A QUIET SUPPER
In less than an hour, how changed the scene for two of the actors in that
mysterious drama—of which Bartoletti was chief manager and Malletort sat
in the prompter’s box! The Captain of Musketeers had been invited to sup
with the Regent, and found in his prince’s private apartments a little
party collected, whose mirth and high spirits were well calculated to
drive away any remains of superstitious gloom left by the incantations of
the cavern and their result.
The select suppers of the Duke of Orleans were conducted with an absence
of ceremony or restraint that indeed degenerated on occasion into the
grossest license; but even under the Regency men did not necessarily
conclude every night in the week with an orgy, and the mirth of the
_roués_ themselves was not always degraded into drunkenness, nor their
wit pushed to profanity and shameless indecency of speech.
Captain George found himself seated at a round table in an oval room,
of which the only other occupants, besides his royal host, were Madame
de Parabére, Madame de Sabran, Malletort, and Count Point d’Appui. The
latter, be it observed, excelled (for no one was admitted to these
reunions who had not some marked speciality) in the grace with which he
danced a minuet and the gravity with which he propounded the emptiest and
silliest remarks. Some of the courtiers affected to think this simplicity
only masked an intriguing disposition, and that Point d’Appui was, after
all “not quite such a fool as he looked.” A charitable suggestion,
endorsed by Madame de Sabran, with the observation, “The saints forbid he
should be!”
Altogether it was generally admitted that the Count’s strong point must
be sought rather in his heels than his head. He sat directly opposite
the Musketeer, and next to Abbé Malletort, who was between him and
Madame de Sabran. The latter was thus placed opposite the Regent, at
whose right hand Madame de Parabére had taken up her usual post. Captain
George found himself accordingly with a lady on either side, and as he
was distinguished, manly, quiet in manner, and above all, supposed to be
impenetrable of heart, he became an object of interest to both.
These hated each other, of course, but in a treacherous, well-bred
manner, and not so rancorously as to spoil their appreciation of an
excellent repast, served in pleasant company, under all the most
promising conditions for success. They were therefore, outwardly,
wondrous affectionate, and under protest as it were, with the buttons on
their foils, could be good companions enough.
The Duke prided himself on his suppers. Working at state affairs during
the day, and with a digestion considerably impaired by habitual excess,
dinner was a mere matter of form, often restricted indeed to a morsel of
bread and a cup of chocolate, served in the cabinet where he wrote. But
when the hours of business were past, and his system, too much gorged
over-night, had recovered from the fumes of wine and the torpor of
repletion, it was his delight to rush once more into those excesses of
appetite which unfitted his mornings for exertion, which robbed him of
half his existence while he lived, and killed him in the prime of manhood
at last.
But he understood well how the sacrifice should be offered. The
supper-room, we have said, was oval, panelled in a light cheerful wood,
highly-varnished, and decorated only by short pithy sentences, inlaid
in gaudy colours, of which the purport was to crop the flower while it
bloomed, to empty the cup while it sparkled, practically, to eat the
cutlet while it was hot, and consume as eagerly as possible the good
things provided for the senses. No pictures, no vases, no works of art
were suffered upon the walls to distract the attention of the guests from
their main object. The intellect, as seated at the farthest distance
from the stomach, might indeed be gently stimulated with wit, but the
imagination, the feelings, above all, the emotions that affect the
heart, were on no account to be disturbed during the ecstacies of the
palate or the pleasing languor and subsequent comfort of digestion. Not a
lackey nor servant of any kind entered the room. When one course had been
consumed, deliberately, methodically, and with much practical comment on
its merits, the table sank slowly through the floor, to be replaced by
another, bearing fresh dishes, fresh flowers, fresh napkins, everything
fresh prepared, to the very bills of fare, beautifully emblazoned, that
lay beside the cover of each guest. A strong light from above was shaded
to throw its rays directly on the board; but as plenty of this enlivener
is conducive to festivity, numerous lamps with bright reflectors flashed
at short distances from the walls. No pealing band deafened the ears
of the sitters, or drowned their conversation in its overpowering
strains; only ever and anon a faint long-drawn note, like the tone of a
far-distant organ, rose and fell and wavered, ere it died sweetly and
calmly away.
