The Vice.
THE OLD COUNTESS trembled in every limb as she proceeded toward Monsieur de Maupeou’s residence. However, one thought had quieted her a little on the road — it was so late that in all probability she would not be admitted, and she should merely have to tell the porter when she should come again.
In fact, it was about seven in the evening, and although it was still light, the habit of dining at four, which the nobility had adopted, had caused all business to be suspended from dinner until the next day. Although Madame de Bearn anxiously longed to see the chancellor, she was, nevertheless, consoled by the thought that she should not see him. This is one of the frequent contradictions of the human mind which we can always understand but never explain.
The countess presented herself, therefore, quite certain that the porter would refuse her admittance; and had even prepared a crown to offer the Cerberus to induce him to put her name on the list of those who requested an audience. On reaching the house, she found an usher talking to the porter, as if giving him an order. She waited discreetly, that she might not interrupt these two personages; but, on perceiving her in her hackney-coach, the usher withdrew. The porter approached and demanded her name.
“Oh, I know.” said she, “that it is not probable I shall have the honor of seeing his excellency.”
“No matter, madame,” replied the porter; “have the goodness to tell me your name.”
“The Countess de Bearn,” she replied.
“My lord is at home,” answered he.
“What did you say?” asked the countess, almost dumb with astonishment.
“I say that my lord is at home,” repeated he.
“But of course he will not receive visitors?”
“He will receive you, madame.”
Madame de Bearn got out of the coach, hardly knowing whether she was asleep or awake.
The porter pulled a cord — a bell rang twice. The usher appeared at the top of the steps, and the porter made a sign to the countess to enter.
“You wish to speak to my lord?” asked the usher.
“I wish for that honor, but I scarcely hoped to obtain it.”
“Have the goodness to follow me, madame.”
“And yet people speak so ill of this chancellor,” said the countess to herself, as she went along, following the usher—” yet he has certainly one good quality — he admits persons on business at all hours. A chancellor? — it is strange!”
Yet still she shuddered at the idea that she should find him so much the more stern, so much the more ungracious, because he was assiduous at his duties. M, de Maupeou, buried under a great wig, and dressed in a suit of black velvet, was waiting in his cabinet, with the doors open. The countess, on entering, cast a rapid glance around. She saw with surprise that he was alone — that the mirrors reflected no other face than her own and that of the meager, yellow, busy chancellor.
The usher announced—” Madame the Countess de Bearn.” The chancellor rose up stiffly, as if he had no joints, and, by the same movement, leaned his back against the chimney piece.
The countess made the necessary three curtseys.
hit short, complimentary speech which followed the curtseys was rather embarrassed — she did not expect the honor — she did not think that a minister who had so much to do would deprive himself of the hours necessary for recreation, etc., etc.
The chancellor replied that time was, no doubt, as precious to his majesty’s subjects as to his majesty’s ministers — that, nevertheless, he admitted, there were distinctions to be made as to the importance of the affairs brought before him; consequently, he always gave the greater part of his time to those whose business was most urgent.
Fresh curtseys on the part of the countess, then an embarrassed silence, for compliments were ended, and her request must now be made.
The chancellor waited, stroking his chin.
“My lord,” said she, “I have presented myself before you, to explain to you an affair on which my whole fortune depends.”
The chancellor bowed, as if to intimate that she should go on.
“My lord,” she continued, “you must know that all my property, or rather my son’s, is at stake in a suit now pending between us and the family of the Saluces.”
The vice-chancellor continued to stroke his chin.
“But your equity is so well known to me, my lord, that although I am aware of your interest in — indeed, I may say your friendship for — the adverse party, I have not hesitated an instant in coining to entreat you to hear me.”
The chancellor could not help smiling on hearing himself praised for his equity, a quality for which he was about as famous as Dubois was for the apostolical virtues on which he had been complimented fifty years before.
“You are right, madame,” said he, “in saying that I am a friend of your opponents, but you are also right in thinking that, when I accepted the seals, I laid aside all friendship. I shall reply to you, then, without any bias, as becomes the supreme head of justice.”
“Heaven bless you, my lord!” cried the old countess.
“I shall examine your affair as a simple jurisconsult,” continued the chancellor.
“I thank your lordship — your skill in these matters is well known.”
