There was, in Paul de Vitry, the mysterious and indefinable element of greatness, which has nothing to do with fame, or her handmaiden, acclaim, or her false buffoon notoriety. He spoke simply, yet gently; he had a smile of singular sweetness. When he laughed, he laughed with his eyes as well as his lips, and a glow, clear and translucent, would light up in them. His manner was soft and deprecating, as if he felt a deep humility. If his opinions were vehement, they were nevertheless not dogmatic or arrogant; he lived in apprehension that they might offend unintentionally, and he would frequently apologize for them. He was generous, sympathetic, subtle and sensitive. He was a devoted friend, and felt no enmity for any one. There was no bitterness or hatred in him. Above all, he was compassionate and merciful, loathing nothing but injustice and cruelty and oppression.
Perhaps it was the sum of all these things that made him great. He possessed them all, whereas other men possessed one or a few. Perhaps he lacked reserve in his virtue: he had no reticences in mercy, love, tenderness and honor. There was no moderation in his goodness. His heart was as wide as infinity. He was like a spring that gushes inexhaustibly, not confined by the stones of caution, or selfishness, not made brackish by constant consideration of his own good, not restrained or thickened by the mud of judiciousness or self-restraint. He gave all of his heart and did not ask if by doing so he exhibited wisdom, prudence, or moderation.
The greatness of great men is in the complete abandon and openness of their souls. Too, Paul’s greatness was in his infinite passion, the boundless horizon of his spirit. Where there is artifice there is reserve, and where there is reserve, there is no greatness. Some of his greatness lay in his lack of artifice, and in his noble disregard of the disapproval, incredulity or contempt of others. He had a lofty and fervid innocence, which, however, was not unconscious of evil. But in his recognition of it, and his invariable and outraged astonishment at it, was that pristine affirmation of his own majesty. There was in him the quality of exaggeration, which is the mark of all greatness, good or evil.
For all this, he was adored by a few, and violently hated by the majority, for it is a sad fact that greatness in a man is the unpardonable sin.
Arsène had always loved him, but it was not until his own still confused awakening that he realized the full stature of his friend. He would not have said: “I would trust Paul with my life,” for in that admission is the element of simpering self-consciousness. He never thought of this, for it was an empirical fact to him.
He went to Paul immediately with the report of his audience with the Cardinal. Paul listened with the deepest concentration.
“I have thought that I must accept,” said Arsène, “for many reasons. Among them is the plan that in such a position I would be privy to any plots of that man.”
At this, Paul burst into an involuntary laugh. “Arsène, I adore you!” he exclaimed. Then at Arsène’s offended frown, he quickly threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Ah, now, I have annoyed you! But you must perceive how this is not feasible. The mere acceptance of this post would not remove you from suspicion. It would only expose you to easier spying. What a gallant, but innocent soul you have, Arsène! You are too passionate, too angry of temperament, to play a subtle rôle. Too, you would be excessively unhappy. Treachery is not easy for you. I could not advise you to entangle yourself in such a situation. Moreover, the idea, itself, is immoral. One does not accept benefits, nor take a solemn oath, with the inner determination to betray all of them.”
“It is you who are the innocent,” said Arsène, mortified.
“No,” said Paul, with sudden seriousness, “it is not that. I would have you do no injury to yourself, not even for me, or our friends.”
“But, if I do not, you are in danger.”
“Not in more danger than I am. Too, all this is in God’s hands.” He added: “I do not fear overmuch for you, Arsène. You are the son of the Marquis du Vaubon.”
“Nevertheless,” said Arsène, wryly, “that would not prevent the Cardinal from hiring an assassin to despatch me.”
“Your best recourse, then, is to inform a large circle of 272 friends and acquaintances of the Cardinal’s offer, and your own refusal, with regrets. I suspect that even the Cardinal would hesitate to do a deed that would put him under the foulest suspicion.”
He sighed. He began to speak of the Duc de Tremblant and the Dutchman. “They leave tonight, inconspicuously, with only a small number of guards. A large retinue would inspire curiosity and suspicion. They will travel modestly, on horseback, arousing no conjecture. Gentlemen of small means taking a quiet and unheralded journey.”
“The road is infested,” said Arsène, gloomily. “Moreover, do not think that the Cardinal will not learn something of it.”
“That is not possible. Only de Bouillon, de Rohan, I and yourself know of this. Where, then, can enter the treachery? Besides, who would dare molest the Duc de Tremblant, even if it were known?”
“You do not know the Cardinal.”
Paul then asked Arsène if he would like to accompany him on a visit to his estates. He had recognized that the bravo, on the search for adventure, was beginning to think. He had eagerly taken it upon himself to direct that thinking. Arsène expressed himself as delighted.
“I must return within five days,” he said, “for my marriage.”
He said this calmly, with no lighting of his eyes, no smile of tenderness. Paul studied him with quick penetration. When Arsène spoke thus of his wedding, a shade darkened his eye and a gloomy shadow appeared about his mouth. Paul did not speak of this, but he felt some sadness. “Tomorrow, then, we shall go,” he said.
Arsène sent a letter to the Cardinal, filled with the most exaggerated expressions of regret, declining the honor of the post offered him. He told his father of the offer and the refusal, and the Marquis was filled with excitable wrath and disappointment. “I have dreamt of this, you fool, you scoundrel!” he exclaimed.
“How could I be false to my convictions?” urged Arsène, amused.
“Bah, convictions! Only women and eunuchs can afford convictions! There is no room in an ambitious man for such folly.”
“I am not ambitious, my father,” replied Arsène.
