Chaperon and Debutante.
THE POOR COUNTESS — let us continue to apply the epithet which the king had given her, for at this moment she truly deserved it — the poor countess hurried like one in despair to Paris. Chon, terrified by Jean’s paragraph concerning Gilbert, shut herself up in the boudoir at Luciennes to hide her grief and anxiety, lamenting the fatal whim which induced her to pick up Gilbert on the high road.
Having reached the outskirts of Paris, the countess found a coach awaiting her. In the coach were Viscount Jean and a lawyer, with whom he seemed to be arguing in the most energetic manner. The moment he perceived the countess he leaped out, and made a sign to his sister’s coachman to stop.
“Quick, countess!” said he. “Quick, get into my carriage, and drive to the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres!”
“Is the old lady going to give us the slip?” said Madame Dubarry, changing carriages, while the lawyer, on a sign from the viscount, followed her example.
“I fear it, countess,” replied Jean. “I fear she is giving us a Roland for our Oliver.”
“But what has happened?”
“You shall hear. I staved in Paris because I am always suspicious, and in this case I was not wrong, as you will see. At nine last night I went prowling about the inn of the Coq Chantant. All quiet — no movement — no visitors; all looked well. Consequently, I thought I might go home to bed — and to bed I went. This morning I awoke at break of day. I roused Patrice, and ordered him to go and keep watch at the corner of the street. Well, at nine — observe, that was an hour sooner than I had appointed — I drove up to the hotel. Patrice had seen nothing to cause the least anxiety, so I boldly walked upstairs. At the door of the countess’s room a maid-servant stopped me, and told me that the countess could not leave the house to-day, and perhaps it would be eight days before she could move from her apartment. I confess that, although prepared for some rebuff, I was not for that! ‘What,’ cried I,’ she cannot go out! What is the matter?’ ‘She is ill.’ ‘Ill? Impossible! Yesterday she was perfectly well.’ ‘Yes, sir, but madame likes to make her own chocolate; and tins morning, when it was boiling, she spilled it over her foot, and she is scalded. On hearing the countess’s cries I hastened in, and I found her nearly fainting. I carried her to her bed, and I think she is at present asleep.’ I was as white as your lace, countess, and could not help crying out, ‘It is a lie!’ ‘No, my dear Viscount Dubarry,’ replied a sharp voice, which seemed to pierce the very wall, ‘it is not a lie! I am in horrible pain.’ I sprang to the side whence the voice came, and burst through a glass door which I could not open — the old countess was really in bed. ‘Ah, madame!’ I exclaimed — but it was all I could utter; I was in such a rage! I could have strangled her with pleasure. ‘Look there,’ said she, pointing to an old kettle which was lying on the floor, ‘there is the coffee-pot that did all the mischief.’ I flew to the coffee-pot, and stamped on it with both feet; it will make no more chocolate, I can answer for it. ‘What a misfortune!’ cried the old lady, piteously; ‘it must be the Baroness d’Alogny who will present your sister. But what can we do? It was so written, as the Easterns say.’ “Heavens! Jean, you drive me to despair!” exclaimed the countess.
“Oh! I do not despair yet, if you go to her; it was for that that I sent for you.”
“But why do you not despair?”
“Why! because you are a woman, and can do what I cannot; you can make the dressing be taken off; and, if you discover that it is an imposture, you can tell her that her son shall never be anything but a clown — that she shall never touch a farthing from the estate of the Saluces — in short, you can play off the imprecations of Camilla on her, much better than I the fury of Orestes.”
“Is this all a jest?” cried the countess.
“No, I assure you.”
“And where does our sibyl lodge?”
“At the Coq Chantant, Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, a great black house, with a monstrous cock painted on an iron plate — when the iron creaks, the cock crows.”
“I shall have a dreadful scene with her.”
“No doubt of it; but you must take your chance. Shall I go with you?”
“No; you would spoil all.”
“Just what our lawyer said; I was consulting him on that point when you drove up. For your information, I may tell you that he says to beat a person in his own house renders you liable to fine and imprisonment, while to beat him out of it—”
“Is nothing!” said the countess. “You know that better than any one else.”
Jean grinned an ugly smile.
“Debts,” said he, “that are long in being paid, are paid with interest; and if ever I meet my man again —
“I would much rather, at present, speak of my woman!”
“I have nothing more to tell you, so be off!”
“But where will you wait for me?”
“In the inn itself. I shall ask for a bottle of wine, and sit there, in case you want a helping hand.”
“Drive on, coachman,” cried the countess.
“Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, at the sign of the Coq Chantant,” added the viscount.
In a quarter of an hour they where in the street honored by possessing the Coq Chantant. At some distance from the inn Madame Dubarry left her carriage and proceeded on foot. She feared that the noise of the wheels might put the old lady on the alert — that she might suspect what visitor was coining — and might have time to hide.
