THE AWFUL CERTITUDE
Then all at once she understood!
There at the further end of the room, against the rich gold of the
curtain, she saw Gaston de Stainville standing beside his wife and one
or two other women, the centre of a gaily chattering crowd, he himself
chattering with them, laughing and jesting, whilst from time to time
his white and slender hand raised a gold-rimmed glass to his eye, with
a gesture of fatuity and affectation.
Something in her look, though it had only lasted a few seconds, must
then and there have compelled his own, for he suddenly dropped his
glass, and their eyes met across the room; Lydie's inquiring, only
just beginning to doubt, and fearful, as if begging for reassurance!
his, mocking and malicious, triumphant too and self-flattering, whilst
la belle Irène, intercepting this exchange of glances, laughed loudly
and shrugged her bare shoulders.
Lydie was not that type of woman who faints, or screams at moments of
acute mental agony. Even now, when the full horror of what she had so
suddenly realized, assailed her with a crushing blow that would have
stunned a weaker nature, she contrived to pull herself together and to
continue the dance to the end. The King--beginning to feel bored in
the company of this silent and obviously absent-minded woman--made no
further effort at conversation. She had disappointed him; for
Monsieur le Comte de Stainville's innuendoes had led him to hope that
the beautiful marble statue had at last come to life and would
henceforth become a valuable addition to the light-hearted circle of
friends that rallied round him, helping to make him forget the ennui
of his matrimonial and official life.
Thus the dance was concluded between them in silence. Louis was too
dull and vapid to notice the change in his partner's attitude, the icy
touch of her fingers, the deathly whiteness of her lips. But presently
he, too, caught sight of Gaston de Stainville and immediately there
crept into his face that malicious leer, which awhile ago had kindled
Lydie's wrath.
Whether she noted it now or not, it were difficult to say. Only a
great determination kept her from making a display before all these
indifferent eyes, of the agonizing torture of her mind and heart.
With infinite relief, she made her final curtsey to her partner, and
allowed him to lead her back to her official place beside the royal
daïs. She could not see clearly, for her eyes had suddenly filled with
burning tears of shame and bitter self-accusation. She bit her lips
lest a cry of pain escaped them.
"You are ill, my dear! Come away!"
The voice--gentle and deeply concerned--was that of her father. She
did not dare look at him, lest she should break down, but she allowed
him to lead her away from the immediate noise and glare.
"What is it, Lydie?" queried M. le Duc again, more anxiously, as soon
as they had reached a small and secluded alcove. "Has anything
further happened? Par Dieu, if that man has again dared . . ."
"What man, father?" she interrupted.
Her voice had no tone in it, she wondered even if M. le Duc would
hear, but he was talking ambiguously and she had had enough of
misunderstandings to-day.
"What man?" rejoined Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont irritably. "Your husband
of course. I have heard rumours about his behaviour to you, and by all
the heathen gods . . ."
He paused, astonished and almost awed, for Lydie had laughed suddenly,
laughed loudly and long, and there was such a strange ring in that
unnatural mirth, that Monsieur le Duc feared lest excitement had been
too much for his daughter's brain.
"Lydie! what is it? You must tell me . . . Lydie . . ." he urged,
"listen to me . . . do you hear me, Lydie?"
She seemed to be collecting her scattered senses now, but great sobs
of hysterical laughter still shook her from head to foot, and she
leaned against her father's arm almost as if she feared to fall.
"Yes, father dear," she said fairly coherently, "I do hear you, and I
pray you take no heed of me. Much hath occurred to-day to disturb me
and my nerves seem to be on the jar. Perhaps I do not see quite
clearly either. Father, tell me," she added with a voice almost
steady, but harsh and trenchant, and with glowing eyes fixed on the
Duke's face, "did I perceive Gaston de Stainville in the crowd just
now?"
"You may have done, my dear," he replied with some hesitation. "I do
not know."
She had been quick enough to note that, at mention of Gaston's name,
his eyes suddenly wore a curious shamefaced expression and avoided
meeting her own. She pressed her point more carelessly, feeling that
there was something that he would only tell her, if she was perfectly
calm and natural in her questionings.
"Then he is here?" she asked.
"Yes . . . I believe so . . . why do you ask?"
"I thought him gone," she said lightly, "that was all. Methought there
was an errand he had meant to perform."