“You are only a rascal!” cried the Marquis. “Have you never realized that this is your only chance to escape murder? Have you never thought what the Cardinal might know of you, you and your Les Blanches?” When the Marquis had said this, he turned excessively pale, and Arsène fully understood in what terror his father lived perpetually.
He set himself to soothe the Marquis. “He will not murder me. I shall tell every one of the offer, and my regret, and my inability to accept the disciplinarian life. That will tie the Cardinal’s hands.”
The Marquis clasped his own hands, and even Arsène could not smile at the theatrical gesture. “I beseech you!” said the Marquis. “Do you not owe this to me, your father? Have you ever contemplated in what misery and fear I live, because of your recklessness? How long do you think it will be before you are ruined?”
“I have thought much of my grandfather,” replied Arsène, quietly.
At this, the Marquis was silent, his lips twitching, his eyes darting away. A strange look appeared on his face, and then, after a moment, he regarded Arsène as he would regard a fearful stranger. He said, at last, in a dwindled voice: “You must do, then, what you must.”
Arsène was amazed. With a burst of love and tenderness, he tried to console the Marquis. Never had he felt such affection, such gratitude, for him, and his heart troubled him. But though the Marquis accepted these gestures of consolation, of appreciation and understanding, he would not be comforted. He allowed Arsène to kiss his cheek and hold his hand. When Arsène tried to withdraw his hand eventually, the Marquis clung to it. His eyes were full of tears which rose from his heart.
Arsène mused much on this strange scene later. Was it possible that after all there was some nobility, some noblesse oblige, in the frivolous and shallow Marquis, who lived only for intrigue, women, perfumes and the Court? He was incredulous.
He had neglected Mademoiselle Clarisse de Tremblant lately, and that night he called upon his betrothed, going to the Hôtel de Tremblant in his sober doublet, cloak and hose. The cavalier, the gallant, no longer appeared to care for gay raiment. Heretofore, Arsène de Richepin had been known for his dashing elegance and excellent tailors, and admirable figure. But lately his wardrobe had been neglected; his valet, Pierre, would shake his head dolefully as he brushed the unworn garments and polished the fine boots, which were rarely used in these days. “Monsieur has become an English puritan,” he would complain, with disgust. Even the jeweled rapiers hung dustily in far corners. Arsène carried with him always the sword of his grandfather, like a talisman.
Now, as he approached the Hôtel de Tremblant, he saw that all the tall glittering windows were blazing with lights, that music issued softly from the gardens in the rear, which were illuminated by myriads of lamps strung from the tall dark trees. Carriages turned and wheeled through the narrow streets, which were crowded with curious ragged Parisians, staring blankly, or discussing, with inimitable French obscenity, the personalities of the various scented and beautiful women and elegant gentlemen who were alighting. However, they were kept at a respectful distance by detachments of the King’s and the Cardinal’s Musketeers, who swaggered and glowered and pulled plumed hatbrims incessantly. Hubbub resounded all through the neighborhood. When servants opened the massive oak and brazen doors, gushes of hot yellow light spewed out into the dark and fetid street, and the ribald and sardonic populace jeered and cheered. In the seething and anonymous mass, Parisians were not respectful, and even the Musketeers curled their mustaches and smiled under them at some of the shouted witticisms. In the distance, the towers of Notre Dame floated against a pure dark blue sky swarming with trembling stars.
Arsène halted in the press of the crowd, astonished. Apprehensively, he searched his mind. What had he forgotten now? The crowds buffeted him, for he was not to be distinguished, in his plain and sober garments, from any other man, except for his sword. He was assailed by the foul odors of sweat and dirt which emanated from the mobs, and he winced. He looked about him at the faces splashed by torches, and all at once a cold hand of terror gripped his heart. For in these dark and dirty faces, lighted by black and glittering eyes and the glisten of wet exposed teeth, he discerned a formless but frightful danger. They laughed and shouted as each carriage expelled its fragrant and magnificent freight, but under the laughter there was a sound as of caged and savage beasts, hungry and powerful.
He perceived the Captain of the King’s Guard at a little distance, and struggled to reach him. Arms, shoulders, bodies blocked his passage. Finally, in desperation, as a man who is drowning calls, he shouted to the Captain, who turned in astonishment in the direction of his voice. Then, he moved towards that voice, and the crowds sullenly separated. When he saw who had hailed him, his mouth fell open in imbecile astonishment. “Monsieur de Richepin!” he exclaimed, unbelievingly, and he glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see a duplicate of Arsène alighting from some carriage near the entrance. He could hardly persuade himself that this young disheveled man fighting among the mob was in truth Arsène de Richepin.
Persuaded at last, that this was indeed Arsène, he pulled him from the press, and stared in still greater astonishment at the young nobleman’s plain and disordered dress.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Arsène, fastidiously brushing his cloak with his hand, and removing his hat that he might shake loose the bent dark plume. “What is this that is afoot?”
Now the Captain seemed overcome with the extremity of his amazement. He gaped; his eyes goggled. He had the aspect of a fish that is removed from water. Two or three of his men joined him, and when they recognized Arsène, they, too, gulped and goggled. Arsène experienced some uneasiness, and said irritably: “Can no one speak? What is all this?”
The Captain finally found his voice. “Is it possible that Monsieur has forgotten that a fete has been given in honor of himself and Mademoiselle de Tremblant, and that Monsieur le Duc de Richelieu and his Majesty are momentarily expected?”
Cold dismay made blank Arsène’s countenance. “Ah, yes,” he muttered. “I had forgotten.”
