The Presentation.
VERSAILLES, LIKE EVERYTHING really great, is and will long be a fair and lovely scene. Though moss should cover its mouldering walls — though its gods of marble, bronze and lead should lie shattered around their broken fountains — though its broad alleys of clipped trees should remain in all the wild luxuriance of nature — though it should become but a heap of ruins — it will always present to the thinker and the poet a great and touching spectacle. Let such look from its circle of ephemeral splendor to the eternal horizon beyond, and it will be long ere thought and fancy sink to rest again!
But it was, above all, in its days of pomp and splendor that Versailles was fairest to look upon; when its gay and thoughtless population, restrained by a crowd of soldiers still more gay than themselves, thronged its gilded gates — when carriages lined with velvet and satin, blazoned with armorial bearings, thundered over its pavements at the full speed of their prancing steeds — when every window, blazing with light like those of an enchanted palace, exposed to view the moving throng, radiant with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and bending to the gesture of one man, as bends before the wind a field of golden corn, with its bright flowers of crimson, white and blue; yes, Versailles was brilliant indeed, when its gates sent forth couriers to all the powers of the earth — when kings, princes, nobles, generals, learned men, from all parts of the civilized world, trod its rich carpets and its inlaid floors!
But when, for some great ceremony, all its sumptuous furniture was displayed, and its sumptuousness doubled by the magic of a thousand lights, even the coldest imagination must have glowed on beholding what human invention and human power could do. Such was the ceremony observed on the reception of an ambassador, or the presentation of the nobles attending the court.
Louis XIV., the creator of etiquette, a system which shut up each individual within bounds beyond which he could not pass, desired that the favored few initiated into the magnificence of his regal life should be struck with such veneration that ever afterward they could only regard the palace as a temple, and the king as its presiding deity, to whose presence some had the right of approaching nearer than others.
Versailles, then, still magnificent, although already showing symptoms of degeneration, had opened all its doors, lighted all its chandeliers, and exhibited all its splendor for the presentation of Madame Dubarry. The people, inquisitive, though hungry and wretched, forgetting, strange anomaly, both their hunger and wretchedness, that they might gaze on so much grandeur, filled the Place d’Armes and the avenues leading to the palace. Every window of the chateau poured out floods of light, and the lusters from a distance looked like stars gleaming in an atmosphere of golden dust.
The king left his private apartments exactly at ten. He was dressed rather more richly than usual; that is, his lace was finer, and the buckles alone of his garters and his shoes were worth a million.
The Count de Sartines had informed him of the conspiracy entered into by the ladies the evening before, so that there was a shade of anxiety on his brow, and he trembled lest he should see only gentlemen in the grand salon. But he was soon reassured, when on entering the salon set apart for presentations, he saw, amid a cloud of lace and powder mingled with the blaze of diamonds, first, his three daughters, then the Marchioness de Mirepoix, who had talked so loudly among the plotters — in short, all the turbulent spirits who had sworn not to come were there.
Marshal Richelieu, like a general on the eve of an engagement, hurried from one to another, saying to this one, “Ah, I have caught you, perfidious one!” whispering to another, “I was certain you would not keep your oath!” and to a third, “Remember what I told you about conspiracies!”
“But, marshal,” replied the ladies, “you are here yourself!”
“Oh, I represent my daughter! I represent the Countess d’Egmont. Look around, you will not find Septimanie! She alone has kept faith with the Duchesse de Grammont and the Princess de Guemenee, so I am pretty certain what my fate will be. To-morrow I shall enter on my fifth banishment, or my fourth trip to the Bastille. Most certainly I shall never again conspire.”
The king entered. There was a profound silence, during which ten o’clock struck — the hour fixed for the ceremony. His majesty was surrounded by a numerous court, and was attended by about fifty gentlemen, who, not having sworn to come to the presentation, were, probably, for that reason present.
The king observed, at the first glance, that the Duchesse de Grammont, the Princess de Guemenee, and the Countess d’Egmont were wanting in this splendid assembly.
He approached the Duke de Choiseul, who affected great calmness, but in spite of all his efforts was somewhat disturbed.
“I do not see the Duchesse de Grammont here,” said the king.
“Sire, my sister is ill,” replied the Duke de Choiseul, “and desired me to present her very humble respects to your majesty.”
