THE DAUPHINESS' RECEPTION.
On the following day, Compiegne was intoxicated and transported. The
people had not slept through the night from getting ready to welcome
the bride of the prince royal.
Latin, French, and German inscriptions adorned the evergreen arches,
wound with garlands of roses and lilac.
The royal prince had come down in the night _incog_, with his two
brothers, and they had ridden out to meet the princess from Austria.
The gallant idea had not come to the dauphin of his own impulse, but
from his tutor, Lord Lavauguyon, who had been instructed by the king on
the proper line of conduct to be followed by the heir to the throne.
Previous sovereigns had also taken this kind of preliminary view of the
fated spouse, without the veil of etiquette.
The eldest prince rode out, grave, and his two brothers, smiling.
At half after eight, they came back; the dauphin serious as when
he started, Provence almost sulky, and Artois gayer than at the
outset. The first was disquieted, the second envious, and the last
delighted--for all had found the lady most lovely. Thus each betrayed
his temperament.
At the meeting of the two parties, that of the king and the bride
of his son, all got out of the carriages, except the king and the
archduchess. Around the dauphin were all the young nobles, while the
old nobility clustered round the king.
The lady's carriage door opened, and the Austrian princess sprang
lightly to the ground. As she advanced toward the royal coach, Louis
had the door opened, and eagerly stepped out.
The princess had so exactly calculated the steps that she threw herself
on her knees just as he alighted. He stooped to lift her up, and kissed
her affectionately, covering her with a look which caused her to redden.
She blushed again as the dauphin was presented to her. She had pleasant
words to say to all the royal princes and princesses. But here came a
hitch, till the king, glancing around, spied the Countess Dubarry, and
took her hand.
Everybody stepped aloof, so that the sovereign was left alone with his
favorite and the new arrival.
"I present the Countess Dubarry, my dearest friend!"
The Austrian turned pale, but the most kindly smile glittered on her
blanching lips.
"Your majesty is very happy in having so lovely a friend," she said,
"and I am not surprised at the attachment she inspires."
All looked on with astonishment approaching stupefaction. It was
evident that the new-comer was repeating the Austrian court's
instructions--perhaps her mother's own words.
While the princess entered the royal coach, passing the Duke of
Choisuel without noticing him, the church bells clanged. Countess
Dubarry radiantly got into her coach, up to the door of which came
Chevalier Jean.
"Do you know who that young whippersnapper is?" he asked, pointing to a
horseman at the dauphiness' coach window. "That is Philip of Taverney,
who gave me that sword thrust."
"Well, who is the beautiful girl with whom he is talking?"
"His sister, and to my mind you have the same need to beware of that
girl as I of her brother."
"You are mad."
"I have my wits about me. I shall keep an eye on the blade anyhow."
"And I shall watch the budding beauty."
"Hush!" said Jean; "here comes your friend Richelieu."
"What is wrong, my dear duke? You look discontented," said the
countess, with her sweetest smile.
"Does it not strike your ladyship that we are all very dull, not to say
sad, for such a joyous affair? I can recall going out to meet another
princess for the royal couch, amiable like this one, and as fair. It
was the dauphin's mother. We were all jolly. Is it because we were
younger?"
"No, my dear marshal, it is because the monarchy is older."
All who heard shuddered at this voice behind the duke. He turned and
saw an elderly gentleman, stylish in appearance, who laid his hand on
his shoulder as he smiled misanthropically.
"Gads my life! it is Baron Taverney. Countess," added the duke, "here
is one of my oldest friends, for whom I beg your kindness--Baron
Taverney of Redcastle."
"The father of that pair," said Jean and Jeanne to themselves, as they
bowed in salutation.
"My lords and gentlemen," shouted the grand master of ceremonies, "to
your places in the coaches."
The two aged nobles bowed to the favorite and her brother, and went
into the same vehicle, glad to be united after long absence.
"What do you say to that? I do not like the old fellow a whit better
than the cubs," said Jean Dubarry.
"What a pity that the little imp, Gilbert, ran away. As he was brought
up in their house, he might furnish particulars about the family," said
the countess.
The dialogue was broken off by the movement of all the carriages.
After a night at Compiegne, the united courts--the sundown of one era,
the sunburst of another--swept intermingled on to Paris, that gulf
which was to swallow up the whole of them.