At this, the Captain appeared about to swoon. He literally trembled. “The Marquis du Vaubon and Monseigneur de Richepin have already arrived,” he said, weakly. “No doubt they are wondering at Monsieur’s absence.”
Arsène was full of consternation. Not to be on hand to greet their Majesties would be unpardonable. Madame de Tremblant would never forgive him for this affront, nor would the King. Yet, how dared he enter that magnificent, laced and silken assemblage in these garments, dusty, worn and fit only for the street? Nor did he have the time to return to the Hôtel du Vaubon for a change of costume. At any moment august personages would be arriving.
“Clear a way for me to the servants’ entrances,” he said desperately to the Captain, cursing himself. When he was conducted to those entrances by a gloomy and astounded Captain, he was greeted with further astonishment by the men on guard there. The servants were overcome. He demanded to be led to the apartments of the Duc de Tremblant. When he entered those apartments, he discovered the Duc suffering, indifferently, the ministrations of his valets. His curled wig was being dangled before his eyes and he was regarding it with distaste. When he saw the figure of Arsène in the mirror, he stared, incredulously. Then he turned, stared again, and burst into laughter. For indeed, the young man’s desperate face, disordered hair, wrinkled and bourgeois clothing, were a strange and unexpected vision.
“There is no time for laughter or explanation other than I forgot, and have no time to return to the Hôtel du Vaubon,” said Arsène hurriedly, and with offense. His dark thin face was flushed with mortification and anger at himself. He could not bear laughter at his own expense. “I must beg your indulgence, Monsieur le Duc, and ask if it is possible for me to wear one of your own costumes.”
The Duc no longer laughed, but his grave brown eyes danced irrepressibly. “What a bridegroom this is!” he murmured. Then even the laughter died from his eyes, and he regarded Arsène with sudden searching gravity. He turned to his gaping valets. “See if it is possible for us to oblige Monsieur.”
He stood up. He was some two inches taller than Arsène. He circled him slowly and thoughtfully, while the color increased in the young man’s face. The valets circled also, fingers at dubious lips. Even at this distance, through muted doors, sounds of revelry and music penetrated. Sweat appeared on Arsène’s brow, and his eyes began to glitter at this absurd scene. He was like a strange animal being carefully and wonderingly studied. He was humiliatingly conscious of his body.
At last one of the valets scurried to the wardrobes, and returned with a gorgeous costume of plum colored velvet laced and decorated with gold. Another valet produced a white silken shirt, foaming with lace at the neck and cuffs. Still another burrowed in a chest and triumphantly brought to light an elaborate curled wig, and silken stockings and slippers with golden buckles.
“Ah, yes,” exclaimed the Duc, with relief. “That is a costume I meant to return to my tailor, for the imbecile made it much too small for me. Hasten, rascals, hasten!”
Confusion fell upon the mirror-lined chamber. Basins of perfumed water and white towels were brought. The valets assaulted Arsène feverishly, while the Duc, smiling again, attended to his own toilette, and watched. Buffeted, swung about, splashed, disrobed, Arsène, with increasing mortification, allowed them to do what they would with him. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the absorbed Duc, whose wig hung over one ear rakishly, and he laughed reluctantly.
The doublet, however, was too long for him, and he surveyed it with dismay. But there was nothing to be done. The slippers were too large, and one of the inspired and sweating valets stuffed the toes with a torn handkerchief. The wig showed an alarming tendency to fall over his eyes. Inspiration again came to his rescue, and another kerchief was folded upon his head and the wig lowered with trepidation. “If Monsieur will be careful, and keep his head erect, there will not be much danger,” stammered one of the valets.
There was a louder burst of music from the gardens and the hotel. One of the valets darted to the Duc for the final touches. By this time, Arsène was in a bad temper. He appreciated jokes, but not on himself. He felt himself offended, robbed of dignity. With much majesty, he buckled on his sword, himself. The Duc was encrimsoned in his efforts to preserve his gravity. He saw that Arsène moved cautiously, for the breeches were a tight fit. The Duc’s long shanks were notorious for their leanness. Arsène tried to hitch the skirt of his coat about his shimmering thighs. He noticed, wretchedly, that his borrowed garments were tight or loose in too strategic spots.
Nevertheless, he was a suitably magnificent figure. Pretending to ignore the Duc’s silent but visible mirth, he carefully leaned forward and peered in a mirror, rubbing one rouged cheek which was a shade too heavily tinted. Suddenly, they heard a distant fanfare, and the accelerated roar of the crowds outside. Simultaneously, he and the Duc leaped for the door, the valets in pursuit, desperately spraying them with perfume from huge flagons. The valets chased them down the entire length of the corridor outside, waving forgotten kerchiefs, brandishing the flagons. Servants appeared in doorways, open-mouthed and gasping, and watched incredulously the strange running figures of Arsène and the Duc, pursued by the leaping valets.
The valets left them at the top of the great gold and marble staircase, and they flung themselves down, pushing through the streaming magnificence of the guests who were elegantly disporting themselves on the steps. The Duc seized Arsène’s arm, and rushed him to the spot where Madame de Tremblant, surrounded by her eight lovely daughters, was waiting. Even at a distance, it was evident that Madame was infuriated. Her large coarse face under the massive coiffure was flushed, the eyes gleaming dangerously. She was fanning herself with rapid fury, and her glance kept darting through the crowds with a speed that augured very badly for some one.
