THE DÉBONNAIRE
“It is good to be superior to mortal weakness,” said Malletort to himself
as he re-entered his coach and drove from Bartoletti’s door. “In the
human subject I cannot but observe how few emotions are conducive to
happiness. That which touches the heart seems always prejudicial to the
stomach. How ridiculous, how derogatory, and how uncomfortable to turn
red and pale, to burst into tears, to spring at people’s throats, nay,
even to feel the pulse beat, the head swim, the voice fail at a word, a
look, a presence! What, then, constitutes the true well-being of man,
the _summum bonum_, the vantage point, the grand _desideratum_ to which
all philosophy is directed? Self-command! But self-command leads to the
command of others—to success, to victory, to power! and power, with none
to share it, none to benefit by it, is it worth the labour of attainment?
Can it be that its eminence is but like the crest of a mountain, from
which the more extended the horizon the flatter and the more monotonous
appears the view. It may, but what matter? Let me only get to the summit,
and I can always come down again at my leisure. _Basta!_ here we are. Now
to gain a foothold on the slippery path that leads to the very top!”
The Abbé’s carriage was brought to a halt while he spoke by a post of
Grey Musketeers stationed in front of the Palais-Royal. The churchman’s
plain and quiet equipage had no right of entrance, and he alighted to
pass through the narrow ingress left unguarded for foot-passengers. Hence
he crossed a paved court, turned short into a wing of the building with
which he seemed well acquainted, and stopped at the foot of a narrow
staircase, guarded by one solitary sentry of the corps.
It was our acquaintance, Bras-de-Fer, beguiling the tedium of his watch
by a mental review of his own adventures in love and war.
The Abbé knew everybody, and the grim Musketeer saluted his holy friend
cordially enough, excusing himself, while he balanced his heavy weapon
across his breast, that his orders forbade him to allow any one to pass.
“Lay down your arms, my son,” said the churchman, good-humouredly. “How
your wrists must ache by supper-time! I have but three words to say to
your captain, and if you will bend your tall head lower by a few inches I
can give you the countersign.”
With that he whispered it in his ear, and Bras-de-Fer, again excusing
himself, bade him pass on, regaining an attitude of extreme stiffness
and martial severity, as if to make amends for past civility somewhat at
variance with established discipline.
A green-baize door at the head of the staircase swung open to the Abbé’s
push, admitting him to an ante-room, of which Captain George was the only
occupant. He, too, seemed weary of his watch, which was tedious from
its dull unvarying routine—void of excitement, yet entailing grave and
oppressive responsibilities. His greeting to Malletort, however, was more
cordial, so thought that keen observer, than is afforded by a man who
merely wearies of his own society; and the Abbé was right in his general
impression, only wrong in detail.
Captain George was indeed favourably affected to everybody connected,
however distantly, with the house of Montmirail. So far the Abbé judged
correctly enough, but he missed the true cause by a hair’s-breadth, and
attributed to the magic of black eyes an effect exclusively owing to blue.
There was little leisure, however, for exchange of compliments, and the
Musketeer’s solitude was to be relieved but for a few precious moments at
a time.
“His Highness has already twice asked for you,” said he, in the tone of
an injured man. “You had better go in at once.” So Malletort, leaving
the ill-used warrior to his own companionship, passed on to an inner
apartment, taking with him a stool in his hand, as was the custom, in
case the interview should be protracted, and the Regent require him to
sit down.
The room he entered was small, gloomy, panelled with a dark-coloured
wood, octagonal in shape, relieved by very little furniture, and having
another door, opposite that which admitted the visitor, concealed by
heavy velvet curtains. At the solitary table, and on the single chair the
apartment contained, a man was seated, writing busily, with his back to
the Abbé. A general air of litter pervaded the place, and although the
table was heaped with papers, several more were scattered in disorder
over the floor.
The writer continued his occupation for several minutes, as if
unconscious of the Abbé’s presence. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief,
pushed his chair back from the table, and looked up joyously, like a
schoolboy interrupted in his task.
“You are welcome, monsieur, you are welcome,” said he, rising and
pacing to and fro with short, quick steps, while Malletort performed a
series of courtly and elaborate bows. “I am about wearied of figures,
and I have been saying to myself, with every passing step for the
last half-hour, ‘Ah! here comes my little Abbé, who confines himself
exclusively to facts—my material and deep-thinking churchman, the best
judge in Christendom of wine, pictures, carriages, cutlets, ankles,
eyelashes, probabilities, dress, devilry, and deeds of darkness. Here are
calculations of Las, to show us all how we need only be able to write our
names, and so acquire boundless wealth; but the miserable Scotchman knows
no more than the dead how to spend his millions. Would you believe it, my
dear fellow, Vaudeville dined with him last night, and they served olives
with the stewed ortolans? Olives, I tell you, with ortolans! The man must
be a hog!” And the Regent wrinkled up his forehead while he spoke in a
favourite grimace, that he flattered himself resembled the portraits of
Henri Quatre.