“So much the worse!” said the king, and he turned his back on the duke. In doing so, he found himself face to face with the Prince de Guemenee.
“And the Princess do Guemenee,” said he, “where is she? have you not brought her, prince?”
“It was impossible, sire; when I called at her hotel in order to accompany her here, I found her in bed.”
“Oh! so much the worse! so much the worse!” said the king. “Ah, here is the marshal! Good-evening, marshal.”
The old courtier bowed with all the suppleness of a youth.
“You are not ill, at least!” said the king, loud enough for De Choiseul and De Guemenee to hear him. “Whenever, sire, I have in prospect the happiness of seeing your majesty, I am perfectly well,” replied Richelieu.
“But,” said the king, looking round, “I do not see your daughter, the Countess d’Egmont; how comes it that she is not here?”
The duke’s features assumed an expression of deep regret.
“Alas! sire, my poor daughter is really not able to lay her humble homage at your majesty’s feet — this evening, above all others — ill, sire, ill!”
“So much the worse,” said the king. “Ill! The Countess d’Egmont, who enjoys the finest health in France? So much the worse! so much the worse!” And the king left the marshal as he had left M, de Choiseul and M, de Guemenee.
Then he completed the circuit of the salon, and particularly complimented the Marchioness de Mirepoix, who did not feel altogether at her ease.
“You see what the price of treachery is,” whispered the marshal in her ear; “to-morrow you will be loaded with honors, while we — I shudder to think of it?” and he sighed,
“But I think you have rather betrayed the Choiseuls yourself, since you are here, and yet you swore —
“For my daughter, for my poor Septimanie, marchioness; she will be disgraced for being too faithful!”
“To her father,” replied the marchioness.
The marshal pretended not to hear this remark, which might have passed for an epigram.
“Do you not think,” said he, “that the king is uneasy?”
“I think he has reason to be so; it is a quarter past ten.”
“True; and the countess not here! Shall I tell you what I think?”
“Yes.”
“I have some fears.”
“Fears about what?”
“Fears that something disagreeable may have happened to that poor countess. You know whether I am right or not, marchioness.”
“I! how should I know?”
“Yes; you were up to the neck in the conspiracy.”
“Well, I may tell you in confidence, marshal, that I cannot help sharing your fears.”
“Oh! our friend the duchesse is a fierce antagonist; she has fled, and like the Parthians, she wounds in fleeing. See how restless the Duke de Choiseul is, although he wishes to appear calm; he cannot stay a moment in one position, and he keeps his eyes always on the king. Come! confess that there is some plot in the wind.”
“I know nothing of it, duke; but, like you, I have suspicions.”
“But what can they gain by their plot?”
“Time, my dear marshal, and you know the proverb, ‘He who gains time, gains all.’ To-morrow something may occur to put off the presentation sine die. The dauphiness may reach Compiegne to-morrow instead of four days hence; perhaps they only wished to gain to-morrow.”
“Do you know, marchioness, this little tale of yours has all the appearance of truth. There is no sign of her coming.”
“And see, the king is becoming impatient!”
“That is the third time he has approached the window; he is really annoyed.”
“Things will be much worse presently.”
“How so?”
“It is twenty minutes past ten, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Then I may now tell you—”
“What?”
The marchioness looked around, then whispered, “She will not come.”
“Oh, heavens! but, marchioness, it will he a scandalous affair.”
“It will perhaps cause a lawsuit — a criminal suit. I know from good authority that there will be in the case robbery, abduction, treason. The Choiseuls have played a bold game.”
“Very imprudent in them.”
“Passion rendered them blind.”
“You see what an advantage we have over them, in not being governed by our passions; we are cool, and can look at things calmly.”
“Observe, the king is going again to the window.”
Gloomy, anxious, and irritated, Louis had drawn near a window, leaned his head on a carved frame, and pressed his forehead to the cool glass.
During this time the conversation of the courtiers sounded like the rustling of the leaves of a forest before a tempest. All eyes wandered from the king to the timepiece, and from the timepiece to the king. The half-hour struck, the clear vibrating sound died away in the vast salon.
Monsieur de Maupeou approached the king.
“Delightful weather, sire,” said he, timidly.
