The Countess Dubarry’s Morning Levee.
WHILE MADEMOISELLE Chon and Viscount Jean are traveling post on the Chalons road, let us introduce the reader to another member of the same family.
In the suite of rooms at Versailles which the Princess Adelaide, daughter of Louis XV., had once occupied, his majesty had installed his mistress, the Countess Dubarry, not without keenly studying beforehand the effect which this piece of policy would produce on his court. The favorite, with her merry whims and her careless joyous humor, had transformed that wing of the palace, formerly so quiet, into a scene of perpetual merriment and tumult, and every hour she issued thence her commands for a banquet or a party of pleasure.
But what appeared still more unusual on these magnificent staircases, was the never-ceasing stream of visitors ascending them, and crowding an antechamber filled with curiosities from all parts of the globe — certainly containing nothing so curious as the idol worshiped by this crowd.
The day after that on which the scene which we have just described occurred at the little village of Lachaussee, about nine in the morning, the countess, lovely as an eastern houri, was at the important duties of the toilet.
“No news of Chon?” asked she of one of her tiring-women.
“No, madame.”
“Nor of the viscount?”
“No, madame.”
“Do you know has Bischi received any?”
“A message was sent to your sister’s, madame, this morning, but there were no letters.”
“It is very tiresome waiting in this way,” said the countess, pouting her lovely mouth; “I am in a wretched humor — I pity all who may come near me to-day. Will some means never be invented of conversing at a hundred leagues’ distance? Is my antechamber passably filled this morning?”
“Can madame think it necessary to ask?”
“Dame! but listen! Doree — the dauphiness is coming! — I shall be abandoned for that sun, I, who am only a little twinkling star — but tell me, who is there this morning?”
“The Duke d’Aiguillon, madame, the Prince de Soubise, Monsieur de Sartines, the President Maupeou —
“And the Duke de Richelieu?”
“Not yet, madame.”
“How? — neither to-day nor yesterday? — He is afraid of compromising himself — you must send one of my servants to the Hotel du Hanovre to inquire if the duke is ill.”
“Yes, madame; will you receive all who are waiting at once, or do you wish to give any one a private audience?”
“Monsieur de Sartines first — I must speak to him alone.”
The order was transmitted by the countess’s woman to a tall footman who waited in the corridor leading from her bed-chamber to the anterooms, and the minister of police immediately appeared, dressed in black, and endeavoring by an insinuating smile to moderate the severe expression of his gray eyes and thin lips.
“Good-morning, my dear enemy!” said the countess, without looking round, but seeing him in the mirror before her.
“Your enemy, madame!”
“Yes; my world is divided into only two classes — friends and enemies — I admit no neutrals, or class them as enemies.”
“And you are right, madame; but tell me how I, notwithstanding my well known devotion to your interests, deserve to be included in either one or other of these classes?”
“By allowing to be printed, distributed, sold, and sent to the king, a whole ocean ‘of pamphlets, libels, verses — all against me. It is ill-natured — stupid — odious!”
“But, madame, I am not responsible.”
“Yes, sir, you are; for you know the wretch who wrote them.”
“Madame, if they were all written by one author, we should not have the trouble of sending him to the Bastille — Hercules himself would sink under such a labor!”
“Upon my word, you are highly complimentary to me.”
“If I were your enemy, madame. I should not speak the truth thus.”
“Well, I believe you! — we understand each other now. But one thing still gives me some uneasiness.”
“What is that, madame?”
“You are on good terms with the Choiseuls.”
“Madame, M, de Choiseul is prime minister; he issues his orders and I must obey them.”
“So if Monsieur de Choiseul orders that I am to be vexed, tortured, worried to death, you will allow me to be vexed, tortured, worried! — Thank you!”
“Let us discuss matters a little,” said Sartines, sitting down without being asked to do so, but without any displeasure being exhibited on the part of the favorite, for much must be pardoned in the man who knew better than any other all that was doing in France. “Let us discuss this a little — and first, what have I done for you these three days past?”
“You informed me that a courier had been sent from Chanteloup to hasten the arrival of the dauphiness.”
“Was that done like an enemy?”
“But about the presentation on which you know my heart is set — what have you been doing for me?”
“Doing all I possibly could.”
“Monsieur de Sartines, you are not candid!”
“Ah, madame! I assure you, you are unjust. Did I not find and bring you Viscount Jean from the back room of a tavern in less than two hours, when you wanted him in order to send him I don’t know where, or rather I do know where.”
“I had much rather you had allowed my brother-in-law to stay there,” said Madame Dubarry, laughing, “a man allied to the royal family of France!”
“Well, but was that not a service to be added to my many other services?”
“Oh, very well! — but just tell me what you did for me yesterday.”
“Yesterday, madame!”
“Oh, you may well endeavor to recollect — that was your day for obliging others.”
“I don’t understand you, madame.”
