BAITING THE TRAP
In transactions with womankind, the sharpest of men are apt to overlook
in their calculations the paramount influence of dress.
Malletort had long ago expressed an opinion on the despotism of King
Chiffon, but he little expected to be thwarted by that monarch in
dealing with one of his most devoted subjects. When Captain George
knocked the poisoned bouquet out of Madame de Parabére’s hand, with
a happy awkwardness seldom displayed in ball-rooms, a cluster of its
blossoms caught in the flounces of her dress. Despite languor of manner
and immobility of feature, this lady possessed coolness, resolution,
and resource in emergency. She concealed the stray cluster in her
handkerchief, said nothing about it, took it home, put it under glass,
and then locked it carefully away in a cabinet. After she had heard mass
next morning, she walked quietly off to Bartoletti’s house, attended
by two armed domestics and accompanied by her maid, as if going to buy
cosmetics, and produced the blossoms for that unwilling chemist to
analyse. The Signor, to tell the truth, was always averse to tampering
with poisons, although in the way of business it was difficult to keep
clear of them. As, on the present occasion, he felt nothing was to be
gained by falsehood, as Madame de Parabére was a dangerous enemy to
provoke, and above all, as she paid him liberally, he produced his tests
without delay, and informed her she had narrowly escaped loss of beauty,
if not of life, by the inhalation of a subtle and effectual poison.
The Signor argued in this way. He compromised nobody, neither was it any
business of his that certain ingredients, sold to a brother student in
separate quantities, had been scientifically mingled and sprinkled over
these treacherous exotics. With the sums he had lately received from
the Abbé on different accounts—with the liberal reward now brought him
by Madame de Parabére—with the proceeds from his shares in Mississippi
stock, of a feverish rise in which he had, by his friend’s advice,
taken immediate advantage—with the sale of his wine, pictures, plate,
and furniture—lastly, with the firm determination to abscond promptly,
leaving his debts unpaid, he should find himself master of so much wealth
as would enable him to purchase the freedom of Célandine (at a damaged
valuation), to marry her, and settle down somewhere, perhaps under the
glowing sky of the tropics, in luxury and scientific indolence for the
rest of his life.
Sensualist and impostor though he was, the man had yet some glimmering of
a better and nobler existence than his necessities had hitherto permitted
him to lead. He saw himself basking in the sun, sleeping in the shade,
eating luxuriantly, drinking of the best, lying soft, yet devoting his
leisure to the interests of science, and, when it did not interfere with
his gratifications, giving those who needed help the benefit of his
medical experience and advice. There are few but can be pitiful while
they want occupation, and generous while it costs them nothing but a word.
When Bartoletti attended his visitor to the door, he felt it would be
neither wise nor prudent to remain longer in Paris.
Madame de Parabére did not act without reflection. She possessed in his
own handwriting, with his own signature attached, the chemist’s analysis
of the noxious essences that had been offered her in a nosegay; and
although Bartoletti extorted the price of a necklace for it, she felt the
document was cheap at the money. Instinct told her that in the Marquise
de Montmirail she had found a rival; but reason assured her also that
with such proofs as she now possessed she could ruin any rival in the
Regent’s good graces as soon as he had slept off the effects of last
night’s wine. Though his whole afternoon, as often happened, might be
engaged, she must meet her royal admirer that evening at the opera. He
should then be put in possession of the facts, and woe to the traitress
when he knew the truth!
“We shall see, madame!” said the lady, between her small white teeth,
under the sweet, calm face, and crossing herself as she passed a crucifix
in the street. “We shall see! A _lettre de cachet_ is a very compromising
_billet-doux_, but it may be sent to a lady quite as appropriately as a
gentleman. That reminds me! Business first—pleasure afterwards; gratitude
to-day—vengeance to-night. I will preserve that brave Musketeer, if it
costs me my rank and my reputation. Oh! if men were all prompt, generous,
honourable, like him, how differently we poor women should behave; I
wonder if we should be much better or much worse?”