The Duc touched her arm, and she swung about, breathing stertoriously. Her pale gray eye fell upon Arsène, and a vicious expression passed over her big plebeian features. “Ah, so our less important guest has finally condescended to arrive!” she shouted, in her hoarse and booming voice. She curtsied deeply, with much exaggeration. Her daughters, With the exception of Marguerite and Clarisse, tittered behind their lace fans. The guests within ear-shot, and they were many, tittered also, or smiled broadly.
Arsène’s face was dark red, and he bowed speechlessly in return. The Duc leaned towards his sister-in-law and said: “Lucille, it is I who am to blame. I detained Arsène with some discussion—”
But Madame de Tremblant was not to be placated. She surveyed Arsène minutely. “And the discussion evidently necessitated the wearing of one of your costumes,” she observed. The girls tittered again, as did the guests. Arsène’s hand clutched the hilt of his sword, and he glared about, helplessly.
“I implore you, Lucille,” said the Duc, with sudden sternness, and his eye engaged the eyes of the listening others, so that each countenance became grave again.
Madame de Tremblant tossed her head, and her wide thick mouth, heavily rouged, tightened ominously. Nevertheless, she said nothing more.
She was a big buxom woman, of heroic stature and proportions, better fitted to the hunting saddle, to which she was enslaved, than to the drawing room. Her mauve velvet costume heightened her natural florid coloring to a purple tinge under the orange-red rouge, and her low bodice, foaming with lace, hardly concealed her full and enormous breasts. Her towering hair, elaborately arranged, was incongruous above her bold light eyes, thick broad nose and heavy mouth. She was a stout dragoon in delicate costume. She disdained and disliked elegant costumes, and her neck was browned by sun to a leathery texture, as were her large masculine hands, now heavily loaded with gems. The lustrous pearls about her throat contrasted alarmingly with its tint and texture. When she walked, she strode. Her character was compounded of honesty and guile, of obscenity and brusqueness, of lascivious stable laughter and brutality, of rude good nature and cruelty, of generosity and avarice. She was one of the most powerful and feared women in Paris. The King liked her, enjoyed her voice, however distant. As for the Cardinal, he was always refreshed by her, and would repeat her witticisms inexhaustibly.
Her daughters surrounded her like graceful flowers about the huge statue of a peasant which was arrayed in incongruous frippery. Annette, Yvonne, Bernadette, Louise, Antoinette and Marie were there with their elegant and patrician young husbands. Clarisse stood at her right hand, and near her, standing with bent and gentle head and air of sweet humility, stood Marguerite. Clarisse was the most beautiful of the Tremblant demoiselles, taller, more graceful, more exquisite of figure and manner, more artful and languishing. Her flesh was like luminous alabaster; the roses in her cheeks needed no artifice to enhance them. Her arms were rivals of those famous appendages of the queen, herself, and her shoulders gleamed as though polished by some loving hand. A man could span her delicate waist with his hands; her bosom was perfect. Her costume of shimmering white satin and cascades of the finest convent lace attracted every envious female eye. She had a profusion of silky flaxen curls which fell over her white neck and shoulders like a faery drift. Her oval face was daintily pointed; her eyes were wide and blue, set apart and shining with points of light. Her mouth was a smiling rosy flower. Nothing could have been sweeter than her expression, or more fascinating in its changes, which were at once demure and malicious, full of vivacity and bewitching merriment. The gestures of her entrancing hands were accompanied by the flashing of jewels on the fingers. If her beauty was not artificial, her soul was. Her mother, her confessor, her betrothed, knew no more about her than she chose to allow. This was part of her enchanting charm. She had a thousand moods, each more graceful, more magical, more magnetic and lovely than the others. She was her mother’s favorite. Even that hoarse and bellicose grande dame could not resist the girl’s fascinations, though, unlike others, Madame de Tremblant suspected that under that beauty and exquisiteness lived a small and greedy soul, without charity, love, tenderness or mind. Nevertheless, she remained enslaved, consumed with pride.
Arsène, who in her absence forgot her completely, could not resist her presence. She dazzled his sight, threw him into worshipping confusion. She had only to flash the blue lucidity of her eyes upon him to make him forget all else. She had only to smile to make him grovel. When he kissed her hand, he was utterly lost.
She pouted her full and vivid lips upon him, and inclined her head capriciously as he whispered his apologies. When his breath was too ardent upon her cheek, she daintily covered her face with her fan and her curls fell over her neck and brow. But tonight, for some reason, he soon tired of all this play. He turned from her to Marguerite, whom he loved tenderly.
Clad in blue velvet and pale lace, Marguerite was hardly less lovely than her sister, but so shy and humble was she that her beauty was not so evident to the careless eye. The bright pure vapor of her soul illuminated her face and deep innocent eyes. Smaller, more fragile than Clarisse, she was yet all perfection. Arsène kissed her hand with gentleness. When he looked up into her face he saw that it wasshiningand blushing. Nevertheless, his acute sensibilities felt a strange sadness. The girl seemed more ethereal than usual, more frail. The blue veins in her temples throbbed feverishly. The hand he held was hot and trembling. He knew how her rude mother constantly upbraided her for her steadfast refusal of innumerable suitors. He had heard that she contemplated entering a convent, something which outraged Madame de Tremblant, who was considerable of a pagan. Yet, in spite of her trials, no one had ever heard a word of complaint, anger or impatience from this poor child. She was seventeen years old, a year older than Clarisse. This was a dángerous age for an unmarried woman, and young noblemen had already begun to woo younger ladies.