“Your cause comes on soon, I think.”
“Next week, my lord!”
“In the meantime, what are your wishes respecting it?”
“That your lordship would look into the documents.”
“I have already done so.”
“Well,” asked the old countess, trembling, “and what do you think of it, my lord?”
“I think that there is not a doubt on the subject.”
“Not a doubt of my gaining?”
“No — of your losing.”
“Then you think, my lord, I shall lose?”
“Undoubtedly — I shall, therefore, give you one piece of advice.”
“What is it?” asked the countess, with a last ray of hope.
“It is — if you have any payments to make, the cause being tried, and sentence pronounced, to have your funds ready.”
“Oh, my lord, we shall be ruined then!”
“Surely you know, madame, that justice never takes into account anything respecting the consequences of her decrees.”
“But, my lord, there should be mercy as well as justice.”
“And, for fear of justice being influenced by mercy, she is made blind, madame.”
“But your lordship will not refuse me your advice?”
“Certainly not — ask it, madame. I am ready.”
“Is there no means of entering into an arrangement, by which the sentence might not be so harsh?”
“Do you know any of your judges?”
“Not one of them, my lord.”
“That is unfortunate. Messieurs de Saluces, your opponents, are connected with three-fourths of the parliament.”
The countess shuddered.
“But observe,” continued the chancellor, “that that does not alter the main grounds of the question, for a judge does not permit himself to be influenced by private feelings.”
This was about as true as that he possessed the virtue of equity, or Dubois the apostolic virtues, but it made the poor countess nearly faint.
“But, after all,” continued the chancellor, “the judge having done all that integrity demands, of course leans more to a friend than to a person about whom he is indifferent — that is only just, when it is just — and as it will be just that you should lose your cause, they may in their sentence make the consequences of that loss very unpleasant to you.”
“But all that your lordship says is very alarming.”
“As far as I am concerned, I shall refrain from saying anything that might have an influence on the minds of others; but, as I am not a judge myself, I may speak to you of the state of affairs.”
“Alas, my lord, I suspected one thing!”
The vice-chancellor fixed on her his little gray eyes.
“I suspected that, the adverse party living in Paris, they might become connected with the judges, and thus be all-powerful.”
“Because, in the first place, they have justice on their side.”
“How painful it is, my lord, to hear such words from the lips of a man infallible as you are!”
“I merely say all this to you because it is the truth, and yet,” continued II, de Maupeou, with an affected frankness, “I should like, upon my word, to serve you.”
The countess started; she thought that she saw some hidden meaning, if not in the chancellor’s words, at least in his thoughts, which concealed behind it something favorable to her.
“Besides,” he proceeded, “the name you bear is one of the noblest in France, and that is in itself a powerful recommendation to me.”
“Ah, my lord, it will not prevent me from losing my suit.”
“As to that, I have no power either one way or the other.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord!” cried the countess, shaking her head, “how things go in this world now!”
“You seem to infer, madame, that in the good old times they went better.”
“Alas, my lord, I cannot but think so. I recall with pleasure the time when you were merely a king’s advocate in the parliament, and when you made those “beautiful speeches which I, then a young woman, went to listen to, and which I applauded with such enthusiasm. What fire! — what eloquence! — what virtue! Ah, my lord, in those times there were no plots, no cabals, no favoritism! I should have gained my suit then.”
“Yet we had Madame de Phalaris then, who tried to reign occasionally when the regent shut his eyes, and we had too La Souris, who went about picking up what crumbs she could manage to gather.”
“Oh, my lord, but Madame de Phalaris was really a lady of rank, and La Souris was such a good-natured girl.”
“Yes; so nothing was refused them.”
“Or, rather, they could refuse no one.”
“Come, madame,” said the chancellor, laughing in a manner that astonished the old lady more and more, it was so open and natural, “come, do not make me speak ill of my own administration, through affection for my youthful days.”
“But, my lord, when I think of those days I must lament my lost fortune, my ruined family.”
“You see, countess, what it is not to go with the times, not to sacrifice to the idols of the day.”
“Alas, my lord, those idols care not for worshipers who come with empty hands!”
“What can you know about them?”
“ I?”—”Yes; you have never tried them, I think.”
“My lord, you speak to me really like a friend.”