"Oh! there is no immediate hurry for that!"
Monsieur le Duc d'Amont, never a very keen observer, was feeling quite
reassured by her calmer mood. His daughter had been overwrought.
Events had crowded in upon her, thick and fast, some of them of an
unpleasant nature: her final surrender to Gaston de Stainville could
not have occurred without a wrench; sentiment--he supposed--having
conquered friendship and loyalty, no doubt remorse had held sway for
awhile. He certainly thought his daughter quite at one with him and
his confederates in the treacherous plan; it never entered his head
for a moment to blame her for this _volte-face_, nor did he realize
that Gaston's attitude had been one of lying infamy. He knew her for a
pure-minded and exceptionally proud woman and his paternal heart had
no fear that she would stoop to a vulgar intrigue, at the same time he
had no reason to doubt that she had yielded to the persuasive powers
of a man whom she had certainly loved at one time, who and of
necessity would still exercise a certain influence over her.
And now she was no doubt anxious to know something of future plans
she had probably not heard what had been decided with regard to the
expedition, and perhaps fretted as to how her own actions had been
interpreted by her father and the King. It was with a view to
reassuring her on all these points that he now added:
"We are not thinking of sending _Le Monarque_."
"Ah? I thought that she would have been the most likely vessel. . ."
"_Le Levantin_ will be safer," he explained, "but she will not be
ready to put to sea for five or six days, so Gaston will not start
until then; but you need have no fear, dear; the orders together with
the map and the precious letter, which you have given him, are quite
safe in his hands. He is too deeply concerned in the success of the
expedition to think of betraying you, even if his regard were less
genuine. . . . And we are all deeply grateful to you, my dear . . . It
was all for the best. . ."
He patted her hand with kindly affection, much relieved now, for she
seemed quite calm and the colour even was coming back to her cheeks:
all the afternoon he had been dreading this meeting with his daughter,
for he had not seen her since he learned from Gaston that she had
yielded to his entreaties, and given him the map and letter which
would help the King of France to betray his friend: now he was glad to
find that--save for an unusual hysterical outburst--she took the whole
matter as coolly as he did himself.
There is no doubt that there are moments in life when a crisis is so
acute, a catastrophe so overwhelming, that all our faculties become
completely deadened: our individuality goes out of us, and we become
mere dolls moving automatically by muscular action and quite
independently of our brain.
Thus it was with Lydie.
Her father's words could not be misunderstood. They left her without
that last faint shadow of doubt which, almost unbeknown to herself,
had been her main support during the past few minutes of this intense
agony. Now the tiny vestige of hope had vanished. Blank despair
invaded her brain and she had the sensation as if sorrow had turned it
into a pulpy mass, a great deal too bulky for her head, causing it to
throb and to ache intolerably. Beyond that, the rest of herself as it
were, became quite mechanical. She was glad that her father said
nothing more about the scheme. She knew all that she wanted to know:
Gaston's hideous, horrible treachery, the clumsy trap into which she
had fallen, and above all the hopeless peril into which she had
plunged the very man whom she had wished to save.
She had been the most perfidious traitor amongst them all, for the
unfortunate prince had given her his friendship, and had trusted her
more fully than he had others.
And then there was her husband!
Of him she would not think, for that way lay madness surely!
She managed to smile to her father, and to reassure him. Presently she
would tell him all . . . to-morrow perhaps, but not just yet . . . She
did not hate him somehow. She could not have hated him, for she knew
him and had always loved him. But he was weak and easily misguided.
Heavens above! had anyone been more culpably weak, more misguided than
she herself?
Monsieur le Duc, fully satisfied in his mind now by her outward calm,
and the steady brilliance of her eyes, recalled her to her official
duties.
"Dancing is over, Lydie," he said, "have you not a few presentations
to Her Majesty to effect?"
"Oh yes!" she said perfectly naturally, "of a truth I had almost
forgotten . . . the first time for many years, eh? my dear father. . .
How some people will gossip at this remissness of Madame la Grande
Maréchale de la Cour . . . will you conduct me straight away to Her
Majesty? . . . I hope she has not yet noticed my absence."
She leaned somewhat heavily on her father's arm, for she was afraid
that she could not otherwise have walked quite straight. She fully
realized what it meant when men talked of drunkenness amongst
themselves. Copious libations must produce--she thought--just this
same sensation of swaying and tottering, and hideous, painful
giddiness.
