THE DIAMOND COLLAR.
Rousseau had been cheated into going to take breakfast with the royal
favorite: he was formally invited by the Dauphiness to come to Trianon
to conduct in person one of his operas in which she and her ladies and
titled amateurs generally were to take the parts even to the
supernumeraries.
He had not attired himself specially and he had stuffed his head with a
lot of disagreeable plain truths to speak to the King, if he had a
chance.
To the courtiers, however, it was the same to see him as any other
author or composer, curiosities all, whom the grandees hire to perform
in their parlors or on their lawns.
The King received him coldly on account of his costume, dusty with the
journey in the omnibus, but he addressed him with the limpid clearness
of the monarch which drove from Rousseau’s head all the platitudes he
had rehearsed.
But as soon as the rehearsal was begun, the attention was drawn to the
piece and the composer was forgotten.
But he was remarking everything; the noblemen in the dress of peasants
sang as far out of tune as the King himself; the ladies in the attire of
court shepherdesses flirted. The Dauphiness sang correctly, but she was
a poor actress; besides, she had so little voice that she could hardly
be heard. The Dauphin spoke his lines. In short, the opera scarcely got
on in the least.
Only one consolation came to Rousseau. He caught sight of one
delightful face among the chorus-ladies and it was her voice which
sounded the best of all.
“Eh,” said the Dauphiness, following his look, “has Mdlle. de Taverney
made a fault?”
Andrea blushed as she saw all eyes turn upon her.
“No, no!” the author hastened to say, “that young lady sings like an
angel.”
Lady Dubarry darted a glance on him sharper than a javelin.
On the other hand Baron Taverney felt his heart melt with joy and he
smiled his warmest on the composer.
“Do you think that child sings well?” questioned Lady Dubarry of the
King, whom Rousseau’s words had visibly struck.
“I could not tell,” he said: “while they are all singing together. One
would have to be a regular musician to discover that.”
Rousseau still kept his eyes on Andrea who looked handsomer than ever
with a high color.
The rehearsal went on and Lady Dubarry became atrociously out of temper:
twice she caught Louis XV. absent-minded when she was saying cutting
things about the play.
Though the incident had also made the Dauphiness jealous, she
complimented everybody and showed charming gaiety. The Duke of Richelieu
hovered round her with the agility of a youth, and gathered a band of
merrymakers at the back of the stage with the Dauphiness as the centre:
this furiously disquieted the Dubarry clique.
“It appears that Mdlle. de Taverney is blessed with a pretty voice,” he
said in a loud voice.
“Delightful,” said the princess; “if I were not so selfish, I would have
her play Colette. But I took the part to have some amusement and I am
not going to let another play it.”
“Nay, Mdlle. de Taverney would not sing it better than your Royal
Highness,” protested Richelieu, “and---- ”
“She is an excellent musician,” said Rousseau, who was penetrated with
Andrea’s value in his line.
“Excellent,” said the Dauphiness; “I am going to tell the truth, that
she taught me my part; and then she dances ravishingly, and I do not
dance a bit.”
You may judge of the effect of all this on the King, his favorite, and
all this gathering of the envious, curious, intriguers, and
news-mongers. Each received a gain or a sting, with pain or shame. There
were none indifferent except Andrea herself.
Spurred on by Richelieu, the Dauphiness induced Andrea to sing the
ballad:
“I have lost my only joy--
Colin leaves me all alone.”
The King was seen to mark time with a nodding of the head, in such keen
pleasure that the rouge scaled off Lady Dubarry’s face in flakes like a
painting in the damp.
More spiteful than any woman, Richelieu enjoyed the revenge he was
having on Dubarry. Sidling round to old Taverney, the pair resembled a
group of Hypocrisy and Corruption signing a treaty of union.
Their joy brightened all the more as the cloud darkened on Dubarry’s
brow. She finished by springing up in a pet, which was contrary to all
etiquet, for the King was still in his seat.
Foreseeing the storm like ants, the courtiers looked for shelter. So the
Dauphiness and La Dubarry were both clustered round by their friends.
The interest in the rehearsal gradually deviated from its natural line
and entered into a fresh order of things. Colin and Colette, the lovers
in the piece, were no longer thought of, but whether Madame Dubarry
might not have to sing:
“I have lost my only joy--
Colin leaves me all alone.”
“Do you see the stunning success of that girl of yours?” asked Richelieu
of Taverney.
He dashed open a glazed door to lead him into the lobby, when the act
made a knave who was standing on the knob to peer into the hall, drop to
the ground.
“Plague on the rogue,” said the duke; brushing his sleeve, for the shock
of the drop had dusted him. He saw that the spy was clad like one of
the working people about the Palace.
