"THE ABANDONED ORPHAN"
PROLOGUE
The company had assembled in the saloon of the Garland and formed as
fashionable a collection of the upper aristocracy as any which could
perhaps be brought together outside Paris. Not even Vichy, the great
rival of Eaux St. Fer, could have drawn a larger number of persons
bearing the most high-sounding and aristocratic names of France. For
Eaux St. Fer was this year _la mode_, principally because of that one
extra degree of heat which the waters were reported to have assumed,
and, next, because of the rumour, now accepted as absolute truth, that
the Regent had casks and barrels of those waters sent with unfailing
regularity to Paris daily. And, still, for one other reason, namely,
that here the life of Paris might be resumed; the intrigues, the
flirtations, and the scandals of the _Maîtresse Vile_--or of that
portion of it which the highest aristocracy of the land condescended
to consider as Paris, namely, St. Germain, the Palais Royal and
Versailles--might be renewed; everything might be indulged in, here as
there, except the late hours of going to bed and the equally late ones
of rising, the overeating and overdrinking, and the general wear and
tear of already enfeebled constitutions. Everything might be the same
except these delights against which the fashionable physicians so
sternly set their faces.
"Do what you will," said those aristocratic tyrants, who (after having
preached up the place as one from which almost the elixir of a new
life might be drawn) had now followed their patients to the spot
thereby to guard over and protect them, and, also, to continue to
increase their bills. "Do all that you desire, save--a few things. No
late hours, no rich dishes, no potent wines, no heated rooms. Instead,
fresh air all day long in the valleys, or, above, on the hills; the
plain living of the country and long nights of rest; for drink, the
pure draughts of the springs and of milk. Thereby shall you all return
to Paris renovated and restored."
Yet they were careful not to add, "And ready to commence a fresh
career of dissipation which shall place you in our hands again and,
eventually, in the tombs of your aristocratic families."
Since, however, the visitors followed with more or less regularity the
prescribed regimen, the wholesomeness of the life was soon apparent in
renewed appetites, in cheeks which bloomed--almost, though not
quite--without the adventitious aid of paint and cosmetiques; in
nerves which ceased to quiver at every noise; in nights which were
passed in easy slumbers instead of being racked by the pangs of
indigestion. Wholesome enough indeed, revivifying and strengthening; a
life that recuperated wasted vitality and prepared its possessors for
a new season of dissipation and debauchery at the Regent's court. Yet,
withal, a deadly dull one! Wherefore, when it was whispered that they
were invited to "a representation of a play" by "a lady of rank,"
which play was, as they termed it themselves, "_Un secret de la
Comédie_," since everyone in Eaux St. Fer knew who the lady of rank
was, they flocked to the saloon of The Garland, and did so a little
more eagerly than they might otherwise have done, since there was also
in the air a whisper that, in the "representation," was something more
than the mere attempts of a would-be bluestocking to exhibit her
talents for dramatic construction.
De Crébillon possessed another talent besides an inventive genius and
a power of writing tragedies; he had a tongue which could whisper
smoothly but effectively, a glance which could suggest, and an
altogether admirable manner of exciting curiosity by a look alone.
So they were all gathered together now, two hours after their early
and salutary, but scarcely appetising, dinners had been eaten; and
they formed a mass of gorgeously-dressed, highbred men and women,
everyone of whom were known to the others, and everyone of whose
secrets were, in almost every case, also known to each other. Yet,
since each and all had a history, none being free from one skeleton of
the past (or present) at least, this was not a matter of very much
importance.
In costumes suited for the watering-places--yet made by the astute
hands of the workwomen of Mesdames Germeuil or Carvel, Versac or
Grandchamp, and produced under the equally astute eyes of those
authorities in dress--the ladies entered the room where the
representation was to take place, their pointed corsages and bouffante
sleeves, with their deep ruffles at the elbows, setting off well their
diamond-adorned head-dresses and their flowered robes. As for the men,
their dress was the dress of the most costly period in France, not
even excepting the days of the Great Monarch; their court-swords
gold-hilted; their lace at sleeve and breast and knee worth a small
fortune; their wigs works of art and of great cost.
"Mon ami," said the Marquise Grignan de Poissy to a youth who
approached her as she made her way through the press of her friends,
the young man being none other than her nephew, the present bearer of
the title of the de Poissys, "you are charming; your costume is
ravishing."
"Yet," she continued, "that is but a poor weapon to hang upon a man's
thigh," and she touched lightly with her finger the ivory and gold
hilt of the court-sword he carried by his side. "There is no fighting
quality in that."