On these occasions, Point d’Appui never failed to pause, even with a
tempting morsel on his fork, and intimate to his neighbours that “he was
passionately given to music, and it reminded him of heaven!”
The Regent seemed much impressed with the visit he had made to the cavern
before supper, and it was not till he had emptied several goblets of
champagne that he regained his usual spirits. With the influence of wine,
however, his nerves recovered their tone, his eye brightened, his hand
steadied, and he joined in conversation as heretofore.
By this time a favourite dish had made its appearance, which went by the
name of the _pâté d’Orleans_. It consisted of the wings of pheasants
and other white game, boned, stuffed, and so manipulated as to resemble
the limbs of children; a similarity that gave rise to the most hideous
rumours amongst the lower classes. Many a worthy gossip in Paris believed
firmly that two or three infants were consumed nightly at the Regent’s
table, and none seemed to relish the report more than himself. He ate
vigorously of the _pâté_, emptied another goblet, and began to talk.
Madame de Parabére watched him closely. Something was going on she had
not fathomed, but she resolved to be at the bottom of it.
“Abbé!” shouted the Duke, “what are you about? Do you think I would
suffer little heathens on my table, that you baptize them with water?
They are the best of Christians, I tell you, my friend, and should be
well soused, like all good Christians, in wine.” Malletort, who had been
pouring stealthily out of a carafe at his elbow, accepted his host’s
challenge, and filled up from a flask.
“To your health, Highness! and confusion to your enemies—White and Red,”
said he, pointing to two measures of those Burgundies that happened to
stand before the ladies.
The Duke started. Malletort’s observation, simple as it seemed, brought
the diabolical prophecy to his mind, and again he sought courage from his
glass.
“Do you mean that for _us_, monsieur?” asked Madame de Sabran; “since his
Highness loves the Burgundy too well to count it a foe, though it has put
him on his back, I doubt not, often enough.
“Nay, madame,” answered the Abbé, bowing politely; “such as you can never
be foes, since you are born to be conquerors. If it did come to a fight,
I presume you would grant no quarter.”
“None,” said she, laughing. “Church and laymen, we should put you all to
the sword.”
“But the Church are non-combatants,” interposed Count Point d’Appui, with
perfect sincerity. “You would be excommunicated by our Father the Pope.
It is a different species, madame, altogether—a separate race.”
“Not a bit of it!” answered the lady. “Men to the tips of their fingers,
every one of them! Are you not, Abbé? No! When all is said and done,
there are but two distinct creations, and I never can believe they have a
common origin. Men and women I put in the one, princes and lackeys in the
other. What say _you_, madame?”
But Madame de Parabére said nothing. She sat in silence, pouting, because
it suited the shape of her mouth, and listening, for other reasons of her
own.
The Regent, who had now drunk wine enough to be both easily offended and
appeased, felt that the shaft aimed at him was not entirely undeserved.
So he asked, in anger, “How mean you, madame? I see not the drift of your
jest. In what are princes and lackeys so alike, and so different from the
rest of mankind?”
“Other bipeds” answered the lady, bitterly, “lie from habit, with
intention, or on occasion; but this variety never speaks the truth at
all, even by accident.”
The Duke’s face turned purple. Captain George, hoping to divert an
explosion, and feeling that he had been invited rather as a compliment
than for the sake of his society, rose and took his leave, on the score
of military duty; receiving, as he went out, a glance from Madame de
Parabére’s beautiful eyes, that assured him of her gratitude, her
interest, and her good-will.
His departure changed the subject of conversation. In two minutes the
Regent forgot he had been offended, and Madame de Sabran was busied in
the unworthy task of mystifying Count Point d’Appui, an employment which
her rival contemplated with a drowsy, languid air, as if she could hardly
keep herself awake.
