CLEVER TACTICS
As soon as M. Durand had recovered from the shock of Madame la
Marquise's sudden invasion of his sanctum, he ran to the portière
which he had been watching so anxiously, and, pushing it aside, he
disclosed the door partially open.
"Monsieur le Comte de Stainville!" he called discreetly.
"Has she gone?" came in a whisper from the inner room.
"Yes! yes! I pray you enter, M. le Comte," said M. Durand,
obsequiously holding the portière aside. "Madame la Marquise only
passed through very quickly; she took notice of nothing, I assure
you."
Gaston de Stainville cast a quick searching glance round the room as
he entered, and fidgeted nervously with a lace handkerchief in his
hand. No doubt his enforced sudden retreat at Lydie's approach had
been humiliating to his pride. But he did not want to come on her too
abruptly, and was chafing now because he needed a menial's help to
further his desires.
"You were a fool, man, to place me in this awkward position," he said
with a scowl directed at M. Durand's meek personality, "or else a
knave, in which case . . ."
"Ten thousand pardons, M. le Comte," rejoined the little man
apologetically. "Madame la Marquise scarcely ever comes this way
after _le petit lever_. She invariably retires to her study, and
thither I should have had the honour to conduct you, according to your
wish."
"You seem very sure that Madame la Marquise would have granted me a
private audience."
"I would have done my best to obtain one for M. Le Comte," said M.
Durand with becoming modesty, "and I think I should have succeeded
. . . with tact and diplomacy, Monsieur le Comte, we, who are
privileged to . . ."
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Gaston impatiently, "but now?"
"Ah! now it will be much more difficult. Madame la Marquise is not in
her study, and . . ."
"And you will want more pay," quoth Gaston with a sneer.
"Oh! Monsieur le Comte . . ." protested Durand.
"Well! how much more?" said the Comte impatiently.
"What does M. le Comte desire?"
"To speak with Madame la Marquise quite alone."
"Heu! . . . heu! . . . it is difficult. . . ."
But Gaston de Stainville's stock of patience was running low. He never
had a great deal. With a violent oath he seized the little man by the
collar.
"Two louis, you knave, for getting me that audience now, at once, or
my flunkey's stick across your shoulders if you fool me any longer."
M. Durand apparently was not altogether unprepared for this outburst:
perhaps his peculiar position had often subjected him to similar
onslaughts on the part of irate and aristocratic supplicants. Anyway,
he did not seem at all disturbed, and, as soon as the Comte's grip on
his collar relaxed, he readjusted his coat and his cravat, and holding
out his thin hand, he said meekly:
"The two louis I pray you, Monsieur le Comte. And," he added, when
Gaston, with another oath, finally placed the two gold pieces on the
meagre palm, "will you deign to follow me?"
He led the way through the large folding doors and thence along the
enfilade of gorgeous reception rooms, the corridors, landings and
staircase which Lydie herself had traversed just now. Gaston de
Stainville followed him at a close distance, acknowledging with a curt
nod here and there the respectful salutations of the many lackeys whom
he passed.
M. le Comte de Stainville was an important personage at Court: Madame
de Pompadour's predilection for him was well known, and His Majesty
himself was passing fond of the gallant gentleman's company, whilst
Madame la Comtesse was believed to hold undisputed sway over M. le
Contrôleur-Général des Finances.
Thus Gaston met with obsequiousness wherever he went, and this despite
the fact that he was not lavish with money. M. Durand would have
expected a much heavier bribe from any one else for this service which
he was now rendering to the Comte.
Anon the two men reached the terrace. M. Durand then pointed with one
claw-like finger to the spinney on the left.
"M. le Comte will find Madame la Marquise in yonder plantation," he
said; "as for me, I dare not vacate my post any longer, for M. le
Contrôleur might have need of me, nor would Monsieur le Comte care
mayhap to be seen by Madame la Marquise in my company."
Gaston assented. He was glad to be rid of the mealy-mouthed creature,
of whose necessary help in this matter he was heartily ashamed. Unlike
Lydie, he was quite unconscious of the beauty of this August day:
neither the birds nor the acrid scent of late summer flowers appealed
to his fancy, and the clump of young beech trees only interested him
in so far as he hoped to find Lydie there, alone.
