DIANE’S OPINION
It was one thing to catch the Duke of Belgarde and another thing
to keep him. Exactly one week from the night of his arrest and
imprisonment he was once more at large, and all through the courage,
resource, and seductive powers of his quiet, sombre-eyed, shrinking
young wife. Trimousette under a sharp spur became articulate, and the
latent vast energy and spirit she possessed was instantly developed
by blows and hammerings as sparks are struck from the dull black
flint. The night of the duke’s arrest Trimousette shed not one tear
on parting with the man she loved. The duke thought her rather
insensate and would have relished a few tears from her. Nevertheless,
Trimousette straightway set her wits, which were not inconsiderable,
to work in order to help her husband. She determined to see him.
Dressing herself in her simplest gown, for she accorded best with the
note of simplicity, and going straight to Marat, the most hideous and
abominable of men, she sweetly and calmly asked him to permit her to
see her husband for one half hour to settle some family affairs. Marat
thought he had never seen a simpler, more democratic young person than
this little duchess. He was very artfully flattered by Trimousette, who
had little or no experience in that line, but who being all a woman,
succeeded admirably at the first attempt. Marat, admiring Trimousette’s
large black eyes, agreed to do what he could. These eyes, usually
so tragic, assumed a smiling and brilliant expression as soon as
Trimousette was brought face to face with danger. Within twenty-four
hours after her meeting with Marat, she was admitted to an interview
with her husband in the prison of the Temple.
Of course she was searched on entering and leaving the prison. It was
an ordeal which brought most great ladies to tears and reproaches,
but Trimousette bore it with something that savored both of dignity
and coquetry, and actually smiled when the ruffians who searched her
complimented her charming little feet. They did not observe, around the
bottom of her petticoat, yards and yards of flat silk braid, which made
really a good strong rope, nor did they discover, hidden in her thick
black hair, some gold pieces. When she was admitted to the cell of the
duke, he was the most surprised man in Paris, and more so still when
Trimousette, having suddenly found a very eloquent tongue, laid before
him a clever plan of escape, along with all the braid she was ripping
off her petticoat and the money out of her hair. The duke thought he
knew women--certainly he had seen a great deal of them ever since he
was a pretty page at the court of Louis the Fifteenth. But he had not
been much in the way of knowing true love, nor the magic which it works
in the heart of a woman.
He gazed at his wife with something like admiration for the first time,
and was very gallant to her, kissing her hand. Trimousette did not now
mistake gallantry for love. She had grown wise upon disappointments.
She remained a short half hour, and then proudly, for all her humility,
would not wait to be notified, but left her husband’s cell, bidding
him good-by again without a tear. Certainly the duke shed no tears. He
was deeply grateful to his wife and profoundly astonished at the new
attitude she assumed. Immediately he busied himself with the schemes
for his escape planned by his wife.
Three nights later, just before daylight, he dropped out of his prison
window into the garden of the Temple, and scampered off, the sentry
very obligingly turning his back until the duke was well out of sight.
Great was the hue and cry raised after the Duke of Belgarde. No
suspicion attached to his little duchess, who was then on her way to
the small castle on the Breton coast. True, she had seen the duke, but
those who knew about these things, or thought they did, declared that
she was too timid, too silent, too young to assist in the bold plan of
escape which had freed her husband.
Trimousette arrived at Boury under instructions from the duke to remain
there until she should get further directions from him. She reckoned
upon remaining a month; and stayed three years and a half.
Never in the same space of time had so much happened in any country as
in France from 1789 to 1794. The old order that had lasted a thousand
years was engulfed, and black chaos reigned. The little duchess in
the old stone castle by the sea heard the reverberating thunders, and
felt the earth rocking under her feet, and saw the crashing wreck of
monarchy. She stirred not, having been told to remain tranquilly at
Boury until her lord should send her word otherwise. The duke was in
the thick of the tumult and was in danger every hour of the day and
night. He was sometimes a fugitive for his life; again he appeared
boldly in Paris and defied arrest. He was not one of those who would
have saved poor Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette by flight.
On the contrary, being of inextinguishable courage, he advised using
the strong hand, and would have had Louis the Sixteenth show something
of the spirit of Henry the Fourth. The thing which Fernand, Duke of
Belgarde, hated most was cowardice, and through this was he absolved
from the spell of Madame de Valençay. She had fled to England and never
ceased importuning the duke by letter to run away from France. The
duke on reading these letters would dash them under foot and trample
upon them in his fury. Nor would he answer them, considering himself
insulted by them. This did not keep Madame de Valençay from writing
them, because, unlike Trimousette, she was without pride.
The duke made the handsomest possible thanks to his duchess for her
share in his escape, and really meant to show his appreciation of the
fact that she was the only woman who had ever helped him and never
bothered him. But too much was happening; rivers of blood were flowing
everywhere, and only those things which were insistent made any
impression on the duke, and Trimousette was the least insistent person
on earth.
Nothing more unlike the sweet dream which Trimousette had planned
for Boury could be imagined than the life she led there for more than
three years. She was quite alone, except for her _dame de compagnie_,
a sour old lady of whom Trimousette was mortally afraid. True, she had
with her Diane, the broken-legged hound, now blind and scarcely able to
creep at Trimousette’s heel when the two walked together upon the rocky
shore at sunset to dream of the absent one. For Trimousette felt sure
Diane dreamed of her beautiful, brilliant master. In the long evenings
spent in the gloomy old saloon Trimousette would take in her hands
Diane’s trembling paws and whisper:
“Diane, do you think he ever remembers us? Do you think he will ever
send for us?”
And Diane would give a melancholy whine, indicating that she did not
believe the duke ever would. Sure enough the duke did not send for
either his wife or his dog, and poor Diane, weary of waiting, at last
lay down quietly one night by Trimousette’s bed and was found dead
next morning.
Trimousette felt more alone than ever in her life when the poor lame
dog was dead. Soon after, she got news that Madame de Floramour had
died of chagrin at the disasters and irreligion into which France was
plunged; and last--ah, cruel stroke!--Victor fell fighting gallantly in
La Vendée.
The young duchess bore these blows in patience and silence. The duke
managed to contrive a letter of sympathy to his duchess when the soul
of Victor de Floramour was called away. The letter was very ill-spelled
and ill-written, for the duke’s accomplishments were those of Henry the
Fourth--he could drink, he could fight, and he could be gallant to the
ladies, but he could not write, although he could think excellently
well. Trimousette treasured this rude scrawl. It was the nearest to a
love letter she had ever received from any man.
[Illustration]