting that just for

the moment his mother was engaged in exchanging hasty greetings with

a friend, he seemed to make a violent and sudden effort, and with the

audacity which sometimes assails the preternaturally weak, he plunged

wildly into his subject.

"I have no desire for positions which I am too stupid to fill," he

said, speaking so rapidly that Lydie could hardly follow him; "but,

Mademoiselle, I entreat you do not believe that my admiration for you

is not serious. I know I am quite unworthy to be even your lacquey,

though I wouldn't mind being that, since it would bring me sometimes

near you. Please, please, don't look at me--I am such a clumsy fool,

and I daresay I am putting things all wrong! My mother says," he

added, with a pathetic little sigh, "that I shall spoil everything if

I open my mouth, and now I have done it, and you are angry, and I wish

to God somebody would come and give me a kick!"

He paused, flushed, panting and excited, having come to the end of his

courage, whilst Lydie did not know if she should be angry or sorry. A

smile hovered round her lips, yet she would gladly have seen some

manlike creature administer chastisement to this foolish weakling. Her

keenly analytical mind flew at once to comparisons.

Gaston de Stainville--and now this poor specimen of manhood! She had

twice been wooed in this self-same room within half an hour; but how

different had been the methods of courting. A look of indulgence for

the weak, a flash of pride for the strong, quickly lit up her

statuesque face. It was the strong who had won, though womanlike, she

felt a kindly pity for him who did not even dare to ask for that which

the other had so boldly claimed as his right--her love.

Fortunately, the _tête-à-tête_, which was rapidly becoming

embarrassing--for she really did not know how to reply to this strange

and halting profession of love--was at last drawing to a close. At the

end of the corridor Charles Edward Stuart, surrounded by a group of

friends, had caught sight of her, and with gracious courtesy he

advanced to meet her.

"Ah! the gods do indeed favour us," he said gallantly in answer to her

respectful salute, and nodding casually to Lady Eglinton, who had

bobbed him a grudging curtsey, "We feared that our enemy, Time,

treading hard on our heels, would force us to depart ere we had

greeted our Muse."

"Your Majesty is leaving us?" she asked. "So soon?"

"Alas! the hour is late. We start to-morrow at daybreak."

"God speed you, Sire!" she said fervently.

"To my death," he rejoined gloomily.

"To victory, Sire, and your Majesty's own kingdom!" she retorted

cheerily. "Nay! I, your humble, yet most faithful adherent, refuse to

be cast down to-night. See," she added, pointing to the group of

gentlemen who had remained discreetly in the distance, "you have brave

hearts to cheer you, brave swords to help you!"

"Would I were sure of a brave ship to rescue me and them if I fail!"

he murmured.

She tossed her head with a characteristic movement of impatience.

"Nay! I was determined not to speak of failure to-night, Sire."

"Yet must I think of it," he rejoined, "since the lives of my friends

are dependent on me."

"They give their lives gladly for your cause."

"I would prefer to think that a good ship from France was ready to

take them aboard if evil luck force us to flee."

"France has promised you that ship, Monseigneur," she said earnestly:

"If France meant you, Mademoiselle," he said firmly, "I would believe

in her."

"She almost means Lydie d'Aumont!" retorted the young girl, with

conscious pride.

"Only for a moment," broke in Lady Eglinton spitefully; "but girls

marry," she added, "and every husband may not be willing to be held

under the sway of satin petticoats."

"If France fails you, Monseigneur," here interposed a gentle voice, "I

have already had the honour of assuring you that there is enough

Eglinton money still in the country to fit out a ship for your safety;

and--er----"

Then, as if ashamed of this outburst, the second of which he had been

guilty to-night, "le petit Anglais" once more relapsed into silence.

But Lydie threw him a look of encouragement.

"Well spoken, milor!" she said approvingly.

With her quick intuition she had already perceived that milady was

displeased, and she took a malicious pleasure in dragging Lord

Eglinton further into the conversation. She knew quite well that

milady cared naught about the Stuarts or their fate. From the day of

her marriage she had dissociated herself from the cause, for the

furtherance of which her husband's father had given up home and

country.

It was her influence which had detached the late Lord Eglinton from

the fortunes of the two Pretenders; justly, perhaps, since the

expeditions were foredoomed to failure, and Protestant England rightly

or wrongly mistrusted all the Stuarts. But Lydie's romantic instincts

could not imagine an Englishman in any other capacity save as the

champion of the forlorn cause; one of the principal reasons why she

had always disliked the Eglintons was because they held themselves

aloof from the knot of friends who gathered round Charles Edward.

She was, therefore, not a little surprised to hear "le petit Anglais"

promising at least loyal aid and succour in case of disaster, since he

could not give active support to the proposed expedition. That he had

made no idle boast when he spoke of Eglinton money she knew quite

well, nor was it said in vain arrogance, merely as a statement of

fact. Milady's vexation proved that it was true.

Delighted and eager, she threw herself with all the ardour of her

romantic impulses into this new train of thought suggested by Lord

Eglinton's halting speech.

"Ah, milor," she said joyously, and not heeding Lady Eglinton's scowl,

"now that I have an ally in you my dream can become a reality. Nay,

Sire, you shall start for England with every hope, every assurance of

success, but if you fail, you and those you care for shall be safe.

Will you listen to my plan?"

"Willingly."

"Lord Eglinton is your friend--at least, you trust him, do you not?"

"I trust absolutely in the loyalty of his house toward mine," replied

Charles Edward unhesitatingly.

"Then do you agree with him, and with him alone, on a spot in England

or Scotland where a ship would find you in case of failure."

"That has been done already," said Eglinton simply.

"And if ill-luck pursues us, we will make straight for that spot and

await salvation from France."

Lydie said no more; she was conscious of a distinct feeling of

disappointment that her own plan should have been forestalled. She had

fondled the notion, born but a moment ago, that if her own influence

were not sufficiently great in the near future to induce King Louis to

send a rescue ship for the Young Pretender if necessary, she could

then, with Lord Eglinton's money, fit out a private expedition and

snatch the last of the Stuarts from the vengeance of his enemies. The

romantic idea had appealed to her, and she had been forestalled. She

tried to read the thoughts of those around her. Lady Eglinton was

evidently ignorant of the details of the plan; she seemed surprised

and vastly disapproving. Charles Edward was whispering a few hasty

words in the ear of his friend, whom obviously he trusted more than he

did the word of France or the enthusiasm of Mlle. d'Aumont.

"Le petit Anglais" had relapsed into his usual state of nervousness,

and his eyes wandered uneasily from Lydie's face to that of his royal

companion, whilst with restless fingers he fidgeted the signet ring

which adorned his left hand. Suddenly he slipped the ring off and

Charles Edward Stuart examined it very attentively, then returned it

to its owner with a keen look of intelligence and a nod of approval.

Lydie was indeed too late with her romantic plan; these two men had

thought it all out before her in every detail--even to the ring. She,

too, had thought of a token which would be an assurance to the

fugitives that they might trust the bearer thereof. She felt quite

childishly vexed at all this. It was an unusual thing in France these

days to transact serious business without consulting Mlle. d'Aumont.

"You are taking it for granted, Sire, that France will fail you?" she

said somewhat testily.

"Nay! why should you say that?" he asked.

"Oh! the ring--the obvious understanding between you and milor."

"Was it not your wish, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh! a mere suggestion--in case France failed you, and I were

powerless to remind her of her promise."

"Pa ma foi," he rejoined gallantly, "and you'll command me, I'll

believe that contingency to be impossible. The whole matter of the

ring is a whim of Eglinton's, and I swear that I'll only trust to

France and to you."

"No, no!" she said quickly, her own sound common sense coming to the

rescue just in time to rout the unreasoning petulance of a while ago,

which truly had been unworthy of her. "It was foolish of me to taunt,

and I pray your Majesty's forgiveness. It would have been joy and

pride to me to feel that the plans for your Majesty's safety had been

devised by me, but I gladly recognize that milor Eglinton hath in this

matter the prior claim."

Her little speech was delivered so simply and with such a noble air of

self-effacement that it is small wonder that Charles Edward could but

stand in speechless admiration before her. She looked such an

exquisite picture of proud and self-reliant womanhood, as she stood

there, tall and erect, the stiff folds of her white satin gown

surrounding her like a frame of ivory round a dainty miniature. Tears

of enthusiasm were in her eyes, her lips were parted with a smile of

encouragement, her graceful head, thrown slightly back and crowned

with the burnished gold of her hair, stood out in perfect relief

against the soft-toned gold and veined marble of the walls.

"I entreat you, Mademoiselle," said the Young Pretender at last, "do

not render my departure too difficult by showing me so plainly all

that I relinquish when I quit the fair shores of France."

"Your Majesty leaves many faithful hearts in Versailles, none the less

true because they cannot follow you. Nay! but methinks Lord Eglinton

and I will have to make a pact of friendship, so that when your

Majesty hath gone we might often speak of you."

"Speak of me often and to the King," rejoined Charles Edward, with a

quick return to his former mood. "I have a premonition that I shall

have need of his help."

Then he bowed before her, and she curtsyed very low until her young

head was almost down to the level of his knees. He took her hand and

kissed it with the respect due to an equal.

"Farewell, Sire, and God speed you!" she murmured. He seemed quite

reluctant to go. Gloom had once more completely settled over his

spirits, and Lydie d'Aumont, clad all in white like some graceful

statue carved in marble, seemed to him the figure of Hope on which a

relentless fate forced him to turn his back.

His friends now approached and surrounded him. Some were leaving

Versailles and France with him on the morrow, others accompanied him

in spirit only with good wishes and anxious sighs. Charles Edward

Stuart, the unfortunate descendant of an unfortunate race, turned with

a final appealing look to the man he trusted most.

"Be not a broken reed to me, Eglinton," he said sadly. "Try and

prevent France from altogether forgetting me."

Lydie averted her head in order to hide the tears of pity which had

risen to her eyes.

"Oh, unfortunate Prince! if thine only prop is this poor weakling

whose dog-like affection has no moral strength to give it support!"

When she turned once more toward him, ready to bid him a final adieu,

he was walking rapidly away from her down the long narrow corridor,

leaning on Eglinton's arm and closely surrounded by his friends. In

the far distance King Louis the Well-beloved strolled leisurely toward

his departing guest, leaning lightly on the arm of Mme. la Marquise de

Pompadour.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST TRICK

The noise of talk and laughter still filled the old château from end

to end. Though the special guest of the evening had departed and

royalty no longer graced the proceedings, since His Majesty had driven

away to Versailles after having bidden adieu to the Chevalier de Saint

George, M. le Duc d'Aumont's less important visitors showed no signs

as yet of wishing to break up this convivial night.

The sound of dance music filled the air, and from the _salle d'armes_

the merry strains of the gavotte, the tripping of innumerable feet,

the incessant buzz of young voices, reached the more distant corridor

like an echo from fairyland.

Lydie had remained quite a little while leaning against the cool

marble wall, watching with eager intentness the group of gallant

English and Scotch gentlemen congregated round their young Prince.

Louis the Well-beloved, with that graciousness peculiar to all the

Bourbons, had, severally and individually bidden "good-bye" to all.

Each in turn had kissed the podgy white hand of the King of France,

who had been so benignant a host to them all. None understood better

than Louis XV, the art of leaving a pleasing impression on the mind of

a departing friend. He had a smile, a jest, a word of encouragement

for each whilst Jeanne de Pompadour, with one dainty hand on the

King's shoulder, the other flirting her fan, emphasized each token of

royal goodwill and of royal favour.

"Ah! milor Dunkeld, a pleasing journey to you. M. le Marquis de Perth,

I pray you do not, amidst the fogs of England, forget the sunshine of

France. Sir André Seafield, your absence will bring many tears to a

pair of blue eyes I wot of."

She pronounced the foreign names with dainty affectation, and Louis

had much ado to keep his eyes away from that bright, smiling face, and

those ever-recurring dimples. Lydie felt a strange nausea at sight of

these noble, high-born gentlemen paying such reverential homage to the

low-born adventuress, and a deep frown appeared between her eyes when

she saw Charles Edward Stuart bending as low before Jeanne Poisson as

he had done just now before her--Lydie, daughter of the Duc d'Aumont.

Bah! what did it matter, after all? This world of irresponsible

butterflies, of petty machinations and self-seeking intrigues: would

she not quit it to-morrow for a land of poetry and romance, where

women wield no sceptre save that of beauty, and where but one ruler is

acknowledged and his name is Love?

She made a strenuous attempt to detach herself mentally from her

surroundings; with a great effort of her will she succeeded in losing

sight of the individuality of all these people round her. Lady

Eglinton still talking at random beside her, Mme. de Pompadour

yielding her hand to the kiss of a Stuart Prince, that fat and pompous

man, whom duty bade her call "Your Majesty," all became mere

puppets--dolls that laughed and chatted and danced, hanging on

invisible strings, which the mighty hand of some grim giant was

dangling for the amusement of his kind.

How paltry it seemed all at once! What did it matter if France was

ruled by that vapid King or by that brainless, overdressed woman

beside him? What did it matter if that young man with the shifty blue

eyes and the fair, curly hair succeeded in ousting another man from

the English throne?

What did matter was that Gaston was not faithless, that he loved her,

and that she had felt the sweetness of a first kiss!

Happily back in dreamland now, she could once more afford to play her

part amongst the marionettes. She was willing to yield the string

which made her dance and talk and move into the hands of the fiercely

humorous giant up aloft. No doubt it was he who pulled her along the

corridor, made her join the group that congregated round departing

royalty.

M. le Duc d'Aumont--the perfect courtier and gentleman--was already

formulating his adieux. His Majesty the King of France would, by the

rigid rule of etiquette, be the first to leave. Accompanied by Mme. de

Pompadour and followed by M. le Duc, he was commencing his progress

down the monumental staircase which led to the great entrance hall

below.

Lydie, still made to move no doubt by that invisible giant hand, found

it quite simple and easy to mingle with the crowd, to take the King's

arm, being his hostess, whilst M. le Duc her father and Mme. de

Pompadour followed close behind.

With her spirit wandering in dreamland, she was naturally somewhat

distraite--not too much so, only sufficiently to cause Louis XV to

make comparisons betwixt his sprightly Jeanne and this animated

statue, whose cold little hand rested so impassively on the satin of

his coat.

At the foot of the perron the King's Flemish horses, as round of body

and heavy of gait as himself, were impatiently pawing the ground. The

opening of the great gates sent a wave of sweet-scented air into the

overheated château. Lydie was glad that her duty demanded that she

should accompany the King down the steps to the door of his coach. The

cool night breeze fanned her cheeks most pleasingly, the scent of June

roses and of clove carnations filled the air, and from below the

terraced gardens there came the softly-murmuring ripple of the Seine,

winding her graceful curves toward the mighty city of Paris beyond.

Far away to the east, beyond the grim outline of cedar and poplar

trees, a fair crescent moon appeared, chaste and cold.

"An emblem of our fair hostess to-night," said Louis with clumsy

gallantry and pointing up to the sky, as Lydie bent her tall figure

and kissed the royal hand.

Then she stood aside, having made a cold bow to Mme. de Pompadour; the

fair Marquise was accompanying His Majesty to Versailles; she stepped

into the coach beside him, surrounded by murmurs of flattery and

adulation. Even Charles Edward made her a final speech of somewhat

forced gallantry; he was the last to kiss her hand, and Lydie could

almost hear the softly whispered words of entreaty with which he bade

her not to forget.

And Jeanne Poisson--daughter of a kitchen wench--was condescendingly

gracious to a Stuart Prince; then she calmly waved him aside, whilst

the King apparently was content to wait, and called Lady Eglinton to

the door of the coach.

"You are wasting too much time," she whispered quickly; "an you don't

hurry now, you will be too late."

At last the departure was effected; the crowd, with backbone bent and

tricornes sweeping the ground, waited in that uncomfortable position

until the gilded coach and the men in gorgeous blue and gold liveries

were swallowed in the gloom of the chestnut avenue; then it broke up

into isolated groups. Lydie had done her duty as hostess; she had

taken such leave as etiquette demanded from Charles Edward Stuart and

his friends. Coaches and chairs came up to the perron in quick

succession now, bearing the adventurers away on this, the first stage

of their hazardous expedition. When would they sup again in such

luxury? when would the frou-frou of silk, the flutter of fans, the

sound of dance music once more pleasantly tickle their ears?

To-morrow, and for many a long day to come it would be hurried meals

in out-of-the-way places, the call to horse, the clink of arms.

Puppets! puppets all! for what did it matter?

Lydie would have loved to have lingered out on the terrace awhile

longer. The oak-leaved geraniums down at the foot of the terrace steps

threw an intoxicating lemon-scented fragrance in the air, the row of

stunted orange trees still bore a few tardy blossoms, and in the copse

yonder, away from the din and the bustle made by the marionettes, it

must be delicious to wander on the carpet of moss and perchance to

hear the melancholy note of a nightingale.

"Do you think not, Mademoiselle, that this night air is treacherous?"

said Lord Eglinton, with his accustomed diffidence. "You seem to be

shivering; will you allow me the honour of bringing your cloak?"

She thanked him quite kindly. Somehow his gentle voice did not jar on

her mood. Since Gaston was not there, she felt that she would sooner

have this unobtrusive, pleasant man beside her than any one else. He

seemed to have something womanish and tender in his feeble nature

which his mother lacked. Perhaps milady had divested herself of her

natural attributes in order to grace her son with them, since she had

been unable to instil more manly qualities into him.