Arsène, never too subtle in the past, tonight felt a vague alarm for the girl, and a deeper tenderness such as one feels in the presence of a child upon whom an early doom appears to portend. The light in her eyes was too bright, too febrile, her color too hot and vagrant, her flesh too tenuous. Now he saw that her lids were swollen and discolored, as though she wept too much. Even as he spoke to her gently, her gaze left him, searched feverishly through the surging crowds about her, and her trembling was more evident. He followed her glances, wonderingly. For whom was she waiting? Was that virginal heart touched at last?
The great drawing rooms were flooded with the light of the enormous crystal chandeliers that glittered overhead. The silken-shrouded walls were almost hid by tall flowers and branches of blossoming trees. The floors, polished to a mirrored brilliance, reflected back the colorful figures of the guests and their vivacious movements, so that they appeared to be a myriad tall flowers imaged in a bright lake. The air was permeated with thousands of languorous scents and the murmurs and laughter of hundreds of gay voices, and the distant strains of sweet music. The senses soon became confused by the light, the heat, the dazzling colors and costumes, the restless and rapid gestures, the swaying of tinted garments, the turning and bending of hundreds of curled heads and the flashing of a thousand jeweled hands. The vision became confused by the gleaming of countless white arms and the glittering of many eyes, and the blaze of innumerable gems. It was a magnificent assemblage. Madame de Tremblant was bored excessively, She loathed courtiers, though they, themselves, adored her, thronged about her to hear her latest indecent witticism, which they repeated to those behind them, who carried it to the farthest walls on tides of increasing laughter. There was much snuff-taking, much flourishing of lace kerchiefs, much leg-making. The ladies affected to blush, but in spite of the coquetting, not a cheek was honestly dyed.
The fanfare which Arsène and the Duc de Tremblant had heard in the latter’s apartments had heralded the approach of the Cardinal. Now, the mighty brazen doors were flung open, the Captain of the Cardinal’s Musketeers appeared, followed by his men, who formed passage and lifted swords to create an arch.
Now the Cardinal entered. Clad in black velvet, with severe white linen at his throat and sleeves, he was, as always, an impelling and majestic sight. His cloak had been removed to reveal his frail and slender figure, upright and graceful. Nothing could have been more aristocratic than that narrow countenance with its pointed imperial. Nothing could have been more haughty yet benign than that arrowed glance from those tiger eyes, which saw everything with one rapier flash. The slow and noble movements of that small and royal head compelled reverence and awe. The smile, sardonic and subtle, inspired apprehension and respect. Increasing illness had increased his pallor, so that he had the aspect of a specter; the delicate bones of his face were outlined under the pale and transparent flesh. Power radiated from him, and a lofty and amused condescension. Not an eye touched him without fear, hatred, dislike or servility. Not a heart but beat quicker at the sight of him. Every smile was artificial and nervous. A cool psychic dampness blew over the gay faces, hushed the frivolous voices.
He was too great, too powerful a man, to feel much satisfaction at the effect he created. Moreover, he had too much contempt for his fellows to experience any gratification, other than that which a man might feel upon entering a jungle and seeing the eyes of lower animals fixed fearfully upon him. Yet, he was all graciousness, inclining his head gravely and smilingly as he approached his hostess.
Madame de Tremblant extended her red hand to him and winked fully and coarsely, grinning lecherously. “How, now, Monsieur le Duc,” she boomed. “I had heard your Eminence was too indisposed to grace our assemblage this evening.”
“A summons from Madame de Tremblant is a royal command,” replied the Cardinal. At this, the woman laughed outright. She tapped him impudently on the shoulder with her fan. “Ah, what a courtier it is!” she exclaimed. “One might almost believe Monseigneur, and be deceived that it was not a priest with such addresses!”
The Cardinal took no offense. A smile of genuine amusement touched those pale and delicate lips, and the cold and baleful light in his eyes warmed.
She leaned towards him and whispered hoarsely: “The piece of iron flies to the magnet: is it not so? But the magnet has not yet arrived.”
“But soon,” replied the Cardinal, with a cool stare. Madame de Tremblant was disappointed. She had expected some flush, some start, some angry glance, some attempt at intimidation. She had bearded the Cardinal, and in return he gazed at her emptily.
She tapped him again, and essayed a grotesque archness. “Ah, what is man? Even a priest?” she murmured. “Nevertheless, women can forgive, and understand, and feel gratitude.”
The Cardinal smiled faintly, and turned his attention to the beautiful daughters of Madame. Now an ardent warmth crept over his transparent features. He accepted the flurry of curtsies with the utmost majesty and benevolence. When he gave his attention to Marguerite, there was a long and inscrutable reflection in his eye, and a little sadness.
“May I inquire as to Mademoiselle’s health?” he asked, gently. “She seems to be melting before the eye.”
The girl blushed violently, and moisture appeared in her golden eyes. Madame de Tremblant interposed: “Ah, what it is to be a mother! This girl is not yet betrothed, and still speaks of the convent. Can Monseigneur not dissuade her, and receive a mother’s gratitude?”
But the Cardinal was gazing at the girl intently. He held her hand strongly, and felt its instinctive and trembling efforts at withdrawal. Now his expression was stern. He said nothing.
He became aware of Arsène, who was watching him with caution and uncertainty. He smiled, laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He shook his head. “Ah, I little expected such a disappointment!” he exclaimed. “Nevertheless, I am not resigned, not without hope. I have not accepted the final word.”
He paused, absently marked Arsène’s nervous smile, and vague shaking of the head. He spoke in a slightly louder voice, and now his eye, rapid and brilliant, touched, without seeming to do so, the lovely countenance of Marguerite de Tremblant.
