In 1658, at the corner of the streets Git-le-Coeur and Le Hurepoix (the
site of the latter being now occupied by the Quai des Augustins as far
as Pont Saint-Michel), stood the great mansion which Francis I had
bought and fitted up for the Duchesse d'Etampes. It was at this period
if not in ruins at least beginning to show the ravages of time. Its rich
interior decorations had lost their splendour and become antiquated.
Fashion had taken up its abode in the Marais, near the Place Royale, and
it was thither that profligate women and celebrated beauties now enticed
the humming swarm of old rakes and young libertines. Not one of them all
would have thought of residing in the mansion, or even in the quarter,
wherein the king's mistress had once dwelt. It would have been a step
downward in the social scale, and equivalent to a confession that their
charms were falling in the public estimation. Still, the old palace was
not empty; it had, on the contrary, several tenants. Like the provinces
of Alexander's empire, its vast suites of rooms had been subdivided; and
so neglected was it by the gay world that people of the commonest
description strutted about with impunity where once the proudest nobles
had been glad to gain admittance. There in semi-isolation and despoiled
of her greatness lived Angelique-Louise de Guerchi, formerly companion
to Mademoiselle de Pons and then maid of honour to Anne of Austria. Her
love intrigues and the scandals they gave rise to had led to her
dismissal from court. Not that she was a greater sinner than many who
remained behind, only she was unlucky enough or stupid enough to be
found out. Her admirers were so indiscreet that they had not left her a
shred of reputation, and in a court where a cardinal is the lover of a
queen, a hypocritical appearance of decorum is indispensable to success.
So Angelique had to suffer for the faults she was not clever enough to
hide. Unfortunately for her, her income went up and down with the number
and wealth of her admirers, so when she left the court all her
possessions consisted of a few articles she had gathered together out of
the wreck of her former luxury, and these she was now selling one by one
to procure the necessaries of life, while she looked back from afar with
an envious eye at the brilliant world from which she had been exiled,
and longed for better days. All hope was not at an end for her. By a
strange law which does not speak well for human nature, vice finds
success easier to attain than virtue. There is no courtesan, no matter
how low she has fallen, who cannot find a dupe ready to defend against
the world an honour of which no vestige remains. A man who doubts the
virtue of the most virtuous woman, who shows himself inexorably severe
when he discovers the lightest inclination to falter in one whose
conduct has hitherto been above reproach, will stoop and pick up out of
the gutter a blighted and tarnished reputation and protect and defend it
against all slights, and devote his life to the attempt to restore
lustre to the unclean thing dulled by the touch of many fingers. In her
days of prosperity Commander de Jars and the king's treasurer had both
fluttered round Mademoiselle de Guerchi, and neither had fluttered in
vain. Short as was the period necessary to overcome her scruples, in as
short a period it dawned on the two candidates for her favour that each
had a successful rival in the other, and that however potent as a reason
for surrender the doubloons of the treasurer had been, the personal
appearance of the commander had proved equally cogent. As both had felt
for her only a passing fancy and not a serious passion, their
explanations with each other led to no quarrel between them; silently
and simultaneously they withdrew from her circle, without even letting
her know they had found her out, but quite determined to revenge,
themselves on her should a chance ever offer. However, other affairs of
a similar nature had intervened to prevent their carrying out this
laudable intention; Jeannin had laid siege to a more inaccessible
beauty, who had refused to listen to his sighs for less than 30 crowns,
paid in advance, and de Jars had become quite absorbed by his adventure
with the convent boarder at La Raquette, and the business of that young
stranger whom he passed off as his nephew. Mademoiselle de Guerchi had
never seen them again; and with her it was out of sight out of mind. At
the moment when she comes into our story she was weaving her toils round
a certain Duc de Vitry, whom she had seen at court, but whose
acquaintance she had never made, and who had been absent when the
scandalous occurrence which led to her disgrace came to light. He was a
man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, who idled his life
away: his courage was undoubted, and being as credulous as an old
libertine, he was ready to draw his sword at any moment to defend the
lady whose cause he had espoused, should any insolent slanderer dare to
hint there was a smirch on her virtue. Being deaf to all reports, he
seemed one of those men expressly framed by heaven to be the consolation
of fallen women; such a man as in our times a retired opera-dancer or a
superannuated professional beauty would welcome with open arms. He had
only one fault--he was married. It is true he neglected his wife,
according to the custom of the time, and it is probably also true that
his wife cared very little about his infidelities. But still she was an
insurmountable obstacle to the fulfilment of Mademoiselle de Guerchi's
hopes, who but for her might have looked forward to one day becoming a
duchess.