It was a gardener’s help, in fact, for he had a basket of flowers on his
arm. He had saved himself from falling but spilt the flowers.
“Why, I know the rogue,” said Taverney, “he was born on my estate. What
are you doing here, rascal?”
“You see, I am looking on,” replied Gilbert proudly.
“Better finish your work.”
“My work is done,” replied the young man humbly to the duke, without
deigning to reply to the baron.
“I run up against this idle vagabond everywhere,” grumbled the latter.
“Here, here, my lord,” gently interrupted a voice; “my little Gilbert is
a good workman and a most earnest botanist.”
Taverney turned and saw Dr. Jussieu stroking the cheek of his
ex-dependent. He turned red with rage and went off.
“The lackeys poking their noses in here!” he growled.
“And the maids, too--look at your Nicole, at the corner of the door
there. The sly puss, she does not let a wink escape her.”
Among twenty other servants, Nicole was holding her pretty head over
theirs from behind and her eyes, dilated by surprise and admiration,
seemed to see double. Perceiving her, Gilbert turned aloof.
“Come,” said the duke to Taverney, “it is my belief that the King wants
to speak to you. He is looking round for somebody.”
The two friends made their way to the royal box.
Lady Dubarry and Aiguillon, both on their feet, were chatting.
Rousseau was alone in the admiration of Andrea; he was busy falling into
love with her.
The illustrious actors were changing their dresses in their retiring
rooms, where Gilbert had renewed the floral decorations.
Taverney, left by himself in the corridor while Richelieu went to the
King, felt his heart alternately frozen and seared by the expectation.
Finally his envoy returned and laid a finger on his lips. His friend
turned pale with joy, and was drawn under the royal box, where they
heard what had few auditors.
Lady Dubarry was saying: “Am I to expect your Majesty to supper this
evening?” and the reply was “I am afraid I am too tired and should like
to be excused.”
At this juncture the Dauphin dropped into the box and said, almost
stepping on the countess’s toes without appearing to see her:
“Sire, is your Majesty going to do us the honor of taking supper at the
Trianon?”
“No, my son; I was just saying to the countess that I am too tired for
anything. All your youthful liveliness bewilders me; I shall take supper
alone.”
The prince bowed and retired. Lady Dubarry courtseyed very low and went
her way, quivering with ire. The King then beckoned to Richelieu.
“Duke, I have some business to talk to you upon; I have not been pleased
with the way matters go on. I want an explanation, and you may as well
make it while we have supper. I think I know this gentleman, duke?” he
continued, eyeing Taverney.
“Certainly--it is Taverney.”
“Oh, the father of this delightful songstress?”
“Yes, Sire.”
The King whispered in the duke’s ear while the baron dug his nails into
his flesh to hide his emotion.
A moment after, Richelieu said to his friend: “Follow me, without
seeming to do so.”
“Where?”
“Never mind--come, all the same.”
The duke set off and Taverney followed within twenty paces to a room
where the following gentleman stopped in the anteroom.
He had not long to wait there. Richelieu, having asked the royal valet
for what his master had left on the toilet table, came forth immediately
with an article which the baron could not distinguish in its silken
wrapper. But the marshal soon drew him out of his disquiet when he led
him to the side of the gallery.
“Baron, you have sometimes doubted my friendship for you,” observed the
duke when they were alone, “and then you doubted the good fortune of
yourself and children. You were wrong, for it has come about for you all
with dazzling rapidity.”
“You don’t say that?” said the old cynic, catching a glimpse of part of
the truth; he was not yet sundered from good and hence not entirely
enlisted by the devil. “How is this?”
“Well, we have Master Philip made a captain with a company of soldiers
furnished by the King. And Mdlle. de Taverney is nigh to being a
marchioness.”
“Go to! my daughter a---- ”
“Listen to me, Taverney: the King is full of good taste. When talent
accompanies grace, beauty and virtue, it enchants him. Now, your girl
unites all these gifts in an eminent degree so that he is delighted by
her.”
“I wish you would make the word ‘delighted’ clearer, duke,” said the
other, putting on an air of dignity more grotesque than the speaker’s,
which the latter thought grotesque as he did not like pretences.
“Baron,” he drily replied, “I am not strong on language and not even
good at spelling. For me, delighted signifies pleased beyond measure. If
you would not be delighted beyond measure to see your sovereign content
with the grace, beauty and virtue of your offspring, say so. I will go
back to his Majesty,” and he spun round on his red heels with quite
youthful sprightliness.
“Duke, you don’t understand me--hang it! how sudden you are,” grumbled
Taverney, stopping him.
“Why do you say you are not pleased?”
“I never said so.”
“You ask comments on the King’s good pleasure--plague on the dunce who
questions it!”
“Again, I tell you, I never opened my mouth on that subject. It is
certain that I am pleased.”