But Lydie's heart ached for a sight of Gaston. The clock in the tower

of the old château chimed the hour before midnight. It was but half an

hour since she had parted from him on the steps of the alcove; she

remembered quite distinctly hearing the bracket clock close by strike

half-past ten, at the same moment as Pompadour's shrill laugh broke

upon her ear.

Half an hour? Why, it seemed a lifetime since then; and while she had

made her bow to the Stuart Prince and then to King Louis, while she

had allowed the unseen giant to move her from place to place on a

string, perhaps Gaston had been seeking for her, perhaps his heart had

longed for her too, and a sting of jealousy of her multifarious social

duties was even now marring the glory of happy memories.

Without another moment's hesitation she turned her back on the

peaceful gloom of the night, on the silver crescent moon, the

fragrance of carnations and orange-blossoms, and walked quickly up the

perron steps with a hasty: "You are right, milor, the night air is

somewhat chilling and my guests will be awaiting me," thrown over her

shoulder at her bashful cavalier.

Beyond the noble entrance doors the vast hall was now practically

deserted, save for a group of flunkeys, gorgeous and solemn, who stood

awaiting the departure of their respective masters. At the farther end

which led to the main corridor, Lydie, to her chagrin, caught sight of

Lady Eglinton's brobdingnagian back.

"What an obsession!" she sighed, and hoped that milady would fail to

notice her. Already she was planning hasty flight along a narrow

passage, when a question authoritatively put by her ladyship to a

magnificent person clad in a purple livery with broad white facings

arrested her attention.

"Is your master still in the boudoir, do you know?"

"I do not know, Mme. la Marquise," the man replied. "I have not seen

M. le Comte since half an hour."

The purple livery with broad white facings was that of the Comte de

Stainville.

"I have a message for M. le Comte from Mme. de Pompadour," said Lady

Eglinton carelessly. "I'll find him, I daresay."

And she turned into the great corridor.

Lydie no longer thought of flight; an unexplainable impulse caught her

to change her mind, and to follow in Lady Eglinton's wake. She could

not then have said if "le petit Anglais" was still near her not. She

had for the moment forgotten his insignificant existence.

There was an extraordinary feeling of unreality about herself and her

movements, about the voluminous person ahead clad in large-flowered

azure brocade and closely followed by a stiff automaton in purple and

white; they seemed to be leading her along some strange and unexpected

paths, at the end of which Lydie somehow felt sure that grinning apes

would be awaiting her.

Anon Lady Eglinton paused, with her hand on the handle of a door; she

caught sight of Mlle. d'Aumont and seemed much surprised to see her

there. She called to her by name, in that harsh voice which Lydie

detested, whilst the obsequious automaton came forward and relieved

her from the trouble of turning that handle herself.

"Allow me, milady."

The door flew open, the flunkey at the same moment also drew a heavy

curtain aside.

Lydie had just come up quite close, in answer to Lady Eglinton's call.

She was standing facing the door when Bénédict threw it open,

announcing with mechanical correctness of attitude:

"Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, M. le Comte!"

At first Lydie only saw Gaston as he turned to face the intruders. His

face was flushed, and he muttered a quickly-suppressed oath. But

already she had guessed, even before Lady Eglinton's strident voice

had set her every nerve a-tingling.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans!" said milady, with a shrill laugh, "a thousand

pardons! I had a message from Mme. de Pompadour for M. le Comte de

Stainville, and thought to find him alone. A thousand pardons, I

beg--the intrusion was involuntary--and the message unimportant--I'll

deliver it when Monsieur is less pleasantly engaged."

Lydie at that moment could not have stirred one limb, if her very

life had depended on a movement from her. The feeling of unreality had

gone. It was no longer that. It was a grim, hideous, awful reality.

That beautiful woman there was reality, and real, too, were the

glowing eyes that flashed defiance at milady, the lips parted for that

last kiss which the flunkey's voice had interrupted, the stray black

curls which had escaped from the trammels of the elaborate coiffure

and lay matted on the damp forehead.

And those roses, too, which had adorned her corsage, now lying broken

and trampled on the floor, the candles burning dimly in their sockets,

and Gaston's look of wrath, quickly followed by one of fear--all--all

that was real!

Real to the awful shame of it all--milady's sneer of triumph, the oath

which had risen to Gaston's lips, the wooden figure of the lacquey

standing impassive at the door!

Instinctively Lydie's hand flew to her lips; oh, that she could have

wiped out the last, lingering memory of that kiss. She, the proud and

reserved vestal, a Diana chaste and cold, with lips now for ever

polluted by contact with those of a liar. A liar, a traitor, a

sycophant! She lashed her haughty spirit into fury, the better to feel

the utter degradation of her own abasement.

She did not speak. What could she say! One look at Gaston's face and

she understood that her humiliation was complete; his eyes did not

even seek her pardon, they expressed neither sorrow nor shame, only

impotent wrath and fear of baffled ambition. Not before all these

people would she betray herself, before that beautiful rival, or that

vulgar _intrigante_, not before Gaston or his lacquey, and beyond that

mechanical movement of hand to lips, beyond one short flash of

unutterable pride and contempt, she remained silent and rigid, whilst

her quick eyes took in a complete mental vision of that never

to-be-forgotten picture--the dimly-lighted boudoir, the defiant figure

of Irène de Saint Romans, the crushed roses on the floor.

Then with a heart-broken sigh unheard by the other actors in this

moving tableaux, and covering her face with her hands, she began to

walk rapidly down the corridor.

CHAPTER IX

THE WINNING HAND

But Lydie d'Aumont had not gone five paces before she heard a quick,

sharp call, followed by the rustle of silk on the marble floor.

The next moment she felt a firm, hot grip on her wrist, and her left

hand was forcibly drawn away from her face, whilst an eager voice

spoke quick, vehement words, the purport of which failed at first to

reach her brain.

"You shall not go, Mlle. d'Aumont," were the first coherent words

which she seemed to understand--"you cannot--it is not just, not fair

until you have heard!"

"There is nothing which I need hear," interrupted Lydie coldly, the

moment she realized that it was Irène de Saint Romans who was

addressing her; "and I pray you to let me go."

"Nay! but you shall hear, you must!" rejoined the other without

releasing her grasp on the young girl's wrist. Her hand was hot, and

her fingers had the strength of intense excitement. Lydie could not

free herself, strive how she might.

"Do you not see that this is most unfair?" continued Irène with great

volubility. "Am I to be snubbed like some kitchen wench caught kissing

behind doorways? Look at milady Eglinton and her ill-natured sneer.

I'll not tolerate it, nor your looks of proud contempt! I'll

not--I'll not! Gaston! Gaston!" she now exclaimed, turning to de

Stainville, who was standing, silent and sullen, whilst he saw his

wife gradually lashing herself into wrathful agitation at his own

indifference and Lydie's cold disdain. "If you have a spark of courage

left in you, tell that malicious _intrigante_ and this scornful minx

that if I were to spend the whole evening in the boudoir _en

tête-à-tête_ with you, aye! and behind closed doors if I chose who

shall have a word to say, when I am in the company of my own husband?"

"Your husband!"

The ejaculation came from Lady Eglinton's astonished lips. Lydie had

not stirred. She did not seem to have heard, and certainly Irène's

triumphant announcement left her as cold, as impassive as before. What

did it matter, after all, what special form Gaston's lies to her had

assumed? Nothing that he or Irène said or did could add to his

baseness and infamy.

"Aye, my husband, milady!" continued the other more calmly, as she

finally released Lydie's wrist and cast it, laughing, from her. "I am

called Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, and will be called so in the

future openly. Now you may rejoin your guests, Mlle. d'Aumont; my

reputation stands as far beyond reproach as did your own before you

spent a mysterious half hour with my husband behind the curtains of an

alcove."

She turned to de Stainville, who, in spite of his wife's provocative

attitude, had remained silent, cursing the evil fate which had played

him this trick, cursing the three women who were both the cause and

the witnesses of his discomfiture.

"Your arm, Gaston!" she said peremptorily; "and you, Benedict, call

your master's coach and my chair. Mlle. d'Aumont, your servant. If I

have been the means of dissipating a happy illusion, you may curse me

now, but you will bless me to-morrow. Gaston has been false to you--he

is not over true to me--but he is my husband, and as such I must claim

him. For the sake of his schemes, of his ambitions, I kept our

marriage a secret so that he might rise to higher places than I had

the power to give him. When your disdainful looks classed me with a

flirty kitchen-wench I rebelled at last. I trust that you are proud

enough not to vent your disappointment on Gaston; but if you do, 'tis

no matter; I'll find means of consoling him."

She made the young girl a low and sweeping curtesy in the most

approved style demanded by the elabourate etiquette of the time. There

was a gleam of mocking triumph in her eyes, which she did not attempt

to conceal, and which suddenly stung Lydie's pride to the quick.

It is strange indeed that often at a moment when a woman's whole

happiness is destroyed with one blow, when a gigantic cataclysm

revolutionises with one fell swoop her entire mode of thought, dispels

all her dreams and shatters her illusions, it is always the tiny final

pin-prick which causes her the most acute pain and influences the

whole of her subsequent conduct.

It was Irène's mocking curtsey which roused Lydie from her mental

torpor, because it brought her--as it were--in actual physical contact

with all that she would have to endure openly in the future, as apart

from the hidden misery of her heart.

Gaston's shamed face was no longer the only image which seared her

eyes and brain. The world, her own social world, seemed all at once to

reawaken before her. That world would sneer even as Irène de

Stainville sneered; it would laugh at and enjoy her own discomfiture.

She--Lydie d'Aumont--the proud and influential daughter of the Prime

Minister of France, whom flatterers and sycophants approached mentally

on bended knees, for whom suitors hardly dared even to sigh, she had

been tricked and fooled like any silly country mouse whose vanity had

led to her own abasement.

Half an hour ago in the fullness of her newly-found happiness she had

flaunted her pride and her love before those who hated and envied her.

To-morrow--nay, within an hour--this humiliating scene would be the

talk of Paris and Versailles. Lydie's burning ears seemed even now to

hear the Pompadour retailing it with many embellishments, which would

bring a coarse laugh to the lips of the King and an ill-natured jest

to those of her admirers; she could hear the jabbering crowd, could

feel the looks of compassion or sarcasm aimed at her as soon at this

tit-bit of society scandal had been bruited abroad.

The scene itself had become real and vivid to her; the marble

corridor, the flickering candles, the flunkey's impassive face; she

understood that the beautiful woman before her was in fact and deed

the wife of Gaston de Stainville. She even contrived to perceive the

humour of Lady Eglinton's completely bewildered expression, the blank

astonishment of her round, bulgy eyes, and close to her she saw "le

petit Anglais," self-effaced as usual, and looking almost as guilty,

as shamefaced as Gaston.

Lydie turned to him and placed a cool, steady hand upon his sleeve.

"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville," she then said with perfect calm,

"I fear me I must beg of your courtesy to tarry awhile longer, whilst

I offer you an explanation to which I feel you are entitled. Just now

I was somewhat surprised because your news was sudden--and it is my

turn to ask your pardon, although my fault--if fault there be--rests

on a misapprehension. M. le Comte de Stainville's amours or his

marriage are no concern of mine. True, he begged for my influence and

fawned upon my favour just now, for his ambition soared to the post of

High Controller of the Finances of France. That appointment rests with

the Duc, my father, who no doubt will bestow it on him whom he thinks

most worthy. But it were not fair to me, if you left me now thinking

that the announcement of your union with a gentleman whose father was

the friend of mine could give me aught but pleasure. Permit me to

congratulate you, Madame, on the choice of a lord and master, a

helpmeet no doubt. You are indeed well matched. I am all the more

eager to offer you my good wishes as I have been honoured to-night

with a proposal which has greatly flattered me. My lord the Marquis of

Eglinton has asked me to be his wife!"

Once more she turned her head toward the young Englishman and

challenged a straight look from his eyes. He did not waver and she was

satisfied. Her instinct had not misled her, for he expressed no

astonishment, only a sort of dog-like gratitude and joy as, having

returned her gaze quite firmly, he now slowly raised his arm bringing

her hand on a level with his lips.

Lady Eglinton also displayed sufficient presence of mind not to show

any surprise. She perhaps alone of all those present fully realized

that Lydie had been wounded to the innermost depths of her heart, and

that she herself owed her own and her son's present triumph to the

revolt of mortified pride.

What Gaston thought and felt exactly it were difficult to say. He held

women in such slight esteem, and his own vanity was receiving so

severe a blow, that, no doubt, he preferred to think that Lydie, like

himself, had no power of affection and merely bestowed her heart there

where self-interest called.

Irène, on the other hand, heaved a sigh of relief; the jealous

suspicions which had embittered the last few days were at last

dispelled. Hers was a simple, shallow nature that did not care to look

beyond the obvious. She certainly appeared quite pleased at Lydie's

announcement, and if remorse at her precipitancy did for one brief

second mar the fullness of her joy, she quickly cast it from her, not

having yet had time to understand the future and more serious

consequences of her impulsive avowal.

She wanted to go up to Lydie and to offer her vapid expressions of

goodwill, but Gaston, heartily tired of the prolongation of this

scene, dragged her somewhat roughly away.

From the far distance there came the cry of the flunkeys.

"The chair of Mlle. de Saint Romans!"

"The coach of M. le Comte de Stainville!"

M. Bénédict, resplendent in purple and white, reappeared at the end of

the corridor, with Irène's hood and cloak. Gaston, with his wife on

his arm, turned on his heel and quickly walked down the corridor.

Milady, puzzled, bewildered, boundlessly overjoyed yet fearing to

trust her luck too far, had just a sufficient modicum of tact left in

her to retire discreetly within the boudoir.

Lydie suddenly found herself alone in this wide corridor with the man

whom she had so impulsively dragged into her life. She looked round

her somewhat helplessly, and her eyes encountered those of her future

lord fixed upon hers with that same air of dog-like gentleness which

she knew so well and which always irritated her.

"Milor," she said very coldly, "I must thank you for your kind

coöperation just now. That you expressed neither surprise nor

resentment does infinite credit to your chivalry."

"If I was a little surprised, Mademoiselle," he said, haltingly, "I

was too overjoyed to show it, and--and I certainly felt no

resentment."

He came a step nearer to her. But for this she was not prepared, and

drew back with a quick movement and a sudden stiffening of her figure.

"I hope you quite understood milor, that there is no desire on my part

to hold you to this bond," she said icily. "I am infinitely grateful

to you for the kind way in which you humoured my impulse to-night, and

if you will have patience with me but a very little while, I promise

you that I will find an opportunity for breaking, without too great a

loss of dignity, these bonds which already must be very irksome to

you."

"Nay, Mademoiselle," he said gently, "you are under a misapprehension.

Believe me, you would find it well-nigh impossible to--to--er--to

alter your plans now without loss of dignity, and--er--er--I assure

you that the bonds are not irksome to me."

"You would hold me to this bargain, then?"

"For your sake, Mademoiselle, as well as mine, we must now both be

held to it."

"It seems unfair on you, milor."

"On me, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, on you," she repeated, with a thought more gentleness in her

voice; "you are young, milor; you are rich--soon you will regret the

sense of honour which ties you to a woman who has only yielded her

hand to you out of pique! Nay, I'll not deceive you," she added

quickly, noting the sudden quiver of the kind little face at her

stinging words. "I have no love for you, milor--all that was young and

fresh, womanly and tender in my heart was buried just here to-night."

And with a mournful look she glanced round at the cold marble of the

walls, the open door to that boudoir beyond, the gilded sconces which

supported the dimly-burning candles. Then, smitten with sudden

remorse, she said eagerly, with one of those girlish impulses which

rendered her domineering nature so peculiarly attractive:

"But if I can give you no love, milor, Heaven and my father's

indulgence have given me something which I know men hold far greater

of importance than a woman's heart. I have influence, boundless

influence, as you know--the State appointed Controller of Finance will

be the virtual ruler of France, his position will give him power

beyond the dreams of any man's ambition. My father will gladly give

the post to my husband and--"

But here a somewhat trembling hand was held deprecatingly toward her.

"Mademoiselle, I entreat you," said Lord Eglinton softly, "for the

sake of your own dignity and--and mine, do not allow your mind to

dwell on such matters. Believe me, I am fully conscious of the honour

which you did me just now in deigning to place your trust in me. That

I have--have loved you, Mlle. Lydie," he added, with a nervous quiver

in his young voice, "ever since I first saw you at this Court I--I

cannot deny; but"--and here he spoke more firmly, seeing that once

again she seemed to draw away from him, to stiffen at his approach,

"but that simple and natural fact need not trouble you. I could not

help loving you, for you are more beautiful than anything on earth,

and you cannot deem my adoration an offence, though you are as cold

and pure as the goddess of chastity herself. I have seen Catholics

kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin Mary; their eyes were fixed up to

her radiant image, their lips murmured an invocation or sometimes a

hymn of praise. But their hands were clasped together; they never even

raised them once toward that shrine which they had built for her, and

from which she smiled whilst listening coldly to their prayers. Mlle.

d'Aumont, you need have no mistrust of my deep respect for you; you

are the Madonna and I the humblest of your worshippers. I am proud to

think that the name I bear will be the shrine wherein your pride will

remain enthroned. If you have need of me in the future you must

command me, but though the law of France will call me your husband and

your lord, I will be your bondsman and serve you on my knees; and

though my very soul aches for the mere touch of your hand, my lips

will never pollute even the hem of your gown." His trembling voice had

sunk down to a whisper. If she heard or not he could not say. From far

away there came to his ears the tender melancholy drone of the

instruments playing the slow movement of the gavotte. His Madonna had

not stirred, only her hand which he so longed to touch trembled a

little as she toyed with her fan.