Already Monsieur de Louvois, Her Majesty's Chamberlain, was waiting,
whilst the ladies, who were to receive the honour of special
presentation, were arraigned in a semi-circle to the left of the dais.
Beneath the canopy the King and Queen were standing: Louis looking as
usual insufferably bored, and the Queen calmly dignified, not a little
disdainful, and closely scrutinizing the bevy of women--more or less
gorgeously apparelled, some old, some young, mostly rather dowdy and
stiff in their appearance--who were waiting to be introduced.
Quickly, and with a respectful curtsey indicative of apology, Lydie
now took her stand beside her Royal mistress and the ceremony of
presentations began. The chamberlain read out a name; one unit
thereupon detached itself from the feminine group, approached with
sedate steps to the foot of the throne, and made a deep obeisance,
whilst Madame la Grande Maréchale said a few appropriate words, that
were meant to individualize that unit in the mind of the Queen.
"Madame de Balincourt. Your Majesty will deign to remember the brave
General who fought at Fontenoy. Madame has eschewed country life
momentarily for the honour of being presented to your Majesty."
"Enchantée, Madame," the Queen would reply graciously, offering her
hand for a respectful kiss.
"Madame Helvetius, the wife of our renowned scientist and philosopher.
Your Majesty is acquainted with his works."
"Enchantée, Madame!"
"And Mademoiselle Helvetius, striving to become as learned as her
distinguished father, and almost succeeding so 'tis said."
The Queen deigned to say a few special words to this shy _débutante_
and to her mother, both primly clad in badly-fitting gowns which
proclaimed the country dressmaker, but in their simplicity and
gaucherie peculiarly pleasing to Her Majesty.
And thus the procession filed past. Elderly women and young girls,
some twenty in all, mostly hailing from distant parts of France, where
the noise and frivolity of the Court of Versailles had not even roused
an echo. The Queen was very gracious. She liked this select little
circle of somewhat dowdy provincials, who she felt would be quite at
one with her in her desire for the regeneration of social France. The
uglier and less fashionable were the women, the more drabby and
ill-fitting their clothes, the sweeter and more encouraging became Her
Majesty's smile. She asked lengthy questions from her Grande
Maréchale, and seemed to take a malicious delight in irritating the
King, by protracting this ceremony, which she knew bored him to
distraction, until he could scarcely manage to smother the yawns which
continually assailed his jaws.
Suddenly Lydie felt her limbs stiffen and her throat close as if iron
fingers had gripped it. She had been saying the usual platitudes anent
the wife, sister or aunt of some worthy general or country squire,
when Monsieur de Louvois called out a name:
"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville."
And from out the group of dowdy country matrons and starchy-looking
_dévotes_ a brilliant figure now detached itself and glided forward
with consummate grace. Irène de Stainville was approaching for
presentation to the Queen, her eyes becomingly cast down, a rosy flush
on her cheeks, for she was conscious that she was beautiful and that
the King's wearied eyes had lighted up at sight of her.
There was something almost insolent in the gorgeousness of her gown:
it was of a rich turquoise blue, that stood out, glaring and vivid
against the buttercup-coloured hangings of the room. Her stiff corslet
was frankly _décolleté_, displaying her fine shoulders and creamy
bosom, on which reposed a delicately wrought turquoise necklet of
exquisite design. Her hair was piled up over her head, in the
monumental and _outré_ style lately decreed by Dame Fashion, and the
brocade of her panniers stood out in stiff folds each side of her,
like balloon-shaped supports, on which her white arms rested with
graceful ease. It seemed as if a gaudy, exotic butterfly had lost its
way, and accidentally fluttered into an assembly of moths.
Gaston de Stainville stood a little behind his wife. Etiquette
demanded that he should be near her, when she made her obesiance to
the Queen. He, too, somehow, looked out of place among these more
sedate cavaliers: there had always been a very distinct difference
between the dress worn by the ladies and gentlemen of the Queen's
entourage, and the more ornate style adopted by the gayer frequenters
of the Court of Versailles. This difference was specially noticeable
now, when this handsome young couple stood before Her Majesty, she not
unlike a glittering jewel herself, he in a satin coat of pale mauve,
that recalled the delicate shades of a bank of candytuft in mid-June.