The Abbé had watched her for some time with increasing interest and
considerable misgivings; the poison, he thought, should long ere this
have taken effect, and he expected every moment to observe a disturbance
of the placid features, a discolouration of the beautiful skin. Before
supper was over, he concluded that, as far as the flowers were concerned,
his plot had failed; but Malletort did not now need to learn the archer’s
want of another arrow in the quiver, a spare string for the bow: it
behoved him only to make the more use of such implements as he had kept
in reserve.
All his energy and all his cunning had been brought into play during the
night. Without his assistance, he felt sure the mummery of the cavern
must have failed, for he could trust neither the shaking nerves of the
Italian nor the superstitious self-deception of the quadroon. It was no
easy task to return to Paris so swiftly as to change his dress, show
himself at a reception in the Faubourg St. Germain, and thence proceed
leisurely to sup with the Regent. Well-bred horses, however, and a
well-broke valet, had accomplished this part of the undertaking, with a
few seconds to spare. It now remained to play the last and most difficult
strokes of the game. He felt equal to the occasion.
Moving round the table with his glass, in unceremonious fashion, he
took advantage of George’s departure to place himself between Madame de
Parabére and her host, whispering in that lady’s ear, “I have a favour
to ask of the Regent, in which you, too, are interested!” She made room
for him carelessly, listlessly, and her face looked so innocent and
unsuspicious as to delude even his acuteness into the belief that the
few faculties she could command were engrossed by Point d’Appui and his
tormentor.
These were in full swing at a game called, in England, Flirtation. It
is an elastic process, embracing an extensive area in the field of
gallantry, and so far resembling the tournaments of the Middle Ages, that
while its encounters are presumed to be waged with weapons of courtesy,
blunted for bloodless use, such fictitious conflicts very frequently
bring on the real combat _à l’outrance_ with sharp weapons, and then, as
in other death-struggles, _væ victis_! If girth breaks, or foot slips,
the fallen fighter must expect no mercy.
Pitted against Point d’Appui, Madame de Sabran might be likened to an
accomplished swordsman practising cut and thrust on a wooden trunk. But
the block was good-natured and good-looking. When such is the case, I
have observed that a witty woman takes no small delight in the exercise
of her talent. There is a generosity about the sex not sufficiently
appreciated, and if a man will only keep quiet, silent, receptive, and
immoveable, it will pour its treasures at his feet in a stream of lavish
and inexhaustible profusion.
Point d’Appui contented himself with looking very handsome and drinking
a great deal of Burgundy. His neighbour hacked and hewed him without
intermission, and Madame de Parabére’s attention seemed entirely
engrossed by the pair.
Malletort, in possession of the Regent’s ear, proceeded diligently with
the edifice for which he had so artfully laid the foundations.
“I must ask permission to take my leave early to-night, Highness,”
observed the churchman. “Like our friend the Musketeer, who has served
his purpose, by the way, as I learn, so may I be rubbed out of the
calculation; and I must drink no more of this excellent Burgundy, for I
have promised to present myself in a lady’s drawing-room, late as it is,
before I go to bed.”
Though somewhat confused by wine, the Regent understood his confidant’s
meaning perfectly well, and his eye kindled as he gathered its purport.
“I will accompany you, little Abbé,” he whispered with a hiccough, and a
furtive glance at the ladies, lest they should overhear.
“Too late, my Prince,” answered the other, “and useless besides, even for
you, since I have not yet obtained permission. Oh! trust me. The fortress
is well guarded, and has scarce ever been summoned; much less has it
offered a parley.”
The Duke looked disappointed, but emptied another bumper. He was rapidly
arriving at the state Malletort desired, when a well-turned compliment
would have induced him to sign away the crown of France.
“To-morrow then,” he grunted, with his hands on the Abbé’s shoulder. “The
great Henry used to say—what used he to say? Something about waiting; you
remember, Abbé. _Basta!_ Reach me the Burgundy.”