When he reached the little glade, he caught sight of the graceful
figure, half-sitting, half-reclining in the unconscious charm of
sleep. Overcome by the heat and the glare, Lydie had dozed off
momentarily.
Presently something caused her to open her eyes and she saw Gaston de
Stainville standing there looking at her intently.
She was taken at a disadvantage, since she had undoubtedly been
asleep--if only for a moment--and she was not quite sure if her pose,
when Gaston first caught sight of her, was sufficiently dignified.
"I am afraid I have disturbed you," he said humbly.
"I was meditating," she replied coldly, as she smoothed down her
skirts and mechanically put a hand to her hair, lest a curl had gone
astray.
Then she made as if she would rise.
"Surely you are not going?" he pleaded.
"I have my work to do. I only stayed here a moment, in order to rest."
"And I am intruding?"
"Oh, scarcely," she replied quietly. "I was about to return to my
work."
"Is it so urgent?"
"The business of a nation, M. le Comte, is always urgent."
"So urgent that you have no time now to give to old friends," he said
bitterly.
She shrugged her shoulders with a quick, sarcastic laugh.
"Old friends? . . . Oh! . . ."
"Yes, old friends," he rejoined quietly. "We were children together,
Lydie."
"Much has occurred since then, Monsieur le Comte."
"Only one great and awful fault, which meseems hath been its own
expiation."
"Need we refer to that now?" she asked calmly.
"Indeed, indeed, we must," he replied earnestly. "Lydie, am I never to
be forgiven?"
"Is there aught for me to forgive?"
"Yes. An error, a grave error . . . a fault, if you will call it so
. . ."
"I prefer to call it a treachery," she said.
"Without one word of explanation, without listening to a single word
from me. Is that just?"
"There is nothing that you could say now, Monsieur le Comte, that I
should have the right to hear."
"Why so?" he said with sudden vehemence, as he came nearer to her, and
in a measure barred the way by which she might have escaped. "Even a
criminal at point of death is allowed to say a few words in
self-defence. Yet I was no criminal. If I loved you, Lydie, was that
wrong? . . . I was an immeasurable fool, I own that," he added more
calmly, being quick to note that he only angered her by his violence,
"and it is impossible for a high-minded woman like yourself to
understand the pitfalls which beset the path of a man, who has riches,
good looks mayhap and a great name, all of which will tempt the
cupidity of certain designing women, bent above all on matrimony, on
influence and independence. Into one of these pitfalls I fell, Lydie
. . . fell clumsily, stupidly, I own, but not inexcusably."
"You seem to forget, M. le Comte," she said stiffly, "that you are
speaking of your wife."
"Nay!" he said with a certain sad dignity, "I try not to forget it. I
do not accuse, I merely state a fact, and do so before the woman whom
I most honour in the world, who was the first recipient of my childish
confidences, the first consoler of my boyhood's sorrows."
"That was when you were free, M. le Comte, and could bring your
confidences to me; now they justly belong to another and . . ."
"And by the heavens above me," he interrupted eagerly, "I do that
other no wrong by bringing my sorrows to you and laying them with a
prayer for consolation at your feet."
He noted that since that first desire to leave him, Lydie had made no
other attempt to go. She was sitting in the angle of the rough garden
seat, her graceful arm resting on the back, her cheek leaning against
her hand. A gentle breeze stirred the little curls round her head, and
now, when he spoke so earnestly and so sadly about his sorrow, a swift
look of sympathy softened the haughty expression of her mouth.
Quick to notice it, Gaston nevertheless in no way relaxed his attitude
of humble supplication; he stood before her with head bent, his eyes
mostly riveted on the ground.
"There is so little consolation that I can give," she said more
gently.
"There is a great one, if you will but try."
"What is it?"
"Do not cast me out from your life altogether. Am I such a despicable
creature that you cannot now and then vouchsafe me one kind look?
. . . I did wrong you . . . I know it. . . . Call it treachery if you
must, yet when I look back on that night, meseems I am worthy of your
pity. Blinded by my overwhelming love for you, I forgot everything for
one brief hour . . . forgot that I had sunk deeply in a pitfall--by
Heaven through no fault of mine own! . . . forgot that another now had
a claim on that love which never was mine to give, since it had always
been wholly yours. . . . Yes! I forgot! . . . the music, the noise,
the excitement of the night, your own beauty, Lydie, momentarily
addled my brain. . . . I forgot the past, I only lived for the
present. Am I to blame because I am a man and that you are exquisitely
fair?"