The Queen no longer looked down from her daïs with an indulgent,
somewhat melancholy smile. Her eyes--cold and gray as those of King
Stanislaus had been--regarded with distinct disapproval these two
people, who, in her rigid judgment, were naught but gaudily decked-out
dolls, and who walked on high-heeled shoes that made an unpleasant
noise on the polished floor.
Lydie had during the last agonizing half-hour wholly forgotten Irène
de Stainville and the presentation which, on an impulse of gratitude
toward Gaston, she had promised to bring about, and she certainly had
not been prepared for this meeting, face to face, with the man who,
for the second time in her life, had so bitterly and cruelly wronged
her.
Gaston did not seem anxious to avoid her gaze. There was insolent
triumph and mockery in every line of his attitude: in the head thrown
a little to one side; in the eyes narrowed until they were slits,
gazing at her over the barrier of his wife's elaborate coiffure: in
the slender, well-kept hand toying with the gold-rimmed eyeglass, and
above all in the sensual, sneering mouth, and the full lips parted in
a smile.
Lydie was hardly conscious of Irène's presence, of any one in fact,
save of Gaston de Stainville, of whom she had dreamed so romantically
a few hours ago, speeding him on his way, praying--God help her!--that
he might be well and safe. An intense bitterness surged up in her
heart, a deadly contempt for him. Awhile ago she would not have
believed that she could hate anyone so. She would at this moment have
gladly bartered her life for the joy of doing him some awful injury.
All softness, gentleness, went out of her nature, just while she
looked at Gaston and caught his mocking smile.
It was the mockery that hurt her so! The awful humiliation of it all!
And there was also in Lydie that highly sensitive sense of loyalty,
which revolted at the sight of these traitors approaching, with a
smile of complacency on their lips, this proud Queen who was ignorant
of their infamy.
Women have often been called petty in their hates: rightly perhaps!
but let us remember that their power to punish is limited, and
therefore they strike as best they can. Lydie, in spite of her
influence and her high position, could do so little to punish Gaston,
now that by his abominable treachery he had filched every trump card
from her.
She had been such an unpardonable fool--and she knew it--that her very
self-abasement whipped up her sense of retaliation, her desire for
some sort of revenge, into veritable fury; and thus, when la belle
Irène, triumphant in the pride of her universally acknowledged
beauty, came to the foot of the Royal daïs, when--through some
unexplainable and occult reason--a hush of expectancy descended on all
spectators, Lydie's voice was suddenly raised, trenchant and decisive:
"This is an error on Monsieur le Chambellan's part," she said loudly,
so that everyone in the vast audience-chamber might hear. "There is no
one here to present this lady to Her Majesty!"
A gasp went round the room, a sigh of astonishment, of horror, of
anticipation, and in the silence that immediately followed, the
proverbial pin would have been heard to drop: every rustle of a silken
gown, every creak of a shoe sounded clear and distinct, as did the
quickly-suppressed sneer that escaped Gaston de Stainville's lips and
the frou-frou of his satin coat sleeve as he raised the gold-rimmed
glass to his eye.
What were the joys of gossip in comparison with this unexpected
sensation, which moreover would certainly be the prelude to an amazing
scandal? Anon everyone drew instinctively nearer. All eyes were fixed
on the several actors of this palpitating little scene.
Already Irène had straightened her graceful figure, with a quick jerk
as if she had been struck. The terrible affront must have taken her
completely unawares, but now that it had come, she instantly guessed
its cause. Nevertheless there was nothing daunted or bashful about her
attitude. The colour blazed into her cheeks, and her fine dark eyes
responded to Lydie's scornful glance with one of defiance and of hate.
The Queen looked visibly annoyed. She disliked scenes and
unpleasantness, and all incidents which disturbed the even placidity
of her official life: the King, on the other hand, swore an
unmistakable oath. Obviously he had already taken sides in favour of
the gaily-plumaged butterfly against the duller moths, whilst Monsieur
de Louvois looked hopelessly perturbed. He was very young and had only
lately been appointed to the onerous position of Queen's Chamberlain.
Though the post was no sinecure, a scandal such as threatened now, was
quite unprecedented. He scented a violent passage of arms between two
young and beautiful women, both of high social position, and manlike
he would sooner have faced a charge of artillery than this duel
between two pairs of rosy lips, wherein he feared that he might be
called upon to arbitrate.