The maid walking at her side thought she was repeating an “Ave,” and
appreciating the temptations of her mistress, greatly admired so edifying
a display of piety under difficulties.
Madame de Parabére was perfectly right in believing she would have no
opportunity for conversation with the Regent till they met at the opera.
The whole of that prince’s morning was employed in struggling with the
drowsy fiend who on a sensualist’s couch represents sleep, and is such a
hideous mockery of its original. At these hours the tendency to apoplexy,
which the Duke strengthened and pampered by indulgence, displayed itself
in alarming colours, and none of his attendants could have been surprised
when, a few years later, the destroyer swooped down and carried off his
prey at a stroke. It took him many an hour of heavy, unhealthy, and
disturbed slumber to regain sufficient clearness of mind for the duties
of the day, but once in exercise, his intellect, which was doubtless
above mediocrity, soon reasserted itself, and the Prince, shaved, bathed,
dressed, and seated over a pile of papers in his cabinet, seemed quite
capable of grasping the political helm, and guiding with a steady hand
the destinies of France. But it was only by a strong mental effort he
thus overcame the effects of his pernicious habits; such an effort as,
when often repeated, saps the vital energies beyond the power of nature
to restore them, and the wasting effects of which are best conveyed by
the familiar expression—“burning the candle at both ends.”
When business was concluded, and the Regent, leaving his cabinet, entered
the adjoining dressing-room to prepare for amusement, he was generally
much fatigued, but in excellent spirits. A thorough Bourbon, he could
work if it was necessary, but his native element was play. When he shut
up his portfolio the virtual King of France felt like a boy out of school.
It was in such a mood the Abbé Malletort found him the afternoon
succeeding his necromantic visit to the cavern. The valets were
dismissed, the wardrobe stood open, various suits of clothes hung on
chairs or lay scattered about the floor, yet it seemed the visitor was
expected; for no sooner did he enter than the door was locked, and
his Highness, taking him by the shoulders, accosted him with a rough,
good-humoured welcome.
“True to time,” said he, in a boisterous yet somewhat nervous tone. “True
and punctual as a tailor, a confessor, and a creditor should be!—since
for me, little Abbé, you combine these several characters in one! A
tailor, for you must dress me; a confessor, for you know most of my sins
already, and I have no desire to conceal from you the remainder; and a
creditor, because I owe you a heavy debt of gratitude which you need not
fear I shall forget to pay!”
“Tailor and confessor as much as your Highness pleases,” answered the
Abbé, “but creditor, no! I had rather possess the free assurance of the
Regent’s good-will than his name to a blank assignment on the Bank of
France! It is my pride and my pleasure to be at your service, and only
when the Duke shall propose a scheme to his own manifest disadvantage
will the Abbé find courage to expostulate or refuse.”
“I can trust you, I believe,” answered the Regent, “none the less, my
friend, that your interests and mine are identical. If d’Orleans were at
Dourlens, and Du Maine at the Tuileries, it is just possible Malletort
might find himself at Vincennes. What say you, my adventurous Abbé? Such
an _alerte_ would call every man to his post! No; where I gain an inch
I pull you up a metre; but in return, if I make a false step in the
_entresol_, you tumble down two pair of stairs and break your neck in
the street! Yes—I think I can trust you.”
Malletort laughed pleasantly. “Your Highness’s ethics are like my own,”
said he. “There is no tie so close as self-interest, and it is certainly
none the looser when accompanied by inclination. I trust the events of
to-night will render it yet more binding on us both.”
“Have you prepared everything?” asked the Regent, with anxiety. “The
slightest omission might be not only inconvenient, but dangerous.”
“I have but a short note to write,” answered the Abbé, “and I can
accomplish that while your Highness finishes dressing. It must be sealed
with the arms of the royal Body-guard, and you may believe I have no such
uncanonical trinkets in my possession.”
The Duke looked in a drawer and shook his head. Then he called a valet,
who appeared from the adjoining chamber.
“Go to the officer of the guard,” said he, “and ask him for the
regimental seal. Say it is for _me_.”
