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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE MAID OF HONOUR
THE MAID OF HONOUR
A Tale of the Dark Days of France
BY
THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD
AUTHOR OF
"LADY GRIZEL," "THE LORDS OF STROGUE," "ABIGEL ROWE"
ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_
VOL. I.
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1891
[_All Rights Reserved_]
TO
WILLIAM HENRY WELDON.
A TRIBUTE
OF OLD FRIENDSHIP.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
On The Volcano, 1789
CHAPTER II.
Husband And Wife.
CHAPTER III.
Investigation.
CHAPTER IV.
The Chateau Of Lorge.
CHAPTER V.
The Half-brothers.
CHAPTER VI.
Temptation.
CHAPTER VII.
A Terrible Discovery.
CHAPTER VIII.
A New Arrival.
CHAPTER IX.
Thunder Clouds.
CHAPTER X.
The Magic Tub.
THE MAID OF HONOUR.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE VOLCANO, 1789.
Although there was no cash in silken fob or broidered pocket, the
Elect denied themselves no luxury. Bejewelled Fashion was sumptuously
clad: my ladies quarrelled and intrigued, danced and gambled--my lords
slept off the fumes of wine, and mopped the wounds begot of midnight
brawl; then drank and fought again.
Money? No credit even. Trade was at a standstill, yet the court was
uproariously gay.
Money and credit--sinews of pleasure as well as business--having
flitted from lively Paris, you might suppose that the wheels of
Society would cease to turn--that the flower-decked car of gilded
Juggernaut would come creeping to a standstill. Not yet. Impelled by
the impulse of its own velocity, it continued to crush on awhile.
Those who knew were numbed by the chill shadow of the inevitable, or
rendered callous by the knowledge of their helplessness. Those who
were deaf and blind groped blissfully on in their lighthearted
ignorance. Selfish all, depraved most, the blue-blooded sang in merry
chorus, "Let us eat and drink that the worms may grow fat on us." Not
so the gaunt crowds whose blood was but mud and water. As their
long-suffering ancestors had monotonously done, they groaned in
unison, crying to God for death, as the only release from misery.
What if whole villages were decimated by famine? What if plague and
starvation stalked through the towns? My lords and my ladies cared
not, for they were poised too high to see. Were the grovelling
creatures slaves or insects? Slaves, for they delved patiently, with
moans that were vain bleatings as of sheep; whereas outraged insects
for the most part sting.
We all know that the first duty of serfs is to labour for their
betters: their second, when the worn machinery is out of gear, to
retire underground with promptitude. How unseemly--nay, revolting,
therefore, is their conduct when, weary of groaning and of
teeth-gnashing, they belabour with fists instead!
The scene we look upon is a tranquil and a pretty one, despite certain
vague and ominous rumours which, intangible, permeate the air. The
favourite saloon of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of
the Tuileries, is a small, square chamber decorated with raised
garlands, flutes, and tambourines in carved wood, painted a dead
white, mellowed now by the glimmer of many candles, shaded. Curtains
and furniture are yellow, embroidered with gold; the bare floor is
waxed and polished, reflecting the costly and varied rainbow garb of
some forty assembled guests. Through open casements--it is a warm
evening in July--we mark the majestic outline of the venerable Louvre
cut black against the blue--a calm unclouded blue, loftily oblivious
of angry curls of darkling smoke which two days since uprose from the
ruins of the stormed Bastile. Doors as well as windows are spread wide
to woo the air; a bevy of ladies, glittering with gems, are fanning
themselves languidly. Through the portals on the right you obtain a
glimpse of the remains of supper: a dainty repast, fit for fastidious
fairies; such an ideal cosy feast as the queen loved to conjure for
her familiars. Through the left door we may perceive an array of green
tables with gilt legs, at which gentlemen clad in satins of delicate
hue are squabbling over the devil's books. Their voices from time to
time grow angry, their talk unduly loud. But for the adjacent presence
of the queen, swords might be drawn and blood spilt. Young Monsieur de
Castellane, officer in the Swiss Guard, has just lost his paternal
acres to the Marquis de Gange, a fact which, in the latter, seems to
evoke no sign of interest. With the usual luck of players who are
quite indifferent, Fortune had befriended the marquis, and yet, as
things were, the prize was an empty bauble--a mere meaningless array
of lands with high-sounding names which looked vastly well--on paper.