For about three weeks, however, at the time we are speaking of, the duke
had neither crossed her threshold nor written. He had told her he was
going for a few days to Normandy, where he had large estates, but had
remained absent so long after the date he had fixed for his return that
she began to feel uneasy. What could be keeping him? Some new flame,
perhaps. The anxiety of the lady was all the more keen, that until now
nothing had passed between them but looks of languor and words of love.
The duke had laid himself and all he possessed at the feet of Angelique,
and Angelique had refused his offer. A too prompt surrender would have
justified the reports so wickedly spread against her; and, made wise by
experience, she was resolved not to compromise her future as she had
compromised her past. But while playing at virtue she had also to play
at disinterestedness, and her pecuniary resources were consequently
almost exhausted. She had proportioned the length of her resistance to
the length of her purse, and now the prolonged absence of her lover
threatened to disturb the equilibrium which she had established between
her virtue and her money. So it happened that the cause of the lovelorn
Duc de Vitry was in great peril just at the moment when de Jars and
Jeannin resolved to approach the fair one anew. She was sitting lost in
thought, pondering in all good faith on the small profit it was to a
woman to be virtuous, when she heard voices in the antechamber. Then her
door opened, and the king's treasurer walked in.
As this interview and those which follow took place in the presence of
witnesses, we are obliged to ask the reader to accompany us for a time
to another part of the same house.
We have said there were several tenants: now the person who occupied the
rooms next to those in which Mademoiselle de Guerchi lived was a
shopkeeper's widow called Rapally, who was owner of one of the
thirty-two houses which then occupied the bridge Saint-Michel. They had
all been constructed at the owner's cost, in return for a lease for
ever. The widow Rapally's avowed age was forty, but those who knew her
longest added another ten years to that: so, to avoid error, let us say
she was forty-five. She was a solid little body, rather stouter than was
necessary for beauty; her hair was black, her complexion brown, her eyes
prominent and always moving; lively, active, and if one once yielded to
her whims, exacting beyond measure; but until then buxom and soft, and
inclined to pet and spoil whoever, for the moment, had arrested her
volatile fancy. Just as we make her acquaintance this happy individual
was a certain Maitre Quennebert, a notary of Saint Denis, and the comedy
played between him and the widow was an exact counterpart of the one
going on in the rooms of Mademoiselle de Guerchi, except that the roles
were inverted; for while the lady was as much in love as the Duc de
Vitry, the answering devotion professed by the notary was as insincere
as the disinterested attachment to her lover displayed by the whilom
maid of honour.
Maitre Quennebert was still young and of attractive appearance, but his
business affairs were in a bad way. For long he had been pretending not
to understand the marked advances of the widow, and he treated her with
a reserve and respect she would fain have dispensed with, and which
sometimes made her doubt of his love. But it was impossible for her as a
woman to complain, so she was forced to accept with resignation the
persistent and unwelcome consideration with which he surrounded her.
Maitre Quennebert was a man of common sense and much experience, and had
formed a scheme which he was prevented from carrying out by an obstacle
which he had no power to remove. He wanted, therefore, to gain time, for
he knew that the day he gave the susceptible widow a legal right over
him he would lose his independence. A lover to whose prayers the adored
one remains deaf too long is apt to draw back in discouragement, but a
woman whose part is restricted to awaiting those prayers, and answering
with a yes or no, necessarily learns patience. Maitre Quennebert would
therefore have felt no anxiety as to the effect of his dilatoriness on
the widow, were it not for the existence of a distant cousin of the late
Monsieur Rapally, who was also paying court to her, and that with a
warmth much greater than had hitherto been displayed by himself. This
fact, in view of the state of the notary's affairs, forced him at last
to display more energy. To make up lost ground and to outdistance his
rival once more, he now began to dazzle the widow with fine phrases and
delight her with compliments; but to tell the truth all this trouble was
superfluous; he was beloved, and with one fond look he might have won
pardon for far greater neglect.