Alone, then, she entered the gaping porch of the inn. No one saw her until she was at the foot of the staircase; there she encountered the hostess.
“The Countess de Bearn?” said she.
“She is very ill, madame, and cannot see any one.”
“Yes, I am aware; and I came to know exactly how she is.”
And, light as a bird, she was at the top of the stairs in a moment.
“Madame, madame!” cried the hostess, “a lady is going to force her way into your room.”
“Who is she?” asked the old lady, from a distant part of the room.
“I,” said the favorite, appearing on the threshold with a face perfectly suited to the occasion, for she first smiled out of compliment, and then looked sad, by way of condolence.
“You here, madame?” exclaimed the old lady, turning pale.
“Yes, dear madame, I came to express my sympathy for your misfortune, of which I have just heard. Pray tell me how this accident happened.”
“But, madame, I dare not ask you to sit down in such a miserable place as this.”
“I know, madame, that you have a castle in Touraine, and can excuse your being obliged to receive your friends here in an inn.” And she sat down so determinedly that the old lady saw she must allow her to have her way.
“You seem in great pain, madame,” said the favorite.
“Oh, in dreadful pain!’ “The right leg? But, good heavens, how did you manage to scald it?”
“Nothing more simple — I held the chocolate kettle in my hand, the handle gave way, and I received the boiling water on my ankle.”
“How shocking!”
The old lady sighed. “Yes, shocking, indeed,” said she; “but this is always the case; misfortunes never come singly.”
“You are aware that the king expected you this morning?”
“Oh! madame, that intelligence makes my sufferings infinitely greater.”
“His majesty is far from satisfied, madame, that you did not pay your visit.”
“But the pain I am in will be a sufficient apology; and I trust yet to be able to offer to his majesty my very humble excuses.”
“I do not tell you that to cause you any vexation,” said the countess, seeing that the old lady was assuming a little formality, “but merely to let you know that his majesty felt grateful for the offer you made me.”
“You see, madame, that it is now impossible for me to fulfill it.”
“Certainly; but may I ask you a question?”
“I shall be delighted to hear it.”
“Does not your present state arise from having experienced some sudden agitation?”
“Very possibly,” said the old lady, bowing slightly; “I must acknowledge that I was deeply moved by your gracious reception of me.”
“Yes; but there was another thing besides.”
“Another thing? nothing that I know of, madame.”
“Oh, yes; an unexpected meeting with a person on leaving my house.”
“I did not meet any one; I was in your brother’s carriage.”
“Before getting into the carriage?”
The old lady seemed to be tasking her memory.
“Just as you were going down the stairs to the vestibule?”
The old lady seemed more intent in trying to recall the events of yesterday.
“Yes,” said the favorite, rather impatiently; “some one entered the court as you left my house.”
“I am so unfortunate, madame, as not to be able to recollect any one entering.”
“A lady — now you remember.”
“I am so short-sighted that at two paces from me, madame, I cannot distinguish any one.”
“Oh, ho!” said the favorite to herself; “she is too cunning for me! I shall never succeed by these means. Come — to the point at once. Then since you did not see the lady,” she continued aloud. “I must tell you that she is my sister-in-law, Mademoiselle Dubarry.”
“Oh, very well, madame; but as I have never had the pleasure of seeing her—”
“Yes,” interrupted the other, “you have seen her — only when you saw her it was under the name of Flageot.”
“So!” cried the old lady, with a bitterness which she could not dissemble—”So that pretended Mademoiselle Flageot, who caused me to undertake the journey to Paris, is your sister-in-law?”
“She is, madame.”
“And who sent her to me?”
“I did.”
“To mystify me?”
“No, to serve you, while at the same time you should serve me.”
The old lady bent her thick gray eyebrows. “I do not think,” said she, “her visit will turn out very profitable to me.”
“Did the vice-chancellor receive you ill, then, madame?”
“Empty promises.”
“But it seems to me that I offered you something more tangible than promises.”
“Madame, God disposes, though man proposes.”
“Come, madame, let us view the matter seriously. You have scalded your foot!”
“Scalded it very badly.”
“Could you not, in spite of this accident — painful, no doubt, but after all, nothing dangerous — make an effort to bear the journey to Luciennes in my carriage, and stand before his majesty for one minute?”
“It is quite impossible, madame.”
“Is the injury so very serious?”
“Serious, indeed.”
“And pray who dresses it for you, and nurses you?”
“Like all housekeepers, I have excellent recipes for burns, and I dress it myself.”
“Might I take the liberty of requesting to see your specific?”
“Oh, yes, it is in that phial on the table.”
“Hypocrite!” thought the countess, “to carry her dissimulation to such a point! She is as cunning as a fox, but I shall match her. Madame,” added she, aloud, “I also have an excellent oil for accidents of this kind; but, before applying it, it is necessary to know what kind of scald it is — whether it is inflamed, or blistered, or the skin broken.”