The Marquis de Gange was an absentminded person, given to reverie and
the contemplation of the infinite, and it is somewhat annoying to lose
even paper property to one so utterly unappreciative.
Roused by the congratulations of the surrounding group of butterflies,
the marquis descended for a moment to earth, and laughed lightly.
"A profitable stake to win, in sooth," he observed, with a yawn.
"Castellane! I hereby resign your empty title-deeds, having quite
enough such foolish lumber of my own. Your part of the country is a
caldron, mine is a furnace. Thank heaven, my wife's estates are in a
land of peace, or, like many more, we should be beggars."
"It is not given to everyone to mate with a great heiress," remarked
rueful Castellane, feeling in his empty pocket.
"You should look out for one," said the marquis, serenely smiling,
"for you know that since the Third Estate has raised its ugly head,
you don't dare to show your nose at Castellane. The tenants would
growl of rights of man, and prod your silk stockings with their
pitchforks."
"That's true enough," sighed the young scapegrace, with a puzzled air.
"Though they deserve the galleys for their temerity, they are patted
on the back by our too lenient sovereign--a mob of insolent
ragamuffins! Last time I travelled south, I was worried to
fiddle-strings by deputations whom I declined to see--a parcel of
unpractical idiots, who, when I demanded rents, babbled of redress of
grievances. Really, de Gauge, you may keep the title-deeds, for, since
no one will lend a louis on them, they are no better than a musty
mockery."
The butterflies enjoyed the jest and laughed in chorus. There was
something delightfully whimsical about the fact that the acres for
which heroes had bled, and which had been enjoyed in majestic fashion
by a long line of noble ancestors, should--as in the fairy tale--be
transmuted into heaps of dead and mouldy leaves.
After the laugh came silence, for were they not all in the same
battered boat? No matter. Whate'er betide, they must sink or swim
together.
"Awkward customers, the Third Estate," some one remarked presently.
"That untoward matter of the Bastile may prove an evil precedent."
"Pooh!" yawned a stout old gentleman, whose weatherbeaten visage was
round and of a bluish red. "A flash in the pan--a paltry riot--a piece
of low impertinence which ministers, if they were not hopelessly
idiotic, should have foreseen and smothered. Stick to the title-deeds,
son-in-law. If you live long enough, they will be useful some day."
"No," replied de Gange, carelessly. "Thanks to you, marechal, my
nest's well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both."
The wealthy old Marechal de Breze looked pleased. When you have hit on
a suitable match for your heiress during an epidemic of impecuniosity,
it is well to be assured that the fortunate spouse is not a greedy
gold-seeker. "Clovis!" he cried heartily, "give me your hand. You are
queer and dreamy, beyond my poor comprehension; but I believe--yes, I
do!--that you are an upright and honest man!"
"Treason, marechal! High treason! How dare you say rude things of
ministers? Come and join the ladies. We affect learning, remember,
nowadays, and can bandy wisdom with the best of you!"
It was the magical voice of Marie herself, whose silver tones had
fluttered so many hearts to their undoing; whose radiant beauty and
light spirits had given rise to such dark intrigues. The gentlemen,
obeying the merry summons, streamed into the saloon, and were soon
bowing, with bent spines and squared elbows, over the tiny cups of
coffee, which, as her wont was, she distributed with her own hands.
The king was not present, for he abhorred gambling and late hours, and
on the _soirees intimes_ of his consort invariably sought refuge in
his study.
"Louise de Savoye," commanded the queen in mock tragic tones, "hand
round the cakes. Perform your office of mistress of the household.
From your fair fingers they will taste all the sweeter."
"Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid _tiers etat_," replied the
lady addressed, with a little shudder. "Those who saw the dreadful
women dancing and shouting like fiends as they marched in triumph from
the Bastile, will not forget the spectacle."
"Madame la Princesse de Lamballe was always nervous," laughed M. de
Castellane.
"Yes," replied the princess, simply. "I don't know why, but I am
desperately afraid of a mob."
"We were all a little frightened at first," observed the queen; "for
when we heard the booming of artillery which sounded so terribly
close, and beheld the infatuated madcaps carrying away their dead, we
could not comprehend the freak. 'Tis a pity it was crowned with
success, for it will put foolish ideas into ignorant minds. But it
will lead to nothing, I am assured, and all's well that ends well.
When the king announced this morning that he was going to the
Assembly, without guards or escort, I thought he must have lost his
wits; but events showed that he was wise, as he always is. His
confidence in the loyalty of the deputies combined with his simple and
touching address, excited the keenest enthusiasm. The shouting throng
escorted him on foot all the way hither to the palace. I am not
ashamed to say that as from a balcony Lamballe and I contemplated the
affecting scene of warm devotion, we clasped each other and wept."
"For every precious tear," murmured de Castellane, "we'll have the
life-drops of the canaille!"
"God forbid!" ejaculated the queen, with sudden pallor. "I wish them
no ill if they would spare his majesty their vagaries. Love them I
cannot, for I am not Christian enough to love my enemies. I wonder--I
wonder----"
"What, dear mistress?" inquired a tall young lady plainly dressed in
white, who was the most beautiful member even of that favoured circle.
"What causes our queen to wonder?"
"I wonder what will be the end--that's all, dear Gabrielle," laughed
the volatile Marie, recovering her spirits. "What will happen to me;
to our precious Lamballe; to you; to your shocking pedant of a husband
there, who as usual is in cloudland?"
The beautiful lady whom she called Gabrielle, glanced at the
abstracted Marquis de Gange, who was her husband, and shivered. There
was an odd look upon his face sometimes which she had not the wit to
decipher. What was he doing in cloudland so far removed from her?
Then, when he dropped down to earth again, he would smile vaguely but
pleasantly enough, and the strange impression would fade from her
mind. Her wistful eyes were more often fixed on him than his on hers,
which is curious, considering her beauty.
"The veil which hides the future is a precious boon," reflected the
queen, "and yet we all burn to pierce it."
"That is because we should not," observed Madame de Lamballe, with
conviction, "on the principle of Eve and the apple, you know. A
fortune-teller once took my hand to read my fortune, and what she read
on my palm was so appalling that she fainted. I have had the
discretion never to inquire further."
"Pooh, I am not so prudent," mused her majesty. "Three times have I
sought to pierce the veil, with the same result--repentance."
"I pray you in pity--hush!" implored the Marquise de Gange. "My
husband dragged me once to see a horrible old hag who lived like a
savage in a den somewhere--I know not where. She performed
incantations and drew my horoscope. It makes my flesh creep to think
of it!"
"Was it so ghastly?" inquired Marie Antoinette in a low tone of awe.
"So was mine. Horoscopes are nightmares. And so it seems was that of
our beloved Louise. I wonder--how I wonder what will be the end of
it?"
She glanced around at the company, and all looked sympathetically
glum. If the gipsies had with one accord been so audaciously rude to
the three beauties as to hint at unpleasant things in the future, what
was to be done? Was a crusade to be preached, for the annihilation of
the peccant race? Fat old de Breze might pay expenses, and, like Peter
the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Breze was a soldier who
had won his spurs, yet instead of sounding a clarion and calling
squires to arm him _cap-a-pie_, he only shuffled in his chair and
snuffled uneasily while de Castellane snorted with ardour. Clearly the
crusade was not likely to answer; it was a trifle out of date; and yet
the fact remained that the fiat of the Fates had gone forth against
the lovely trio. The Marquis de Gange was a mystic, well acquainted
with the tortuous ways and spiteful tricks of the fatal three. Perhaps
he would kindly elucidate the situation? No. His wife gazed wistfully
at him. He looked furtively at her, then, smiling, lowered his eyes,
and again sank into his accustomed reverie. The marquise sighed
deeply, and concealed her face behind her fan.