He bore, indeed, a kind of spurious resemblance to that great king and
gallant soldier, but the resemblance of the brach to the deer-hound, the
palfrey to the war-horse, the hawk to the eagle. He made the most of it,
however, such as it was; brushed his dark hair into a cluster on the top
of his head, contracted the point of his nose, elongated his chin, and
elevated his eyebrows, till he almost fancied himself the first Bourbon
who sat on the throne of France. Nay, he even went so far as to wear his
stockings and the knees of his breeches extremely tight, while the latter
were gathered and puckered loosely about the waist, to approach as nearly
as possible the costume in which the hero was usually portrayed.
In all the worst points of his paragon’s character he copied him to the
life, only exaggerating to habitual vice the love of pleasure that was
Henry’s principal weakness. As the Duke’s face was broad, high-coloured,
good-humoured, nay, notwithstanding the marks it bore of his excesses,
tolerably well-favoured, while his figure, though scarcely tall enough
for dignity, was robust and in fair proportion, the imitation seemed,
perhaps, not entirely unfaithful to its original. Both possessed in a
high degree the charm of an exquisite manner; but while the King of
Navarre combined with a monarch’s condescension the frank and simple
bearing of a soldier, the Duke of Orleans was especially distinguished
for the suavity and external ease that mark the address of an
accomplished gentleman.
This prince possessed, no doubt, the germ of many good qualities, but
how could the most promising seed bear fruit when it was choked up and
overgrown by such rank weeds as gluttony, drunkenness, and sensuality?
vices which seem to sap the energy of the mind as surely, if not so
rapidly, as they destroy the vigour of the body.
Yet the Regent was gifted with a certain persuasive eloquence, a
certain facility of speech and gesture, invaluable to those who have
the conduct of public affairs. He possessed a faithful memory, ready
wit, imperturbable good-humour, and quickness of perception in seizing
the salient points of a subject, which made him appear, at least, a
capable politician, if not a deep and far-seeing statesman. Neither was
he wanting in that firmness which was so much required by the state
of parties at the time when he assumed the Regency, and this was the
more remarkable, that his nervous system could not but have been much
deteriorated and deranged by the frequency and extravagance of his
debauches. Meantime, we have left the Abbé bowing and the Duke grimacing
at the bare idea of brown game and olives in the same stew-pan, a subject
that occupied his attention for several minutes. Rousing himself after
a while, he began, as usual, to detail the proceedings of the morning’s
council to Malletort, who had grown by degrees, from a mere comrade
of his pleasures, into the confidential and principal adviser of his
schemes. It promised to be a long report, and he motioned the Abbé,
who had fortunately prepared himself with a stool, to sit down. There
were many complaints to make—many knots to unfasten—many interests to
reconcile, but the Abbé listened patiently, and suggested remedies for
each in turn.
The parliament had been refractory. Nothing could bring them to
subjection but a Bed of Justice, or full assemblage of peers and
representatives in presence of the young king.
The Keeper of the Seals was unreasonable. He must be forced into
collision with the parliament, whom he had always held in antagonism, and
they might be left to punish each other.
The Duc du Maine and Marshal de Villeroy, constant thorns in the Regent’s
side, had applied for more powers, more pomp, and, worse still, more
money, on the score of the young king. His Majesty must be set against
his governors, and it could best be done by making a festival for him
to which these would not trust his person, and from which an enforced
restriction would cause the royal pupil to feel himself shamefully
aggrieved. In short, conflicting interests were to be reconciled, if
their disunion seemed to threaten the Government; political parties to be
dissolved by a judicious apple of discord thrown in their midst at the
Abbé’s instigation; and a general balance of power to be established, in
which the Regent could always preponderate by lending his own weight to
the scale. Altogether a dozen difficulties of statecraft were disposed
of in as many minutes, and the Duke, rising from the table, pressed his
hand familiarly on the confidant’s shoulder, to keep him in his seat, and
exclaimed, gaily—
“They may well call me the ‘Débonnaire,’ little Abbé. Hein! There have
been but two Bourbons yet who ever _understood_ France. One was a king,
and the other—well, the other is only a regent. No matter. Cric! Crac!