“Madame, the skin is broken,” said the old lady.
“Oh, heavens! how you must suffer. Shall I apply my oil to it?”
“With all my heart, madame. Have you brought it?”
“No, but I shall send for it. In the meantime, I must see the state of your leg.”
“Oh, madame!” exclaimed the old lady, “I could not think of permitting you to see such a spectacle. I know too well what is due to good manners.”
“Delightful!” thought Madame Dubarry, “she is now fairly caught.” Then she added, “Where we can serve our fellow-beings, madame, we must not stand upon etiquette,” and she stretched out her hand toward the old lady’s leg, which was extended on the sofa.
Madame de Bearn uttered a scream of pain.
“Very well acted,” said Madame Dubarry to herself, watching her every feature distorted with anguish.
“How you frightened me, madame,” said the old lady; “it is almost death to me to touch it;” and, with pale cheeks and half-closed eyes, she leaned back as if nearly fainting.
“Do you allow me to look at it?”
“If you choose, madame,” said the old lady, in a weak and suffering voice.
Madame Dubarry did not lose an instant; she took out the pins in the bandages, and rapidly unrolled them. To her great surprise, she was permitted to go on. “When it comes to the last covering,” thought she, “she will scream, and try to prevent me from seeing it; but, though she kill herself calling on me to stop, I will see the leg!” and she proceeded in her task.
Madame de Bearn groaned, but offered no resistance.
At last the bandages were untied, the last covering was removed, and a real wound caused by a scald lay before Madame Dubarry’s eyes. Here ended the old lady’s diplomacy. Livid and inflamed, the wound spoke for itself. The Countess de Bearn might have seen and recognized Chon; but if so, her courage and determination raised her far above Portia and Mutius Scevola. Madame Dubarry gazed at her in silent admiration. The old lady, now somewhat recovered, enjoyed her victory to the utmost; her inflamed eye brooded with satisfaction on the countess kneeling at her feet. Madame Dubarry replaced the bandages with that delicate care which women exercise toward the suffering, placed the limb once more on its cushion, and took her seat beside the couch.
“Come, madame,” said she, “I see of what you are capable, and I beg your pardon for not having begun this subject in the way in which I ought with such a woman as you. Make your own conditions.”
The eyes of the old lady sparkled, but it was only for a moment. “In the first place,” said she, “state what your wishes are, and then I shall see if I can be of any service to you.”
“Madame, I wish to be presented at Versailles by you, though it cost you another hour of the horrible suffering which you have endured this morning.”
The Countess de Bearn listened unflinchingly. “Anything else, madame?” said she.
“That is all. Now for your turn.”
“I must have,” replied Madame de Bearn, with a decision which showed clearly that she treated with the countess as one power with another, “I must have two hundred thousand francs of my lawsuit secured to me.”
“But if you gain your cause, you will then have four hundred thousand.”
“No; for I look on the disputed two hundred thousand as mine already, and the other two hundred thousand I shall reckon as merely an additional piece of good fortune to that of possessing the honor of your acquaintance.”
“You shall have them, madame — well?”
“I have a son, whom I love tenderly, madame. Our house has already been distinguished by military genius; but, born to command, we make but indifferent subalterns. My son must have a company immediately, and next year a colonel’s commission.”
“Who will pay all the necessary expenses, madame?”
“The king. You perceive that if I expended on my son the sum which I am to receive from you, I should be as poor tomorrow as I am to-day.”
“At the lowest, I may reckon that at six hundred thousand francs.”
“Four hundred thousand, supposing the commission worth two hundred thousand, which is a high estimate.”
“This shall be granted you also.”
“I have now to request from the king payment for a vineyard in Touraine, containing four acres, which the engineers deprived me of eleven years ago in making a canal.”
“But they paid you then?”
“Yes, they paid me according to the valuator’s estimate; but I value it at just double the sum.”
“Well, you shall be paid a second time. Is that all?”
“Excuse me. I am out of cash, as you may suppose, madame, and I owe Master Flageot something about — nine thousand francs.”
“Nine thousand francs!”
“Yes; it is absolutely necessary to pay him; he is an excellent lawyer.”
“I have not the least doubt of it, madame. Well, I shall pay these nine thousand francs out of my own private purse. I hope you will acknowledge that I am accommodating.”
“Perfectly accommodating. But I think I have also proved that I wish to serve you.”
“I have only to regret that you scalded yourself,” replied the favorite, with a smile.
“I do not regret it, madame, since, in spite of the accident, my devotion to your interests will, I trust, give me strength to be useful to you.”
“Let us sum up,” said Madame Dubarry.
“Pardon me one moment. I had forgotten one thing. Alas, it is so long since I have been at court that I have no dress fit for it.”