“Well — are we not about the same age, countess?”
“Oh! why am I not twenty! and you, my lord, a simple advocate again? — you would plead for me, and I should gain my suit.”
“Unhappily, we are not twenty, countess,” said the vice chancellor, with a gallant sigh; “we must only; therefore, beg those who are twenty to assist us, since you confess that that is the age to have influence. What! — do you know no one at court?”
“Some old noblemen who have left it now, I once knew, but they would blush for their old friend in her poverty. Stay, my lord, I have still the privilege of being received at court! I might go to Versailles — yet of what use would it be? Oh, had I again only my two hundred thousand crowns of income, people would come to visit me! — perform that miracle for me, my lord!”
The chancellor pretended not to hear this last phrase. “In your place,” said he, “I should forget the old, as they have forgotten me. I should apply to the young, and beat up for recruits among them. Do you happen to know the princesses at all?”“
“They must have forgotten me.”
“And besides, they have no influence. Do you know the dauphin?”
“No.”
“And after all, he is so busy about his archduchess, who is about to arrive, that he can think of nothing else. Let me see — among the favorites — is there any one —
“I don’t even know their names.”
“Monsieur d’Aguillim?”
“A coxcomb of whom such shameful things are said! — that he hid in a well while others were fighting! — Fie! fie!”
“Pooh I we must not believe the half of what we hear — but stay — let me think —
“Do — do, my lord; think of some one!”
“Yes; why not? Yes! ha! — yes!”
“Who, my lord — who?”
“Why not apply to the countess herself?”
“To the Countess Dubarry?” said the old lady, spreading out her fan.
“Yes; she is really a kind creature.”
“Indeed!”
“And anxious to be useful.”
“I am of too ancient a family to please her, my lord.”
“You are mistaken, countess; she tries to attach high families to her.”
“Do you think so?” asked the old countess, already beginning to waver in her opposition.
“Do you know her?” asked the chancellor.
“Oh, good heavens! no!”
“Ah, there is the mischief! She is the person who has real influence.”
“Yes, yes, she has influence; but I never saw her.”
“ Nor her sister Chon?”
“No.”
“Nor her sister Bischi?”
“No.”
“Nor her brother Jean?”
“No.”
“Nor her negro Zamore?”
“What — her negro, my lord?”
“Yes, her negro is one of the governing powers.”
“What! — that little fright, whose picture is sold in the streets, which looks like that of a dressed-up pug-dog?’
“Yes, the same.”
“I know that African!” cried the countess, with offended dignity. “How should I know him, my lord?”
“Well, well! I see you do not wish to keep your estates, countess.”
“How is that?”
“Because you speak contemptuously of Zamore.”
“But what has Zamore to do in the matter?”
“He might gain your suit for you — that is all.”
“He? That Moor? — that Hottentot! How could he gain it for me?”
“By saying to his mistress that you wished to gain it. You know what influence is; he makes his mistress do what he chooses, and she makes the king do what she chooses.”
“Then Zamore governs France, my lord?”
“Hum!” replied the chancellor, nodding his head. “He has a great deal of influence; and I had rather quarrel with — with the dauphiness, for instance — than with Zamore.”
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed the countess, “if it were not a grave person like your lordship who told me such things, I could not believe them.”
“Oh, I am not the only one who will tell them you. Everybody can tell them. Ask any of the dukes and peers if they ever forget, when going to Marly or Luciennes, to take comfits for Zamore to put in his mouth, or pearls for him to hang in his ears. I, who speak to you, am I not the chancellor of France, or something very near it? Well, what was I doing when you came in? I was drawing up a governor’s commission for Zamore.”
“A governor’s commission?”
“Yes; Monsieur Zamore is appointed governor of the castle of Luciennes.”
“The very same title with which they rewarded the Count de Bearn after twenty years’ service.”
“Yes; he was made governor of the castle of Blois. I remember that.”
“But what a degradation! Good heavens! the monarchy is dead!”
“It is very ill, at least; and you know, countess, when an invalid draws near his end, people try to get all they can from him!”
“No doubt — no doubt; but the question is how to get near this invalid.”
“Do you know what you must do to be well received by the Countess Dubarry?”
“What?”
“You must get admitted by being the bearer of this commission for her negro.”
