THE SALON OF MADAME DU MAINE
It was with no little interest that I looked about me, for the salon
of the Duchess du Maine was one of the most famous in France. My
first impression was one of disappointment, for the scene was less
striking than I had thought to find it. Groups of people were scattered
here and there down the long room, and at the farther end a little
court was gathered about a lady whom I did not doubt was the duchess
herself. There were few other women present, a circumstance which
greatly astonished me, and the men had a singular diversity of dress
and manner, betokening that it was no ordinary motive which had drawn
them together from so many ranks of life and so many strata of society.
It needed but a glance to tell me that these were not wits and beaux,
but, in Richelieu’s words, men of action. Nearly every one looked up
as we entered with, as it seemed to me, a vague air of fear, but this
vanished instantly when they saw that Richelieu was my companion.
“Ah, Mlle. de Launay,” said the duke to a young lady who hastened to us
from the nearest group, “I trust fortune is using us as we could wish?”
“Yes, fortune is with us still, M. le Duc,” she answered, smiling
brightly. “Indeed, the justice of our cause seems to have inspired an
unaccustomed constancy in that fickle dame, and she has decided to stay
with us to the end.”
“I hope it may be so.” And then, turning to me, “Permit me to present
my friend M. de Brancas, a young man of stout heart who comes from
Poitiers to seek adventure in Paris, and who, I see, has already fallen
a victim to your bright eyes.”
“In faith, ’twould take a much stouter heart than mine to resist them,”
I protested, bowing over the hand she gave me, “and I wager mine is not
the first they have made captive.”
“Oh, but the fickleness of men!” exclaimed the girl, smiling at me not
unkindly. “To-day their hearts are broken, to-morrow they are quite
healed, I know not by what wondrous surgery. I believed that in the
Chevalier de Rey I had at last found a constant man, but even he is
failing me, for his affection is decreasing regularly in a geometrical
ratio.”
“A geometrical ratio, mademoiselle?” cried Richelieu. “And pray how do
you show that?”
“’Tis very easily shown,” and her eyes were sparkling with mischief.
“You know it has been the custom of M. de Rey to accompany me home from
the salon of Madame de Tencin on such occasions as I have been there
recently, and in the course of the journey we are compelled to cross
the Place des Victoires. In the first stages of his passion M. de Rey
would walk me carefully around the sides of this square in order to
make the journey longer, but as his affection gradually cooled he took
a more direct course, until, last night, he simply traversed it in
the middle. Hence I conclude that his love has diminished in the same
proportion which exists between the diagonal of a square and its sides.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum!” cried Richelieu. “I have never heard a
geometrical proposition explained more clearly. But come, I have a
word to say to madame and must introduce my _protégé_ to her. You will
excuse us, mademoiselle?”
I should not have been sorry to remain longer where I was, but I
promised myself to seek her again before the evening closed. Richelieu
was kept busy bowing to right and left as we traversed the length of
the room, but he did not pause, though obviously many would have been
grateful for a second’s conversation with him. In a moment we reached
the group at the farther end, which separated as we approached and
opened a way to the duchess.
“Ah, Richelieu!” she cried, as soon as she perceived him; and holding
out her hands to him, “I am glad to see you, and hope you bring good
news.”
“I trust you will think it such, madame,” replied Richelieu, and he
bent over her hand and kissed it.
A curious gleam illumined the gaze she bent upon him.
“You have, then, decided?” she asked, in a voice which she endeavored
vainly to compose.
“I am at madame’s service now and always,” and he bowed again with a
certain sternness in his face and without raising his eyes.
The duchess went red, then white, and her eyes were like twin stars. I
dimly realized that she had won a great victory. An excited whispering
behind me told me that others had understood better than I.
“I thank you, M. le Duc,” she said, when her emotion permitted her to
speak. “Believe me, your devotion shall not be forgotten.”
“But I have forgotten something, madame,” cried Richelieu, gayly,
as though putting the subject behind him. “This is my friend M. de
Brancas, who has offered his sword in my service.”
“And in madame’s, should she ever have need of so feeble an
instrument,” I added. I felt rather than saw the questioning glance she
shot at Richelieu over my bowed head and the affirmative nod he gave in
reply.
“M. de Brancas is welcome,” she answered, graciously, “and his generous
offer shall be remembered. But you must excuse me, gentlemen,” she
continued, turning to the group, which had withdrawn to a little
distance, but which yet could hear every word that passed. “I have much
to do and must leave you. M. Chancel, will you kindly tell Mlle. de
Launay that I wish her to join me in the course of half an hour?”
I gazed with unfeigned interest after this remarkable woman as
she walked away, for that remarkable she was I very well knew. A
granddaughter of the Great Condé, she had been compelled by Louis XIV.
to marry the Duke du Maine, his eldest son by Madame de Montespan, an
alliance which the house of Condé had regarded as a disgrace, but which
it was powerless to prevent. This disgrace had been somewhat mitigated
in 1714, when the king had issued a decree legitimating the duke and
declaring him competent to succeed to the throne in the failure of the
legitimate line, a decree which had awakened lively dissatisfaction
among the other noble houses, who were jealous of their precedence,
and which had been the subject of no little comment even at Poitiers.
Madame du Maine had at once taken a position commensurate with this
new honor, and her salons at Sceaux and at the Tuileries were known by
reputation from the Pyrenees to the Meuse.
I had seen at a glance that she was not beautiful. Her figure was
almost infantile in its proportions, and a slightly deformed shoulder
destroyed its symmetry. Her mouth was large and her other features
irregular, but this was more than counter-balanced by the beauty and
brilliancy of her eyes. I, who had seen them blaze under the magic
of Richelieu’s words, would certainly never forget them. It was
Richelieu’s voice which aroused me from my thoughts.