“I foresaw that, madame, and yesterday, after your departure, I ordered a dress for you. To-morrow, at noon, it will be ready.”
“I have no diamonds.”
“Boemer & Bossange will give you tomorrow, on my order, a set of ornaments worth two hundred and ten thousand livres, which, the following day, they will take back at two hundred thousand. Thus your indemnity will be paid.”
“Very well, madame; I have nothing more to wish.”
“I am delighted to hear it.”
“However, about my son’s commission?”
“His majesty will give it you himself.”
“And for the attendant expenses?”
“The order will be given with the commission.”
“Quite right. There now only remains about the vineyard — four acres —
“How much were they worth?”
“Six thousand livres an acre; it was excellent land.”
“I will now subscribe an obligation to pay you twenty-four thousand livres, which will be about the whole.”
“There is the writing-desk, madame.”
“I shall do myself the honor to hand the desk to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes, that you may write a little letter to his majesty which I shall dictate — a fair return, you know.”
“Very true,” replied the old lady; and arranging her paper, and taking a pen, she waited. Madame Dubarry dictated:
“SIRE — The happiness which I feel on learning that your majesty has accepted my offer to present my dear friend, the Countess Dubarry—”
The old lady made a grimace and her pen began to spit.
“You have a bad pen,” said the favorite; “you must change it.”
“It is unnecessary, madame; I shall get accustomed to it.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
Madame Dubarry continued:
—”Emboldens me to solicit your majesty to look on me with a favorable eye, when I shall appear at Versailles to-morrow, as you have deigned to permit me to do. I venture to hope, sire, that I merit your majesty’s favor, inasmuch as I am allied to a house, every chief of which has shed his blood for the princes of your august race.”
“Now sign, if you please,” said the favorite.
And the countess signed:
“ANASTASIE EUPHEMIE RODOLPHE, COUNTESS DE BEARN.”
The old lady wrote with a firm hand, in great letters, half an inch long, and sprinkled her letter with a sufficient quantity of aristocratic mistakes in orthography.
When she had signed, still holding the letter fast with one hand, she passed with the other the paper, pen and ink to Madame Dubarry, who in a little straight sharp hand signed the obligation to pay the sums above stated.
Then she wrote a letter to Boemer & Bossange, the crown jewelers, requesting them to give the bearer the set of diamond and emerald ornaments called Louise, because they had belonged to the Princess Louise, aunt to the dauphin, who sold them to obtain funds for her charities.
That done, the ladies exchanged their papers.
“Now,” said Madame Dubarry, “give me a proof of your friendship, my dear countess.”
“With all my heart, madame.”
“I am sure that if you come to me, Tronchin will cure you in less than three days. Come then, and you can at the same time try my oil, which is really excellent.”
“Well, but do not let me detain you, madame,” said the prudent old lady; “I have some matters to settle here before I can set out.”
“Then you refuse me?”
“On the contrary, madame, I accept your invitation, but not at this moment. It is just now striking one o’clock by the abbey clock; give me until three, and at five precisely I shall be at Luciennes.”
“Permit my brother then to return with the carriage at three.”
“Certainly.”
“In the meantime take care of yourself.”
“Fear nothing; you have my word, and though my death should be the consequence, I shall present you to-morrow at Versailles.”
“Good-by, then, my dear madame.”
“Good-by, my charming friend.”
And so saying they parted, the old lady, with her foot still on the cushion, and her hand on her papers; the countess in better spirits than on her arrival, but certainly rather vexed that she had not been able to make better terms with an old woman from the country — she, who could outwit the king of France when she chose.
Passing by the door of the principal salon, she saw Jean, who, doubtless merely to prevent any one harboring suspicions as to the cause of his long stay, was taking a second bottle of wine. Perceiving his sister, he jumped up from his chair and ran after her.
“Well?” cried he.
“Well. I may say as Marshal Saxe once said to his majesty in the battlefield of Fontenoy, ‘Sire, learn from this spectacle how dearly a victory may be purchased.’”
“Then we have conquered?”
“Yes — only it costs us about a million.”
Jean made a frightful grimace.
“Why, I had no chance; I must either take her at that or give her up.”
“But it is abominable.”
“It is as I tell you; and perhaps, if you make her angry, she will make us pay double.”
“Pardieu! what a woman!”
“She is a Roman!”
“She is a Greek!”
“Never mind! Greek or Roman, be ready to bring her to Luciennes at three o’clock. I shall never be easy until I have her under lock and key.”
“I shall not stir from this,” said Jean.
“And I, on my side, shall hasten to prepare everything,” said the countess.
She sprang into her carriage.
“To Luciennes!” said she. “To-morrow I shall say, to Marly!”
Jean followed the carriage with his eyes. “We cost France a pretty little sum,” said he. “No matter! it is very flattering for the Dubarrys!”