An hour before the treasurer's arrival there had been a knock at the
door of the old house, and Maitre Quennebert, curled, pomaded, and
prepared for conquest, had presented himself at the widow's. She
received him with a more languishing air than usual, and shot such
arrows at him froth her eyes that to escape a fatal wound he pretended
to give way by degrees to deep sadness. The widow, becoming alarmed,
asked with tenderness--
"What ails you this evening?"
He rose, feeling he had nothing to fear from his rival, and, being
master of the field, might henceforth advance or recede as seemed best
for his interests.
"What ails me?" he repeated, with a deep sigh. "I might deceive you,
might give you a misleading answer, but to you I cannot lie. I am in
great trouble, and how to get out of it I don't know."
"But tell me what it is," said the widow, standing up in her turn.
Maitre Quennebert took three long strides, which brought him to the far
end of the room, and asked--
"Why do you want to know? You can't help me. My trouble is of a kind a
man does not generally confide to women."
"What is it? An affair of honour?
"Yes."
"Good God! You are going to fight!" she exclaimed, trying to seize him
by the arm. "You are going to fight!"
"Ah! if it were nothing worse than that!" said Quennebert, pacing up and
down the room: "but you need not be alarmed; it is only a money trouble.
I lent a large sum, a few months ago, to a friend, but the knave has run
away and left me in the lurch. It was trust money, and must be replaced
within three days. But where am I to get two thousand francs?"
"Yes, that is a large sum, and not easy to raise at such short notice."
"I shall be obliged to have recourse to some Jew, who will drain me dry.
But I must save my good name at all costs."
Madame Rapally gazed at him in consternation. Maitre Quennebert,
divining her thought, hastened to add--
"I have just one-third of what is needed."
"Only one-third?"
"With great care, and by scraping together all I possess, I can make up
eight hundred livres. But may I be damned in the next world, or punished
as a swindler in this, and one's as bad as the other to me, if I can
raise one farthing more."
"But suppose someone should lend you the twelve hundred francs, what
then?"
"Pardieu! I should accept them," cried the notary as if he had not the
least suspicion whom she could mean. "Do you happen to know anyone, my
dear Madame Rapally?"
The widow nodded affirmatively, at the same time giving him a passionate
glance.
"Tell me quick the name of this delightful person, and I shall go to him
to-morrow morning. You don't know what a service you are rendering me.
And I was so near not telling you of the fix I was in, lest you should
torment yourself uselessly. Tell me his name."
"Can you not guess it?"
"How should I guess it?"
"Think well. Does no one occur to you?"
"No, no one," said Quennebert, with the utmost innocence.
"Have you no friends?"
"One or two."
"Would they not be glad to help you?"
"They might. But I have mentioned the matter to no one."
"To no one?"
"Except you."
"Well?"
"Well, Madame Rapally--I hope I don't understand you; it's not possible;
you would not humiliate me. Come, come, it's a riddle, and I am too
stupid to solve it. I give it up. Don't tantalise me any longer; tell me
the name."
The widow, somewhat abashed by this exhibition of delicacy on the part
of Maitre Quennebert, blushed, cast down her eyes, and did not venture
to speak.
As the silence lasted some time, it occurred to the notary that he had
been perhaps too hasty in his supposition, and he began to cast round
for the best means of retrieving his blunder.
"You do not speak," he said; "I see it was all a joke."
"No," said the widow at last in a timid voice, "it was no joke; I was
quite in earnest. But the way you take things is not very encouraging."
"What do you mean?"
"Pray, do you imagine that I can go on while you glare at me with that
angry frown puckering your forehead, as if you had someone before you
who had tried to insult you?"
A sweet smile chased the frown from the notary's brow. Encouraged by the
suspension of hostilities, Madame Rapally with sudden boldness
approached him, and, pressing one of his hands in both her own,
whispered--
"It is I who am going to lend you the money."
