Monsieur de Menneval was, at all points, a cavalier who yielded nothing
to his rival, Monsieur de Beaugency. He was fair. He had a blue eye, a
broad forehead, a mouth that wore a dreamy expression, and that somewhat
pensive air which became so well the Troubadours of France in the olden
time.
We cannot say whether Monsieur de Menneval had perpetrated verse; but he
loved the poets, the arts, the quiet of the fields, the sunsets, the
rosy dawn, the breeze sighing through the foliage, the low and
mysterious tones of a harp, sounding at eve from the light bark
shooting over the blue waters of the Loire--all things in short that
harmonize with that melodious concert of the heart, which passes by the
name of love.
He was timid, but he passionately loved the beautiful widow; and his
dearest dream was of passing his whole life at her feet, in well chosen
retirement, far from those envious lookers-on who are ever ready to
fling their sarcasms on quiet happiness, and who dissemble their envy
under cloak of a philosophic scepticism.
He trembled, as he entered the Marchioness's boudoir. He remained
standing before her, and blushed as he kissed her hand. At length,
encouraged by a smile, emboldened by the solemnity of this coveted
interview, he spoke to her of his love, with a poetic simplicity and an
unpremeditated warmth of heart--the genuine enthusiasm of a priest, who
has faith in the object of his adoration.
And as he spoke, the Marchioness sighed, and said within herself:
"He is right. Love is happiness. Love is to be two indeed, but one at
the same time; and to be free from those importunate intermeddlers, the
indifference or the mocking attention of the world."
She remembered, however, the advice of the King, and thus addressed the
Baron:
"What will you indeed do, in order to convince me of your affection?"
"All that man can do."
The Baron was less bold than Monsieur de Beaugency, who had talked of
conquering a throne. He was probably more sincere.
"I am ambitious," said the widow.
"Ah!" replied Monsieur de Menneval, sorrowfully.
"And I would that the man, whom I marry, should aspire to every thing,
and achieve every thing."
"I will try so to do, if you wish it."
"Listen; I give you an hour to reflect. I am, you know, the King's
god-daughter. I have begged of him an embassy for you."
"Ah!" said Monsieur de Menneval, with indifference.
"He has granted my request. If you love me, you will accept the offer.
We will be married this evening, and your Excellency the Ambassador to
Prussia will set off for Berlin immediately after the nuptials. Reflect;
I grant you an hour."
"It is useless," answered Monsieur de Menneval; "I have no need of
reflection, for I love you. Your wishes are my orders: to obey you is my
only desire. I accept the embassy."
"Never mind!" said she, trembling with joy and blushing deeply. "Pass
into the room, wherein you were just now waiting. I must complete my
toilet, and I shall then be at your service. I will summon you."
The Marchioness handed out the Baron by the right-hand door, as she had
handed out the Marquis by the left; and then said to herself:
"I shall be prettily embarrassed, if Monsieur de Beaugency should
consent to end his days at Courlac!"
Thereupon, the King removed the screen and reappeared.
His Majesty stepped quietly to the round table, whereupon he had
replaced the oranges, and took up one of them.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Marchioness, "I perceive, Sire, that you foresee the
difficulty that is about to spring up, and go back accordingly to the
oranges, in order to settle it."
As his sole reply, Louis XV. took a small ivory handled pen-knife from
his waistcoat pocket, made an incision in the rind of the orange, peeled
it off very neatly, divided the fruit into two parts, and offered one to
the astonished Marchioness.
"But, Sire, what are you doing?" was her eager inquiry.
"You see that I am eating the orange."
"But--"
"It was of no manner of use to us."
"You have decided then?"
"Unquestionably. Monsieur de Menneval loves you better than Monsieur de
Beaugency."
"That is not quite certain yet; let us wait."
"Look," said the King, pointing to the valet, who entered with a note
from the Marquis, "You'll soon see."
The widow opened the note, and read:
"Madam, I love you--Heaven is my witness; and to give you up is the
most cruel of sacrifices. But I am a gentleman. A gentleman belongs to
the King. My life, my blood are his. I cannot, without forfeit of my
loyalty, abandon his service----."
"Et cetera," chimed in the King, "as was observed by the Abbe Fleury, my
tutor. Marchioness, call in Monsieur de Menneval."
Monsieur de Menneval entered, and was greatly troubled to see the King
in the widow's boudoir.
"Baron," said his Majesty, "Monsieur de Beaugency was deeply in love
with the Marchioness; but he was more deeply still in love--since he
would not renounce it, to please her--with the embassy to Prussia. And
you, you love the Marchioness so much better than you love me, that you
would only enter my service for her sake. This leads me to believe that
you would be but a lukewarm public servant, and that Monsieur de
Beaugency will make an excellent ambassador. He will start for Berlin
this evening; and you shall marry the Marchioness. I will be present at
the ceremony."
"Marchioness," whispered Louis XV. in the ear of his god-daughter, "true
love is that which does not shrink from a sacrifice."
And the King peeled the second orange and eat it, as he placed the hand
of the widow in that of the Baron.
"I have been making three persons happy: the Marchioness, whose
indecision I have relieved; the Baron, who shall marry her; and Monsieur
do Beaugency, who will perchance prove a sorry ambassador. In all this,
I have only neglected my own interests, for I have been eating the
oranges without sugar.... And yet they pretend to say that I am a
selfish Monarch?"