“I see the people interest you, de Brancas,” he said, “and well they
may, for it is seldom indeed that one room contains so many worth
attention. That gentleman whom the duchess has just sent on an errand
to Mlle. de Launay is Lagrange Chancel, whose philippics have driven so
many thorns into the side of the regent. For myself, I confess I deem
the sword a better weapon of warfare than the pen, but each has its
uses. That man over there in black and with the air of a bourgeois is
de Mesmes, president of parliament, through whom we hope to be able to
do great things.”
“Great things?” I asked. “I do not understand, monsieur.”
“You will in time,” he answered, smiling. “Till then have patience.
Yonder handsome churchman is the Cardinal de Polignac, who affects to
be absorbed in a new Latin poem, but who is really interested only in
politics, and in whom I have little faith. There is Malesieu, madame’s
tutor, who was wont to bore us nearly to death reading the tragedies
of Sophocles when the Honey Bees met at Sceaux. There is the Abbé
Chaulieu, whose age cannot dim the brightness of his wit nor lessen the
lightness of his heart. And there is Saint Aulaire, whose eighty years
do not prevent him entertaining a hopeless passion for the duchess, but
who knows nothing of politics and cares less, and who, consequently, is
no longer in favor.”
“But, monsieur,” I protested, “even I can see that this is no ordinary
salon. These are not wits nor poets. They are not disputing. They are
not even gossiping. They are talking in undertones. They have an air of
I know not what,--of plotting, of intrigue,--some of them even of fear.”
“You have come dangerously near the truth, my friend,” and Richelieu
glanced about to see that no one heard. “They do intrigue, they are
plotting, and some of them do fear.”
“But what are they plotting? Whom do they fear?” I questioned,
determined to get to the bottom of this riddle if I could.
Again Richelieu glanced about him, and at that moment Polignac touched
him on the arm.
“May I have a word with you, M. le Duc?” he asked.
“Certainly,” answered Richelieu, though I saw he was not pleased at the
interruption. “Excuse me a moment, de Brancas,” and the two stepped
to one side, engaged in earnest conversation. I glanced about me,
and seeing that Mlle. de Launay was making her adieux preparatory to
joining her mistress, hastened to her side.
“You are already famous, M. de Brancas,” she cried, as I approached
her. “Richelieu has dropped a word of it. Believe me, it is not every
one who cares to cross swords with the rogues of Cartouche, or who
values his purse more highly than his head. Perhaps you had some
keepsake in yours, monsieur, which made it doubly precious,” she added,
mischievously.
“No, mademoiselle,” I answered; “and yet, I was loath to part with it,
else I should have had no proper receptacle in which to place that
ribbon which you wear in your hair and which you are going to give me
presently.”
“Oh, am I?” she exclaimed, as her hand mechanically sought her hair and
she looked into my eyes. “Well, take it,” and she handed me the ribbon.
“Such audacity deserves reward. No one would for a moment suspect you
were from the provinces, M. de Brancas,” she added.
“Indeed, mademoiselle, I forget it myself when you are speaking,” I
answered, and she laughed merrily and bade me adieu, while I placed the
ribbon in my purse, simulating a passion which I confess I did not feel.
But I watched her pass across the room as I had watched the duchess,
for both were unusual women, and the maid’s fame was, if anything,
greater than that of the mistress. Mlle. de Launay possessed little
beauty, as I had seen for myself, and she was of obscure birth,
the daughter of a painter, it was said, of whom no one had ever
heard. But the abbess of a convent in Normandy had discovered the
child somewhere--beside her drunken father in a bottle-house, most
likely--and had taken a liking to her and given her a refuge in the
convent. She had received a brilliant education, and oddly enough, had
preferred the exact sciences to belles-lettres. Of her predilection for
geometry I had already had proof. But the abbess died and she had been
forced to leave the convent. Through the influence of friends she had
secured the position of femme du chambre to Madame du Maine, which
she had been compelled to accept to keep from starving, and it was
from that position that she had risen, by sheer force of character, to
be one of the brightest lights of the gay court at Sceaux. Every girl
in the kingdom knew the story and had resolved to profit by it, but
few had the wit to do so. It was again Richelieu who broke in upon my
thoughts.
“A remarkable woman, is she not, monsieur?” he asked, following my
eyes. “Few have yet measured the height of her talents, and no one has
sounded the depth of her heart. But come, let us go. You are to lodge
with me to-night, for I have many things to say to you.”
“Nothing would please me more, M. le Duc,” I answered, warmly, thankful
for any chance which postponed my return to the Rue Bailleul and
delighted at the prospect of entering the Hotel de Richelieu. He led
the way towards the door, and as he repassed the people scattered about
the room I remarked a new expression on their faces. They turned to
look at him as they had done before, and not one failed to return his
bow, but their manner was not the same. It seemed to combine respect
and contempt, admiration and disapproval. The duke appeared not to
notice it, yet he avoided any pretext for stopping, as though he
did not wish to enter into a conversation which might easily become
disagreeable. It was evident to me, however, that the hidden meaning of
the words which he had exchanged with the duchess was known to all the
persons in the room, and that they knew not whether to blame or praise.
I, also, was to learn their meaning before the night was out.
We paused in the vestibule, Richelieu wrapping his cloak about his face
and pulling his hat down over his eyes. He bade me do the same, and
in another moment we were in the street. We mingled quickly with the
crowd which, even in winter, thronged the gardens of the Tuileries, and
turning towards the river, crossed it by the Pont Royal.