Lydie, alone among all those present, had retained her outward
serenity. This was her hour, and she meant to press her triumph home
to the full. All the pent-up horror and loathing which had well-nigh
choked her during the whole of this terrible day, now rose clamouring
and persistent in this opportunity for revenge. Though Gaston stood
calm and mocking by, though Irène looked defiant and her cheeks flamed
with wrath, they would glow with shame anon, for Lydie had
deliberately aimed a blow at her vanity, the great and vulnerable spot
in the armour of _la belle brune de Bordeaux_.
Lydie knew Marie Leszcynska well enough to be sure that the very
breath of scandal, which she had deliberately blown on Gaston's wife,
was enough to cause the rigid, puritanically-minded Queen to refuse
all future intercourse with her. Rightly or wrongly, without further
judgment or appeal, the Queen would condemn Irène unheard, and ban
her and her husband for ever from her intimacy, thus setting the mark
of a certain social ostracism upon them, which they could never live
down.
Less than three seconds had elapsed whilst these conflicting emotions
assailed the various actors of this drawing-room drama. The Queen now
turned with a frown half-inquiring, wholly disapproving toward the
unfortunate Louvois.
"Monsieur le Chambellan," she said sternly, "how did this occur? We do
not allow any error to creep in the list of presentations made to our
Royal person."
These few words recalled Irène to the imminence of her peril. She
would not allow herself to be humiliated without a protest, nor would
she so readily fall a victim to Lydie's obvious desire for revenge.
She too was shrewd enough to know that the Queen would never forgive,
and certainly never forget, the _esclandre_ of this presentation; but
if she herself was destined to fall socially, at least she would drag
her enemy down with her, and bury Lydie's influence, power and
popularity beneath the ruins of her own ambitions.
"Your Majesty will deign I hope to pause a moment ere you sweep me
from before your Royal eyes unheard," she said boldly; "the error is
on the part of Madame la Grande Maréchale. My name was put on Monsieur
le Chambellan's list by her orders."
But Marie Leszcynska would not at this juncture take any direct notice
of Irène; until it was made quite clear that Madame la Comtesse de
Stainville was a fit and proper person to be presented to the Queen of
France, she absolutely ignored her very existence, lest a word from
her be interpreted as implying encouragement, or at least
recognition. Therefore she looked beyond Irène, straight at Monsieur
de Louvois, and addressed herself directly to him.
"What are the true facts, Monsieur le Chambellan?" she said.
"I certainly . . . er . . . had the list as usual . . . er . . . from
Madame la Grande Maréchale . . . and . . ." poor Monsieur de Louvois
stammered in a fit of acute nervousness.
"Then 'tis from you, Madame la Marquise, that we require an
explanation for this unseemly disturbance," rejoined Her Majesty
turning her cold, gray eyes on Lydie.
"The explanation is quite simple, your Majesty," replied Lydie calmly.
"It had been my intention to present Madame la Comtesse de Stainville
to your Majesty, but since then events have occurred, which will
compel me to ask Madame la Comtesse to find some other lady to perform
the office for her."
"The explanation is not quite satisfactory to us," rejoined Her
Majesty with all the rigid hauteur of which she possessed the stinging
secret, "and it will have to be properly and officially amplified
to-morrow. But this is neither the place nor the moment for discussing
such matters. Monsieur de Louvois, I pray you to proceed with the
other names on your list. The Queen has spoken!"
With these arrogant words culled from the book of etiquette peculiar
to her own autocratic house, the daughter of the deposed King of
Poland waved the incident aside as if it had never been. A quickly
repressed murmur went all round the room. Lydie swept a deep and
respectful curtsey before Her Majesty, and indicated by her own
manner that, as far as she was concerned, the incident was now closed
by royal command.
But Irène de Stainville's nature was not one that would allow the
matter to be passed over so lightly. Whichever way the Queen might
choose to act, she felt that at any rate the men must be on her side:
and though King Louis himself was too indolent and egotistical to
interfere actively on her behalf, and her own husband could not do
more than pick a quarrel with some wholly innocent person, yet she was
quite sure that she detected approval and encouragement to fight her
own battles in the looks of undisguised admiration which the masculine
element there present freely bestowed upon her. Monsieur le Duc
d'Aumont, for one, looked stern disapproval at his daughter, whilst
Monsieur de Louvois was visibly embarrassed.