"My dear aunt," exclaimed the young marquis, glancing at her
admiringly, for, even to him, the beauty of his late uncle's widow was
more or less alluring, "my dear aunt, it professes to have no fighting
qualities. It is only an ornament such as that," and he, too, put out
a finger and touched the baton, or cane, which she carried in her hand
in common with other ladies.
"Yet this," she said, "would strike a blow on any who molested me,
even though it broke in the attempt, being so poor a thing," and her
deep blue eyes gazed into his while sparkling like sapphires as they
did so.
"And," he replied, not understanding why those eyes so transfixed him,
or why, at the same time, he vibrated under their glance, "this would
run a man through who molested you, even though it broke in the
attempt, being so poor a thing," and he gave a little self-satisfied
laugh.
"Would it? You mean that?"
"Without doubt, I mean it," he replied, his voice gradually becoming
grave, while he stared fixedly at her, as though not comprehending.
"Without doubt, I mean it." Then he said, a moment later--speaking as
though he had penetrated the meaning she would convey: "My dear aunt
Diane, is there by chance anyone whom you wish run through? If so name
him. It shall be done, to-night, to-morrow, at dawn, for--for--the
honour of our house and--your bright eyes."
"No! No! No! No! I do but jest. Yet, come, sit by me, I--I am nervous
for the success of this play. I know the writer thereof----"
"So do I!" he interjected.
"And, see, all are in their places. De Crébillon comes on the platform
to speak the argument. Sit. Sit here, Agénor. Close by my side." Then
she muttered to herself so low that he could not hear her words.
"Almost I fear for that which I have done. Yet--Vengeance confound
him!--he merits it. And worse!"
An instant later the easy tones of de Crébillon were heard
announcing--as briefly and succinctly as though he were addressing the
players at the Français ere reading to them the plot of some new drama
by himself--what was to be offered to the audience.
Having opened his address with many compliments to those assembled
there and to their exalted rank, equalled only by their capacity of
judgment and their power to make or mar for ever that which would now
be submitted to them as the work of an illustrious unknown, he went
on--
"The scene is in two acts. The title is 'The Abandoned Orphan.' The
leading characters are Cidalise, who is the orphan, and Célie, who has
protected her. The first act exhibits the child's abandonment, the
second--but, no! Mesdames et Messieurs--that must be left for
representation, must be unrolled before you in the passage of the
play. Suffice it, therefore, if I say now that the work has been
hurriedly written so as to be presented before you for your
delectation; that the actors and actresses are the best obtainable
from a troupe now happily roaming in Provence; that, in effect, your
indulgence is begged by all. Mesdames et Messieurs, the play will now
begin."
Amidst such applause as so fashionable an audience as this felt called
upon to give, de Crébillon withdrew from the hastily-constructed
platform which had been erected in the great saloon--which was not, in
truth, very great--the blue curtain that was stretched across from one
side of the room to the other was withdrawn, and the play began. Yet
not before more than one person in the audience had whispered to
himself, or herself, "At whom does she aim?" Not before, too, more
than one had turned their eyes inwardly with much introspection. And
one who heard de Crébillon's words gave a sigh, almost a gasp of
relief. That one was Monsieur le Duc Desparre. To his knowledge he had
never abandoned any infant.
There was, naturally, no scenery; yet, all the same, some attempts had
been made to aid dramatic illusion. The landlord had lent some bits of
tapestry to decorate the walls, and some chairs and tables. In this
case only the commoner sort were required, since la scene depicted a
room not much better than a garret. And in this garret, as the curtain
was pulled aside, was depicted Célie having in her arms a bundle
supposed to be the child, Cidalise, while on the bed lay stretched the
unhappy mother, dead.
With that interminable monologue, so much used by the French
dramatists of the period, and so tolerated by the audience of the
period, Célie delivered in blank verse a long recitation of what had
led to this painful scene. Fortunately, the actress who played this
part was (as happened often enough in those days, when the wandering
troupes were quite as good as those which trod the boards of the
Parisian stages, though, through want of patronage or opportunity,
they very often never even so much as entered the capital) quite equal
to its rendition, she having a clear distinct diction which she knew
thoroughly well how to accompany with suitable gesture. Also, which
caused some remark even amongst this unemotional audience, she
bore a striking likeness to the highbred dame who was the
authoress of the drama. The woman was tall and exquisitely shaped; her
primrose-coloured hair--coloured thus, either by art and design, or
nature--curled in crisp curls about her head; her eyes were blue as
corn-flowers. Wherefore, as they gazed on her, there ran a suppressed
titter through that audience, a whispered word or so passed, more than
one head turned, and more than one pair of eyes rested inquiringly on
Diane Grignan de Poissy sitting some row or so of chairs back from the
platform. And there were some whose eyes sought the countenance of le
Duc Desparre and observed that his face, although blank as a mask,
showed signs of aroused interest; that his eyes were fixed eagerly on
the wandering mummer who enacted Célie.