And, like the worshippers at the Virgin's shrine, he bent his knee and

knelt at her feet.

PART II

THE STATESMAN

CHAPTER X

THE BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK

Monsieur le Marquis d'Eglinton, Comptroller-General of Finance,

Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, Peer of England and of France,

occupied the west wing of the Château of Versailles. His Majesty the

King had frequent and urgent need of him; Mme. de Pompadour could

scarce exist a day without an interview behind closed doors with the

most powerful man in France: with him, who at the bidding of the

nation, was set up as a bar to the extravagances of her own caprice.

And _le petit lever_ of M. le Contrôleur was certainly more largely

attended than that of M. le Duc d'Aumont, or even--softly be it

whispered--than that of His Majesty himself. For although every one

knew that M. le Marquis was but a figurehead, and that all graces and

favours emanated direct from the hand of Mme. la Marquise Lydie, yet

every one waited upon his good pleasure, for very much the same reason

that those who expected or hoped something from the King invariably

kissed the hand of Mme. de Pompadour.

M. le Contrôleur very much enjoyed these _petits levers_ of his, which

were considered the most important social events in Versailles. He was

very fond of chocolate in the morning, and M. Achille--that prince of

valets--brought it to his bedside with such inimitable grace and

withal the beverage itself so aromatic and so hot, that this hour

between ten and eleven each day had become extremely pleasant.

He had no idea that being Comptroller-General of Finance was quite so

easy and agreeable an occupation, else he had not been so diffident in

accepting the post. But in reality it was very simple. He governed

France from the depths of his extremely comfortable bed, draped all

round with rich satin hangings of a soft azure colour, embroidered

with _motifs_ of dull gold, which were vastly pleasing to the eye.

Here he was conscious of naught save fine linen of a remarkably silken

texture, of a lace coverlet priceless in value, of the scent of his

steaming chocolate, and incidentally of a good many pleasant faces,

and some unamiable ones, and of a subdued hive-like buzz of talk,

which went on at the further end of the room, whilst M. Achille

administered to his comforts and Mme. de Pompadour or Mme. la Comtesse

de Stainville told him piquant anecdotes.

Yes, it was all very pleasant, and not at all difficult. A wave of the

hand in the direction of Mme. la Marquise, his wife, who usually sat

in a window embrasure overlooking the park, was all that was needed

when petitioners were irksome or subjects too abstruse.

Lydie was so clever with all that sort of thing. She had the mind of a

politician and the astuteness of an attorney, and she liked to govern

France in an energetic way of her own which left milor free of all

responsibility if anything happened to go wrong.

But then nothing ever did go wrong. France went on just the same as

she had done before some of her more meddlesome Parliaments insisted

on having a Comptroller of Finance at the head of affairs. Mme. de

Pompadour still spent a great deal of money, and the King still

invariably paid her debts; whereupon, his pockets being empty, he

applied to M. le Contrôleur for something with which to replenish

them. M. le Contrôleur thereupon ordered M. Achille to bring one more

cup of aromatic chocolate for Mme. de Pompadour, whilst His Majesty

the King spent an uncomfortable quarter of an hour with Mme. la

Marquise d'Eglinton.

The usual result of this quarter of an hour was that His Majesty was

excessively wrathful against Mme. Lydie for quite a fortnight; but no

one could be angry with "le petit Anglais," for he was so very amiable

and dispensed such exceedingly good chocolate.

Par ma foi! it is remarkably easy to govern a country if one happen to

have a wife--that, at least, had been milor's experience--a wife and a

perfect valet-de-chambre.

M. Achille, since his Marquis's elevation to the most important

position in France, had quite surpassed himself in his demeanour. He

stood on guard beside the azure and gold hangings of his master's bed

like a veritable gorgon, turning the most importunate petitioners to

stone at sight of his severe and repressive visage.

Oh! Achille was an invaluable asset in the governing of this kingdom

of France. Achille knew the reason of each and every individual's

presence at the _petit lever_ of milor. He knew who was the most

likely and most worthy person to fill any post in the country that

happened to be vacant, from that of examiner of stars and planets to

His Majesty the King down to that of under-scullion in the kitchen of

Versailles.

Had he not been the means of introducing Baptiste Durand to the

special notice of M. le Marquis? Durand's daughter being

girl-in-waiting to M. Joseph, valet-de-chambre to M. le Duc d'Aumont,

and personal friend of M. Achille, what more natural than, when milor

wanted a secretary to make notes for him, and to--well, to be present

if he happened to be wanted--that the worthy Baptiste should with

perfect ease slip into the vacant post?

And Baptiste Durand was remarkably useful.

A small ante-chamber had been allotted for his occupation, through

which all those who were on their way to the _petit lever_ held in

milor's own bedchamber had of necessity to pass; and Baptiste knew

exactly who should be allowed to pass and who should not. Without

venturing even to refer to His Majesty, to Mme. de Pompadour, to

Monseigneur le Dauphin, or persons of equally exalted rank, the

faithful chroniclers of the time tell us that no gentleman was allowed

a private audience with M. le Contrôleur-Général if his

valet-de-chambre was not a personal friend of Monsieur Durand.

There sat the worthy Baptiste enthroned behind a secretaire which was

always littered with papers, petitions, letters, the usual

paraphernalia that pertains to a man of influence. His meagre person

was encased in a coat and breeches of fine scarlet cloth, whereon a

tiny fillet of gold suggested without unduly flaunting the heraldic

colours of the house of Eglinton. He wore silk stockings--always; and

shoes with cut-steel buckles, whilst frills of broidered lawn

encircled his wrists and cascaded above his waistcoat.

He invariably partook of snuff when an unknown and unrecommended

applicant presented himself in his sanctum. "My good friend, it is

impossible," he was saying on this very morning of August 13, 1746,

with quiet determination to a petitioner who was becoming too

insistent. "Milor's chamber is overcrowded as it is."

"I'll call again--another day perhaps; my master is anxious for a

personal interview with yours."

Whereupon M. Durand's eyebrows were lifted upward until they almost

came in contact with his perruque; he fetched out a voluminous

handkerchief from his pocket and carefully removed a few grains of

dust from his cravat. Then he said, without raising his voice in the

slightest degree or showing impatience in any way at the man's

ignorance and stupidity--

"My good---- What is your name? I forgot."

"I am Hypolite François, confidential valet to M. le Maréchal de

Coigni and----"

M. Durand's thin and delicately veined hand went up in gentle

deprecation.

"Ma foi! my worthy Coigni, 'tis all the same to me if you are a

maréchal or a simple lieutenant. As for me, young man," he added, with

dignified severity, "remember in future that I serve no one. I assist

M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances to--to----"--he paused a second,

waving his hand and turning the phrase over in his mouth, whilst

seeking for its most appropriate conclusion--"to, in fact, make a

worthy selection amidst the hundreds and thousands of petitions which

are presented to him."

And with a vague gesture he indicated the papers which lay in a

disordered heap on his secretaire.

"For the rest, my good Coigni," he added, with the same impressive

dignity, "let me assure you once again that M. le Marquis's bedchamber

is overcrowded, that he is busily engaged at the present moment, and

is likely to be so for some considerable time to come. What is it your

maréchal wants?"

"His pension," replied Hypolite curtly, "and the vacant post in the

Ministry of War."

"Impossible! We have fourteen likely applicants already."

"M. le Maréchal is sure that if he could speak with M. le

Contrôleur----"

"M. le Contrôleur is busy."

"To-morrow, then----"

"To-morrow he will be even more busy than to-day."

"M. Durand!" pleaded Hypolite.

"Impossible! You are wasting my time, my good Coigni; I have hundreds

to see to-day."

"Not for your daughter's sake?"

"My daughter?"

"Yes; didn't you know? You remember Henriette, her great friend?"

"Yes, yes--little Henriette Dessy, the milliner," assented M. Durand

with vast condescension. "A pretty wench; she was at the Ursulines

convent school with my daughter; they have remained great friends ever

since. What about little Henriette?"

"Mlle. Henriette is my _fiancée_," quoth the other eagerly, "and I

thought----"

"Your _fiancée_? Little Henriette Dessy?" said M. Durand gaily.

"Pardieu my good Coigni, why did you not tell me so before? My

daughter is very fond of Henriette--a pretty minx, par ma foi! Hé!

hé!"

"You are very kind, M. Durand."

"Mais non, mais non," said the great man, with much affability; "one

is always ready to oblige a friend. Hé, now! give me your hand, friend

Coigni. Shoot your rubbish along--quoi!--your Maréchal; he may pass

this way. Anything one can do to oblige a friend."

With the affairs of M. le Maréchal de Coigni the present chronicle

hath no further concern; but we know that some ten minutes later on

this same August 13, 1746, he succeeded in being present at the _petit

lever_ of M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances. Once within the

secret precincts of the bedchamber he, like so many other petitioners

and courtiers, was duly confronted by the stony stare of M. Achille,

and found himself face to face with an enormous bedstead of delicately

painted satinwood and ormulu mounts, draped with heavy azure silk

curtains which hung down from a gilded baldachin, the whole a

masterpiece of the furniture-maker's art.

The scent of chocolate filled his nostrils, and he vaguely saw a

good-looking young man reclining under a coverlet of magnificent

Venetian lace, and listening placidly to what was obviously a very

amusing tale related to him by well-rouged lips. From the billowy

satins and laces of the couch a delicate hand was waved toward him as

he attempted to pay his respects to the most powerful man in France;

the next moment the same stony-faced gorgon clad in scarlet and gold

beckoned to him to follow, and he found himself being led through the

brilliantly dressed crowd toward a compact group of backs, which

formed a sort of living wall, painted in delicate colours of green and

mauve and gray, and duly filled up the approach to the main window

embrasure.

It is interesting to note from the memoirs of M. le Comte d'Argenson

that the Maréchal de Coigni duly filled the post of State Secretary to

the Minister of War from the year 1746 onward. We may, therefore,

presume that he succeeded in piercing that wall of respectful backs

and in reaching sufficiently far within the charmed circle to attract

the personal attention of Mme. la Marquise Lydie d'Eglinton _née_

d'Aumont.

He had, therefore, cause to bless the day when his valet-de-chambre

became the _fiancé_ of Mlle. Henriette Dessy, the intimate friend of

M. Baptiste Durand's dearly beloved daughter.

CHAPTER XI

LA BELLE IRÈNE

Monsieur Durand had indeed not exaggerated when he spoke of M. le

Contrôleur's bedchamber being overcrowded this same eventful morning.

All that France possessed of nobility, of wit and of valour, seemed to

have found its way on this beautiful day in August past the magic

portal guarded by Baptiste, the dragon, to the privileged enclosure

beyond, where milor in elegant _robe de chambre_ reclined upon his

gorgeous couch, whilst Madame, clad in hooped skirt and panniers of

dove-gray silk, directed the affairs of France from the embrasure of a

window.

"Achille, my shoes!"

We must surmise that his lordship had been eagerly awaiting the

striking of the bracket clock which immediately faced the bed, for the

moment the musical chimes had ceased to echo in the crowded room he

had thrown aside the lace coverlet which had lain across his legs and

called peremptorily for his valet.

"Only half-past ten, milor!" came in reproachful accents from a pair

of rosy lips.

"Ma foi, so it is!" exclaimed Lord Eglinton, with well-feigned

surprise, as he once more glanced up at the clock.

"Were you then so bored in my company," rejoined the lady, with a

pout, "that you thought the hour later?"

"Bored!" he exclaimed. "Bored, did you say, Madame? Perish the very

thought of boredom in the presence of Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville!"

But in spite of this gallant assertion, M. le Contrôleur seemed in a

vast hurry to quit the luxuriance of his azure-hung throne. M.

Achille--that paragon among flunkeys--looked solemnly reproachful.

Surely milor should have known by now that etiquette demanded that he

should stay in bed until he had received every person of high rank who

desired an intimate audience.

There were still some high-born, exalted, and much beribboned

gentlemen who had not succeeded in reaching the inner precincts of

that temple and fount of honours and riches--the bedside of M. le

Contrôleur. But Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai was there--he in

whose veins flowed royal blood, and who spent a strenuous life in

endeavouring to make France recognize this obvious fact. He sat in an

arm-chair at the foot of the bed, discussing the unfortunate events of

June 16th at Piacenza and young Comte de Maillebois's subsequent

masterly retreat on Tortone, with Christian Louis de Montmorenci, Duc

de Luxembourg, the worthy son of an able father and newly created

Marshal of France.

Close to them, Monsieur le Comte de Vermandois, Grand Admiral of

France, was intent on explaining to M. le Chancelier d'Aguesseau why

England just now was supreme mistress of the seas. M. d'Isenghien

talked poetry to Jolyot Crébillon, and M. le Duc d'Harcourt discussed

Voltaire's latest play with ex-comedian and ex-ambassador

Néricault-Destouche, whilst Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, still

called "la belle brune de Bordeaux" by her many admirers, had been

endeavouring to divert M. le Contrôleur's attention from this

multiplicity of abstruse subjects.

Outside this magic circle there was a gap, a barrier of parquet

flooring which no one would dare to traverse without a distinct look

of encouragement from M. Achille. His Majesty had not yet arrived, and

tongues wagged freely in the vast and gorgeous room, with its row of

tall windows which gave on the great slopes of the Park of Versailles.

Through them came the pleasing sound of the perpetual drip from the

monumental fountains, the twitter of sparrows, the scent of lingering

roses and of belated lilies. No other sound from that outside world,

no other life save the occasional footstep of a gardener along the

sanded walks. But within all was chatter and bustle; women talked, men

laughed and argued, society scandals were commented upon and the

newest fashions in coiffures discussed. The men wore cloth coats of

sober hues, but the women had donned light-coloured dresses, for the

summer was at its height and this August morning was aglow with

sunshine.

Mme. de Stainville's rose-coloured gown was the one vivid patch of

colour in the picture of delicate hues. She stood close to M. le

Contrôleur's bedside and unceremoniously turned her back on the rest

of the company; we must presume that she was a very privileged

visitor, for no one--not even Monseigneur le Prince de

Courtenai--ventured to approach within earshot. It was understood that

in milor's immediate entourage la belle Irène alone was allowed to be

frivolous, and we are told that she took full advantage of this

permission.

All chroniclers of the period distinctly aver that the lady was vastly

entertaining; even M. de Voltaire mentions her as one of the

sprightliest women of that light-hearted and vivacious Court.

Beautiful, too, beyond cavil, her position as the wife of one of the

most brilliant cavaliers that e'er graced the entourage of Mme. de

Pompadour gave her a certain dignity of bearing, a self-conscious gait

and proud carriage of the head which had considerably added to the

charms which she already possessed. The stiff, ungainly mode of the

period suited her somewhat full figure to perfection; the tight

corslet bodice, the wide panniers, the ridiculous hooped skirt--all

seemed to have been specially designed to suit the voluptuous beauty

of Irène de Stainville.

M. d'Argenson when speaking of her has described her very fully. He

speaks of her abnormally small waist, which seemed to challenge the

support of a masculine arm, and of her creamy skin which she knew so

well how to veil in transparent folds of filmy lace. She made of dress

a special study, and her taste, though daring, was always sure. Even

during these early morning receptions, when soft-toned mauves, tender

drabs or grays were mostly in evidence, Irène de Stainville usually

appeared in brocade of brilliant rosy-red, turquoise blue, or emerald

green; she knew that these somewhat garish tones, mellowed only

through the richness of the material, set off to perfection the matt

ivory tint of her complexion, and detached her entire person from the

rest of the picture.

Yet even her most ardent admirers tell us that Irène de Stainville's

vanity went almost beyond the bounds of reason in its avidity for

fulsome adulation. Consciousness of her own beauty was not sufficient;

she desired its acknowledgment from others. She seemed to feed on

flattery, breathing it in with every pore of her delicate skin,

drooping like a parched flower when full measure was denied to her.

Many aver that she marred her undoubted gifts of wit through this

insatiable desire for one sole topic of conversation--her own beauty

and its due meed of praise. At the same time her love of direct and

obsequious compliments was so ingenuous, and she herself so undeniably

fascinating, that, in the hey-day of her youth and attractions, she

had no difficulty in obtaining ready response to her wishes from the

highly susceptible masculine element at the Court of Louis XV.

M. le Contrôleur-Général--whom she specially honoured with her

smiles--had certainly no intention of shirking the pleasing duty

attached to this distinction, and, though he was never counted a

brilliant conversationalist, he never seemed at a loss for the exact

word of praise which would tickle la belle Irène's ears most

pleasantly.

And truly no man's heart could be sufficiently adamant to deny to that

brilliantly-plumaged bird the tit-bits which it loved the best. Milor

himself had all the sensitiveness of his race where charms--such as

Irène freely displayed before him--were concerned, and when her

smiling lips demanded acknowledgment of her beauty from him he was

ready enough to give it.

"Let them settle the grave affairs of State over there," she had said

to him this morning, when first she made her curtsey before him. And

with a provocative smile she pointed to the serious-looking group of

grave gentlemen that surrounded his bedside, and also to the compact

row of backs which stood in serried ranks round Mme. la Marquise

d'Eglinton in the embrasure of the central window. "Life is too short

for such insignificant trifles."