“Very fine, very fine! Do you understand anything of this matter, Monsieur de Maupeou?”
“Of what, sire?”
“About this delay — the poor countess.”
“She must be ill, sire,” replied the chancellor.
“I can comprehend that the Duchesse de Grammont may be ill, that the Princess de Guemenee may be ill, that the Countess d’Egmont may be ill, but not that she should be ill.”
“Sire, very great emotion often causes illness, and the countess’s joy was so great.”
“Ah! there is no longer any hope,” said Louis, shaking his head; “she will not come now.”
Although the king had uttered these words in a low voice, there was so profound a silence in the salon that every one heard them. No one, however, had time to reply, even in thought, for just then the noise of a carriage was heard in the court of the palace. All heads moved; eyes interrogated eyes.
The king came forward to the middle of the salon, that through the open doors he might see the whole length of the gallery.
“I am afraid,” whispered the marchioness to the marshal, with a meaning smile, “that some bad news is coming.”
But suddenly the king’s face brightened, and his eyes flashed with pleasure.
“The Countess Dubarry! the Countess de Bearn!” cried the usher to the grandmaster of the ceremonies.
These two names made all hearts beat, many with very opposite emotions. A crowd of courtiers, impelled by ungovernable curiosity, drew near the king.
The Marchioness de Mirepoix was nearest him; clasping her hands, she exclaimed, as if ready to fall down and worship, “Oh, how beautiful she is! how beautiful she is!”
The king turned a gracious smile on her.
“She is not a woman,” said Richelieu; “she is a fairy.”
The king sent the remainder of the smile in the direction of the old courtier.
In fact, the countess never had appeared more lovely; never had such a perfect representation of gentle agitation and modesty, never had a more charming figure or more noble carriage, graced the queen’s salon at Versailles, which, nevertheless, as we have said, was the salon of presentations.
Lovely in the extreme, dressed with the most perfect taste, and above all, her hair dressed exquisitely, the countess advanced, conducted by Madame de Bearn, who, notwithstanding her suffering, did not betray it by the slightest gesture; yet every movement caused each fiber of her frame to quiver, while from her dry and fevered cheeks the rouge dropped off atom by atom.
Every eye was fixed upon the pair who presented such a strange contrast. The did lady, her neck uncovered as in the time of her youth, her headdress standing up a foot above her head, and her large eyes glittering in their deep sockets, like those of an osprey, seemed, in her splendid dress and with her skeleton appearance, the type of the past leading forward the present.
So striking was the contrast, that it seemed to the king as if his favorite had never looked so beautiful as now, when receiving her from the hand of the old Countess de Bearn.
Just as the countess, according to the etiquette, sank on her knee to kiss the king’s hand, Louis seized her arm, raised her up, and in a few words rewarded her for all she had suffered during the last fortnight.
“You are at my feet, countess!” said he. “It is I who should be, and who always wish to be, at yours.”
Then he extended his arms to her, following the usual ceremonial, but on this occasion the embrace was not a pretended but a real one.
“You have a lovely god-daughter, madame,” said the king to the Countess de Bearn; “but she has as noble a chaperon, and one whom I rejoice to see again in my court.” The old lady bowed.
“Go and pay your respects to my daughters,” whispered the king to Madame Dubarry, “and show them that you know how to make a curtsey. I hope you will have cause to be satisfied with their reception of you.”
The two ladies advanced in the space which was formed around them, while the eager looks of all followed every movement which they made.
The king’s three daughters, seeing them approach, rose as if moved by springs, and remained standing. Their father fixed a look on them which commanded them to be polite.
The princesses, a little agitated, returned Madame Dubarry’s curtsey, which she made much lower than etiquette demanded, and this they thought such good taste that they embraced her as the king had done, and delighted him by their cordiality.
From that moment the countess’s success became a triumph, and the slower and less adroit courtiers had to wait an hour before they could get their bow made to the queen of the night.
She, free from coldness or any feelings of recrimination, received all advances favorably, and seemed to forget all the treachery used against her. Nor was this mere pretense; for her heart was too full of joy to be anything but magnanimous, or to have room for a single unamiable feeling.