He forced himself not to raise his voice, not to appear eager or
vehement. Lydie only saw before her a man whom she had once loved, who
had grievously wronged her, but who now stood before her ashamed and
humbled, asking with utmost respect for her forgiveness of the past.
"Let us speak of it no longer," she said, "believe me, Gaston, I have
never borne you ill-will."
For the first time she had used his Christian name. The layer of ice
was broken through, but the surface of the lake was still cold and
smooth.
"Nay! but you avoid me," he rejoined seeking to meet her eyes, "you
treat me with whole-hearted contempt, whilst I would lay down my life
to serve you, and this in all deference and honour, as the martyrs of
old laid down their life for their faith."
"Protestations, Gaston," she said with a quick sigh.
"Let me prove them true," he urged. "Lydie, I watched you just now,
while you slept; it was some minutes and I saw much. Your lips were
parted with constant sighs; there were tears at the points of your
lashes. At that moment I would have gladly died if thereby I could
have eased your heart from the obvious burden which it bore."
Emboldened by her silence, and by the softer expression of her face,
he sat down close beside her, and anon placed his hand on hers. She
withdrew it quietly and serenely as was her wont, but quite without
anger.
She certainly felt no anger toward him. Strangely enough, the anger
she did feel was all against her husband. That Gaston had seen her
grief was in a measure humiliating to her pride, and this humiliation
she owed to the great wrong done her by milor. And Gaston had been
clever at choosing his words; he appealed to her pity and asked for
forgiveness. There was no attempt on his part to justify himself, and
his self-abasement broke down the barrier of resentment which up to
now she had set up against him. His respectful homage soothed her
wounded pride, and she felt really, sincerely sorry for him.
The fact that her own actions had been so gravely misunderstood also
helped Gaston's cause; she felt that, after all, she too might have
passed a hasty, unconsidered judgment on him, and knew now how acutely
such a judgment can hurt.
And he spoke very earnestly, very simply: remember that she had loved
him once, loved and trusted him. He had been the ideal of her
girlhood, and though she had remorselessly hurled him down from his
high pedestal since then, there remained nevertheless, somewhere in
the depths of her heart, a lingering thought of tenderness for him.
"Lydie!" he now said appealingly.
"Yes?"
"Let me be the means of easing your heart from its load of sorrow. You
spoke of my wife just now. See, I do not shirk the mention of her
name. I swear to you by that early love for you which was the noblest,
purest emotion of my life, that I do not wrong her by a single thought
when I ask for your friendship. You are so immeasurably superior to
all other women, Lydie, that in your presence passion itself becomes
exalted and desire transformed into a craving for sacrifice."
"Oh! how I wish I could believe you, Gaston," she sighed.
"Try me!"
"How?"
"Let me guess what troubles you now. Oh! I am not the empty-headed fop
that you would believe. I have ears and eyes, and if I hold aloof from
Court intrigues, it is only because I see too much of their inner
workings. Do you really believe that I do not see what goes on around
me now? Do I not know how your noble sympathy must at this very moment
be going out to the unfortunate young prince whom you honour with your
friendship? Surely, surely, you cannot be a party to the criminal
supineness which at this very moment besets France, and causes her to
abandon him to his fate?"
"Not France, Gaston," she protested.
"And not you, surely. I would stake my life on your loyalty to a
friend."
"Of course," she said simply.
"I knew it," he ejaculated triumphantly, as if this discovery had
indeed caused him joyful surprise. "Every fibre in my soul told me
that I would not appeal to you in vain. You are clever, Lydie, you are
rich, you are powerful. I feel as if I could turn to you as to a man.
Prince Charles Edward Stuart honoured me with his friendship: I am not
presumptuous when I say that I stood in his heart second only to Lord
Eglinton. . . . But because I hold a secondary place I dared not
thrust my advice, my prayers, my help forward, whilst I firmly
believed that his greater friend was at work on his behalf. But now I
can bear the suspense no longer. The crisis has become over-acute. The
Stuart prince is in deadly danger, not only from supineness but from
treachery."