"We only seem to last long enough to make love thoroughly to half a

dozen pretty women in a lifetime," replied M. le Contrôleur, as he

gallantly raised her fingers to his lips.

"Half a dozen!" she retorted, with a pout. "Ah, milor, I see that your

countrymen are not maligned! The English have such a reputation for

perfidy!"

"But I have become so entirely French!" he protested. "England would

scarce know me now."

And with a whimsical gesture he pointed to the satin hangings of his

bed, the rich point lace coverlet, and to his own very elaborate and

elegant _robe de chambre_.

"Is that said in regret?" she asked.

"Nay," he replied, "there is no more place for regret than there is

for boredom in sight of smiles from those perfect lips."

She blushed, and allowed her hands--which were particularly

beautiful--to finger idly the silks and laces which were draped so

tastefully about his person. As her eyes were downcast in dainty and

becoming confusion, she failed to notice that M. le Contrôleur was

somewhat absent-minded this morning, and that, had he dared, he would

at this juncture undoubtedly have yawned. But of this she was

obviously unconscious, else she had not now murmured so persuasively.

"Am I beautiful?"

"What a question!" he replied.

"The most beautiful woman here present?" she insisted.

"Par ma foi!" he protested gaily. "Was ever married man put in so

awkward a predicament?"

"Married man? Bah!" and she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"I am a married man, fair lady, and the law forbids me to answer so

provoking a question."

"This is cowardly evasion," she rejoined. "Mme. la Marquise, your

wife, only acknowledges one supremacy--that of the mind. She would

scorn to be called the most beautiful woman in the room."

"And M. le Comte de Stainville, your lord, would put a hole right

through my body were I now to speak the unvarnished truth."

Irène apparently chose to interpret milor's equivocal speech in the

manner most pleasing to her self-love. She looked over her shoulder

toward the window embrasure. She saw that Mme. la Marquise

d'Eglinton's court was momentarily dismissed, and that M. le Duc

d'Aumont had just joined his daughter. She also saw that Lydie looked

troubled, and that she threw across the room a look of haughty

reproof.

Nothing could have pleased Irène de Stainville more.

Apart from the satisfaction which her own inordinate vanity felt at

the present moment by enchaining milor's attention and receiving his

undivided homage in full sight of the _élite_ of aristocratic

Versailles, there was the additional pleasure of dealing a pin-prick

or so to a woman who had once been her rival, and who was undoubtedly

now the most distinguished as she was the most adulated personality in

France.

Irène had never forgiven Lydie Gaston's defalcations on that memorable

night, when a humiliating exposure and subsequent scene led to the

disclosure of her own secret marriage, and thus put a momentary check

on her husband's ambitious schemes.

From that check he had since then partially recovered. Mme. de

Pompadour's good graces which she never wholly withdrew from him had

given him a certain position of influence and power, from which his

lack of wealth would otherwise have debarred him. But even with the

uncertain and fickle Marquise's help Gaston de Stainville was far from

attaining a position such as his alliance with Lydie would literally

have thrown into his lap, such, of course, as fell to the share of the

amiable milor, who had succeeded in capturing the golden prey. In

these days of petticoat government feminine protection was the chief

leverage for advancement; Irène, however, could do nothing for her

husband without outside help; conscious of her own powers of

fascination, she had cast about for the most likely prop on which she

could lean gracefully whilst helping Gaston to climb upward.

The King himself was too deeply in the toils of his fair Jeanne to

have eyes for any one save for her. M. le Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister

of France, was his daughter's slave; there remained M. le

Contrôleur-Général himself--a figure-head as far as the affairs of

State were concerned, but wielding a great deal of personal power

through the vastness of his wealth which Lydie rather affected to

despise.

Irène, therefore--_faute de mieux_--turned her languishing eyes upon

M. le Contrôleur. Her triumph was pleasing to herself, and might in

due course prove useful to Gaston, if she succeeded presently in

counterbalancing Lydie's domineering influence over milor. For the

moment her vanity was agreeably soothed, although "la belle brune de

Bordeaux" herself was fully alive to the fact that, while her

whispered conversations at milor's _petits levers_, her sidelong

glances and conscious blushes called forth enough mischievous oglings

and equivocal jests from the more frivolous section of society

butterflies, Lydie only viewed her and her machinations with cold and

somewhat humiliating indifference.

"And," as M. d'Argenson very pertinently remarked that self-same

morning, "would any beautiful woman care to engage the attentions of a

man unless she aroused at the same time the jealousy or at least the

annoyance of a rival?"

CHAPTER XII

THE PROMISES OF FRANCE

Indeed, if Irène de Stainville had possessed more penetration, or had

at any rate studied Lydie's face more closely, she would never have

imagined for a moment that thoughts of petty spite or of feminine

pique could find place in the busiest brain that ever toiled for the

welfare of France.

History has no doubt said the last word on the subject of that brief

interregnum, when a woman's masterful hand tried to check the

extravagances of a King and the ruinous caprices of a wanton, and when

a woman's will tried to restrain a nation in its formidable onrush

down the steep incline which led to the abyss of the Revolution.

Many historians have sneered--perhaps justly so--at this apotheosis of

feminity, and pointed to the fact that, while that special era of

petticoat government lasted, Louis XV in no way stopped his excesses

nor did Pompadour deny herself the satisfaction of a single whim,

whilst France continued uninterruptedly to groan under the yoke of

oppressive taxation, of bribery and injustice, and to suffer from the

arrogance of her nobles and the corruption of her magistrates.

The avowed partisans of Lydie d'Eglinton contend on the other hand

that her rule lasted too short a time to be of real service to the

country, and that those who immediately succeeded her were either too

weak or too self-seeking to continue this new system of government

instituted by her, and based on loftiness of ideals and purity of

motives, a system totally unknown hitherto. They also insist on the

fact that while she virtually held the reins of government over the

heads of her indolent lord and her over-indulgent father, she brought

about many highly beneficent social reforms which would have become

firmly established had she remained several years in power; there is

no doubt that she exercised a wholesome influence over the existing

administration of justice and the distribution of the country's money;

and this in spite of endless cabals and the petty intrigues and

jealousies of numberless enemies.

Be that as it may, the present chronicler is bound to put it on record

that, at the moment when Irène de Stainville vaguely wondered whether

Madame la Marquise was looking reprovingly at her, when she hoped that

she had at last succeeded in rousing the other woman's jealousy, the

latter's mind was dwelling with more than usual anxiousness on the sad

events of the past few months.

Her severe expression was only the outcome of a more than normal sense

of responsibility. The flattering courtiers and meddlesome women who

surrounded her seemed to Lydie this morning more than usually

brainless and vapid. Her own father, to whose integrity and keen sense

of honour she always felt that she could make appeal, was unusually

absent and morose to-day; and she felt unspeakably lonely here in the

midst of her immediate _entourage_--lonely and oppressed. She wanted

to mix more with the general throng, the men and women of France,

arrogant nobles or obsequious churls, merchants, attorneys,

physicians, savants, she cared not which; the nation, in fact, the

people who had sympathy and high ideals, and a keener sense of the

dignity of France.

While these sycophants were for ever wanting, wanting, wanting,

standing before her, as it were, with hands outstretched ready to

receive bribes, commissions, places of influence or affluence, Charles

Edward Stuart, lately the guest of the nation, the friend of many,

whom France herself little more than a year ago had feasted and

toasted, to whom she had wished "God-speed!" was now a miserable

fugitive, hiding in peasants' huts, beneath overhanging crags on the

deserted shores of Scotland, a price put upon his head, and the

devotion of a few helpless enthusiasts, a girl, an old retainer, as

sole barrier 'twixt him and death.

And France had promised that she would help him. She promised that she

would succour him if he failed, that she would not abandon him in his

distress--neither him nor his friends.

And now disaster had come--disaster so overwhelming, so appalling,

that France at first had scarce liked to believe. Every one was so

astonished; had they not thought that England, Scotland and Ireland

were clamouring for a Stuart? That the entire British nation was

wanting him, waiting for him, ready to acclaim him with open arms? The

first successes--Falkirk, Prestonpans--had surprised no one. The young

Pretender's expedition was bound to be nothing but a triumphal

procession through crowded streets, decorated towns and beflagged

villages, with church bells ringing, people shouting, deputations,

both civic and military, waiting hat in hand, with sheaves of loyal

addresses.

Instead of this, Culloden, Derby, the hasty retreat, treachery, and

the horrible reprisals. All that was common property now.

France knew that the young prince whom she had _féted_ was perhaps at

this moment dying of want, and yet these hands which had grasped his

were not stretched out to help him, the lips which had encouraged and

cheered him, which had even gently mocked his gloomy mood, still

smiled and chatted as irresponsibly as of yore, and spoke the

fugitive's name at careless moments 'twixt a laugh and a jest.

And this in spite of promises.

She had dismissed her _entourage_ with a curt nod just now, when her

father first joined her circle. At any rate, her position of splendid

isolation should give her the right this morning to be alone with him,

since she so wished it. At first glance she saw that he was troubled,

and her anxious eyes closely scanned his face. But he seemed

determined not to return her scrutinizing glance, and anon, when one

by one M. de Coigni, the Count de Bailleul, and others who had been

talking to Lydie, discreetly stepped aside, he seemed anxious to

detain them, eager not to be left quite alone with his daughter.

Seeing his manœuvres, Lydie's every suspicion was aroused; something

had occurred to disturb her father this morning, something which he

did not intend to tell her. She drew him further back into the window

embrasure and made room for him close to her on the settee. She looked

up impatiently at the Dowager Lady Eglinton, who had calmly stood her

ground whilst the other intimates were being so summarily dismissed.

Miladi appeared determined to ignore her daughter-in-law's desire to

be alone with her father, and it even seemed to Lydie as if a look of

understanding had passed between the Duke and the old lady when first

they met.

She felt her nervous system on the jar. Thoroughly frank and open in

all political dealings herself, she loathed the very hint of a secret

understanding. Yet she trusted her father, even though she feared his

weakness.

She talked of Charles Edward Stuart, for that was her chief

preoccupation. She lauded him and pitied him in turn, spoke of his

predicament, his flight, the devotion of his Scotch adherents, and

finally of France's promise to him.

"God grant," she said fervently, "that France may not be too late in

doing her duty by that ill-starred prince."

"Nay, my dear child, it is sheer madness to think of such a thing,"

said the Duke, speaking in tones of gentle reproof and soothingly, as

if to a wilful child.

"Hé! pardieu!" broke in miladi's sharp, high-pitched voice: "that is

precisely what I have been trying to explain to Lydie these past two

weeks, but she will not listen and is not even to be spoken to on that

subject now. Do you scold her well, M. le Duc, for I have done my

best--and her obstinacy will lead my son into dire disgrace with His

Majesty, who doth not favour her plans."

"Miladi is right, Lydie," said the Duke, "and if I thought that your

husband----"

"Nay, my dear father!" interrupted Lydie calmly; "I pray you do not

vent your displeasure on Lord Eglinton. As you see, Mme. la Comtesse

de Stainville is doing her best to prevent his thoughts from dwelling

on the fate of his unfortunate friend."

It was the Duke's turn to scrutinize his daughter's face, vaguely

wondering if she had spoken in bitterness, not altogether sorry if

this new train of thought were to divert her mind from that eternal

subject of the moribund Stuart cause, which seemed to have become an

obsession with her. He half-turned in the direction where Lydie's eyes

were still fixed, and saw a patch of bright rose colour, clear and

vivid against the dull hangings of M. le Contrôleur's couch, whilst

the elegant outline of a woman's stately form stood between his line

of vision and the face of his son-in-law.

The Duc d'Aumont dearly loved his daughter, but he also vastly admired

her intellectual power, therefore at sight of that graceful, rose-clad

figure he shrugged his shoulders in amiable contempt. Bah! Lydie was

far too clever to dwell on such foolish matters as the vapid

flirtations of a brainless doll, even if the object of such

flirtations was the subjugation of milor.

Lady Eglinton had also perceived Lydie's fixity of expression just now

when she spoke of Irène, but whilst M. le Duc carelessly shrugged his

shoulders and dismissed the matter from his mind, miladi boldly threw

herself across her daughter-in-law's new trend of thought.

"My son for once shows sound common sense," she said decisively; "why

should France be led into further extravagance and entangle herself,

perhaps, in the meshes of a hopeless cause by----"

"By fulfilling a solemn promise," interrupted Lydie quietly, whilst

she turned her earnest eyes on her mother-in-law in the manner so

characteristic of her--"a promise which the very hopelessness of which

you speak has rendered doubly sacred."

"His Majesty is not of that opinion," retorted the older woman

testily, "and we must concede that he is the best judge of what France

owes to her own honour."

To this challenge it was obviously impossible to reply in the

negative, and if Lydie's heart whispered "Not always!" her lips

certainly did not move.

She looked appealingly at her father; she wanted more than ever to be

alone with him, to question him, to reassure herself as to certain

vague suspicions which troubled her and which would not be stilled.

She longed, above all, to be rid of her mother-in-law's interfering

tongue, of the platitudes, which she uttered, and which had the knack

of still further jarring on Lydie's over-sensitive nerves.

But the Duke did not help her. Usually he, too, was careful to avoid

direct discussions with Lady Eglinton, whose rasping voice was wont to

irritate him, but this morning he seemed disinclined to meet Lydie's

appealing eyes. He fidgeted in his chair, and anon he crossed one

shapely leg over the other and thoughtfully stroked his well-turned

calf.

"There are moments in diplomacy, my dear child----" he began, after a

moment of oppressive silence.

"My dear father," interrupted Lydie, with grave determination, "let me

tell you once for all that over this matter my mind is fully made up.

While I have a voice in the administration of this Kingdom of France,

I will not allow her to sully her fair name by such monstrous

treachery as the abandonment of a friend who trusted in her honour and

the promises she made him."

Her voice had shaken somewhat as she spoke. Altogether she seemed

unlike herself, less sure, less obstinately dominant. That look of

understanding between her father and Lady Eglinton had troubled her in

a way for which she could not account. Yet she knew that the whole

matter rested in her own hands. No one--not even His Majesty--had ever

questioned her right to deal with Treasury money. And money was all

that was needed. Though the final word nominally rested with milor, he

left her perfectly free, and she could act as she thought right,

without let or hindrance.

Yet, strangely enough, she felt as if she wanted support in this

matter. It was a purely personal feeling, and one she did not care to

analyse. She had no doubt whatever as to the justice and righteousness

of her desire, but in this one solitary instance of her masterful

administration she seemed to require the initiative, or at least the

approval, of her father or of the King.

Instead of this approval she vaguely scented intrigue.

She rose from the settee and went to the window behind it. The

atmosphere of the room had suddenly become stifling. Fortunately the

tall casements were unlatched. They yielded to a gentle push, and

Lydie stepped out on to the balcony. Already the air was hot, and the

sun shone glaringly on the marble fountains, and drew sparks of fire

from the dome of the conservatories. The acrid, pungent smell of

cannas and of asters rose to her nostrils, drowning the subtler aroma

of tea roses and of lilies; the monotonous drip of the fountains was a

soothing contrast in her ear to the babel of voices within.

At her feet the well-sanded walks of the park stretched out like

ribbons of pale gold to the dim, vast distance beyond; the curly heads

of Athenian athletes peeped from among the well-trimmed bosquets,

showing the immaculate whiteness of the polished marble in the sun. A

couple of gardeners clad in shirts of vivid blue linen were stooping

over a bed of monthly roses, picking off dead leaves and twigs that

spoilt the perfect symmetry of the shrubs, whilst two more a few

paces away were perfecting the smoothness of a box hedge, lest a tiny

leaflet were out of place.

Lydie sighed impatiently. Even in this vastness and this peace, man

brought his artificiality to curb the freedom of nature. Everything in

this magnificent park was affected, stilted and forced; every tree was

fashioned to a shape not its own, every flower made to be a

counterpart of its fellow.

This sense of unreality, of fighting nature in its every aspect, was

what had always oppressed her, even when she worked at first in

perfect harmony with her father, when she still had those utopian

hopes of a regenerate France, with a wise and beneficent monarch, an

era of truth and of fraternity, every one toiling hand-in-hand for the

good of the nation.

What a child she had been in those days! How little she had understood

this hydra-headed monster of self-seeking ambition, of political

wire-pulling, of petty cabals and personal animosities which fought

and crushed and trampled on every lofty ideal, on every clean thought

and high-minded aspiration.

She knew and understood better now. She had outgrown her childish

ideals: those she now kept were a woman's ideals, no less pure, no

less high or noble, but lacking just one great quality--that of hope.

She had continued to work and to do her best for this country which

she loved--her own beautiful France. She had--with no uncertain

hand--seized the reins of government from the diffident fingers of her

lord, she still strove to fight corruption, to curb excesses and to

check arrogance, and made vain endeavours to close her eyes to the

futility of her noblest efforts.

This attitude of King Louis toward the Young Pretender had brought it

all home to her; the intrigues, the lying, the falseness of

everything, the treachery which lurked in every corner of this

sumptuous palace, the egoism which was the sole moving power of those

overdressed dolls.

Perhaps for the first time since--in all the glory and pride of her

young womanhood--she became conscious of its power over the weaker and

sterner vessel, she felt a sense of discouragement, the utter

hopelessness of her desires. Her heart even suggested contempt of

herself, of her weak-minded foolishness in imagining that all those

empty heads in the room yonder could bring forth one single serious

thought from beneath their powdered perruques, one single wholly

selfless aspiration for the good of France; any more than that

stultified rose-tree could produce a bloom of splendid perfection or

that stunted acacia intoxicate the air with the fragrance of its

bloom.