It was, therefore, only a case of two female enemies, one of whom
certainly was the Queen of France--a prejudiced and obstinate autocrat
if ever there was one, within the narrow confines of her own intimate
circle--and the other exceptionally highly placed, both in Court
favour and in official status.
Still Irène de Stainville felt that her own beauty was at least as
powerful an asset, when fighting for social prestige, as the political
influence of her chief adversary.
Therefore when the Queen of France chose to speak as if Madame la
Comtesse de Stainville did not even exist, and Monsieur de Louvois
diffidently but firmly begged her to stand aside, she boldly refused.
"Nay! the Queen shall hear me," she said in a voice which trembled a
little now with suppressed passion; "surely Her Majesty will not allow
a jealous woman's caprice . . ."
"Silence, wench," interrupted Marie Leszcynska with all the authority,
the pride, the dictatorial will, which she had inherited from her
Polish ancestors; "you forget that you are in the presence of your
Queen."
"Nay, Madame, I do not forget it," said Irène, nothing daunted, and
firmly holding her ground. "I remember it with every word I utter, and
remember that the name of our Queen stands for purity and for justice.
Your Majesty," she added, being quick to note the slightly yielding
look which, at her cleverly chosen words, crept in Marie Leszcynska's
eyes, and gracefully dropping on her knees on the steps of the throne,
"will you at least deign to hear me? I may not be worthy to kiss your
Majesty's hand; we none of us are that, I presume, for you stand
infinitely above us by right of your virtues and your dignity, but I
swear to the Queen of France that I have done nothing to deserve this
public affront."
She paused a moment, to assure herself that she held the attention of
the Queen and of every one there present, then she fixed her dark eyes
straight on Lydie and said loudly, so that her clear, somewhat shrill
young voice rang out triumphantly through the room:
"My husband was made a tool of by Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton, for
the purpose of selling the Stuart prince to England."
Once more there was dead silence in the vast reception hall, a few
seconds during which the loudly accusing voice died away in an almost
imperceptible echo, but in one heart at least those seconds might have
been a hundred hours, for the wealth of misery they contained.
Lydie stood as if turned to stone. Though she had realized Gaston's
treachery she had not thought that it would mean all this. The utter
infamy of it left her paralyzed and helpless. She had delivered her
soul, her mind, her honour, her integrity to the vilest traitor that
ever darkened the face of the earth. If a year ago she had humiliated
him, if to-day she had tried to thwart all his future ambitions, he
was fully revenged now.
She did not hear even the loyal Queen's protest:
"It is false!" for Marie Leszcynska, sickened and horrified, was loth
to believe the truth of this terrible indictment against the one woman
she had always singled out for royal trust and royal friendship.
"It is true, your Majesty," said Irène firmly, as she once more rose
to her feet. "Deign to ask Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton if to-day in
the loneliness of the Park of Versailles, she did not place in the
hands of Monsieur le Comte de Stainville the secret of the Stuart
prince's hiding place so that he might be delivered over to the
English for a large sum of money. Madame is beautiful and rich and
influential, Monsieur de Stainville being a man, dared not refuse to
obey her orders, but Monsieur de Stainville is also handsome and
young, Madame honoured him with her regard, and I the wife was to be
publicly ostracised and swept aside, for I was in the way, and might
have an indiscreet tongue in my mouth. That, your Majesty, is the
truth," concluded Irène now with triumphant calm; "deign to look into
her face and mine and see which is the paler, she or I."
Marie Leszcynska had listened in silence at the awful accusation thus
hurled by one woman against the other. At Irène's final words she
turned and looked at Lydie, saw the marble-like hue of the face, the
rigidity of the young form, the hopeless despair expressed in the
half-closed eyes. It is but fair to say that the Queen even now did
not altogether believe Madame de Stainville's story: she instinctively
was still drawing a comparison between the gaudily apparelled doll
with the shrill voice, and the impudently bared shoulders, and the
proud, graceful woman in robes of virginal white, of whom, during all
these years of public life, unkind tongues were only able to say that
she was cold, rigid, dull, uninteresting perhaps, but whose vestal
robes the breath of evil scandal had never dared to pollute.