Clever Gaston! how subtle and how shrewd! she would never have to come
to meet him on this ground, but he called to her. He came to fetch
her, as it were, and led her along the road. He did not offer to guide
her faltering footsteps, he simulated lameness, and asked for
assistance instead of offering it.
So clever was this move that Lydie was thrown off her guard. At the
word "treachery" she looked eagerly into his eyes.
"What makes you think . . . ?" she asked.
"Oh! I have scented it in the air for some days. The King himself
wears an air of shamefacedness when the Stuart prince is mentioned.
Madame de Pompadour lately hath talked freely of the completion of her
château in the Parc aux Cerfs, as if money were forthcoming from some
unexpected source; then a letter came from England, which His Majesty
keeps hidden in his pocket, whilst whispered conversations are carried
on between the King and Madame, which cease abruptly if any one comes
within earshot. Then to-day . . ."
"Yes? . . . to-day?" she asked eagerly.
"I hardly dare speak of it."
"Why?"
"I fear it might give you pain."
"I am used to pain," she said simply, "and I would wish to know."
"I was in the antechamber when His Majesty arrived for _le petit
lever_ of M. le Contrôleur. I had had vague hopes of seeing you this
morning, and lingered about the reception rooms somewhat listlessly,
my thoughts dwelling on all the sad news which has lately come from
Scotland. In the antechamber His Majesty was met by M. le Duc
d'Aumont, your father."
He paused again as if loth to speak, but she said quite calmly:
"And you overheard something which the Duke, my father, said to the
King, and which confirmed your suspicions. What was it?"
"It was His Majesty who spoke, obviously not aware that I was within
earshot. He said quite airily: 'Oh! if we cannot persuade milor we
must act independently of him. The Stuart will be tired by now of
living in crags and will not be so chary of entrusting his valuable
person to a comfortable French ship.' Then M. le Duc placed a hand on
His Majesty's arm warning him of my presence and nothing more was
said."
"Then you think that the King of France is about to deliver Prince
Charles Edward Stuart to his enemies?" she asked calmly.
"I am sure of it: and the thought is more than I can bear. And I am
not alone in this, Lydie. The whole of France will cry out in shame at
such perfidy. Heaven knows what will come of it ultimately, but
surely, surely we cannot allow that unfortunate young prince whom we
all loved and _fêted_ to be thus handed over to the English
authorities! That is why I have dared intrude on you to-day. Lydie,"
he added now in a passionate appeal; "for the sake of that noble if
misguided young prince, will you try and forget the terrible wrong
which I in my madness and blindness once did you? Do not allow my sin
to be expiated by him! . . . I crave your help for him on my knees.
. . . Hate me an you will! despise me and punish me, but do not deny
me your help for him!"
His voice, though sunk now almost to a whisper, was vibrating with
passion. He half dropped on his knees, took the edge of her skirt
between his fingers and raised it to his lips.
Clever, clever Gaston! he had indeed moved her. Her serenity had gone,
and her cold impassiveness. She sat up, erect, palpitating with
excitement, her eyes glowing, her lips parted, all her senses awake
and thrilling with this unexpected hope.
"In what manner do you wish for my help, Gaston?"
"I think the King and M. le Duc will do nothing for a day or two at
any rate. I hoped I could forestall them, with your help, Lydie, if
you will give it. I am not rich, but I have realized some of my
fortune: my intention was to charter a seaworthy boat, equip her as
well as my means allowed and start for Scotland immediately, and then
if possible to induce the prince to cross over with me to Ireland, or,
with great good luck I might even bring him back as far as Brittany.
But you see how helpless I was, for I dared not approach you, and I do
not know where I can find the prince."
"And if I do not give you that help which you need?" she asked.
"I would still charter the vessel and start for Scotland," he replied
quietly. "I cannot stay here, in inactivity whilst I feel that
infamous treachery is being planned against a man with whom I have
often broken bread. If you will not tell me where I can find Charles
Edward Stuart, I will still equip a vessel and try and find him
somehow. If I fail, I will not return, but at any rate I shall then
not be a party or a witness to the everlasting shame of France!"