Solitude had taken hold of Lydie's fancy. She had allowed her mind to

go roaming, fancy-free. Her thoughts were melancholy and anxious, and

she sighed or frowned more than once. The air was becoming hotter and

hotter every moment, and a gigantic bed of scarlet geraniums sent a

curious acrid scent to her nostrils, which she found refreshing. Anon

she succeeded in shutting out from her eyes the picture of those

gardeners maiming the rose-trees and bosquets, and in seeing only that

distant horizon with the vague, tiny fleecy clouds which were hurrying

quite gaily and freely to some unknown destination, far, no doubt,

from this world of craft and affectation. She shut her ears to the

sound of miladi's shrill laugh and the chatter of senseless fools

behind her, and only tried to hear the rippling murmur of the water in

the fountains, the merry chirrup of the sparrows, and far, very far

away, the sweet, sad note of a lark soaring upward to the serene

morning sky.

The sound of a footstep on the flag-stones of the balcony broke in on

her meditations. Her father, still wearing that troubled look, was

coming out to join her. Fortunately miladi had chosen to remain

indoors.

Impulsively now, for her nerves were still quivering with the tension

of recent introspection, she went straight up to this man whom she

most fully trusted in all the world, and took his hands in both hers.

"My dear, dear father," she pleaded, with her wonted earnestness, "you

_will_ help me, will you not?"

He looked more troubled than ever at her words, almost pathetic in his

obvious helplessness, as he ejaculated feebly:

"But what can we do, my dear child?"

"Send _Le Monarque_ to meet Prince Charles Edward," she urged; "it is

so simple."

"It is very hazardous, and would cost a vast amount of money. In the

present state of the Treasury----"

"My dear father, France can afford the luxury of not selling her

honour."

"And the English will be furious with us."

"The English cannot do more than fight us, and they are doing that

already!" she retorted.

"The risks, my dear child, the risks!" he protested again.

"What risks, father dear?" she said eagerly. "Tell me, what do we risk

by sending _Le Monarque_ with secret orders to the Scottish coast, to

a spot known to no one save to Lord Eglinton and myself, confided to

my husband by the unfortunate young Prince before he started on this

miserable expedition? Captain Barre will carry nothing that can in

any way betray the secret of his destination nor the object of his

journey--my husband's seal-ring on his finger, nothing more; this

token he will take on shore himself--not even the ship's crew will

know aught that would be fatal if betrayed."

"But the English can intercept _Le Monarque_!"

"We must run that risk," she retorted. "Once past the coast of

England, Scotland is lonely enough. _Le Monarque_ will meet no other

craft, and Captain Barre knows the secrets of his own calling--he has

run a cargo before now."

"This is childish obstinacy, Lydie, and I do not recognize the

statesman in this sentimental chit, who prates nonsense like a

schoolgirl imbued with novel-reading," said the Duke now with marked

impatience; "and pray, if His Majesty should put a veto on your using

one of his ships for this privateering expedition?"

"I propose sending _Le Monarque_ to-morrow," rejoined Lydie quietly.

"Captain Barre will have his orders direct from the Ministry of

Finance; and then we'll obtain His Majesty's sanction on the following

day."

"But this is madness, my child!" exclaimed the Duke. "You cannot

openly set at defiance the wishes of the King!"

"The wishes of the King?" she cried, with sudden vehemence. "Surely,

surely, my dear, dear father, you cannot mean what you suggest! Think!

oh, think just for one moment! That poor young man, who was our guest,

whom we all liked--he broke bread with us in our own house, our

beautiful château de la Tour d'Aumont, which has never yet been

defiled by treachery. And you talk of leaving him there in that

far-off land which has proved so inhospitable to him? Of leaving him

there either to perish miserably of want and starvation or to fall

into the hands of that Hanoverian butcher whose name has become a

by-word for unparalleled atrocities?"

She checked herself, and then resumed more calmly:

"Nay, my dear father, I pray you let us cease this argument; for once

in the history of our happy life together you and I look at honour

from opposite points of view."

"Yes, my dear, I see that, too," he rejoined, speaking now with some

hesitation. "I wish I could persuade you to abandon the idea."

"To abandon the unfortunate young Prince, you mean, to break every

promise we ever made to him--to become the by-word in our turn for

treachery and cowardice in every country in Europe--and why?" she

added, with helpless impatience, trying to understand, dreading almost

to question. "Why? Why?"

Then, as her father remained silent, with eyes persistently fixed on

some vague object in the remote distance, she said, as if acting on a

sudden decisive thought:

"Father, dear, is it solely a question of cost?"

"Partly," he replied, with marked hesitation.

"Partly? Well, then, dear, we will remove one cause of your

unexplainable opposition. You may assure His Majesty in my name that

the voyage of _Le Monarque_ shall cost the Treasury nothing."

Then as her father made no comment, she continued more eagerly:

"Lord Eglinton will not deny me, as you know; he is rich and Charles

Edward Stuart is his friend. What _Le Monarque_ has cost for

provisioning, that we will immediately replace. For the moment we

will borrow this ship from His Majesty's navy. _That_ he _cannot_

refuse! and I give you and His Majesty my word of honour that _Le

Monarque_ shall not cost the Treasury one single sou--even the pay of

her crew shall be defrayed by us from the moment that she sails out of

Le Havre until the happy moment when she returns home with Prince

Charles Edward Stuart and his friends safe and sound aboard."

There was silence between them for awhile. The Duc d'Aumont's eyes

were fixed steadily on a distant point on the horizon, but Lydie's

eyes never for a second strayed away from her father's face.

"Will _Le Monarque_ have a long journey to make?" asked the Duke

lightly.

"Yes!" she replied.

"To the coast of Scotland?"

"Yes."

"The west coast, of course?"

"Why should you ask, dear?"

She asked him this question quite casually, then, as he did not reply,

she asked it again, this time with a terrible tightening of her

heart-strings. Suddenly she remembered her suspicions, when first she

caught the glance of intelligence which passed swiftly from him to

miladi.

With a quick gesture of intense agitation she placed a hand on his

wrist.

"Father!" she said in a scarce audible murmur.

"Yes, my dear. What is it?"

"I don't know. I--I have been much troubled of late. I do not think

that my perceptions are perhaps as keen as they were--and as you say,

this matter of the Stuart Prince has weighed heavily on my mind.

Therefore, will you forgive me, dear, if--if I ask you a question

which may sound undutiful, disloyal to you?"

"Of course I will forgive you, dear," he said, after a slight moment

of hesitation. "What is it?"

He had pulled himself together, and now met his daughter's glance with

sufficient firmness, apparently to reassure her somewhat, for she said

more quietly:

"Will you give me your word of honour that you personally know of no

act of treachery which may be in contemplation against the man who

trusts in the honour of France?"

Her glowing eyes rested upon his; they seemed desirous of penetrating

to the innermost recesses of his soul. M. le Duc d'Aumont tried to

bear the scrutiny without flinching but he was no great actor, nor was

he in the main a dishonourable man, but he thought his daughter unduly

chivalrous, and he held that political considerations were outside the

ordinary standards of honour and morality.

Anyway he could not bring himself to give her a definite reply; her

hand still grasped his wrist--he took it in his own and raised it to

his lips.

"My father!" she pleaded, her voice trembling, her eyes still fixed

upon him, "will you not answer my question?"

"It is answered, my dear," he replied evasively. "Do you think it

worthy of me--your father--to protest mine honesty before my own

child?"

She looked at him no longer, and gently withdrew her hand from his

grasp. She understood that, indeed, he had answered her question.

CHAPTER XIII

THE WEIGHT OF ETIQUETTE

Perhaps certain characteristics which milor the Marquis of Eglinton

had inherited from his English grandfather caused him to assume a more

elaborate costume for his _petit lever_ than the rigid court etiquette

of the time had prescribed.

According to every mandate of usage and fashion, when, at exactly

half-past ten o'clock, he had asked M. Achille so peremptorily for his

shoes and then sat on the edge of his bed, with legs dangling over its

sides, he should have been attired in a flowered dressing gown over a

lace-ruffled _chemise de nuit_, and a high-peaked _bonnet-de-coton_

with the regulation tassel should have taken the place of the still

absent perruque.

Then all the distinguished gentlemen who stood nearest to him would

have known what to do. They had all attended _petits levers_ of kings,

courtisanes, and Ministers, ever since their rank and dignities

entitled them so to do. Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, for instance,

would have stepped aside at this precise juncture with a deep curtsey

and mayhap a giggle or a smirk--since she was privileged to be

frivolous--whereupon M. Achille would with the proper decorum due to

so solemn a function have handed M. le Contrôleur's day shirt to the

visitor of highest rank there present, who was privileged to pass it

over milor's head.

That important formality accomplished, the great man's toilet could be

completed by _M. le valet-de-chambre_ himself. But who had ever heard

of a Minister's _petit-lever_ being brought to a close without the

ceremony of his being helped on with his shirt by a prince of the

blood, or at least a marshal of France?

However, _le petit Anglais_ had apparently some funny notions of his

own--heirlooms, no doubt, from that fog-ridden land beyond the seas,

the home of his ancestors--and vainly had Monsieur Achille, that

paragon among flunkeys, tried to persuade his Marquis not to set the

hitherto inviolate etiquette of the Court of France quite so

flagrantly at defiance.

All his efforts had been in vain.

Monsieur d'Argenson, who was present on this 13th of August, 1746,

tells us that when milor did call for his shoes at least ten minutes

too soon, and was thereupon tenderly reproached by Madame la Comtesse

de Stainville for this ungallant haste, he was already more than half

dressed.

True, the flowered _robe-de-chambre_ was there--and vastly becoming,

too, with its braided motifs and downy lining of a contrasting

hue--but when milor threw off the coverlet with a boyish gesture of

impatience, he appeared clad in a daintily frilled day-shirt, breeches

of fine faced cloth, whilst a pair of white silk stockings covered his

well-shaped calves.

True, the perruque was still absent, but so was the regulation cotton

night-cap; instead of these, milor, with that eccentricity peculiar to

the entire British race, wore his own hair slightly powdered and tied

at the nape of the neck with a wide black silk bow.

Monsieur Achille looked extremely perturbed, and, had his rigorous

features ventured to show any expression at all, they would

undoubtedly have displayed one of respectful apology to all the

high-born gentlemen who witnessed this unedifying spectacle. As it

was, the face of _Monsieur le valet-de-chambre_ was set in marble-like

rigidity; perhaps only the slightest suspicion of a sigh escaped his

lips as he noted milor's complete unconsciousness of the enormity of

his offense.

Monsieur le Contrôleur had been in the very midst of an animated

argument with Madame de Stainville anent the respective merits of rose

red and turquoise blue as a foil to a mellow complexion. This argument

he had broken off abruptly by calling for his shoes. No wonder Irène

pouted, her pout being singularly becoming.

"Had I been fortunate enough in pleasing your lordship with my poor

wit," she said, "you had not been in so great a hurry to rid yourself

of my company."

"Nay, madame, permit me to explain," he protested gently. "I pray you

try and remember that for the last half-hour I have been the happy yet

feeble target for the shafts aimed at me by your beauty and your wit.

Now I always feel singularly helpless without my waistcoat and my

shoes. I feel like a miserable combatant who, when brought face to

face with a powerful enemy, hath been prevented from arming himself

for the fray."

"But etiquette----" she protested.

"Etiquette is a jade, madame," he retorted; "shall not you and I turn

our backs on her?"

In the meantime M. Achille had, with becoming reverence, taken M. le

Contrôleur's coat and waistcoat in his august hands, and stood there

holding them with just that awed expression of countenance which a

village curé would wear when handling a reliquary.

With that same disregard for ceremony which had characterized him all

along, Lord Eglinton rescued his waistcoat from those insistent hands,

and, heedless of Achille's look of horror, he slipped it on and

buttoned it himself with quick, dexterous fingers, as if he had never

done anything else in all his life.

For a moment Achille was speechless. For the first time perhaps in the

history of France a Minister of Finance had put his waistcoat on

himself, and this under his--Achille's--administration. The very

foundations of his belief were tottering before his eyes; desperately

now he clung to the coat, ready to fight for its possession and shed

his blood if need be for the upkeep of the ancient traditions of the

land.

"Will milor take his coat from the hands of Monseigneur le Prince de

Courtenai--prince of the blood?" he asked, with a final supreme effort

for the reëstablishment of those traditions, which were being so

wantonly flouted.

"His Majesty will be here directly," interposed Irène hastily.

"His Majesty never comes later than half-past ten," protested milor

feebly, "and he has not the vaguest idea how to help a man on with his

coat. He has had no experience and I feel that mine would become a

heap of crumpled misery if his gracious hands were to insinuate it

over my unworthy shoulders."

He made a desperate effort to gain possession of his coat, but this

time M. Achille was obdurate. It seemed as if he would not yield that

coat to any one save at the cost of his own life.

"Then it is the privilege of Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai," he

said firmly.

"But M. de Courtenai has gone to flirt with my wife!" ejaculated Lord

Eglinton in despair.

"In that case no doubt M. le Duc de Luxembourg will claim the

right----"

"_Mais comment donc?_" said the Duke with great alacrity, as, in spite

of milor's still continued feeble protests, he took the coat from the

hands of M. Achille.

M. de Luxembourg was very pompous and very slow, and there was nothing

that Lord Eglinton hated worse than what he called amateur valeting.

But now there was nothing for it but forbearance and resignation;

patience, too, of which _le petit Anglais_ had no more than a just

share. He gathered the frills of his shirt sleeves in his hands and

tried not to look as if he wished M. de Luxembourg at the bottom of

the nearest pond; but at this very moment Monseigneur le Prince de

Courtenai, who, it appeared, had not gone to flirt with Madame la

Marquise, since the latter was very much engaged elsewhere, but had

merely been absorbed in political discussions with M. de Vermandois,

suddenly realized that one of his numerous privileges was being

encroached upon.

Not that he had any special desire to help M. le Contrôleur-Général on

with his coat, but because he was ever anxious that his proper

precedence as quasi prince of the blood should always be fully

recognized. So he gave a discreet cough just sufficiently loud to

attract M. Achille's notice, and to warn M. le Duc de Luxembourg that

he was being presumptuous.

Without another word the coat was transferred from the hands of the

Maréchal to those of the quasi-royal Prince, whilst Eglinton, wearing

an air of resigned martyrdom, still waited for his coat, the frills of

his shirt sleeves gripped tightly in his hands.

Monseigneur advanced. His movements were always sedate, and he felt

pleased that every one who stood close by had noticed that the rank

and precedence, which were rightfully his, had been duly accorded him,

even in so small a matter, by no less a personage than M. le

Contrôleur-Général des Finances.

He now held the coat in perfect position, and Lord Eglinton gave a

sigh of relief, when suddenly the great doors at the end of the long

room were thrown wide open, and the stentorian voices of the royal

flunkeys announced:

"Messieurs, Mesdames! His Majesty the King!"

The buzz of talk died down, giving place to respectful murmurs. There

was a great rustle of silks and brocades, a clink of dress swords

against the parquet floor, as the crowd parted to make way for Louis

XV. The various groups of political disputants broke up, as if

scattered by a fairy wand; soon all the butterflies that had hovered

in the further corners of the room fluttered toward the magic centre.

Here an avenue seemed suddenly to form itself of silken gowns, of

brocaded panniers, of gaily embroidered coats, topped by rows of

powdered perruques that bent very low to the ground as, fat, smiling,

pompous, and not a little bored, His Majesty King Louis XV made slow

progress along the full length of the room, leaning lightly on the

arm of the inevitable Marquise de Pompadour, and nodding with great

condescension to the perruqued heads as he passed.

Near the window embrasure he met la Marquise d'Eglinton and M. le Duc

d'Aumont, her father. To Lydie he extended a gracious hand, and

engaged her in conversation with a few trivial words. This gave Mme.

de Pompadour the opportunity of darting a quick glance, that implied

an anxious query, at the Duc d'Aumont, to which he responded with an

almost imperceptible shake of the head.

All the while M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances was still

standing, shirt frills in hand, his face a picture of resigned

despair, his eyes longingly fixed on his own coat, which Monseigneur

de Courtenai no longer held up for him.

Indeed, Monseigneur, a rigid stickler for etiquette himself, would

never so far have forgotten what was due to the house of Bourbon as to

indulge in any pursuit--such as helping a Minister on with his

coat--at the moment when His Majesty entered a room.

He bowed with the rest of them, and thus Louis XV at the end of his

progress, found the group around milor's bedside; his cousin de

Courtenai bowing, Monsieur Achille with his nose almost touching his

knees, and milor Eglinton in shirt sleeves looking supremely

uncomfortable, and not a little sheepish.

"Ah! ce cher milor!" said the King with charming bonhomie, as he took

the situation in at a glance. "Nay, cousin, I claim an ancient

privilege! Monsieur le Contrôleur-Général, have you ever been waited

on by a King of France?"

"Never to my knowledge, Sire," stammered _le petit Anglais_.

Louis XV was quite delightful to-day; so fresh and boyish in his

movements, and with an inimitable _laisser aller_ and friendliness in

his manner which caused many pairs of eyes to stare, and many hearts

to ponder.

"Let this be an epoch-making experience in your life, then," he said

gaily. "Is this your coat?"

And without more ado he took that much-travelled garment from

Monseigneur de Courtenai's hands.

Such condescension, such easy graciousness had not been witnessed for

years! And His Majesty was not overfond of that State-appointed

Ministry of Finance of which milor was the nominal head.