“I had hoped that your brother Louis might accompany me this evening,” he said, “but unfortunately he pleaded indisposition and the press of duty.”
He felt, rather than saw fully, the girl’s start, her sudden whiteness, the faint dropping of her eyelids, and her shrinking. But this was not evident to any one else but the Cardinal. Even as he smiled, the sternness increased about his mouth, and he sighed. He observed that the girl retreated until she melted into the throng, and that her head had fallen on her breast as she drifted away.
The Marquis du Vaubon had finally forced a passage through the multitude of guests, bowing, swaying, smirking, arching his brows, flourishing his scented kerchief. He was followed by scores of envious and scrutinizing manly eyes, which marked every item of his costume, which was of golden velvet with black touches. His curled black wig was enormous; there was an unusual wide flare to his jewelled cuffs, and the excessively full skirts of his coat were embroidered and glittering with jewelled embroidery. The lace at his throat was a fountain of airy foam, sparkling with diamonds. Gratified and smug at the sensation he created, he remarked to himself that tomorrow would be an unusually busy day for tailors and jewelers and lace-and-wig-makers in Paris. What it was to be the creator of fashion! Ladies sniffed avariciously at his new scents, and openly admired his costume, and his excellent slender legs which gleamed and shone in their golden silk stockings. He bestowed amorous glances upon them in his passage, and his arching brows were implicit with indulgent promise. The debauchery and fatigue of his thin malicious face was hidden under skillful layers of rouge and powder. There were black patches cut in the intriguing shapes of stars, flowers, hearts and squares on his bony cheeks, and, daringly! on his chin and forehead.
“Ah,” murmured the Cardinal, “the arbitor of elegance and the glass of fashion approaches in his exaggerated splendor!” The Marquis invariably amused him. He thought him a fool, but a fool who was malevolently witty, which excused his folly.
He bowed deeply. “Hail, Phoebus!” he said. “But where is your chariot?”
A spray of titters burst from the avid guests nearby. Arsène’s hand tightened on his sword at this gibe at his foolish father. But the Marquis was well able to defend himself. For a moment his little black eyes darted, gleamed and rolled malignantly, though his painted lips remained fixed in a grimace of a smile.
. Then he returned the bow, even more elaborately, and said: “Hail Pluto! But where is Proserpine?”
Bravo! thought Arsène, delighted by his father’s wit. He looked about him for approving and astonished smiles. What he saw alarmed him. For the Cardinal had become deadly pale at this enormous and foolhardy insult, and its wider implications. The guests, horrified and uneasy, began to retreat like the edges of a wave, leaving the insulted priest and the Marquis facing each other in a little empty space. The Marquis wore a satisfied smirk and looked the Cardinal full in the eyes. His small brain had not yet encompassed the enormity of his folly.
Then, thought the Cardinal, it is common knowledge.
Madame de Tremblant was an astute woman. She burst into a loud hoarse laugh. “What classicists are these!” she exclaimed. “You must pardon us, Messieurs, if we are too ignorant to comprehend these subtle allusions.” She glanced about her with a hard look, and as at a command, the edges of the wave advanced once more and surrounded the Cardinal and the foolish Marquis, who was still pluming himself on his dangerous witticism and trying to gather admiring eyes as one gathers flowers.
A diversion came in the person of a great lady whom no one but Madame de Tremblant had known was in Paris at this time, believing that she was still secluded at her home in La Rochelle. So seldom did she appear in Paris, that only the older guests were immediately aware of her identity. But Huguenot and Catholic alike regarded her with admiration and deep respect. For the lady was the old Duchesse de Rohan, a life-long friend of Madame de Tremblant, and a very old friend indeed of Monseigneur.
A hush followed as she made her way tranquilly through the crushing and glittering assembly, which parted instinctively before her as though she were royalty. And most certainly, there was something most royal in her walk and her manner. She glided towards her hostess with an imperious and magnificent air, for her blood was nobler than the blood of those who sat on the thrones of France. Her dainty and diminutive figure was exquisite in its perfection. Authority and pride, hauteur and aristocracy, were inherent in her slightest gesture, her slightest word, the briefest sentence which she uttered in a voice singularly strong and calm for such a small person. The flash of her eye was imperious, intimidating.
She was dressed with a stately magnificance, her white hair piled high upon her small and quietly arrogant head. Great diamonds sparkled in her ears, about her erect if withered throat, and upon hands hardly larger than those of a child. Her little face was thin, somewhat long, with a high arching nose implicit with royal dignity. Her full blue eyes under white lids were steadfast and haughty, shrewd and cynical, heavy with sadness one moment, sparkling with dry amusement the next, and coldly disingenuous at still another moment. Her long pale mouth, unpainted, and crooked and mobile, expressed a thousand restrained thoughts, but could, in an instant, take on the hard lines of courage, contempt, and uncompromising fortitude. She was a woman of brilliant intellect and sternness, and her sons respected her opinion above the opinion of any one else in France. Sometimes, when they were alone, they called her “our adorable, obstinate old harridan,” but they said this with love and reverence.
Madame de Tremblant greeted her with deep affection, and the ladies embraced. Others crowded close to pay their respects, and listen to the conversation of the Duchesse which was famed for its pungency and bitter humor. She spoke with devastating candor, touched with delicate ribaldry, and was not above calling a man a fool to his face if his folly offended her, or if he appeared stupid. Above all else, she loathed a fool, and would have none about her, even if he were endowed with the noblest of other virtues. Disillusioned, but strangely idealistic, she did not utter an opinion until she had investigated all facets of it first, and then she delivered it with authority and quiet inflexibility. Nevertheless, those few whom she honored with her friendship knew her great kindness, her sensibility, her selfless devotion, and her enormous tact.