The man returned almost immediately, indeed before the Abbé had finished
a note on which he was engaged, writing it slowly and with great care.
“Who is on guard?” he asked, carelessly, while the servant set the
massive seal on the table.
“Monsieur George,” was the answer, “Captain of the Company of Grey
Musketeers.”
The Abbé did not look up, but continued assiduously bent over his task,
smiling the while as at some remarkable and whimsical coincidence.
When he had folded his letter carefully, and secured it with the military
seal, he begged his Highness, in a tone of great simplicity, to lend him
an orderly.
“As many as you please,” answered the Regent; “but may I ask the nature
of a missive that requires so warlike a messenger?”
“It is a challenge,” answered the Abbé, and they both laughed heartily;
nor was their mirth diminished when the required orderly, standing gaunt
and rigid in the doorway, turned out to be the oldest, the fiercest, and
the ugliest veteran in the whole Body-guard.
The sun was now declining, and it would soon be dusk. Malletort urged on
the Regent to lose no time in preparing for his enterprise.
“And the opera?” observed the latter, suddenly recollecting his
appointment with Madame de Parabére at that entertainment.
“Must be given up for to-night,” answered Malletort. “There is no time
for your Highness to show yourself in public, and return here for a
change of dress. Moreover, your disguise cannot be properly accomplished
in a hurry, and to be late by five minutes would render all our plans
useless. You have promised to trust everything to me, and if your
Highness will be guided by my directions, I can insure you an undoubted
success. Give me your attention, I entreat, monsieur, whilst once more I
recapitulate my plan.”
“You dismiss, now, on the instant, all your valets, except Robecque, on
whom we can depend. With his assistance and mine, you disguise yourself
as an officer of Musketeers—Grey, of course, since that company furnishes
the guard of to-night. Your Highness can thus pass through their posts,
without remark, on giving the countersign supplied this morning by
yourself. An escort will be provided from the barracks, at the last
moment, by Marshal de Villeroy’s orders, without consulting the officer
of the guard. This arrangement is indispensable in case of accidents.
Every contingency has been anticipated, yet swords might be drawn, and
though your Highness loves the clash of steel, the most valuable life in
France must not be risked even for such a prize. Ah! you may trust us men
of peace to take precautions; and, in _our_ profession, when we act with
the strong hand, we think we cannot make the hand _too_ strong.
“Nevertheless, I anticipate no difficulties whatever. Your Highness, as
a gallant Musketeer, will enter the garden of the Hesperides without
opposition. There is no dragon that I know of, though people sometimes
pay your humble servant the compliment of believing him to hold that
post; and once within, it wants but a bold hand to pluck the fruit from
the bough. Win it then, my Prince, and wear it happily. Nay, forget
not hereafter, that many a man less favoured would have bartered life
willingly but to lie prostrate under the tree and look his last on the
tempting beauty of the golden apple he might never hope to reach.”
There was something unusual in the Abbé’s tone, and the Duke, glancing in
his face, thought he had turned very pale; but in another moment he was
smiling pleasantly at his own awkwardness, while he assisted the Regent
into the uniform, and fitted on the accoutrements of a Musketeer.
It took some little time, and cost many remonstrances from Robecque,
who was not gifted with a military eye, to complete the transformation.
Nevertheless, by dint of persuasion and perseverance, the moustaches were
at length blacked and twisted, the belts adjusted, the boots wrinkled,
and the hat cocked with that mixture of ease, fierceness, good-humour
and assumption, which was indispensable to a proper conception of the
character—a true rendering of the part.
It was somewhat against the grain to resign for a while the attitudes and
gestures of Henri Quatre, but even such a sacrifice was little regretted
when the Duke scanned himself from top to toe in a long mirror, with a
smile of undisguised satisfaction at the result of his toilet.
“’Tis the garrison type to the life!” said he, exultingly. “Guard-room,
parade, and bivouac combined. Abbé! Abbé! what a flower of Musketeers she
spoiled when blind Fortune made me Regent of France!”