Two snaps of the fingers, and everything fits into its place like a game
at dominoes. But, little Abbé,” added the exulting politician, while
his brow clouded and he forgot to look like Henri Quatre, “to govern
the nation signifies but ruling _men_. Such matters arrange themselves.
The state machine can go without a push. But I have worse complications
than these. Counsel me, my dear Abbé. There is discord dire this morning
throughout the women. I tell you the whole heap are at daggers drawn with
one another, and my life is hardly safe amongst them all.”
Malletort smiled and shook his head. The difficulty was natural enough,
but the remedy required consideration. So he opened his snuff-box.
“There is a tribe of Arabs,” he replied, “Highness, far up in the desert,
of whom I have heard that their religion permits each man to marry two
wives, but with the stipulation, at first sight reasonable enough, that
he should live with them both in one tent. The practice of bigamy, I
understand, has in that tribe so fallen into disuse as to be completely
unknown.”
The Regent laughed loudly. “I believe it,” said he, “I believe it
implicitly. Powers of strife! and parts of speech. A man should be blind
and deaf also to endure the Parabére and the Sabran in neighbouring
_faubourgs_, not to speak of the same tent! Ah! these Orientals
understand domestic government thoroughly. The harem is a place for
repose, and a noisy woman soon quits it, I believe, by the river-gate. We
too have the Seine, but alas! where is the sack? I tell you, Malletort, I
am tired of them both. I am tired of them all. Madame la Duchesse may be
cold, pompous, stiff, contradictory, and, oh! as wearisome as a funeral!
but at least she remains half the day in her own apartments, and can
command herself sufficiently to behave with decency when she leaves them.”
“Madame la Duchesse,”replied the Abbé, bowing reverentially, “is an
exemplary and adorable princess. She has but one fault, perhaps I should
say less her fault than her misfortune—she is your Highness’s wife.”
The Débonnaire laughed again, loud and long. “Well said, little Abbé!”
he exclaimed. “_My_ fault, _her_ misfortune. Nevertheless the crime is
unpardonable—so no more of _her_. How shall I reconcile Madame de Sabran
and Madame de Parabére? I tell you, they sup with us this very night.
You make one, Abbé, of course!” Malletort bowed lower than ever. “But
think of these two at enmity across my narrow table! Why the Centaurs
and Lapithæ would be a love-feast compared to it. Like my ancestor of
Navarre, Monsieur l’Abbé, I fear neither man nor devil, but there are
some women, I honestly confess, whose anger I dare not encounter, and
that is the truth!”
“I know nothing of women and their ways,” answered Malletort, humbly.
“It is a science my profession and my inclinations forbid me alike
to understand, but I imagine that in gallantry as in chemistry,
counteracting influences are most effectual when of a cognate nature to
the evil. _Similia similibus curantur_; and your Highness can have no
difficulty, surely, in applying a thousand smiling soft-spoken antidotes
to two scowling women.”
The Regent shook his head gravely. It was a subject of which he had
diligently studied both theory and practice, yet found he knew little
more about it than when he began.
“They are all so different,” he complained, peevishly, “and yet all so
alike in their utter insensibility to reason, their perverted wilfulness
in looking on impossibilities as accomplished facts. There is Madame de
Sabran wants me to make her a duchess of France! ‘How can I make you
a duchess of France, madame?’ said I. ‘Would you have your “mastiff,”
as you call him, created a duke for _your_ services?’ ‘He would make
a better than so and so, and so and so,’ she answered, as coolly as
possible, naming half-a-dozen, who it must be confessed are not one bit
more respectable! That is another thing about the woman, she always
contrives to have a distorted shadow of reason, like a stick in the
water, on her side. It was only the other day I made him one of my
chamberlains, and now she declares he ought to be given a step of rank to
uphold the dignity of the office. How can you reason with such a woman as
that?”
“Waste of time, Highness!” answered Malletort, composedly. “They are born
not to be instructed, but admired!”
“I used to admire her more than I do now,” observed the Regent,
thoughtfully. “Still the woman is amusing and witty; there is no denying
it. Besides, she speaks her mind freely, and however violent the passions
she puts herself in, they are over in five minutes. But what am I to
do with the other? I give you the honour of a Bourbon, my friend, she
has not uttered a syllable beyond ‘Yes, monsieur,’ ‘No, monsieur,’
since yesterday afternoon, when she dropped at once from the height of
good-humour into a fit of impenetrable sulks.”