"His Majesty must be sorely in need of money!" was a whispered comment

which ran freely enough round the room.

Withal the King himself seemed quite unconscious of the wave of

interest to which his gracious behaviour was giving rise. He was

holding up the coat, smiling benevolently at M. le Contrôleur, who

appeared to be more than usually nervous, and now made no movement

toward that much-desired portion of his attire.

"Allons, milor, I am waiting," said King Louis at last.

"Er--that is," murmured Lord Eglinton pitiably, "could I have my coat

right side out?"

"_Ohé! par ma foi!_" quoth the King with easy familiarity, "your

pardon, milor, but 'tis seldom I hold such an article in my hands, and

I believe, by all the saints in the calendar, that I was holding it

upside down, wrong side out, sleeves foremost, and collar awry!"

He laughed till his fat sides ached, and tears streamed from his eyes;

then, amidst discreet murmurs of admiration at so much condescension,

such gracious good humour, the ceremony of putting on M. le

Contrôleur's coat was at last performed by the King of France, and

milor, now fully clothed and apparently much relieved in his mind, was

able to present his respects to Madame de Pompadour.

CHAPTER XIV

ROYAL FAVOURS

Apparently there was to be no end to royal graciousness this morning,

as every one who looked could see. Hardly was the coat on M. le

Contrôleur's shoulders than the King engaged him in conversation,

whilst Mme. de Pompadour dropped into the armchair lately vacated by

Monseigneur de Courtenai. The well-drilled circle of courtiers and

ladies, including la belle Irène herself, retired discreetly. Once

more there was a barrier of emptiness and parquet flooring round the

inner group, now composed of His Majesty, of M. le Contrôleur-Général,

and of Mme. de Pompadour. Into these sacred precincts no one would

have dared to step. Lydie, having paid her respects to His Majesty,

had not joined that intimate circle, and it seemed as if Louis XV had

noted her absence, and was duly relieved thereat.

Anon M. le Duc d'Aumont approached the King, offering him a chair.

Louis took it, and in the act of so doing he contrived to whisper four

quick words in his Prime Minister's ear.

"Eh bien! Your daughter?"

Lord Eglinton just then was busy trying to find a suitable place

whereon to deposit his own insignificant person, and blushing

violently because Mme. de Pompadour had laughingly waved her fan in

the direction of his monumental bed; M. le Duc, therefore, whilst

adjusting a cushion behind the King's back, was able to reply

hurriedly:

"Impossible, Sire!"

"And l'Anglais?"

"I have not yet tried."

"Ah! ah! ah!" laughed Pompadour merrily. "M. le Contrôleur-Général des

Finances, are all Englishmen as modest as you?"

"I--I don't know, Madame. I don't know very many," he replied.

"Here is M. le Contrôleur too bashful to sit on the edge of his own

bed in my presence," she continued, still laughing. "Nay, milor, I'll

wager that you were reclining on those downy cushions when you were

flirting with Mme. de Stainville."

"Only under the compulsion of my valet-de-chambre, Madame," he

protested, "or I'd have got up hours ago."

"Is he such a tyrant, then?" asked Louis.

"Terrible, your Majesty."

"You are afraid of him?"

"I tremble at his look."

"Ah! it is well M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances should tremble

sometimes, even if only before his valet-de-chambre," sighed Louis XV

with comic pathos.

"But, Sire, I tremble very often!" protested Lord Eglinton.

"I' faith he speaks truly," laughed Mme. de Pompadour, "since he

trembles before his wife."

"And we tremble before M. le Contrôleur," concluded the King gaily.

"Before me, Sire?"

"Aye, indeed, since our Parliaments have made you our dragon."

"A good-tempered, meek sort of dragon, Sire, you'll graciously admit."

"That we will, milor, and gladly!" said Louis XV, now with somewhat

too exuberant good-humour; "and you'll not have cause to regret that

meekness, for your King hath remained your friend."

Then, as Lord Eglinton seemed either too much overcome by the amazing

condescension, or too bashful to respond, his Majesty continued more

sedately:

"We are about to prove our friendship, milor."

"Your Majesty--finds me--er--quite unprepared--er----" stammered

milor, who in verity appeared distinctly confused, for his eyes roamed

round the room as if in search of help or support in this interesting

crisis.

"Nay! nay!" rejoined the King benignly, "this we understand, milor. It

is not often the King of France chooses a friend amongst his subjects.

For we look upon you as our subject now, M. le Contrôleur, since we

have accepted your oath of allegiance. You have only just enough

English blood left in your veins to make you doubly loyal and true to

your King. Nay! nay! no thanks--we speak as our royal heart moves us.

Just now we spoke of proofs of our friendship. Milor, tell us frankly,

are you so very rich?"

The question came so abruptly at the end of the sentimental peroration

that Lord Eglinton was completely thrown off his balance. He was not

used to private and intimate conversations with King Louis; his wife

saw to all affairs of State, and the present emergency found him

unprepared.

"I--I believe so, Sire," he stammered.

"But surely not _so_ rich," insisted the King, "that a million or so

livres would come amiss? Hé!"?

"I don't rightly know, Sire; it a little depends."

"On what?"

"On the provenance of the million."

"More than one, good milor--two, mayhap," said the King exultantly.

Then he drew his chair in somewhat closer. Lord Eglinton had taken

Mme. de Pompadour's advice and was sitting on the edge of the bed. We

may presume that that edge was very hard and uncomfortable, for milor

fidgeted and looked supremely unhappy. Anon the King's knees were

close to his own, and Madame's brocaded skirt got entangled with his

feet. The buzz of talk in the large room drowned the King's whispers

effectually, the wide barrier of empty floor was an effectual check on

eavesdropping. Obviously no one would hear what Louis was about to

confide to his Minister; he leaned forward and dropped his voice so

that Eglinton himself could scarcely hear, and had to bend his head so

that he got Louis's hot, excited breath full on the cheek. Being

General Comptroller of Finance and receiving the confidences of a King

had its drawbacks at times.

"Milor," whispered his Majesty, "'tis a good affair we would propose,

one which we could carry through without your help, but in which we

would wish to initiate you, seeing that you are our friend."

"I listen, Sire."

"The Duke of Cumberland--you know him?"

"Yes."

"He has quelled the rebellion and humbled the standard of that

arrogant Stuart Pretender."

"Your Majesty's friend--yes," said Eglinton innocently.

"Bah! our friend!" and Louis XV shrugged his shoulders, whilst Mme. de

Pompadour gave a short contemptuous laugh.

"Oh! I am sorry! I thought----" said milor gently. "I pray your

Majesty to continue."

"Charles Edward Stuart was no friend to us, milor," resumed Louis

decisively: "observe, I pray you, the trouble which he hath brought

about our ears. We had had peace with England ere now, but for that

accursed adventurer and his pretensions; and now that he has come to

disaster and ruin----"

"I understand," said Eglinton, with a little sigh of sympathy. "It is

indeed awkward for your Majesty; the solemn promise you gave him----"

"Bah, man! prate not to me of promises," interrupted Louis irritably.

"I promised him nothing; he knows that well enough--the young fool!"

"Do not let us think of him, Sire; it seems to upset your Majesty."

"It does, milor, it does; for even my worst enemies concede that Louis

the Well-beloved is a creature of sympathy."

"A heart of gold, Sire--a heart of gold--er--shall we join the

ladies?"

"Milor," said the King abruptly, putting a firm hand on Eglinton's

wrist, "we must not allow that young fool to thwart the external

politics of France any longer. The Duke of Cumberland, though our own

enemy on the field of battle, has shown that England trusts in our

honour and loyalty even in the midst of war, but she wants a proof

from us."

"Oh, let us give it, Sire, by all means. Prince Charles Edward

Stuart----"

"Exactly, milor," said Louis XV quietly; "that is the proof which

England wants."

"I am afraid I don't quite understand," said Lord Eglinton, a little

bewildered. "You see, I am very stupid; and--and perhaps my wife----"

Then, as King Louis gave a sharp ejaculation of impatience, Mme. de

Pompadour broke in, in tones which she knew how to render velvety and

soothing to the ear, whilst her delicate fingers rested lightly on M.

le Contrôleur's hand.

"It is quite simple, milor," she whispered just as confidentially as

the King had done. "This Charles Edward Stuart is a perpetual worry to

England. His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland has been accused of

unnecessary cruelty because he has been forced to take severe measures

for the suppression of that spirit of rebellion, which is only being

fostered in Scotland because of that young Pretender's perpetual

presence there. He fans smouldering revolt into flame, he incites

passions, and creates misguided enthusiasms which lead to endless

trouble to all!"

Then as she paused, somewhat breathless and eager, her bright

myosotis-coloured eyes anxiously scanning his face he said mildly:

"How beautifully you put things, Mme. la Marquise. I vow I have never

heard such a perfect flood of eloquence."

"'Tis not a matter of Madame's eloquence," interposed Louis, with

impatience, "though she hath grasped the subject with marvellous

clearness of judgment."

"Then 'tis a matter of what, Sire?"

"The Duke of Cumberland has appealed to our loyalty. Though we are at

war with England we bear no animus toward her reigning house, and have

no wish to see King George's crown snatched from him by that beardless

young adventurer, who has no more right to the throne of England than

you, milor, to that of France."

"And his Grace of Cumberland has asked his Majesty's help," added Mme.

de Pompadour.

"How strange! Just as Prince Charles Edward himself hath done."

"The Duke of Cumberland desires the person of the Pretender," she

said, without heeding the interruption, "so that he may no longer

incite misguided enthusiasts to rebellion, and cease to plunge

Scotland and England into the throes of civil war."

"His Grace asks but little, methinks!" said Lord Eglinton slowly.

"Oh, England is always ready to pay for what she wants," said the

Marquise.

"And on this occasion?" asked milor mildly.

"His Grace hath offered us, as man to man, fifteen millions livres for

the person of the Pretender," said the King, with sudden decision, and

looking M. le Contrôleur straight in the face.

"Ah! as man to man?"

Louis XV and Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour both drew a quick sigh of

relief. M. le Contrôleur had taken the proposal with perfect quietude.

He had not seemed startled, and his kindly face expressed nothing but

gentle amazement, very natural under the circumstances, whilst his

voice--even and placid as usual--was not above a whisper.

"As man to man," he repeated, and nodded his head several times, as if

pondering over the meaning of this phrase.

How extremely fortunate! Milor had raised no objection! What a pity to

have wasted quite so much thought, anxiety, and a wealth of eloquence

over a matter which was so easily disposed of! Jeanne de Pompadour

gave her royal patron an encouraging nod.

There was a world of wisdom in that nod and in the look which

accompanied it. "He takes it so easily," that look seemed to say; "he

thinks it quite natural. We must have his help, since we do not know

where the fugitive Prince is in hiding. This little milor alone can

tell us that, and give us a token by which Charles Edward would

trustingly fall into the little ambush which we have prepared for him.

But he thinks the affair quite simple. We need not offer him quite so

large a share in the pleasant millions as we originally had intended."

All this and more Mme. de Pompadour's nod conveyed to the mind of

Louis the Well-beloved, and he too nodded in response before he

continued, speaking now more casually, in a calmer, more business-like

tone.

"'Tis a fair offer," he said at last; "though the affair will not be

quite so easy to conduct as his Grace supposes. He suggests our

sending a ship to the coast of Scotland to meet the young adventurer

and his friends, take them on board and convey them to an English

port, where they will be handed over to the proper authorities. 'Tis

fairly simple, methinks."

"Remarkably simple, your Majesty."

"Of course, we need a little help from you, milor. Oh, nothing

much--advice as to the spot where our good ship will be most like to

find Charles Edward Stuart--a token which if shown to that young

firebrand will induce him to trust its bearer, and come on board

himself with at least some of his friends. You follow me, milor?"

The question seemed necessary, for Lord Eglinton's face wore such a

look of indifference as to astonish even the King, who had been

prepared for some measure of protest, at any rate from this man who

was being asked to betray his friend. Although Louis was at this

period of his life quite deaf to every call of honour and loyalty

through that constant, ever-present and exasperating want of money for

the satisfaction of his extravagant caprices, nevertheless, there was

Bourbon blood in him, and this cried out loudly now, that he was

suggesting--nay, more, contemplating--a deed which would have put any

of his subjects to shame, and which would have caused some of his most

unscrupulous ancestors in mediæval times to writhe with humiliation in

their graves. Therefore he had expected loud protest from Lord

Eglinton, arguments more or less easy to combat, indignation of

course; but this ready acceptance of this ignoble bargain--so strange

is human nature!--for the moment quite horrified Louis. Milor took the

selling of his friend as calmly as he would that of a horse.

"You follow me, milor?" reiterated the King.

"Yes, yes, Sire," replied Eglinton readily enough. "I follow you."

"You understand the service we ask of you?"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"For these services, milor, you shall be amply rewarded. We would

deem one million livres a fair amount to fall to your share."

"Your Majesty is generous," said Eglinton quite passively.

"We are just, milor," said the King, with a sigh of satisfaction.

M. le Contrôleur seemed satisfied, and there was little else to say.

Louis XV began to regret that he had offered him quite so much.

Apparently five hundred thousand would have been enough.

"Then we'll call that settled," concluded his Majesty, pushing back

his chair preparatory to ending this conversation, which he had so

dreaded and which had turned out so highly satisfactory. Pity about

that million livres, of course! five hundred thousand might have done,

certainly seven! Nathless, M. le Contrôleur's private fortune was not

so large as popular rumour had it, or did Mme. Lydie actually hold the

purse strings?

"_C'est entendu_, milor," repeated Louis once more. "We will see to

commissioning the ship and to her secret orders. As you see, there is

no risk--and we shall be glad to be in the good graces of M. le Duc de

Cumberland. To oblige an enemy, eh, milor? an act of peace and

good-will in the midst of war. Chivalry, what?--worthy of our ancestor

Henri of Navarre! Methinks it will make history."

"I think so, too, Sire," said Eglinton, with obvious conviction.

"Ah! then we'll see to the completion of the affair; we--the King and

M. le Duc d'Aumont. You are lucky, milor, your share of the work is so

simple; as soon as the ship is ready to sail we'll call on you for the

necessary instructions. Par ma foi! 'tis a fine business for us all,

milor; one million in your pocket for a word and a token, the residue

of the fifteen millions in our royal coffers, and the thanks of his

Grace of Cumberland to boot, not to mention the moral satisfaction of

having helped to quell an unpleasant rebellion, and of placing one's

enemy under lasting obligation. All for the good of France!"

Louis the Well-beloved had risen; he was more than contented; an

unctuous smile, a beaming graciousness of expression pervaded his

entire countenance. He groped in the wide pocket of his coat, bringing

forth a letter which bore a large red seal.

"His Grace's letter, milor," he said with final supreme condescension,

and holding the document out to M. le Contrôleur, who took it without

a word. "Do you glance through it, and see that we have not been

mistaken, that the whole thing is clear, straightforward and----"

"And a damned, accursed, dirty piece of business, Sire!"

It was undoubtedly Lord Eglinton who had spoken, for his right hand,

as if in response to his thoughts, was even now crushing the paper

which it held, whilst the left was raised preparatory to tearing the

infamous proposal to pieces. Yes, it had been milor's even, gentle

voice which had uttered this sudden decisive condemnation in the same

impassive tones, and still scarce audible even to these two people

near him, without passion, without tremor, seemingly without emotion.

Just a statement of an undisputable fact, a personal opinion in answer

to a question put to him.

Louis, completely thrown off his balance, stared at milor as if he had

been suddenly shaken out of a dream; for the moment he thought that

his ears must have played him a trick, that he must have misunderstood

the words so calmly uttered; instinctively his hand sought the

support of the chair which he had just vacated. It seemed as if he

needed a solid, a materialistic prop, else his body would have reeled

as his brain was doing now. Mme. de Pompadour, too, had jumped to her

feet, pushing her chair away with an angry, impatient movement. The

disappointment was so keen and sudden, coming just at the moment when

triumph seemed so complete. But whilst Louis stared somewhat blankly,

at M. le Contrôleur, she, the woman, flashed rage, contempt, vengeance

upon him.

He had tricked and fooled her, her as well as the King, leading them

on to believe that he approved, the better to laugh at them both in

his sleeve.

The contemptible, arrogant wretch!

He was still half sitting, half leaning against the edge of his bed,

and staring straight out before him through the big bay window which

gave on to the park, passively, gently, as if the matter had ceased to

concern him, as if he were quite unconscious of the enormity of his

action.

"A--a damned--what?--accursed!--what?----" stammered the King; "but,

milor----"

"Nay, Sire, I pray you!" broke in a grave voice suddenly; "my lord

seems to have angered your Majesty. Will you deign to explain?"

CHAPTER XV

DIPLOMACY

The buzz of talk was going on as loudly and incessantly as before. The

whispered conversation around M. le Contrôleur's bedside had excited

no violent curiosity. The first surprise occasioned by His Majesty's

unparalleled condescension soon gave way to indifference; it was

obvious that the King's assiduity beside the Minister of Finance was

solely due to a more than normal desire for money, and these royal

demands for renewed funds were too numerous to cause more than passing

interest.

Eavesdropping was impossible without gross disrespect, the latter far

more unpardonable than the most insatiable curiosity. Lydie alone,

privileged above all, had apparently not heeded the barrier which

isolated Louis XV, Pompadour and milor from the rest of the vast

apartment, for she now stood at the foot of the bed--a graceful,

imposing figure dressed in somewhat conventual gray, with one hand

resting on the delicate panelling, her grave, luminous eyes fixed on

the King's face.