The Queen did not feel that guilt was written now on that straight,
pure brow, but she had a perfectly morbid horror of any _esclandre_
occurring in her presence or at one of her Courts. Moreover, Irène had
certainly struck one chord, which jarred horribly on the puritanical
Queen's nerves, and unfortunately at the very moment when Madame de
Stainville made this final poisoned suggestion, Marie Lesczynska's
eyes happened to be resting on the King's face. In Louis' expression
she caught the leer, the smile, half-mocking, half indulgent which was
habitual to him when woman's frailty was discussed, and her whole
pride rose in revolt at contact with these perpetual scandals, which
disgraced the Court of Versailles, and which she was striving so hard
to banish from her own entourage.
Because of this she felt angered now with every one quite
indiscriminately. A few years ago her sense of justice would have
caused her to sift this matter through, to test for herself the rights
or wrongs of an obviously bitter quarrel; but lately this sense of
justice had become blunted, through many affronts to her personal
dignity as a Queen and as a wife. It had left her with a morbid
egotistical regard for the majesty of her Court: this she felt had
been attainted; and now she only longed to get away, and leave behind
her all this vulgarity, these passions, these petty quarrels, which
she so cordially abhorred.
"Enough," she said sternly; "our royal cheeks glow with shame at
thought that this indecent brawl should have occurred in our presence.
Your Majesty," she added turning haughtily to the King, "your arm, I
pray; we cannot endure this noisy bickering, which is more fitting for
the slums of Paris than for the throne-room of the Queen of France."
Louis' bewilderment was almost comical. It would have been utterly
impossible for him, and quite unseemly in his wife's presence, to
interfere in what was obviously a feminine quarrel, even if he had
desired to do so; and he had not altogether made up his mind how
Madame la Comtesse de Stainville's indiscreet outburst would affect
him personally, which was all that really interested him in the
matter. On the whole he was inclined to think favourably of the new
aspect of affairs. When the fact of the Stuart prince's betrayal into
his enemies' hands became known--which it was bound to do sooner or
later--it was not unpleasant that the first hint of the treachery
should have come in such a form as to implicate Lydie, and that so
deeply, that ever afterward the public, clinging to the old proverb
that there is no smoke without fire, would look upon her as the prime
mover in the nefarious scheme.
Louis the Well-beloved possessed, par excellence, the subtle knack of
taking care of his august person, and above all of his august
reputation. It would certainly be as well, for the sake of the
future, that his over-indulgent subjects should foster the belief
that, in this vile treachery, their King had been misled; more sinned
against than sinning.
But of course he too was anxious to get away. That the present
feminine altercation would lead to a more serious quarrel, he already
guessed from the fact that his shrewd eyes had perceived Lord Eglinton
standing close to one of the great doors at the further end of the
room. Vaguely Louis wondered how much the husband had heard, and what
he would do if he had heard everything. Then he mentally shrugged his
shoulders, thinking that after all it did not matter what milor's
future actions might be. Louis was quite convinced that Madame Lydie
had thrown her bonnet over the mills, and that, as a gallant
gentleman, milor would above all things have to hold his peace.
His Majesty therefore was not angered against any one. He smiled quite
affably at the Comte and Comtesse de Stainville and bestowed a knowing
wink on Lydie, who fortunately was too dazed to notice this final
insult.
Every one else was silent and awed. The Queen now descended the steps
of the daïs on the arm of the King. Irène was a little disappointed
that nothing more was going to happen. She opened her lips, ready to
speak again but Marie Leszcynska threw her such a haughty, scornful
glance that Gaston de Stainville, realizing the futility--nay! the
danger---of prolonging this scene, placed a peremptory hand on his
wife's arm, forcibly drawing her away.
At the foot of the steps Her Majesty once more turned to Lydie.
"We shall expect an explanation from you, Marquise," she said
haughtily, "but not to-night. See that our audience chamber is cleared
from all this rabble."
And with this parting shot, hurled recklessly at her faithful
adherents, just as much as at those who had offended her, the
descendant of a proud line of Kings sailed majestically out of the
room, whilst a loud "hush-sh-sh-sh . . ." caused by the swish of
brocaded skirts on the parquet floor as every one made a deep
obeisance, accompanied the Royal lady in her short progress toward the
door and then softly died away.