“Well I understand myself — answer, sir, what were you doing yesterday?”
“Yesterday morning I was occupied as usual, writing with my secretary.”
“Till what hour?”
“Till ten.”
“What did you do then?”
“I sent to invite a friend of mine from Lyons, who had made a wager he would come to Paris without my knowing, and my footman met him just at the barrier.”
“Well, after dinner?”
“I sent to the Austrian lieutenant of police information of the haunt of a famous robber whom he could not discover.”
“And where is he?”
“At Vienna.”
“So you are not only the Minister of Police at Paris, but perform the same duties for foreign courts?”
“Yes, madame — in my leisure moments.”
“Well, I shall take a note of that. Then, after having dispatched the courier to Vienna — ?”
“I went to the opera.”
“To see the little Guimard? Poor Soubise!”
“No — to arrest a famous pickpocket, whom I did not disturb so long as he kept to the fermiers-general, but who had the audacity to rob two or three noblemen.”
“You should say the indiscretion. Well — after the opera — ?”
“After the opera?”
“Yes. That seems to be rather a puzzling question — is it not?”
“No. After the opera? let me think—”
“So. How much your memory has failed of late.”
“Oh! after the opera — yes, I remember—”
“Well?”
“I went to the house of a certain lady who keeps a gaming-table, and I myself conducted her to Fort-l’Eveque.”
“In her carriage?”
“No — in a fiacre.”
“Well?”
“Well, that is all.”
“No, it is not!”
“I got into ray fiacre again.”
“And whom did you find in it?”
He reddened.
“Oh!” cried the countess, clapping her little hands, “I have really had the honor of making a minister of police blush!”
“Madame—” stammered Sartines.
“No — I shall tell you who was in the fiacre — it was the Duchesse de Grammont!”
“The Duchesse de Grammont?”
“Yes, the Duchesse de Grammont — who came to ask you to contrive to get her admitted to the king’s private apartments.”
“Ma foi, madame!” said the minister, shifting uneasily in his chair. “I may give up my portfolio to you. It is you who manage the police of Paris, not I.”
“To tell the truth, sir, I have a police of my own. So beware! Oh, the Duchesse de Grammont in a fiacre with the minister of police at midnight! It was capital! Do you know what I did?”
“No, but I am afraid it was something dreadful — fortunately it was very late.”
“But night is the time for vengeance!”
“And what, then, did you do?”
“As I keep a police of my own, I keep a body of writers also — shocking, ragged, hungry scribblers!”
“Hungry? you must feed them badly.”
“I don’t feed them at all. If they became fat they would be as stupid as the Prince de Soubise; fat, we are told, absorbs the gall.”
“Go on — I shudder at the thought of them.”
“I recollected all the disagreeable things you have allowed the Choiseuls to do against me, and determined to be revenged. I gave my legion of famishing Apollos the following programme; First, Monsieur de Sartines, disguised as a lawyer, visiting an innocent young girl who lives in a garret, and giving her, on the thirtieth of every month, a wretched pittance of a hundred crowns.”
“Madame, that is a benevolent action which you are endeavoring to misconstrue.”
“It is only such actions which can be misconstrued. My second scene was Monsieur de Sartines, disguised like a reverend missionary, introducing himself into the convent of the Carmelites of the Rue Saint Antoine.”
“I was taking those good nuns some news from the Indies.”
“East or West Indies — which? My third scene is Monsieur de Sartines, disguised as lieutenant of the police, driving through the streets at midnight in a fiacre with the Duchesse de Grammont.”
“No, madame,” exclaimed he. “No — you would not bring ridicule on my administration in that manner!”
“Why, do you not bring ridicule on mine?” said the countess, laughing; “but wait! I set my rogues to work, and they began like boys at college, with exordium, narration, and amplification — and I have received this morning an epigram, a song, and a ballad, of which you are the subject.”
“You are not serious?”
“Perfectly so; and to-morrow you shall receive them all three.”
“Why not to-day?”
“I must have some time first to distribute them. Is not that the way? Besides, the police ought always to hear last about any new affair. I assure you, you will be very much amused! I laughed three-quarters of an hour at them this morning, and the king was nearly dead with laughing — it was that which made him so late.”
“I am ruined!” cried Sartines, clasping his hands.
“Ruined? Nonsense! You are only celebrated in song. Am I ruined by all the verses made on me? No — I only get in a passion at them, and then for revenge I determine to put somebody else in a passion too. Ah, what delightful verses! I have ordered some wine to my literary scorpions, and I expect by this time their senses are wrapped up in happy oblivion.”
“Ah, countess, countess!”
“But, pardieu, you, must hear the epigram;
“‘Oh, France, how wretched is thy fate, When women hold the helm of state.’”