“I?”
“It will be an excellent beginning.”
“Do you think so, my lord?” said the poor countess, all alarmed.
““ I am sure of it; but —
“But what?”
“Do you know any one acquainted wit h her?”
“No one but yourself, my lord.”
“Oh, as for me, it would be difficult for me to introduce you.”
“Assuredly,” said the poor old lady, tossed to and fro by alternate hopes and fears, “assuredly, fortune is hostile to me! Your lordship has received me in a manner quite unexpected, for indeed I did not expect to be admitted to an audience; then, you have inclined me to pay my court to Madame Dubarry — I, a Bearn! — and I am ready to undertake the hateful task of delivering the commission for her wretch of a negro, and now I cannot even get an introduction to her!”
The chancellor began again to stroke his chin, and appeared very thoughtful, when suddenly the usher announced, “M, le Viscount Jean Dubarry!”
At this name the chancellor made a gesture of amazement, and the countess sank back breathless in her chair.
“Now, say that fortune has abandoned you! Ah! countess, countess, Heaven is working in your favor.”
Then, turning to the usher, without giving the old lady time to recover, he desired that the viscount should be admitted instantly. The usher withdrew, and in a moment after our old acquaintance Jean Dubarry entered, with his arm in a sling.
After the usual number of bows were made on both sides, and as the countess, trembling and undecided, was trying to rise in order to take leave — for the chancellor by a slight movement of the head had indicated to her that her audience was ended—” Pardon me, my lord,” said the viscount; “pardon me, madame — I interrupt you, I fear — but I beg of you not to go away; I have only two words to say to his lordship.”
The countess sat down again without requiring to be pressed, her heart full of joy and expectation.
“But, perhaps, sir, I shall be in your way?” she stammered.
“Oh, madame, not at all — not at all. I merely wish to lodge a short complaint with his lordship.”
“A complaint! — Against whom?” exclaimed the chancellor.
“An attack upon me, my lord! — an assassination! One cannot pass over such things as that. Let them abuse us, make ballads about us, blacken us, we can survive all that; but when it comes to cutting our throats — mordieu! we die!”
“Explain the affair, I beg,” said the chancellor, pretending to be very much horrified.
“It is easily done — but I fear I am interrupting this lady’s audience.”
“The Countess de Bearn,” said the chancellor, introducing the old lady to the Viscount Jean Dubarry.
Dubarry retreated gracefully to make his bow, the countess to make her curtsey; and both saluted as ceremoniously as if they had been at court.
“After you, sir,” said she.
“Madame, I would not be guilty of such treason against gallantry for the world.”
“Oh, sir, my business only concerns money, in yours honor is concerned; yours is therefore more urgent.”
“Then, madame,” said the viscount, “since it is your wish, I shall take advantage of your obliging permission.” And he related his tale to the chancellor, who listened very gravely.
“You will require witnesses,” said Monsieur de Maupeou, after a moment’s reflection.
“Ah,” cried Dubarry, “how easily one discovers, even in those words, the upright judge who can only be influenced by irrefutable truth! Well, I can procure witnesses.”
“My lord,” said the countess, “the viscount has found one already.”
“What witness?” they both asked.
“I, myself,” the countess replied.
“You?” exclaimed the chancellor.
“Sir,” said she, addressing the viscount, “did not this affair happen at the village of Lachaussee?”
“Yes, madame.”
“At the post-house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I shall be your witness. I passed through the place where the attack was made on you two hours after it happened.”
“Really, madame?” said the chancellor.
“Yes,” continued the countess, “and everybody was talking of what had just taken place.”
“Take care!” said the viscount, “take care, madame! — if you consent to aid me in this matter, very likely the Choiseuls will find some means of making you repent of it.”
“Ah!” said the chancellor, “and the more easily that the Countess de Bearn is engaged in a lawsuit, her chance of gaining which is very doubtful, I am afraid.”
“Oh, my lord,” cried the old lady, putting her hand to her head, “I sink from one difficulty to another!”
“Lean upon the viscount,” said the chancellor, in a half whisper; “he has a powerful arm to assist you.”
“Only one at present,” said Dubarry, with a simper. “But I know a certain person who has two good arms — they can reach far, and I offer you their aid.”