The April visage of the queen was sombre; then the cloud cleared.
"Are we not silly," she exclaimed, "to sit trembling before a bogey? A
fig for the gipsies! Despite their lugubrious hints here am I, after
over fifteen years of prosperous wedded life, queen of the land most
favoured by nature in the world, adored by my husband and my children.
What can woman desire more than complete domestic bliss? What say you,
Gabrielle?"
The Marquise de Gange, target for a circle of inquiring eyes, blushed
crimson and turned away.
"This is too good!" cried the queen in glee, drawing her friend
towards her to imprint a kiss upon her brow. "You naughty, wayward
girl! You are wicked and tempt Providence. A blush and something like
a tear--ay, and a sigh, from the bosom of Gabrielle, Marquise de
Gange--the only woman in the country who has any money--the most
beautiful girl in France, whose wonderful complexion has gained for
her the sobriquet of 'the Lily.' Yes, you are, and I admit it without
envy. Blessed with a passable husband and two lovely babes, and an
admirable mother and a doting father! Fie! You are ungrateful, but we
must not see you punished."
Marie Antoinette's enjoyment increased as she poured forth her
raillery, and marked the confusion of the marquise.
"Monsieur de Gange. Descend to earth and come into court!" she cried.
"Confess! What have you done to Gabrielle? Have you lost heavily at
cards? No? You are jealous that her name should be the toast on every
lip? No? You are put out because she understands nothing of the
philosopher's stone? Not even that? I give it up. Fortune has spoiled
you, child. As Figaro says, '_Qu'avez vous fait pour tants de biens?
Vous vous etes donnee la peine de naitre--rien de plus!_'"
The marquis made a low bow and contemplated his fair wife with a
moonlit kind of satisfaction, but answered nothing.
"He disdains to plead!" laughed Madame de Lamballe.
"Guilty or not guilty--say!" cried Marie Antoinette. "Dumb? Marechal
de Breze! we surrender to you the prisoner that you may investigate
and do your duty. We have respectful confidence in that strange
phenomenon, a rich man, at a time when all others are paupers. Look
after Gabrielle, Mr. Money-bag! Shield her from a designing husband
who, I begin to believe, conceals the raffish vices of a rake under
the mask of recondite erudition."
The Marquise de Gange was unnecessarily perturbed by the lively sally,
and tapped her wooden heel upon the floor.
"Alack, madam!" declared the marquis, compelled to speak, "I regret to
be so unmodish as to have few of the fashionable vices. Instead of
pleading in my own behalf, I would, if I dared, take up the cudgels
for another. Doctor Mesmer----"
"The arch charlatan!" exclaimed the queen, raising both hands in
protest.
"Not so. Others have aped his ways; have draped themselves in tawdry
frippery which bore some semblance to his robes. In spite of calumny,
and persecution, and fraudulent imitation and roguish arts, the master
remains the master still, although he be unjustly banished by those
whom he has benefited."
"The statue has come to life!" tittered Madame de Lamballe.
"Cagliostro was unmasked as a cheat, so the one who went before wisely
shook off his dust at him. Let us all agree to be convinced that
Mesmer is a persecuted saint. We have the marquis's word for it. Let
us have Mesmer back at once from banishment. Perchance he will employ
his occult essences to calm the Parisian mob!"
"The king will not permit him to return to France," the queen said
doubtfully; "yet as an empiric he was fascinating."
"When your majesty deigns to say I am in cloudland," remarked the
marquis, with a high-bred courtesy, in which was a tinge of scorn,
"you will understand that my spirit is on earth--at Spa--the refuge in
exile of the master."
"I see it all!" said Madame de Lamballe, flourishing her fan. "It is
Gabrielle who is jealous--and of Mesmer! What singular complications
are produced by mystical alliances. A husband has a lovely wife, for
whom everyone else is sighing, and is no whit jealous of _her_ because
he is an absorbed neophyte at the fount of wisdom. The prophet usurps
his soul and his will. Where is the poor wife then?"