“No, no — I am wrong; that is the scandal perpetrated against myself. But there are so many, I confound them. Listen, listen! here it is;”
“‘A perfumer once sought of a painter a sign,
His skill than his genius was duller,
For in a huge bottle, with knavish design,
He makes Boynes, Maupeou, and Terray to shine,
Displayed in their own proper color.
But for Sartines still room in the vessel he leaves.
And he labels the mixture the essence of thieves.’” “Cruel woman, you will send me mad!” cried Sartines.
“Now we must look at the poem. You must know it is Madame de Grammont who speaks;
“Dear minister, you know my skin
Is to the purest snow akin;
Then grant to me this single thing —
Oh, say so, say so, to the king.’”
“Madame, madame!” cried Sartines, more furious than ever.
“Nonsense!” said the countess. “You need not be so uneasy about these little poems; I have only had ten thousand copies of them struck off.”
“You have a press, then?”
“Certainly. Has not the Duke de Choiseul one?”
“Let your printer take care!”
“Oh, it is kept in my own name — I am the printer.”
“Shocking, shocking! And the king laughs at these calumnies?”
“Laughs? He sometimes gives me rhymes himself, when my own inspiration fails.”
“You know how I serve you, and you treat me thus?”
“I know that you are betraying me — the Duchesse de Grammont wishes to ruin me.”
“Madame, I declare to you she took me quite unawares!”
“You confess, then, that I was informed correctly?”
“I am forced to confess it.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I came now for that purpose.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Upon my honor!”
“I bet two to one against that pledge.”
“Behold me at your feet!” and he fell on his knees. “I beg forgiveness.”
“You are in the position in which you ought to be.”
“Let us make peace, countess, in Heaven’s name!”
“So you are afraid of a few bad verses — you, a man, a minister! Yet you never reflect how many wretched hours such things make me spend — I, a poor, weak woman!”
“You are a queen.”
“A queen — not presented at court!”
“I swear to you, I have never done anything hurtful to your interests!”
“No, but you have allowed others to do so. The matter, however, is now, not the doing nothing against them, but the doing all in your power to forward them. Are you on my side — yes or no?”
“Certainly, on your side.”
“Will you assist me? Will you allow nothing to interpose to hinder my presentation?”
“For myself, I promise everything.”
“No,” said the countess, stamping with her foot, “Pure faith! I will not accept that; there is a loophole in it to creep out at! You will be supposed to do nothing against me yourself, but the Duke de Choiseul will do all. Give me up the Choiseul party, bound hand and foot, or I will annihilate you — destroy you! Take care! verses are not my only weapons!”
“Do not threaten me, madame,” said Sartines, thoughtfully; “there are difficulties about this presentation which you cannot understand.”
“Obstacles have purposely been thrown in the way of it. You can remove them.”
“It would require a hundred persons to do so.”
“You shall have a million!”
“The king will not give his consent.”
“He shall give it!”
“And when you have got it, how get a lady to present you?”
“I am seeking for one now.”
“It is quite useless — there is a league against you.”
“At Versailles?”
“Yes. All the ladies have refused, in order to pay their court to the Duke de Choiseul, the Duchesse de Grammont, the dauphiness, and the whole prudish party.”
“Do not fear; I have nearly obtained what I want.”
“Ha! it was for that you sent your sister to Verdun!”
“So you know that, do you?” said she, angrily.
“Oh, I have also my police, you know!” said Sartines, laughing.
“And your spies?”
“And my spies.”
“In my apartments?”
“In your apartments.”
“In my stable, or in my kitchen?”
“In your antechamber — in your salon — in your bedroom — under your pillow.”
“Now, as the first pledge of our peace,” said the countess, “give me the names of those spies.”
“No, countess; I should not wish to embroil you with your friends.”
“But name only the last who told you a secret.”
“What would you do?”
“I would turn him out.”
“If you begin in that way, you will soon have to live in an empty house.”
“This is frightful!”
“Yet perfectly true. Oh, you know we could not govern without spies! So excellent a politician as you must have discovered that long ago.”
Madame Dubarry leaned her elbow on a table, and seemed to reflect for some minutes; then she said, “You are right. Let us say no more on the subject. What are to be the conditions of our treaty?”
“Make them yourself. You are the conqueror.”
“I am as magnanimous as Semiramis. Let me hear what you wish.”
“Well, then, you are never to speak to the king about petitions on the subject of wheat; for, traitress! you have promised your support to those petitions.”
“Very well. Take away all the petitions with you; they are in a, box there.”
“As a reward, here is a document drawn up by the peers of the kingdom respecting presentations, and the right of sitting in the royal presence.”
“A document which you were charged to give his majesty?”
“Yes.”
“But what will you say to them?”
“That I have given it. You will thus gain time; and you are too clever in your tactics not to take advantage of it.”
At this moment the folding-doors were thrown open, and a negro announced, “The king!”
The two allies hastened to hide their mutual pledges of peace and good understanding, and turned to salute his majesty, Louis — the fifteenth of that name.