Marshal Richelieu showed a knowledge of tactics worthy of the victor of Mahon. While vulgar courtiers waited in their places the result of the presentation, in order to decide whether they should offer incense to the idol or turn their backs on her, he took up a position behind the countess’s chair, like a fugleman who serves as a guide by which to deploy a troop of cavalry on a given point. The result was that at last he found himself close to Madame Dubarry, without being troubled by the crowd. The Marchioness de Mirepoix knew that her old friend had been successful in war; she therefore imitated his tactics, and gradually drew her seat near that of the favorite.
Conversation now commenced among the different groups. The countess was criticised from head to foot. She, supported by the love of the king, by the gracious reception of the princesses, and by the high rank of the lady who had presented her, looked round less timidly on the men, and sought out her enemies among the women.
An opaque body obscured her view.
“Ah! Marshal Richelieu,” said she, “I was obliged to come here in order to meet you.”
“ How so, madame?”
“Is it not eight days since I have seen you, either at Versailles, or in Paris, or at Luciennes.”
“I wished to render the pleasure greater of seeing you here this evening,” replied the old courtier.
“You guessed that I should be here?”
“I was certain of it.”
“Oh, marshal, you knew it, and you did not tell your poor friend who knew nothing about it.”
“What! madame, you did not know that you were to be here?”
“No; I was like Aesop when a magistrate arrested him in the street; ‘Where are you going?’ said he. ‘I don’t know,’ replied the fabulist. ‘Then you shall go to prison,’ the other replied. ‘You see plainly,’ said Aesop, ‘that I did not know where I was going.’ In like manner, duke, I had some idea that I should go to Versailles, but I was not sure. That is why you would have done me a great service had you come and told me that I should be here. But you will come to see me now — will you not?”
“Madame,” replied Richelieu, without being moved by her raillery, “I really do not understand how it was that you were not sure of being here.”
“I shall tell you; it was because snares were laid on all sides for me,” and she looked steadily at him; but he bore her look without wincing.
“Snares! Good heavens! How could that be?”
“First, they stole my hairdresser.”
“Stole your hairdresser!”
“Yes.”
“But why did you not inform me? I could have sent you — (but let us speak low, if you please) — could have sent you a treasure; my daughter, Madame d’Egmont, found him out. He is quite a superior artist to all others, even the royal hairdressers — my little Leonard.”
“Leonard?” cried Madame Dubarry.
“Yes, a young man whom she hides from every one. But you have no reason to complain, countess; your hair is charmingly dressed; and, singularly enough, the design is exactly like the sketch which the Countess d’Egmont ordered from Boucher for her own head-dress, and which she intended to have used this evening had she not been ill. Poor Septimanie!”
The countess started, and again fixed a searching look upon the marshal; but he continued, smiling and impenetrable.
“But pardon me, countess, for interrupting you,” said he; “you were speaking of snares.”
“Yes, after having carried off my hairdresser, they stole my dress — a most beautiful dress.”
“How shocking! However, it was not of much consequence, as you had another dress so wonderfully beautiful as that you wear. It is Chinese silk, with flowers embroidered on it. Well, if you had applied to me in your trouble, as you must always do for the future. I could have sent you a dress, which my daughter had ordered, so like that, that I could swear it was the same.”
Madame Dubarry seized both the duke’s hands, for she now began to suspect who was the enchanter who had befriended her in her difficulties.
“Do you know in whose carriage I came, marshal?” said she.
“In your own, no doubt.”
“No; they stole my carriage as well as my hairdresser.”
“Why, it was a regular ambuscade! In whose carriage, then, did you come?”
“Will you tell me first what the Countess d’Egmont’s carriage is like?”
“I think that for this evening she had ordered one lined with white satin; but there was not time to paint the coat of arms.”
“Yes,” exclaimed the countess, “and they substituted a rose instead! Marshal, marshal, you are an adorable man!” and she held out to him both her hands, which he covered with kisses. All at once he felt her start.
“What is the matter, countess?” inquired he, looking round.
“Marshal,” said the countess, with an alarmed air, “who is that man near the Prince de Guemenee?”
“In a Prussian uniform?”
“Yes — the dark man with black eyes, and such an expressive countenance.”
“He is some officer of rank, countess, whom his Prussian majesty has sent, no doubt, to do honor to your presentation.”
“Do not jest, marshal; I know that man. He was in France three or four years ago; I have sought him everywhere, but could never discover him.”