"What cruel things are said in jest!" Gabrielle cried hotly, breaking
her silence at last. "I am not unhappy; and if I were, it would be no
one's concern but mine. I care no sou for Mesmer or Cagliostro, or any
of the conjuring rout. Jealous of such creatures--faugh!"
A shrunken dame who had been slumbering in a corner awoke with a
start, and guiltily conscious of a nap, became garrulous in a weak
piping treble like the irresponsible murmur of a rivulet.
"Your majesty is misinformed," she babbled plaintively. "People will
say such things, and go to mass o' Sundays. Our daughter Gabrielle is
happy as the day is long--why not? Clovis isn't jealous one bit, and
quite right too. He lets her do as she likes, go where she likes,
doesn't care where she goes. Perfect trust is a fine thing, but I
often tell him that it is rash to throw so fair a creature into
temptation, for who knows what they'll do until they are tempted?
Gabrielle, I must admit, though quite a saint, can be as provoking as
saints often were. And they, the saints, were so dreadfully frail
sometimes, and so easily forgiven, and then held up to us as patterns.
I can't quite make it out. If I had ever dreamed of doing half the
shocking things that the canonized saints did, I should---- Eh?--oh!"
With that the rivulet ceased to flow as abruptly as it had begun, and
the queen, who had with difficulty curbed her merriment, looked round
for the cause of interruption. She beheld a little stout gentleman,
with a round, blue-red face, in a state of imminent explosion. He whom
she had declared to command the respect due to wealth, showed signs of
choking from exasperation. His features had swelled till his bead-like
eyes were scarcely visible; his finger nails were clenched into his
palms. It was some seconds ere he could splutter out his spleen. Then
with a deprecating look at her majesty, he gasped out--
"Majeste, pardon her. A fool! Always and for ever a fool--and my wife
too."
Then, forgetting the presence in which he sat, he continued in white
heat--
"I'll dash your stupid head against the wall when we get home. To dare
to make your own daughter ridiculous before this company! To make your
own flesh and blood absurd, through your incorrigible idiocy! Not that
you can do it, for she's an angel straight from heaven. Provoking,
forsooth! My darling--the idol of my heart! The Marquis de Gange knows
better than to ill-treat his wife. If he did--well; old battered
soldier though I am, I'd be even with him in a way he'd not forget."
"Oh--so harsh--always so harsh!" whimpered the rivulet in choking
gasps. "Quite like dear M. Montgolfier's fire-balloon! I did not
mean----"
"Hold your tongue!" snorted the marechal in a menacing whisper--"and
wait till we get home."
The situation, like many born of jesting, grew embarrassing. Old
soldiers, especially when rich, may be allowed a certain freedom. But
the ways of the barrack-yard may not be introduced into palaces. Marie
Antoinette was not averse to a certain licence, which should banish
for the time being the buckramed etiquette that she so loathed. But a
family skeleton suddenly popping out of ambush to shake all its joints
and grin with all its teeth! How uncomely a spectacle at the
Tuileries! The assembled company, too, evidently enjoyed the fun, and
would surely spread the story all over Paris on the morrow as the
style of repartee that obtained at the queen's gatherings. If the
episode, harmless in itself, were to reach the king's ears, he would
be annoyed, and justly in such times as these, when everybody's hand
was beginning to clutch his neighbour's throat. How many an innocent
jest of Marie Antoinette's had already been built by malice into the
proportions of a mountain? Unwittingly, she had, as it appeared, set
fire to a mine. Gabrielle looked sorely distressed; her husband
sullen, in that his pleading had failed, and that he could do nothing
on behalf of the _savant_ whom he worshipped. Her mother hazily
perceived that it would be well to cork down the ebullient
effervescence of her prattle, while the beady eyes of the marechal,
moving from the husband to the wife and back again, seemed to have
detected the trace of something that was new, the discovery of which
was disconcerting.