He repulsed her gently, but with an air of great dignity, and said--
"Madame, I thank you, but I cannot accept."
"Why can't you?"
At this he began to walk round and round the room, while the widow, who
stood in the middle, turned as upon a pivot, keeping him always in view.
This circus-ring performance lasted some minutes before Quennebert stood
still and said--
"I cannot be angry with you, Madame Rapally, I know your offer was made
out of the kindness of your heart,--but I must repeat that it is
impossible for me to accept it."
"There you go again! I don't understand you at all! Why can't you
accept? What harm would it do?"
"If there were no other reason, because people might suspect that I
confided my difficulties to you in the hope of help."
"And supposing you did, what then? People speak hoping to be understood.
You wouldn't have minded asking anyone else."
"So you really think I did come in that hope?"
"Mon Dieu! I don't think anything at all that you don't want. It was I
who dragged the confidence from you by my questions, I know that very
well. But now that you have told me your secret, how can you hinder me
from sympathising with you, from desiring to aid you? When I learned
your difficulty, ought I to have been amused, and gone into fits of
laughter? What! it's an insult to be in a position to render you a
service! That's a strange kind of delicacy!"
"Are you astonished that I should feel so strongly about it?"
"Nonsense! Do you still think I meant to offend you? I look on you as
the most honourable man in the world. If anyone were to tell me that he
had seen you commit a base action, I should reply that it was a lie.
Does that satisfy you?"
"But suppose they got hold of it in the city, suppose it were reported
that Maitre Quennebert had taken money from Madame de Rapally, would it
be the same as if they said Maitre Quennebert had borrowed twelve
hundred livres from Monsieur Robert or some other business man?"
"I don't see what difference it could make."
"But I do."
"What then?"
"It's not easy to express, but----"
"But you exaggerate both the service and the gratitude you ought to
feel. I think I know why you refuse. You're ashamed to take it as a
gift, aren't you."
"Yes, I am."
"Well, I'm not going to make you a gift. Borrow twelve hundred livres
from me. For how long do you want the money?"
"I really don't know how soon I can repay you."
"Let's say a year, and reckon the interest. Sit down there, you baby,
and write out a promissory note."
Maitre Quennebert made some further show of resistance, but at last
yielded to the widow's importunity. It is needless to say that the whole
thing was a comedy on his part, except that he really needed the money.
But he did not need it to replace a sum of which a faithless friend had
robbed him, but to satisfy his own creditors, who, out of all patience
with him, were threatening to sue him, and his only reason for seeking
out Madame de Rapally was to take advantage of her generous disposition
towards himself. His feigned delicacy was intended to induce her to
insist so urgently, that in accepting he should not fall too much in her
esteem, but should seem to yield to force. And his plan met with
complete success, for at the end of the transaction he stood higher than
ever in the opinion of his fair creditor, on account of the noble
sentiments he had expressed. The note was written out in legal form and
the money counted down on the spot.
"How glad I am!" said she then, while Quennebert still kept up some
pretence of delicate embarrassment, although he could not resist casting
a stolen look at the bag of crowns lying on the table beside his cloak.
"Do you intend to go back to Saint Denis to-night?"
Even had such been his intention, the notary would have taken very good
care not to say so; for he foresaw the accusations of imprudence that
would follow, the enumeration of the dangers by the way; and it was
quite on the cards even that, having thus aroused his fears, his fair
hostess should in deference to them offer him hospitality for the night,
and he did not feel inclined for an indefinitely prolonged tete-a-tete.
"No;" he said, "I am going to sleep at Maitre Terrasson's, rue des
Poitevins; I have sent him word to expect me. But although his house is
only a few yards distant, I must leave you earlier than I could have
wished, on account of this money."
"Will you think of me?"
"How can you ask?" replied Quennebert, with a sentimental expression.
"You have compelled me to accept the money, but--I shall not be happy
till I have repaid you. Suppose this loan should make us fall out?"
"You may be quite sure that if you don't pay when the bill falls due, I
shall have recourse to the law."