The Cardinal, whose haggard face had taken on life and vivacity at the appearance of his old and valued friend, greeted her with only a trifle less affection than had Madame de Tremblant. Her eyes twinkled upon him as he took her hand and lifted it gallantly to his lips. She smiled at his compliments, and she assured him, with a wry but affectionate smile, that apparently the last unguents she had sent him from La Rochelle had done him much good. They understood each other very well. Both were inspired with the same passionate love for France, and desire for French unity against her enemies. They were of the same cynical and disingenuous spirit, the same profound intellect. Though the Duchesse had no personal desire for power, she comprehended it in the Cardinal, and did not think less of him for harboring it. Nevertheless, she pitied him for it, as she pitied the other diseases which afflicted his body. Only to this aristocratic old grande dame had he ever confided the whole extent of his physical sufferings, and when she came to Paris she never failed to bring him pots and vials of strange but efficacious remedies concocted, brewed and mixed by her own hands. If he expressed extravagant claims for them, there was much sincerity in his protestations.
But Madame de Tremblant had no desire to allow the Cardinal to monopolize her old friend, whom she had not seen for a long time. She wished the Duchesse to admire her daughters, and led her away.
“Ah, that Cardinal,” she said, to the Duchesse. “What a rascal it is! But one must admit he is a charming man, with excellent manners.”
The Duchesse smiled. “And manners in a man are not to be condemned. I must admit, too, that we have much in common.” Her face became somewhat anxious and secret. “Have you seen my Henri? I have been in Paris a week, but though I have received messages from him, he remains invisible.”
Madame de Tremblant glanced cautiously about her, and her own face darkened with anxiety. “Henri has been to this house, to discuss certain matters with the Duc de Tremblant. I know nothing about these matters,” she added, hastily. “I do not care to know about them. They are dangerous, perhaps.”
The Duchesse glanced at her inscrutably. “When one has marriageable daughters, it is unwise to have dangerous knowledge.”
The Cardinal looked long and thoughtfully after the two ladies when they retreated from him. He promised himself that he would call upon the Duchesse very soon. He adored her conversation. He loved her presence. Too, there might be something to be learned, quite accidentally, though he doubted this, knowing the cleverness of his old friend. It was more likely that she would learn something from him.
He felt some one approach him, and turned with that feline swiftness of his which never failed to disconcert others. The Duc de Tremblant, who had retreated a little distance at the advent of the Cardinal, now came forward and bowed gravely. A curious change came over the Cardinal’s features. He seemed dimly concerned and suddenly heavy of heart. He laid his hand on the Duc’s shoulder and looked into his eyes with sad affection.
“You have neglected me, Monsieur,” he said. “We have not had our customary game of chess. Tomorrow, perhaps? You will dine with me at the Palais Cardinal at nine?”
“Your Eminence flatters me upon my prowess as a chessplayer,” replied the Duc. “Tomorrow? Perhaps.”
The Cardinal pressed the other’s shoulder with his hand. He did not remove it. But the shadow on his face lightened a little. However, he continued to gaze searchingly into the Duc’s eyes. The others had become engrossed in some new witticism of the Marquis’, and the Duc and the Cardinal were isolated except for Arsène, who had manœuvred quietly into a position behind the priest.
“It is a promise?” urged the Cardinal.
The Duc hesitated. His eye met Arsène’s. Then he said in a low voice: “It is a promise.”
The Cardinal sighed. His arm dropped from the Duc’s shoulder. A somber shade appeared in his restless and incandescent eyes.
“There are few in Paris whom I dare call my friends,” he said, and there was all sincerity in his voice, and the hint of a plea. “You are one of these, Monsieur le Duc.” He paused, then said in a penetrating tone: “Should you leave Paris, I should be desolate, fearing that you might not return.”
The Duc’s glance involuntarily and swiftly rose to meet Arsène’s alarmed stare. Then he bowed again. “Be assured, your Eminence, that I should return.”
The Cardinal suddenly grasped the Duc by the arms, urgently, and compelled his gaze. “These are dangerous times,” he said, softly. “I fear there would be no return, Monsieur. Reflect upon this.”
The alarm in Arsène’s eyes had quickened to terror. His lips moved almost soundlessly, but the Duc caught his words: “We are betrayed!”
However, the Duc smiled very quietly. He truly liked the Cardinal, as he liked all that was subtle and brilliant. He had spent many enjoyable hours in his company. He said: “Should Idecide to leave Paris, my deepest regret would be my separation from your Eminence.”
The Cardinal was silent. He seemed the prey of a thousand sad, grievous and anxious thoughts. His eyes remained fixed upon the Duc as though he were trying to read the other’s soul, trying to impart to him some ominous and desperate warning. There was an obvious struggle within him, like one who wrestles with caution and wisdom in an access of generous and natural feeling.
“Monsieur,” he said, finally, very slowly and emphatically, “is of a naïve and trusting and noble nature. Such natures tend to repose confidence in the unworthy. Let Monsieur be warned in time.”
“I trust none of my friends are unworthy. I cannot believe this,” replied the Duc, very gravely and sadly.
“That is not noble innocence,” said the Cardinal, with sudden and irascible impatience. “It is only egotism.”
He took the Duc’s arm. “Remain with me,” he added. “I am fatigued. I loathe the conversation of fools. Do not leave my side, I pray of you.”