Louis shook himself free from the stupor in which milor's unexpected

words had plunged him. Surprise yielded now to vexation. Lydie's

appearance, her interference in this matter, would be the final

death-blow to his hopes. Those tantalizing millions had dangled close

before his eyes, his royal hands had almost grasped them, his ears

heard their delicious clink; milor's original attitude had brought

them seemingly within his grasp. Now everything was changed. The whole

affair would have to be argued out again at full length, and though

_le petit Anglais_ might prove amenable, Mme. Lydie was sure to be

obdurate.

Louis XV scowled at the picture of youth and beauty presented by that

elegant figure in dove-gray silk, with the proud head carried high,

the unconscious look of power and of strength in the large gray eyes,

so grave and so fixed. In his mind there had already flashed the

thought that milor's sudden change of attitude--for it was a change,

of that his Majesty had no doubt--was due to a subtle sense of fear

which had made him conscious of his wife's presence, although from her

position and his own he could not possibly have seen her approach.

This made him still more vexed with Lydie, and as she seemed calmly to

be waiting for an explanation, he replied quite gruffly:

"Nay, madame, you mistake; I assure you milor and ourselves are

perfectly at one--we were so until a few moments ago."

"Until I came," she said quietly. "I am glad of that, for 'twill be

easy enough, I hope, to convince your Majesty that my presence can

have made no difference to M. le Contrôleur's attitude of deep

respect."

"Pardi, we hope not!" interposed Mme. de Pompadour acidly; "but we

hope milor hath found his tongue at last and will do the convincing

himself."

But Louis XV was not prepared to reopen the discussion in the presence

of Mme. Lydie. He knew, quite as well as M. le Duc d'Aumont himself,

that she would have nothing but contempt and horror for that infamous

proposal, which he was more determined than ever to accept.

It was tiresome of course not to have the coöperation of Lord

Eglinton; that weak fool now would, no doubt, be overruled by his

wife. At the same time--and Louis hugged the thought as it sprang to

his mind--there were other ways of obtaining possession of Charles

Edward Stuart's person than the direct one which he had proposed to

milor just now. The young Pretender was bound sooner or later to leave

the shores of Scotland. Unbeknown to King Louis a ship might be sent

by private friends to rescue the fugitive, but that ship could be

intercepted on her way home, and, after all, Charles Edward was bound

to land in France some day!--and then----

And there were other means besides of earning the tempting millions.

But these would have to be thought out, planned and arranged; they

would be difficult and not nearly so expeditious, which was a drawback

when royal coffers were clamouring to be filled. Still, it would be

distinctly unadvisable to broach the subject with Mme. la Marquise

d'Eglinton, and unnecessarily humiliating, since a rebuff was sure to

be the result.

Therefore, when--as if in placid defiance of Pompadour's

challenge--Lord Eglinton handed the Duke of Cumberland's letter

silently back to the King, the latter slipped it into his pocket with

a gesture of ostentatious indifference.

"Nay! we need not trouble Mme. la Marquise with the discussion now,"

he said; "she is unacquainted with the subject of our present

conversation, and it would be tedious to reiterate."

"I crave your pardon, Sire," rejoined Lydie, "if I have transgressed,

but my zeal in the service of France and in that of your Majesty has

rendered my senses preternaturally acute. My eyes see in the gloom, my

ears hear across vast spaces."

"In a word, Mme. la Marquise has been listening!" said Pompadour, with

a sneer.

"I did not listen," said Lydie quietly. "I only heard."

"Then you know?" said Louis, with well-assumed indifference.

"Oh, yes!"

She smiled at him as she replied. This was apparently a day of

surprises, for the smile seemed distinctly encouraging.

"And--and what do you say?" asked his Majesty somewhat anxiously, yet

emboldened by that encouraging smile.

Of a truth! was he about to find an ally there, where he expected most

bitter opposition?

"Meseems that milor was somewhat hasty," replied Lydie quietly.

"Ah!"

It was a sigh of intense, deep, heartfelt, satisfaction breathed by

Louis the Well-beloved, and unrestrainedly echoed by Mme. de

Pompadour.

"This proposal, Sire," continued Lydie; "'tis from England, I

understand?"

"From his Grace of Cumberland himself, Madame," assented the King,

once more drawing the letter from out his pocket.

"May I be permitted to see it?" she asked.

For a moment Louis hesitated, then he gave her the letter. There was

no risk in this, since she practically owned to knowing its contents.

And the whole affair would be so much easier, so much more expeditious

with the coöperation of the Eglintons.

Lydie read the letter through, seemingly deeply engrossed in its

contents. She never once raised her eyes to see how she was being

watched. She knew quite well that the King's eyes were fixed eagerly

upon her face, that Pompadour's cupidity and greed for the proposed

millions were plainly writ upon her face. But she had not once looked

at her husband. She did not look at him now. He had not spoken since

that sudden burst of indignation, when his slender hand crushed the

infamous document which she now studied so carefully, crushed it and

would have torn it to ribbons in loathing and contempt.

When first she interposed he had turned and faced her. Since then she

knew that his eyes had remained fixed on her face. She felt the gaze,

yet cared not to return it. He was too weak, too simple to understand,

and of her own actions she would be sole mistress; that had been the

chief clause in the contract when she placed her hand in his.

Her intuitive knowledge of this Court in which she moved, her

suspicions of this feeble monarch, whose extravagant caprices had led

him to deeds at which in his earlier days he had been the first to

blush, her dread of intrigues and treachery, all had whispered in her

ear the word of prudence--"Temporize."

The whole infamous plan had been revealed to her through those same

supernaturally keen senses, which her strong domineering nature had

coerced, until they became the slaves of her will. Mingling with the

crowd, her graceful body present in the chattering throng, her mind

had remained fixed on that group beside the bed. She had noticed the

King's expression of face when he engaged milor in conversation, his

extraordinary _bonhomie_, his confidential attitude, his whispers, all

backed and seconded by Pompadour. Gradually she manœuvred and, still

forming a unit with the rest of the crowd, she had by degrees drawn

nearer and nearer, until she saw her husband's movement, his almost

imperceptible change of expression, as he clutched the letter which

was handed him by the King.

Then she boldly entered the inner precincts; being privileged, she

could do even that, without creating attention. Milor's words of

contempt, the royal arms of England on the seal of the letter, coupled

with her father's attitude with her just now, and his veiled

suggestions, told her all she wanted to know. And quick as flashes of

summer lightning her woman's intuition whispered words of wisdom in

her ear.

"Know everything first--then temporize! Diplomacy will do more than

defiance."

Having read the letter through, she of course knew all. It was simple

enough--a monstrous proposal which the King of France was ready to

adopt. She felt real physical nausea at contact with so much infamy.

But she folded the document neatly and carefully, then looked quietly

at the King.

"The Duke of Cumberland is generous," she said, forcing herself to

smile.

"Heu, heu!" assented Louis lightly, with a return of his wonted

_bonhomie_. Matters were shaping themselves to a truly satisfactory

end.

"Do I understand that your Majesty would desire us to accept his

Grace's proposal?"

"What think you yourself, Madame?"

"It is worth considering," she mused.

"Parbleu! And you are a true woman!" exclaimed Louis XV, beaming with

delight. "Full of wisdom as a statesman should be. To think that we

could ever have mistrusted so clear a head and so sound a judgment."

"Your Majesty, I hope, will always remember that my sole desire is to

serve France and her King!"

"Par ma foi! We'll not forget your help in this, Madame," he exclaimed

whole-heartedly. "Then we may rely on your help?"

"What does your Majesty desire me to do?"

He came quite close to her, and she forced herself not to draw back

one inch. For the sake of the fugitive prince and his friends, who had

trusted in the honour of France; for the sake of that honour which, in

her peculiar position, was as dear to her as her own, she would not

flinch now; she would show no repulsion, no fear, though her whole

being rose in revolt at contact with this man.

A man, not a king! Par Dieu, not a King of France!

His face to her looked hideous, the eyes seemed to leer, and there was

lust for money, and ignoble treachery writ on every feature.

"We have explained it all to milor," whispered Louis under his breath;

"a ship to be commissioned and sent to meet the Stuart. She will have

secret orders--no one shall know but her captain--and he will be a man

whom we can trust--a man whom we shall have to pay--you understand?"

"I understand."

"Then from you we want to know the place in Scotland where we will

find Charles Edward--eh? And also a token--a ring, a word perhaps, by

which that young adventurer will be made to trust his own person and

that of his friends to our good ship. It is very simple, you see."

"Quite simple, your Majesty."

"The ship's orders will be that once the Stuart and his faction are on

board, she shall make straight for the first English

port--and--and--that is all!" he added complacently.

"Yes, that is all, your Majesty."

"And on the day that Charles Edward Stuart is handed over to the

English authorities, there will be fifteen millions for your King,

Madame, and a million livres pin money for the most able statesman in

Europe."

And with consummate gallantry, Louis bowed very low and took her hand

in his. It rested cold and inert between his hot fingers, but he was

far too eager, far too triumphant to notice anything beyond the fact

that he had succeeded in enlisting the help of Lydie d'Eglinton,

without whom his project was bound to have been considerably delayed,

if not completely frustrated. He had indeed not wasted this glorious

morning.

"I am eternally your debtor, Madame!" he said gaily; "and 'tis well,

believe me, to serve the King of France."

"I have done nothing as yet, Sire," she rejoined.

"Nay, but you will," he said confidently.

She bowed her head and he interpreted the movement according to his

will. But he was impatient, longing to see this matter finally settled

to his entire satisfaction.

"Will you not give me a definite answer now?"

"In the midst of so much chatter, Sire?" she said, forcing herself to

smile gaily. "Nay, but 'tis a serious matter--and I must consult with

my father."

Louis smiled contentedly. M. le Duc d'Aumont was at one with him in

this. The letter had been originally sent to the Prime Minister, and

the Duke, who was weak, who was a slave to the Bourbon dynasty, and

who, alas! was also tainted with that horrible canker which was

gradually affecting the whole of the aristocracy of France, the

insatiable greed for money, had been bribed to agree with the King.

Therefore Louis was content. It was as well that Lydie should speak

with the Duke. The worthy D'Aumont would dissipate her last lingering

scruples.

"And your husband?" he added, casting a quick glance over his shoulder

at milor, and smiling with good-natured sarcasm.

"Oh, my husband will think as I do," she replied evasively.

At thought of her father and the King's complacent smile, Lydie had

winced. For a moment her outward calm threatened to forsake her. She

felt as if she could not keep up this hideous comedy any longer. She

would have screamed aloud with horror or contempt, aye! and deep

sorrow, too, to think that her father wallowed in this mire.

She too cast a quick glance at milor. His eyes were no longer fixed on

her face. He stood quietly beside Madame de Pompadour, who, leaving

the King to settle with Lydie, had engaged Lord Eglinton in frivolous

conversation. He was quite placid again, and in his face, gentle and

diffident as usual, there was no longer the faintest trace of that

sudden outburst of withering contempt.

The Duke of Cumberland's letter was still in her hand. It seemed to

scorch her fingers with its loathsome pollution. But she clung to it,

and after a violent effort at self control, she contrived to look

Louis straight in the face and to give him a reassuring smile, as she

slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown.

"I will consult with my father, Sire," she repeated, "and will read

the letter when I am alone and undisturbed."

"And you will give me a final answer?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Why not sooner?" he urged impatiently.

"The day after to-morrow," she reiterated with a smile. "I have much

to think about, and--the only token which Charles Edward would trust

without demur must come from Lord Eglinton."

"I understand," said the King knowingly. "Par ma foi! But we shall

want patience. Two whole days! In the meanwhile we'll busy ourselves

with preparations for the expedition. We had thought of _Le Monarque_.

What say you?"

"_Le Levantin_ would be swifter."

"Ah, yes! _Le Levantin_--and we can trust her captain. He is under

deep obligation to Madame de Pompadour. And M. de Lugeac, Madame's

nephew, you know--we had thought of him to carry the secret orders to

Brest to the captain of _Le Levantin_ directly she is ready to sail.

Methinks we could trust him. His interests are bound up with ours. And

there is another, too; but more of that anon. The secret orders will

bear our own royal signature, and you might place them yourself, with

the token, in our chosen messenger's hands."

Once more he gave her a gracious nod, and she curtseyed with all the

deference, all the formality which the elaborate etiquette of the

time demanded. Louis looked at her long and searchingly, but

apparently there was nothing in the calm, serene face to disturb his

present mood of complacent satisfaction. He put out his podgy hand to

her; the short, thick fingers were covered with rings up to their

first joint, and Lydie contrived to kiss the large signet--an emblem

of that kingship to which she was true and loyal--without letting her

lips come in contact with his flesh.

What happened during the next ten minutes she could not afterward have

said. Her whole mind was in a turmoil of thought, and every time the

infamous letter crackled beneath her corselet, she shuddered as with

fear. Quite mechanically she saw the King's departure, and apparently

she acted with perfect decorum and correctness. Equally, mechanically

she saw the chattering throng gradually disperse. The vast room became

more and more empty, the buzz less and less loud. She saw milor as

through a mist, mostly with back bent, receiving the _adieux_ of

sycophants; she heard various murmurs in her own ears, mostly requests

that she should remember and be ready to give, or at least to promise.

She saw the procession of courtiers, of flatterers, of friends and

enemies pass slowly before her; in the midst of them she vaguely

distinguished Mme. de Stainville's brightly coloured gown.

La belle Irène lingered a long time beside milor. She was one of the

last to leave, and though Lydie forced herself not to look in that

direction, she could not help hearing the other woman's irritating

giggle, and Lord Eglinton's even, pleasant voice framing compliments,

that pandered to that brainless doll's insatiable vanity.

And this when he knew that his friend was about to be betrayed.

The taint! The horror! The pollution of it all!

Fortunately she had not seen her father, for her fortitude might have

broken down if she read that same awful thought of treachery in his

face that had so disgusted her when Louis stood beside her.

The last of that senseless, indifferent crowd had gone. The vast room

was empty. Milor had accompanied Mme. de Stainville as far as the

door. The murmur of talk and laughter came now only as a faint and

lingering echo. Anon it died away in the distant corridors.

Lydie shivered as if with cold.

CHAPTER XVI

STRANGERS

And now she was alone.

Torpor had left her; even that intensity of loathing had gone, which

for the past half-hour had numbed her very senses and caused her to

move and speak like an irresponsible automaton. She felt as if she had

indeed seen and touched a filthy, evil reptile, but that for the

moment it had gone out of her sight. Presently it would creep out of

its lair again, but by that time she would be prepared.

She must be prepared; therefore she no longer shuddered at the horror

of it, but called her wits to her aid, her cool judgment and habitual

quick mode of action, to combat the monster and render it powerless.

She knew of course that the King would not allow himself to be put off

with vague promises. Within the two days' delay which she had asked of

him he would begin to realize that she had only meant to temporise,

and never had any intention of helping him in his nefarious schemes.

Then he would begin to act for himself.

Having understood that she meant to circumvent him if she could, he

was quite shrewd enough to devise some means of preventing those

tempting millions from eluding his grasp. Though he did not know at

the present moment where or how to lay his hands on Prince Charles

Edward and his friends, he knew that they would of necessity seek the

loneliness of the west coast of Scotland.

Vaguely that particular shore had always been spoken of in connection

with any expedition for the succour of the unfortunate prince, and

although the commissioning of ships was under the direct

administration of the Comptrôlleur-Général of Finance, Louis, with the

prospective millions dangling before him, could easily enough equip

_Le Levantin_, and send her on a searching expedition without having

recourse to State funds; whilst it was more than likely that Charles

Edward, wearied of waiting, and in hourly fear of detection and

capture, would be quite ready to trust himself and his friends to any

French ship that happened to come on his track, whether her captain

brought him a token from his friend or not.

All this and more would occur to King Louis, of course, in the event

of her finally refusing him coöperation, or trying to put him off

longer than a few days. Just as she had thought it all out, visualized

his mind, as it were, so these various plans would present themselves

to him sooner of later. It was a great thing to have gained two days.

Forty-eight hours' start of that ignoble scheme would, she hoped,

enable her to counteract it yet.

So much for King Louis and his probable schemes! Now her own plans.

To circumvent this awful treachery, to forestall it, that of course

had become her task, and it should not be so difficult, given that two

days' start and some one whom she could trust.

Plans now became a little clearer in her head; they seemed gradually

to disentangle themselves from a maze of irrelevant thoughts.

_Le Monarque_ was ready to start at any moment. Captain Barre, her

commander, was the soul of honour. A messenger swift and sure and

trustworthy must ride to Le Havre forthwith with orders to the captain

to set sail at once, to reach that lonely spot on the west coast of

Scotland known only to herself and to her husband, where Charles

Edward Stuart and his friends were even now waiting for succour.

The signet-ring--Lord Eglinton's--entrusted to Captain Barre should

ensure the fugitives' immediate confidence. There need be no delay,

and with favourable wind and weather _Le Monarque_ should have the

Prince and his friends on board her before _Le Levantin_ had been got

ready to start.

Then _Le Monarque_ should not return home direct; she should skirt the

Irish coast and make for Brittany by a circuitous route; a grave delay

perhaps, but still the risks of being intercepted must be minimised at

all costs.

A lonely village inland would afford shelter to the Young Pretender

and his adherents for a while, until arrangements could be made for

the final stage of their journey into safety--Austria, Spain, or any

country in fact where Louis' treachery could not overtake them.