"Your expedition would require great pluck and endurance."
"I have both, and boundless enthusiasm to boot. Two or three friends
will accompany me, and my intention was to start for Brest or Le Havre
to-night. But if you will consent to help me, Lydie . . ."
"Nay!" she interrupted eagerly. "I'll not help you. 'Tis you who shall
help me!"
"Lydie!"
"The plan which you have formed I too had thought on it: the treachery
of the King of France, my God! I knew it too. But my plans are more
mature than yours, less noble and self-sacrificing, for, as you say, I
have power and influence; yet with all that power I could not serve
Prince Charles Edward as I would wish to do, because though I have
pluck and endurance I am not a man."
"And you want me to help you? Thank God! thank God for that! Tell me
what to do."
"To start for Le Havre--not Brest."
"Yes!"
"This afternoon . . . reaching Le Havre before dawn."
"Yes."
"There to seek out _Le Monarque_. She lies in the harbour, and her
commander is Captain Barre."
"Yes! yes!"
"You will hand him over a packet, which I will give you anon, and then
return here as swiftly as you went."
"Is that all?" he asked in obvious disappointment, "and I who had
hoped that you would ask me to give my life for you!"
"The faithful and speedy performance of this errand, Gaston, is worth
the most sublime self-sacrifice, if this be purposeless. The packet
will contain full instructions for Captain Barre how and where to find
Prince Charles Edward. _Le Monarque_ is ready equipped for the
expedition, but . . ." she paused a moment as if half ashamed of the
admission, "I had no one whom I could entrust with the message."
Gaston de Stainville was too keen a diplomatist to venture on this
delicate ground. He had never once mentioned her husband's name,
fearing to scare her, or to sting her pride. He knew her to be far too
loyal to allow condemnation of her lord by the lips of another man;
all he said now was a conventional:
"I am ready!"
Then she rose and held out her hand to him. He bowed with great
deference, and kissed the tips of her fingers. His face expressed
nothing but the respectful desire to be of service, and not one
thought of treachery disturbed Lydie's serenity. Historians have, we
know, blamed her very severely for this unconditional yielding of
another's secret into the keeping of a man who had already deceived
her once; but it was the combination of circumstances which caused her
to act thus, and Gaston's masterly move in asking for her help had
completely subjugated her. She would have yielded to no other emotion,
but that of compassion for him, and the desire to render him
assistance in a cause which she herself had so deeply at heart. She
had no love for Gaston and no amount of the usual protestations would
have wrung a confidence from her. But he had so turned the tables that
it appeared that he was confiding in her; and her pride, which had
been so deeply humiliated that self-same morning, responded to his
appeal. If she had had the least doubt or fear in her mind, she would
not have given up her secret, but as he stood so coldly and
impassively before her, without a trace of passion in his voice or
look, she had absolutely no misgivings.
"I can be in the saddle at four o'clock," he said in the same
unemotional tones, "when and how can I receive the packet from you?"
"Will you wait for me here?" she replied. "The packet is quite ready,
and the walls of the palace have eyes and ears."
Thus they parted. She full of confidence and hope, not in any way
attempting to disguise before him the joy and gratitude which she
felt, he the more calm of the two, fearing to betray his sense of
triumph, still trembling lest her present mood should change.
Her graceful figure quickly disappeared among the trees. He gave a
sigh of intense satisfaction. His Majesty would be pleased, and Madame
de Pompadour would be more than kind. Never for a moment did the least
feeling of remorse trouble his complacent mind; the dominant thought
in him was one of absolute triumph and pride at having succeeded in
hoodwinking the keenest statesman in France. He sat down on the garden
seat whereon had been fought that close duel between himself and the
woman whom he had once already so heartlessly betrayed. He thought
over every stage of the past scene and smiled somewhat grimly. He felt
quite sure that he individually would never have trusted for the
second time a woman who had once deceived him. But Lydie had no such
misgivings; as she now sped through the park, she no longer saw its
artificiality, its stunted rose trees and the stultified plantations.
The air was invigorating to breathe, the fragrance of the flowers was
sweet, the birds' twitter was delicious to the ear. There were good
and beautiful things in this world, but the best of all was the
loyalty of a friend.