"Oh, I know that very well."
"I shall enforce all my rights as a creditor."
"I expect nothing else."
"I shall show no pity."
And the widow gave a saucy laugh and shook her finger at him.
"Madame Rapally," said the notary, who was most anxious to bring this
conversation to an end, dreading every moment that it would take a
languishing tone,-"Madame Rapally, will you add to your goodness by
granting me one more favour?"
"What is it?"
"The gratitude that is simulated is not difficult to bear, but genuine,
sincere gratitude, such as I feel, is a heavy burden, as I can assure
you. It is much easier to give than to receive. Promise me, then, that
from now till the year is up there shall be no more reference between us
to this money, and that we shall go on being good friends as before.
Leave it to me to make arrangements to acquit myself honourably of my
obligations towards you. I need say no more; till a year's up, mum's the
word."
"It shall be as you desire, Maitre Quennebert," answered Madame Rapally,
her eyes shining with delight. "It was never my intention to lay you
under embarrassing obligations, and I leave it all to you. Do you know
that I am beginning to believe in presentiments?"
"You becoming superstitious! Why, may I ask?"
"I refused to do a nice little piece of ready-money business this
morning."
"Did you?"
"Yes, because I had a sort of feeling that made me resist all temptation
to leave myself without cash. Imagine! I received a visit to-day from a
great lady who lives in this house--in the suite of apartments next to
mine."
"What is her name?"
"Mademoiselle de Guerchi."
"And what did she want with you?"
"She called in order to ask me to buy, for four hundred livres, some of
her jewels which are well worth six hundred, for I understand such
things; or should I prefer it to lend her that sum and keep the jewels
as security? It appears that mademoiselle is in great straits. De
Guerchi--do you know the name?"
"I think I have heard it."
"They say she has had a stormy past, and has been greatly talked of; but
then half of what one hears is lies. Since she came to live here she has
been very quiet. No visitors except one--a nobleman, a duke--wait a
moment! What's his name? The Duc-Duc de Vitry; and for over three weeks
even he hasn't been near her. I imagine from this absence that they have
fallen out, and that she is beginning to feel the want of money."
"You seem to be intimately acquainted with this young woman's affairs."
"Indeed I am, and yet I never spoke to her till this morning."
"How did you get your information, then?"
"By chance. The room adjoining this and one of those she occupies were
formerly one large room, which is now divided into two by a partition
wall covered with tapestry; but in the two corners the plaster has
crumbled away with time, and one can see into the room through slits in
the tapestry without being seen oneself. Are you inquisitive?"
"Not more than you, Madame Rapally."
"Come with me. Someone knocked at the street door a few moments ago;
there's no one else in the douse likely to have visitors at this hour.
Perhaps her admirer has come back."
"If so, we are going to witness a scene of recrimination or
reconciliation. How delightful!"
Although he was not leaving the widow's lodgings, Maitre Quennebert took
up his hat and cloak and the blessed bag of crown pieces, and followed
Madame Rapally on tiptoe, who on her side moved as slowly as a tortoise
and as lightly as she could. They succeeded in turning the handle of the
door into the next room without making much noise.
"'Sh!" breathed the widow softly; "listen, they are speaking."
She pointed to the place where he would find a peep-hole in one corner
of the room, and crept herself towards the corresponding corner.
Quennebert, who was by no means anxious to have her at his side,
motioned to her to blow out the light. This being done, he felt secure,
for he knew that in the intense darkness which now enveloped them she
could not move from her place without knocking against the furniture
between them, so he glued his face to the partition. An opening just
large enough for one eye allowed him to see everything that was going on
in the next room. Just as he began his observations, the treasurer at
Mademoiselle de Guerchi's invitation was about to take a seat near her,
but not too near for perfect respect. Both of them were silent, and
appeared to labour under great embarrassment at finding themselves
together, and explanations did not readily begin. The lady had not an
idea of the motive of the visit, and her quondam lover feigned the
emotion necessary to the success of his undertaking. Thus Maitre
Quennebert had full time to examine both, and especially Angelique. The
reader will doubtless desire to know what was the result of the notary's
observation.