They moved away together. Arsène looked after them, consumed with anxiety. He was about to follow them, when he felt the tap of a fan upon his arm. It was his betrothed, and she was in a pet, which added enchantment to her beauty.
“You are neglecting me, Monsieur,” she said, arching her head upon her slender white neck. “But I have grown accustomed to neglect, I am grieved to say.”
Arsène moved restlessly. The Cardinal and the Duc had been swallowed up in the moving throngs. He was about to make some hasty excuse, but the limpid blue light in Clarisse’s eyes suddenly fascinated him. He kissed her hand.
“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, for being distrait.”
She pouted, but she was secretly mollified. Her countenance became radiant. She tossed her flaxen curls. “It is two days to our wedding,” she remarked. “Does that render Monsieur distrait?”
“What else?” he murmured, gallantly, his eyes upon her pearly bosom, which immediately flushed a delicate pink under that bold gaze.
She exclaimed: “I trust that Monsieur will not continue his neglect after the nuptials! I have not been nurtured on neglect.”
“Believe me, Mademoiselle will have no reason to complain.”
He accompanied these words with so meaningful and amorous a look that she blushed even brighter, and tittered helplessly, covering her face with her fan. Virginal though she was, her thoughts had not been virginal for years, and her mind was as corrupt as her body still inviolate.
A great weariness suddenly descended upon Arsène. Whence had gone his former delight in all this gaiety, this music, this colorful movement of debauched courtiers, this lovely girl and brilliant light? There was a suffocating heat in his nostrils, a sickness in his heart. All at once he was filled with a terrible longing, a hunger and deep nameless anguish. He looked down into the blue eyes of Mademoiselle de Tremblant, and he saw a pair of other eyes, no less blue, but grave and steadfast and sweet. Where had he seen such eyes? How had he suppressed the knowledge, the memory?
A dark shadow passed across his vision. He saw wet dank walls, the flickering of a candle, the strench of mold and poverty and dust. And in the flame of the uncertain candles he saw a pale young face, stern and quiet, lighted by those forgotten azure eyes.
It is not possible! he thought, wretchedly. I have truly forgotten.
His misery increased. Mademoiselle was alarmed. Arsène had one of those vivid and restless countenances which concealed nothing, however he strove to conceal it. She saw that her betrothed was miserable, heated, agitated and undone. It is some woman, some wanton! she said to herself, with a vicious pang of anger and jealousy. Acute of sensibility, a malicious student of human nature, she now observed that a deep change had come over Arsène which she had subconsciously noted for some time. He appeared older, worn, preoccupied and leaner, as though bedeviled by thoughts that would not let him rest. In her small category of life, which admitted only sensuality and intrigue as important, she could never dream that men might have thoughts beyond these trivialities. When an acquaintance appeared distraught or saddened, she believed that some affair of the heart disturbed him. She had heard of spiritual conflicts, of passionate upheavals of the soul. But when she had heard of them she had smiled incredulously and knowingly. She recalled the witticism of some decadent fool, which she had enjoyed: “All the torments of the spirit begin in the pelvis.”
Arsène’s intense restlessness communicated itself to her. She felt him straining away from her side. Helplessly, and with anger, she turned to the Marquis, who was smirkingly receiving the plaudits of a group of admirers on his latest witticism. He turned impatiently at her touch, then revealed his pleasure at the sight of her beauty. He bowed, kissed her hand.
“Mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, exhilarated by his successes.
She beamed upon him, inclined her head, inundating him in the blue wash of her eyes.
“I have been complaining to Arsène,” she said, thrusting out her rosy lips. “He has been neglecting me. He is distrait. He seems absorbed in mysterious things.”
The smile remained fixed on the Marquis’ lips as he glanced at the uncomfortable Arsène, but there was a virulence in it now. Moreover, his eyes blinked with apprehension and anger.
But he said: “That is not possible, Mademoiselle. He speaks of nothing but you, and your coming wedding. Is that not so, Arsène?” he demanded in a louder voice, imperious and sharp.
Arsène replied listlessly: “It is so, father. But Mademoiselle will not believe me.” Again his glance tried to pierce through the moving guests to catch a glimpse of the Duc and the Cardinal. He felt his father take his arm in a fierce grip. The Marquis was still smiling.
“Women,” he said, “prefer acts to words, my son.”
Arsène slowly returned his gaze to his father, and he was touched by the fear and pleading in those malevolent black eyes. Therefore, he smiled ardently, lifted Mademoiselle’s hand again to his lips with every gesture of amorous devotion. But the girl, though she coquetted, was not in the least reassured, and her rage and jealousy increased.
There was a sudden fanfare and commotion outside, and again the doors opened. The ensign of the King’s Guards entered, the Sieur de la Coste, followed by a coterie of guards, musketeers and archers. These latter distributed themselves swiftly near the doorways of the Hôtel de Tremblant, moving as if oblivious of the suddenly excited guests. Two more companies of guards now entered, Swiss and French, and moved to positions about the walls of the drawing-rooms. Acclamations and shouts now sounded in the streets. It was midnight, but the crowds had increased rather than diminished.
Now, there was a louder, more insistent fanfare. The King, accompanied by his beauteous young queen, was entering the Hôtel de Tremblant. The assemblage, with one accord, bent in curtsey and deep bow. The King acknowledged this obeisance with a slight inclination of his head. The music clamored louder. A wind of excitement and adoration passed over the great drawing-rooms. The coterie of nobles and magnates who accompanied the royal pair filled these rooms with new colors and costumes and scents.
Now the festivities could proceed, and the gaiety become unrestrained.