"'Tis thee," whispered Agénor to his aunt. "'Tis thee!"
"Yes. It is I," she whispered back. In solemn diction, the woman
unfolded her story. The story of an innocent girl betrayed into a mock
marriage, a fictitious priest, desertion followed by death, and her
own determination to secure the child and to rear it, and, some day,
to use that child as a means whereby to wreak vengeance on the
betrayer because he was such in a double capacity. He had sworn his
love to Célie, to herself, as well as to the unfortunate woman now
lying dead; he had deceived them both. Only the dead woman was poor;
she was rich. Rich enough, at least, to provide in some way for that
child, to keep it alive until the time came for producing it. "As I
swear to do," Célie cried in rhyme, this being the last speech, or
tag, of the prologue, "even though I wait for years. For years." Then
she called on Ph[oe]bus and many other heathen divinities so dear to
the hearts of the French dramatists, to hear her register her vow.
And, thus, the prologue ended amidst a buzz from the audience, loud
calls for Célie, for de Crébillon, for the author. Expectancy had been
aroused, the most useful thing of all others, perhaps, to which a
prologue could be put. De Crébillon led on the blue-eyed,
golden-haired actress, and she, standing before the most exalted
audience which had ever witnessed her efforts, considered that her
fortune was as good as made. Henceforth, farewell, she hoped, to
acting in barns and hastily-erected booths in provincial towns and
villages, to the homage of country boors and simple country gentlemen.
She saw before her . . . what matters what she saw! In all that
audience none, except a few of the younger and most impressionable of
the men, thought of the handsome stroller; all desired to know what
the drama itself would bring forth.
For none doubted now (since they knew full well from de Crébillon's
whispered hints and suggestive glances who the author was) that
Desparre was the man pointed at as the betrayer of the woman who had
been seen stretched in the garret. All remembered that, for years,
even during the life of the old king, his name had been coupled with
that of the Marquise. And they remembered that she, who was once
looked upon as the certain Duchesse Desparre of the future, had never
become his wife; that instead, he had meant to wed with a woman who
had emerged none knew whence except that it was from the gutters of
the streets--from beneath a gambler's roof; and that even such a one
as this had jilted him! Jilted him who sat there now, still as a
statue, white as one, too. Looking like death itself!
What were they about to see? A denunciation of this man by his
abandoned child to that intended bride born of the gutter, a
denunciation so fierce and terrible that even she, that creature of
nothingness, shrank from him as something so base--so _scabreux_, as
they termed it in their whispers--that she dared not share his
illustrious name! Was that what was now to be depicted before them?
Was that the true reason for the scandal with which all Paris had rung
since the cruel months of winter; of which people still spoke apart
and in subdued murmurs? Was the abandoned orphan, or rather her
representative, to speak her denunciation on that platform? Was that
woman of the people to fly from him before their eyes? Was the Duc
Desparre to be held up before them here, on this summer day, in the
true colours which all knew him to possess, but which all, because he
was of their own patrician order, endeavoured to forget that he thus
possessed?
If so, then Diane Grignan de Poissy's vengeance was, indeed, an awful
one! If so, then God shield them from having their own secrets fall
into her possession, from having her vengeance aroused against them,
too!
As had been ever since the days of Hardy, of Corneille, of Moliere,
their attention was now drawn to the fact that the actual play was
about to commence by three thumps upon the stage from a club, and,
once more, they settled down to the enjoyment of the spectacle; the
buzz amongst them ceasing as again the curtain was drawn back. They
prepared for the denunciation! Yet, still, in their last whispers to
each other ere silence set in, they asked how that denunciation was to
take effect? There were but two female characters, Célie, the
protectress, Cidalise, the orphan. Where then was the character of the
woman to whom the man was to be denounced; the woman who should
represent before them that creature of the lower orders who, in actual
fact and life, had last winter fled from Desparre--the blanched figure
sitting before them--sooner than become his wife and a duchess?
Perhaps, after all, they thought and said, they had been
mistaken--perhaps, after all, it was not a true representation of
Desparre's degradation which was about to be offered to them! Perhaps
they had misjudged, overrated, the vengeance of Diane!
Well! they would soon see now. The curtain was withdrawn, the scene
was exposed, and it represented a pretty _salon_ adorned for a
festivity--a betrothal.
The play began.