It was a big comprehensive scheme, of course; one which must be

carried to its completion in defiance of King Louis. It was never good

to incur the wrath of a Bourbon, and, unless the nation and the

parliaments ranged themselves unequivocally on her side, it would

probably mean the sudden ending of her own and her husband's career,

the finality of all her dreams. But to this she hardly gave a

thought.

The project itself was not difficult of execution, provided she had

the coöperation of a man whom she could absolutely trust. This was the

most important detail in connection with her plans, and it alone could

ensure their success.

Her ally, whoever he might be, would have to start this very afternoon

for Le Havre, taking with him the orders for Captain Barre and the

signet ring which she would give him.

There were one hundred and fifty leagues between Versailles and Le

Havre as the crow flies, and Lydie was fully aware of the measure of

strength and endurance which a forced ride across country and without

drawing rein would entail.

It would mean long gallops at breakneck speed, whilst slowly the

summer's day yielded to the embrace of evening, and anon the glowing

dusk paled and swooned into the arms of night. It would mean a swift

and secret start at the hour when the scorching afternoon sun had not

yet lifted its numbing weight from the journeyman's limbs and still

lulled the brain of the student to drowsiness and the siesta; the hour

when the luxurious idler was just waking from sleep, and the labourer

out in the field stretched himself after the noonday rest.

It would mean above all youth and enthusiasm; for Le Havre must be

reached ere the rising sun brought the first blush of dawn on cliffs,

and crags, and sea; _Le Monarque_ must set sail for Scotland ere

France woke from her sleep.

Twelve hours in the saddle, a good mount, the strength of a young

bullock, and the astuteness of a fox!

Lydie still sat in the window embrasure, her eyes closed, her graceful

head with its wealth of chestnut hair resting against the delicate

coloured cushions of her chair, her perfectly modelled arms bared to

the elbow lying listlessly in her lap, one hand holding the infamous

letter, written by the Duke of Cumberland to King Louis. She herself a

picture of thoughtful repose, statuesque and cool.

It was characteristic of her whole personality that she sat thus quite

calmly, thinking out the details of her plan, apparently neither

flustered nor excited. The excitement was within, the desire to be up

and doing, but she would have despised herself if she had been unable

to conquer the outward expressions of her agitation, the longing to

walk up and down, to tear up that ignoble letter, or to smash some

inoffensive article that happened to be lying by.

Her thoughts then could not have been so clear. She could not have

visualized the immediate future; the departure of _Le Monarque_ at

dawn--Captain Barre receiving the signet-ring--that breakneck ride to

Le Havre.

Then gradually from out the rest of the picture one figure detached

itself from her mind--her husband.

"Le petit Anglais," the friend of Charles Edward Stuart; weak,

luxurious, tactless, but surely loyal.

Lydie half smiled when the thought first took shape. She knew so

little of her husband. Just now, when she heard him condemn the King's

treacherous proposals with such unequivocal words of contempt, she had

half despised him for this blundering want of diplomatic art. Manlike

he had been unable to disguise his loathing for Louis' perfidy, and by

trying to proclaim his loyalty to his friend, all but precipitated

the catastrophe that would have delivered Charles Edward Stuart into

the hands of the English. But for Lydie's timely interference the

King, angered and huffed, would have departed then and there and

matured his own schemes before anything could be done to foil them.

But with her feeling of good-natured disdain, there had even then

mingled a sensation of trust; this she recalled now when her mind went

in search of the man in whom she could confide. She would in any case

have to ask her husband for the token agreed on between him and the

Stuart Prince, and also for final directions as to the exact spot

where the fugitives would be most surely found by Captain Barre.

Then why should he not himself take both to Le Havre?

Again she smiled at the thought. The idea had occurred to her that she

did not even know if milor could ride. And if perchance he did sit a

horse well, had he the physical strength, the necessary endurance, for

that flight across country, without a halt, with scarce a morsel of

food on the way?

She knew so little about him. Their lives had been spent apart. One

brief year of wedded life, and they were more strange to one another

than even they had been before their marriage. He no doubt thought her

hard and unfeminine, she of a truth deemed him weak and unmanly.

Still there was no one else, and with her usual determination she

forced her well-schooled mind to dismiss all those thoughts of her

husband which were disparaging to him. She tried not to see him as she

had done a little while ago, giving himself over so readily to the

artificial life of this Court of Versailles and its enervating

etiquette, yielding to the whispered flatteries of Irène de

Stainville, pandering to her vanity, admiring her femininity no doubt

in direct contrast to his wife's more robust individuality.

Afterward, whenever she thought the whole matter over, she never could

describe accurately the succession of events just as they occurred on

that morning. She seemed after a while to have roused herself from her

meditations, having fully made up her mind to carry her project

through from beginning to end, and with that infamous letter still in

her hand she rose from her chair and walked across the vast audience

chamber, with the intention of going to her own study, there to think

out quietly the final details of her plans.

Her mind was of course intent on the Stuart Prince and his friends: on

_Le Monarque_ and Captain Barre, and also very much now on her

husband; but she could never recollect subsequently at what precise

moment the actual voice of Lord Eglinton became mingled with her

thoughts of him.

Certain it is that, when in crossing the room she passed close to the

thronelike bedstead, whereupon her strangely perturbed imagination

wilfully conjured up the picture of milor holding his court, with la

belle Irène in a brilliant rose-coloured gown complacently receiving

his marked attentions, she suddenly heard him speak:

"One second, I entreat you, Madame, if you can spare it!"

Her own hand at the moment was on that gilded knob of the door,

through which she had been about to pass. His voice came from

somewhere close behind her.

She turned slightly toward him, and saw him standing there, looking

very fixedly at her, with a gaze which had something of entreaty in

it, and also an unexplainable subtle something which at first she

could not quite understand.

"I was going to my study, milor," she said, a little taken aback, for

she certainly had not thought him in the room.

"Therefore I must crave your indulgence if I intrude," he said simply.

"Can I serve you in any way?"

"Your ladyship is pleased to be gracious----"

"Yes?"

She was accustomed to his diffident manner and to his halting speech,

which usually had the knack of irritating her. But just now she seemed

inclined to be kind. She felt distinctly pleased that he was here. To

her keenly sensitive nature it seemed as if it had been her thoughts

which had called to him, and that something in him responded to her

wish that he should be the man to take her confidential message to the

commander of _Le Monarque_.

Now his eyes dropped from her face and fixed themselves on the hand

which had fallen loosely to her side.

"That paper which you hold, Madame----"

"Yes?"

"I pray you give it to me."

"To you? Why?" she asked, as the encouraging smile suddenly vanished

from her face.

"Because I cannot bear the sight of Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, my

wife, sullying her fingers one second longer by contact with this

infamy."

He spoke very quietly, in that even, gentle, diffident voice of his,

whilst his eyes once more riveted themselves on her face.

Instinctively she clutched the letter tighter, and her whole figure

seemed to stiffen as she looked at him full now, a deep frown between

her eyes, her whole attitude suggestive of haughty surprise and of

lofty contempt. There was dead silence in the vast room save for the

crackling of that paper, which to a keenly sensitive ear would have

suggested the idea that the dainty hand which held it was not as

steady as its owner would have wished.

It seemed suddenly as if with the speaking of a few words these two

people, who had been almost strangers, had by a subtle process become

antagonists, and were unconsciously measuring one another's strength,

mistrustful of one another's hidden weapons. But already the woman was

prepared for a conflict of will, a contest for that hitherto

undisputed mastery, which she vaguely feared was being attacked, and

which she would not give up, be the cost of defence what it may,

whilst the man was still diffident, still vaguely hopeful that she

would not fight, for his armour was vulnerable where hers was not, and

she owned certain weapons which he knew himself too weak to combat.

"Therefore I proffer my request again, Madame," he said after a pause.

"That paper----"

"A strong request, milor," said Lydie coldly.

"It is more than a request, Madame."

"A command perhaps?"

He did not reply; obviously he had noted the sneer, for a very slight

blush rose to his pale cheeks. Lydie, satisfied that the shaft had

gone home, paused awhile, just long enough to let the subtle poison of

her last words sink well in, then she resumed with calm indifference:

"You will forgive me, milor, when I venture to call your attention to

the fact that hitherto I have considered myself to be the sole judge

and mentor of my own conduct."

"Possibly this has worked very well in all matters, Madame," he

replied, quite unruffled by her sarcasm, "but in this instance you see

me compelled to ask you--reluctantly I admit--to give me that letter

and then to vouchsafe me an explanation as to what you mean to do."

"You will receive it in due course, milor," she said haughtily; "for

the moment I must ask you to excuse me. I am busy, and----"

She was conscious of an overwhelming feeling of irritation at his

interference and, fearing to betray it beyond the bounds of courtesy,

she wished to go away. But now he deliberately placed his hand on the

knob, and stood between her and the door.

"Milor!" she protested.

"Yes, I am afraid I am very clumsy, Madame," he said quite gently.

"Let us suppose that French good manners have never quite succeeded in

getting the best of my English boorishness. I know it is against every

rule of etiquette that I should stand between you and the door through

which you desire to pass, but I have humbly asked for an explanation

and also for that letter, and I cannot allow your ladyship to go until

I have had it."

"Allow?" she said, with a short mocking laugh. "Surely, milor, you

will not force me to refer to the compact to which you willingly

subscribed when you asked me to be your wife?"

"'Tis not necessary, Madame, for I well remember it. I gave you a

promise not to interfere with your life, such as you had chosen to

organize it. I promised to leave you free in thought, action, and

conduct, just as you had been before you honoured me by consenting to

bear my name."

"Well, then, milor?" she asked.

"This is a different matter, Mme. la Marquise," he replied calmly,

"since it concerns mine own honour and that of my name. Of that honour

I claim to be the principal guardian."

Then as she seemed disinclined to vouchsafe a rejoinder he continued,

with just a shade more vehemence in his tone:

"The proposal which His Majesty placed before me awhile ago, that same

letter which you still hold in your hand, are such vile and noisome

things that actual contact with them is pollution. As I see you now

with that infamous document between those fingers which I have had the

honour to kiss, it seems to me as if you were clutching a hideous and

venomous reptile, the very sight of which should have been loathsome

to you, and from which I should have wished to see you turn as you

would from a slimy toad."

"As you did yourself, milor?" she said with a contemptuous shrug of

the shoulders, thinking of his blunder, of the catastrophe which he

all but precipitated, and which her more calm diplomacy had perhaps

averted.

"As I did, though no doubt very clumsily," he admitted simply, "the

moment I grasped its purport to the full. To see you, my wife--yes, my

wife," he repeated with unusual firmness in answer to a subtle,

indefinable expression which at his words had lit up her face, "to see

you pause if only for one brief half hour with that infamy before your

eyes, with that vile suggestion reaching and dwelling in your brain

the man who made it--be he King of France, I care not--kissing those

same fingers which held the abominable thing, was unspeakably horrible

in my sight; it brought real physical agony to every one of my senses.

I endured it only for so long as etiquette demanded, hoping against

hope that every second which went by would witness your cry of

indignation, your contempt for that vile and execrable letter which,

had you not interposed, I myself would have flung in the lying face of

that kingly traitor. But you smiled at him in response; you took the

letter from him! My God, I saw you put it in the bosom of your gown!"

He paused a moment, as if ashamed of this outburst of passion, so

different to his usual impassiveness. It seemed as if her haughty

look, her ill-concealed contempt, was goading him on, beyond the

bounds of restraint which he had meant to impose on himself. She no

longer now made an attempt to go. She was standing straight before

him, leaning slightly back against the portière--a curtain of rich,

heavy silk of that subtle brilliant shade, 'twixt a scarlet and a

crimson, which is only met with in certain species of geranium.

Against this glowing background her slim, erect figure, stiff with

unbendable pride, stood out in vivid relief. The red of the silk cast

ardent reflections into her chestnut hair, and against the creamy

whiteness of her neck and ear. The sober, almost conventual gray of

her gown, the primly folded kerchief at her throat, the billows of

lace around the graceful arm formed an exquisite note of tender colour

against that glaring geranium red. In one hand she still held the

letter, the other rested firmly against the curtain. The head was

thrown back, the lips slightly parted and curled in disdain, the

eyes--half veiled--looked at him through long fringed lashes.

A picture worthy to inflame the passion of any man. Lord Eglinton,

with a mechanical movement of the hand across his forehead, seemed to

brush away some painful and persistent thought.

"Nay, do not pause, milor," she said quietly. "Believe me, you

interest me vastly."

He frowned and bit his lip.

"Your pardon, Madame," he rejoined more calmly now. "I was forgetting

the limits of courtly manners. I have little more to say. I would not

have troubled you with so much talk, knowing that my feeling in such

matters can have no interest for your ladyship. When awhile ago this

great bare room was at last free from the bent-backed, mouthing

flatterers that surround you, I waited patiently for a spontaneous

word from you, something to tell me that the honour of my name, one of

the oldest in England, was not like to be stained by contact with the

diplomatic by-ways of France. I had not then thought of asking for an

explanation; I waited for you to speak. Instead of which I saw you

take that miserable letter once more in your hand, sit and ponder over

it without a thought or look for me. I saw your face, serene and

placid, your attitude one of statesmanlike calm, as without a word or

nod you prepared to pass out of my sight."

"Then you thought fit to demand from me an explanation of my conduct

in a matter in which you swore most solemnly a year ago that you would

never interfere?"

"Demand is a great word, Madame," he said, now quite gently. "I do

not demand; I ask for an explanation on my knees."

And just as he had done a year ago when first she laid her hand in his

and he made his profession of faith, he dropped on one knee and bent

his head, until his aching brow almost touched her gown.

She looked down on him from the altitude of her domineering pride; she

saw his broad shoulders, bent in perfect humility, his chestnut hair

free from the conventional powder, the slender hands linked together

now in a strangely nervous clasp, and she drew back because her skirt

seemed perilously near his fingers.

Will the gods ever reveal the secret of a woman's heart? Lydie loathed

the King's proposal, the letter which she held, just as much as Lord

Eglinton did himself. Awhile ago she had hardly been able to think or

to act coherently while she felt the contact of that noisome paper

against her flesh. If she had smiled on Louis, if she had taken the

letter away from him with vague promises that she would think the

matter over, it had been solely because she knew the man with whom she

had to deal better than did milor Eglinton, who had but little

experience of the Court of Versailles, since he had kept away from it

during the major part of his life. She had only meant to temporize

with the King, because she felt sure that that was the only way to

serve the Stuart Prince and to avert the treachery.

Nay, more, in her heart she felt that milor was right; she knew that

when a thing is so vile and so abominable as Louis' proposed scheme,

all contact with it _is_ a pollution, and that it is impossible to

finger slimy mud without some of it clinging to flesh or gown.

Yet with all that in her mind, a subtle perversity seemed suddenly to

have crept into her heart, a perversity and also a bitter sense of

injustice. She and her husband had been utter strangers since the day

of their marriage, she had excluded him from her counsels, just as she

had done from her heart and mind. She had never tried to understand

him, and merely fostered that mild contempt which his diffidence and

his meekness had originally roused in her. Yet at this moment when he

so obviously misunderstood her, when he thought that her attitude with

regard to the King's proposals was one of acceptance, or at least not

of complete condemnation, her pride rose in violent revolt.

He had no right to think her so base. He had invaded her thoughts at

the very moment when they dwelt on his friend and the best mode to

save him; nay, more, was she not proposing to associate him, who now

accused her so groundlessly, with her work of devotion and loyalty?

He should have known, he should have guessed, and now she hated him

for his thoughts of her; she who had kept herself untainted in the

midst of the worst corruption that ever infested a Court, whose purity

of motives, whose upright judgments had procured her countless enemies

amongst the imbecile and the infamous, she to be asked and begged to

be loyal and to despise treachery!

Nay, she was too proud now to explain. An explanation would seem like

a surrender, an acknowledgment--_par Dieu_ of what? and certainly a

humiliation.

According to milor, her husband, was there not one single upright and

loyal soul in France except his own? No honour save that of his own

name?

She laughed suddenly, laughed loudly and long. Manlike, he did not

notice the forced ring of that merriment. He had blundered, of course,

but this he did not know. In the simplicity of his heart he thought

that she would have been ready to understand, that she would have

explained and then agreed with him as to the best means of throwing

the nefarious proposal back into the King's teeth.

At her laugh he sprang to his feet; every drop of blood seemed to have

left his cheeks, which were now ashy pale.

"Nay, milor," she said with biting sarcasm, "but 'tis a mountain full

of surprises that you display before my astonished fancy. Who had e'er

suspected you of so much eloquence? I vow I do not understand how your

lordship could have seen so much of my doings just now, seeing that at

that moment you had eyes and ears only for Irène de Stainville."

"Mme. de Stainville hath naught to do with the present matter,

Madame," he rejoined, "nor with my request for an explanation from

you."

"I refuse to give it, milor," she said proudly, "and as I have no wish

to spoil or mar your pleasures, so do I pray you to remember our bond,

which is that you leave me free to act and speak, aye, and to guide

the destinies of France if she have need of me, without interference

from you."

And with that refinement of cruelty of which a woman's heart is

sometimes capable at moments of acute crises, she carefully folded the

English letter and once more slipped it into the bosom of her gown.

She vouchsafed him no other look, but gathering her skirts round her

she turned and left him. Calm and erect she walked the whole length of

the room and then passed through another doorway finally out of his

sight.

PART III

THE WOMAN