“To-morrow, Highness,” answered Malletort, more and more respectfully, as
his patron became less able to enforce respect. “At the hour agreed on, I
will be at your orders with everything requisite. There is but one more
detail, and though indispensable, I fear to press it with your Highness
now, for it trenches on business, and your brain, like mine, must be
somewhat heated with the Burgundy.”
Probably no other consideration on earth would have induced the Duke to
look at a paper after supper, but this remark about the Burgundy touched
him nearly.
He took pride in his convivial powers, and remembering that Henri Quatre
was said to have drunk a glass of red wine before his infant lips had
tasted mother’s milk, always vowed that he inherited from that ancestor
a constitution with which the juice of the grape assimilated itself
harmlessly as food.
“Burgundy, little Abbé!” he repeated, staring vacantly at Malletort, who
had produced a small packet and an ink-horn from his pockets. “Burgundy,
Beaune, brandy—these do but serve to _clear_ the brains of a Bourbon!
Give me the paper!”
“It is only your signature, Highness,” said Malletort, sitting completely
round, so as to interpose his person between Madame de Parabére and the
sheet under his hand. “I can fill it up afterwards, to save you further
trouble.”
But a drunkard’s cunning is the last faculty that forsakes him. Though
the paper danced and wavered beneath his gaze, he detected at once that
it was a _Lettre de cachet_, formidable, henceforth, from the edict
issued that day in Council.
Without troubling himself to inquire how the document came into
Malletort’s possession, who had indeed free access to his _bureau_, he
wagged his head gravely, exclaiming, with the good-humoured persistency
of inebriety—
“No! no! little Abbé. A thousand times no! I fill in the names myself.
Oh! I am Regent of France. I know what I am doing. Here, give me the pen.”
He scrawled his signature on the page, and waited for Malletort to speak.
The latter glanced furtively round—Madame de Sabran was laughing, the
Count listening, Madame de Parabére yawning. No one seemed to pay
attention. Nevertheless he was still cautious. Mentioning no names,
he looked expressively at the Musketeer’s vacant place, while he
whispered—“We have done with him. He has fulfilled his task. Let him be
well taken care of. He deserves it, and it is indispensable.”
“What is indispensable, must be!” answered the Duke carelessly, and
filled in the name of the victim on the blank space left for it.
Then he sprinkled some blue sand from the Abbé’s portable writing-case
over the characters; and because they did not dry fast enough, turned the
sheet face downwards on the white table-cloth, and passed his wrist once
or twice across the back.
When he lifted it, the ink had marked the damask, which was of the finest
texture and rarest pattern in Europe.
Malletort never neglected a precaution. Reaching his hand to a flask
of white Hermitage, and exclaiming, “We chemists are never without
resource,” he was about to pour from it on the table, when a soft voice
murmured languidly, “Give me a few drops, monsieur, I am thirsty,” and
Madame de Parabére, half turning round, held her glass out to be helped.
He was forced to comply, but in another second had flooded the ink-marks
with Hermitage, and blurred the stains on the cloth into one faded
shapeless blot.
Madame de Parabére’s face remained immoveable, and her fine eyes looked
sleepy as ever, yet in that second she had read a capital _G_, with a
small _r_, reversed, and had drawn her own conclusions.
There is but one sentiment in a woman’s mind stronger than gratitude—its
name is Love. Nevertheless, her love for the Regent was not so
overpowering as to shake her determination that she would save the
Captain of Musketeers at any sacrifice.
Meanwhile, the object of her solicitude returned to his quarters by way
of the Hôtel Montmirail, coasting the dead wall surrounding that mansion
very slowly, and absorbed in his own reflections. To reach it he diverged
considerably from his direct road, although the guard posted in its
vicinity consisted that night of Black Musketeers, who were not to be
relieved till the next afternoon by their comrades of the Grey Company.
To prove their vigilance seemed, however, the aim of Captain George’s
walk, for after a brief reconnoitre, he retired quietly to rest about the
time that his royal host, with the assistance of two valets, staggered
from banqueting-room to bed-chamber.
And no wonder, for notwithstanding a liberal consumption of champagne,
the flasks of red and white Burgundy stood empty on the supper-table.