“Yes, you--for any man of sense would be: but your girl?”
“Humph!”
“My dear fellow, you have brought up the child like the savage that you
are.”
“My dear fellow, she has brought herself up all alone; you might guess
that I did not bother myself about her. It was hard enough to keep alive
in that hole at Taverney. Virtue sprang up in her of its own impulsion.”
“Yet I thought that the rural swains rooted out ill weeds. In short,
your girl is a nun.”
“You are wrong--she is a dove.”
Richelieu made a sour face.
“The dove had better get another turtle to mate, for the chances to make
a fortune with that blessing are pretty scarce nowadays.”
Taverney looked at him uneasily.
“Luckily,” went on the other, “the King is so infatuated with Dubarry
that he will never seriously lean towards others.”
Taverney’s disquiet became anxiety.
“You and your daughter need not worry,” continued Richelieu. “I will
raise the proper objections to the King and he will think no more about
it.”
“About what?” gasped the old noble, pale, as he shook his friend’s arm.
“About making a little present to Mdlle. Andrea.”
“A little present--what is it?” cried the baron full of hope and
greediness.
“A mere trifle,” said Richelieu, negligently, as he opened the parcel
and showed a diamond collar. “A miserable little trinket costing only a
few thousand livres, which his Majesty, flattered by having heard his
favorite song sung well, wanted the singer to be sued to accept. It is
the custom. But let us say no more since your daughter is so easily
frightened.”
“But you do not seem to see that a refusal would offend the King.”
“Of course; but does not virtue always tread on the corn of somebody or
other?”
“To tell the truth, duke, the girl is not so very lost to reason. I know
what she will say or do.”
“The Chinese are a very happy people,” observed Richelieu.
“How so?” asked Taverney, stupefied.
“Because they are allowed to drown girls who are a trouble to their
parents and nobody says a word.”
“Come, duke, you ought to be fair,” said Taverney; “suppose you had a
daughter.”
“‘Sdeath! have I not a daughter, and it would be mighty unkind of
anybody to slander her by saying she was ice. But I never interfere with
my children after they get out of the nursery.”
“But if you had a daughter and the King were to offer her a collar?”
“My friend, pray, no comparisons. I have always lived in the court and
you have lived latterly like a Red Indian; there is no likeness. What
you call virtue I rate as stupidity. Learn for your guidance that
nothing is more impolite than to put it to people what they would do in
such a case. Besides, your comparison will not suit. I am not the bearer
of a diamond collar to Mdlle. de Taverney, as Lebel the valet of the
King is a carrier; when I have such a mission, which is honorable as the
present is rich, I am moral as the next man. I do not go near the young
lady, who is admirable for her virtue--I go to her father--I speak to
you, Taverney, and I hand you the collar, saying: Take it or leave it.”
“If the present is only a matter of custom,” observed the baron: “if
legitimate and paternal---- ”
“Why, you are never daring to suspect his Majesty of evil intentions,”
said Richelieu, gravely.
“God forbid, but what will the world say--I mean, my daughter---- ”
“Yes or no, do you take it,” demanded the intermediary, shrugging his
shoulders.
Out darted Taverney’s fingers, as he said with a smile twin-like to the
envoy’s:
“Thus you are moral.”
“Is it not pure morality,” returned the marshal, “to place the father,
who purifies all, between the enchanted state of the monarch and the
charm of your daughter? Let Jean Jacques Rousseau, who was in these
precincts a while ago, be the judge: he will declare that the famous
Joseph of Biblical name was impure alongside of me.”
He uttered these words with a phlegm, dry nobility, and perkiness
imposing silence on Taverney’s observations, and helping him to believe
that he ought to dwell convinced. So he grasped his illustrious friend’s
hand and as he squeezed it, he said:
“Thanks to your delicacy, my daughter may accept this present.”
“The source and origin of the fortune of which I was speaking to you at
the commencement of our annoying discussion on virtue.”
“I thank you with all my heart, duke.”
“One word: most carefully keep the news of this boon from the Dubarry’s
friends. She is capable of quitting the King and running away.”
“Would the King be sorry for that?”
“I do not know, but the countess would bear you ill-will. I would be
lost, in that case; so be wary.”
“Fear nothing: but bear my most humble thanks to his Majesty.”
“And your daughter’s--I shall not fail. But you are not at the end of
the favor. You can thank him personally, dear friend, for you are
invited to sup with him. We are a family party. We--his Majesty, you,
and I, will talk about your daughter’s virtue. Good bye, Taverney! I see
Dubarry with Aiguillon and they must not spy us in conversation.”
Light as a page, he skipped out of the gallery, leaving the old baron
with the jewels, like a child waking up and finding what Santa Claus
left in his sock while he slept.