“Oh, Monsieur le Viscount, are you serious in making me such an offer?”
“It is only service for service, madame. I accept your aid — you accept mine. Is it agreed?”
“Do I accept yours? Oh, sir, you do me too much honor!”
“Then, madame, will you take a seat in my carriage; I am just going to pay a visit to my sister?”
“Without any reason — without any preparations? Oh, sir, I dare not —
“You have a reason, madame,” said the chancellor, slipping into her hand Zamore’s commission.
“My lord, you are my tutelary genius!” cried the old lady, taking the document. “Monsieur le Viscount, you are the flower of the French nobility.”
“At your service,” said the viscount, pointing the way to the countess, who was as quick as a bird to take it.
“Thanks for my sister,” whispered Jean in the chancellor’s ear; “thank you, cousin! But did I play my part well? — eh?”
“Admirably,” said Maupeou; “but pray make the countess laugh by telling her how I played mine. But, take care! the old lady is as sharp as a needle!”
At that moment the countess turned; the two gentlemen bowed formally to one another, as if taking a ceremonious adieu.
A splendid carriage, with attendants in the royal livery, waited at the door; the old lady took her place in it quite elated; Jean seated himself beside her, and they departed.
After the king left Madame Dubarry, as we have formerly related, after a very cold and constrained reception, the countess was left alone with Chon and her brother, who had not appeared at first for fear of his wound being examined, it being, in reality, very trifling. The result of this family council was, that the countess, instead of going to Luciennes as she had told the king, set off for Paris. She had there, in the Rue de Valois, a snug little house which served as a place of rendezvous for all her family, every member of which was constantly running backward and forward, hither and thither, as business or pleasure led them.
The countess being installed in this domicile of hers, took a book and waited. Meantime the viscount prepared his battery.
It might be about half-past seven by the large dial of the church of St. Eustache, when the Countess de Bearn and Viscount Dubarry passed by on their way to his sister’s.
The conversation on her side expressed great reluctance to avail herself of the good fortune which had fallen in her way. On his, there was the assumption of a sort of dignity in being her patron, with repeated exclamations at the happy chance which enabled him to introduce her to the Countess Dubarry. In return, the old lady never ceased praising the politeness and affability of the chancellor. All these fits on both sides, however, did not prevent the horses from going as fast as they could, and they reached their place of destination a little before eight.
“Permit me, madame,” said the viscount, leaving the old lady in an anteroom, “to inform the Countess Dubarry of the honor you have done her.”
“Oh, sir!” said the countess, “do not, I entreat you, allow my unseasonable visit to disturb her.”
Jean approached Zamore, who was watching for his return out of one of the windows, and whispered something in his ear.
““What a dear little negro!” cried the countess; “is he your sister’s, sir?”
“Yes; he is one of her favorites, madame.”
“I congratulate her on having such a one.”
At this moment a footman opened the folding-doors of the salon where Madame Dubarry usually granted audiences, and requested the countess to walk in there. While the old lady was sighing over the luxurious furniture of the apartment, Jean was with his sister announcing his prize. “Is it really she?” asked Madame Dubarry.
“Flesh and blood!”
“Does she suspect anything — ?”
“Nothing in the world.”
“And how did the Vice behave?”
“Admirably! — everything conspired to favor us.”
“Do not let us leave her too long alone, lest she should suspect something.”
“You are right; for I assure you, she seems to me cunning enough.”
“Where is Chon?”
“At Versailles, you know.”
“Well, she must not by any means let herself be seen.”
“Oh, I warned her!”
“Now, princess, enter.”
Madame Dubarry gently pushed open the door of her boudoir and entered the salon.
All the ceremonial necessary to the l’etiquette of those days was scrupulously gone through by the two actresses, mutually desirous of pleasing. Madame Dubarry was the first to speak.
“I have already thanked my brother, madame, for having procured me the honor of this visit, allow me now to thank you also for having consented to his wish.”
“I know not, madame.” replied the old lady, “in what terms to thank you for this gracious reception of me.”
“Madame,” said the countess, in her turn, with a curtsey of profound respect, “it is only due to a lady of your rank to place myself at your disposal, if I can be of service to you in any way.”
And three more curtseys having been made on each side, the countess invited Madame de Bearn to be seated.