“Without the slightest cause, of course!” observed the Abbé.
“Without the slightest cause,” repeated the Prince, “at least that I
could discover. There was indeed a slight difficulty about some flowers.
I had promised her a bouquet of stephanotis for the masked ball to-night.
It is rare—its smell is to me overpowering, but it is her favourite
perfume. Well, my people scoured the country for half-a-dozen leagues
round Paris, and none was to be procured. With you or me, Abbé, the
conclusion would seem natural enough, that if the stephanotis has not yet
bloomed, the stephanotis cannot yet be in flower. But to a woman—bah—such
an argument is no reason at all! It is quite possible she may even refuse
to accompany me to the ball to-night!”
Malletort did not think so, and his hopes, just now so buoyant, lost
nothing by a suggestion which only betrayed his patron’s ignorance of the
female mind.
“Ah, Highness,” he exclaimed, throwing a gleam of sympathy into his
eyes, which contrasted much with their usual expression, “how completely
is your condescension misjudged! how utterly your kind heart thrown
away! You say truly, women are so different. These think of their own
aggrandisement even while they bask in your affection. Others here
at Court would throw themselves body and soul at your feet were you
to-morrow changed into a simple page from Duke of Orleans and Master of
France!”
“How?” exclaimed the Regent, unable to conceal that his vanity was
gratified. “Do you speak from your own knowledge? Are you laughing at me?
How can you possibly have found this out?”
“It is indeed a matter quite beyond my province,” answered the Abbé; “but
circumstances have thrown me so frequently into the society of one of the
ladies in question, that I must indeed have been blind not to perceive
the truth. Excuse me, Highness, I had rather not pursue the subject any
farther.”
But the Regent was not so to be put off. With all his shrewdness, he had
considerable personal vanity, and but for his debaucheries, might perhaps
have shown some sensibility of heart. In his mind he ran over the leading
beauties of the Court, and as he had been little scrupulous in paying
them attention, one and all, the riddle was perhaps the less difficult to
solve. His eye sparkled, and he clapped his hands like a schoolboy, while
he shouted out—
“I have it! I have it! Little Abbé, you have let the cat out of the bag.
Now I know why the proudest names in France have been offered her in
vain. Now I understand her defiance, her coldness, her unapproachable
dignity. Do you know, my friend, what you tell me is a veritable romance,
and, in return, I assure you I have never been insensible to the charms
of Madame de Montmirail!”
“You are speaking of my kinswoman, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the Abbé,
haughtily; “and a member of the proudest house in the kingdom. Your
Highness will be good enough to reflect that I mentioned no names, and
I have been too faithful a servant, I think, to deserve a gratuitous
insult.”
“Pardon, my dear Abbé!” exclaimed the Regent, with an affectation of deep
concern, though accepting Malletort’s protest, no doubt, at its real
value. “None can respect the house of Montmirail more than I do. None
can value the friendship of Abbé Malletort so much; but these women and
their whims turn my poor head. What did you advise about the Parabére? I
forget.”
“Dismiss her!” answered the churchman, shortly. “It will be one
embarrassment the less in your Highness’s career.”
“But she is so beautiful,” whimpered the Regent. “There is not such
another complexion in France. If I were to leave her, do you not think
half my nobility would be mad to pay their court to her? She is so white,
you see—so exceedingly white and soft. Such a skin, my dear Abbé. Such a
skin!”
“Skin her then!” replied Malletort, “and make a covering of her
integument for your arm-chair. It is the best advice I can offer your
Highness, and what I should do myself in your case.”
Then they both laughed at the brutal jest. The one because he was in high
good-humour with the prospect of his hinted conquest; the other because
he had not forgotten the bouquet, of which a few inhalations could turn
the whole face black; and because, reflecting on the rapid progress of
his schemes, he thought it only fair that those should laugh who win.
But in order thoroughly to act his part out, he returned to business
before he took his leave. “Those _Lettres de Cachet_!” he exclaimed, as
if he had just recollected them. “Did your Highness express your views on
the subject to your council?”
“I did indeed,” answered the Regent, significantly; “and the good old
custom is revived by an edict. But though he who seeks finds, I think he
is more sure to find who _hides_, and I will take care no man in France
shall use them but myself.”
Then Malletort bowed himself out, well satisfied, and found Captain
George in the ante-room, putting on his belts to receive the Black
Musketeers, whose band could be heard playing and their arms clashing as
they marched into the court to relieve guard.