“I think you must be mistaken, countess. He is the Count de Fenix, a foreigner, and only arrived in France yesterday or the day before.”
“Observe how he looks at me.”
“Every one looks at you, you are so beautiful.”
“He bows to me! — lie bows to me! — do you see him?”
“Every one bows to you — at least, all who have not already done so.”
But the countess, who seemed greatly agitated, paid no attention to the duke’s gallant speeches, but kept her eyes riveted on the stranger who had attracted her attention. Then rising, as if involuntarily, she advanced a few steps toward the unknown.
The king, who kept his eye fixed on her, observed this movement, and thought that she desired to be near him; and us etiquette had been sufficiently attended to in keeping so long from her side, he approached to congratulate her on her success. Her thoughts, were, however, too much engaged to be turned from their object.
“Sire,” said she, “who is that Prussian officer with his back to the Prince de Guemenee?”
“And who is looking at us at this moment?” asked the king.
“Yes.”
“That strongly marked face, that square head, framed as it were in the gold collar?”
“Yes — yes — the same.”
“He is an accredited agent of my cousin of Prussia — some philosopher like himself, I think. I desired him to be here this evening, as I wished Prussian philosophy to enhance, by its ambassador, the triumph of Cotillon III.”
“But what is his name, sire?”
“Let me think — ah I — yes — the Count de Fenix.”
“It is the same,” murmured she to herself; “yes, I am sure it is he.”
The king waited a few moments, in order to give Madame Dubarry time to ask further questions if she wished to do so; but finding that she did not speak, he said in a loud voice, “Ladies, her royal highness the dauphiness will arrive tomorrow at Compiegne; we shall meet her precisely at noon. All the ladies who have been presented will go, except, however, those who are ill, for the journey might be fatiguing, and her royal highness would be sorry to aggravate their indisposition.”
As the king pronounced these words, he looked sternly at the Duke de Choiseul, the Prince de Guemenee, and the Marshal de Richelieu.
There was a profound silence; every one understood the meaning of the royal words — they carried disgrace in their front.
“Sire,” said Madame Dubarry, who had remained near the king, “may I request your gracious pardon for the Countess d’Egmont?”
“Why so, may I ask!”
“Because she is the daughter of Marshal Richelieu, who is my most faithful friend.”
“Richelieu?”
“I am certain he is, sire.”
“I shall do what you wish, countess,” said the king.
The king then approached the marshal, who had watched every movement of the countess’s lips, and, if he had not heard her words, had at least guessed their meaning.
“I hope, my dear marshal,” said he, “that the Countess d’Egmont will be better to-morrow?”
“Certainly, sire; if your majesty desire it, she will even come out this evening.”
And Richelieu made a bow which expressed at once respect and gratitude.
The king then whispered a word in the countess’s ear.
“Sire,” replied she, with a curtsey accompanied by a charming smile, “I am your majesty’s obedient servant.”
The king, by a wave of his hand, saluted all the assembly and retired.
Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when the countess’s eyes turned again on the singular man who had before attracted her so strongly.
This man bowed like the rest as the king passed along, but even as he bowed there was something haughty, almost threatening, in the expression of his countenance. When Louis XV, had disappeared, he made way for himself through the different groups, and stopped within two paces of Madame Dubarry. The countess, attracted by an inexplicable curiosity, made one step forward, so that, as the unknown bowed to her, he could say in a low voice and so as not to be overheard, ““ Do you know me again, madame?”
“Yes, sir; you are the prophet whom I met in the Place Louis XV.”
The stranger fixed his clear and penetrating glance on her.
“Well, did I speak falsely, madame, when I predicted you should be queen of Franc,’?”
“No, sir; your prediction is accomplished, or at least nearly so, and I am ready to fulfill my part of the engagement. Speak, sir, what do you desire?”
“This place is ill chosen for such a purpose; besides, the moment for me to make my request is not yet come.”
“Whenever it does come, you will find me ready to grant it.”
“May I, at any time, in any place, at any hour, have liberty to be admitted to your presence?”
“I promise it.”
“Thanks.”
“But under what name shall I expect you? Under that of the Count de Fenix?”
“No, under that of Joseph Balsamo.”
“Joseph Balsamo,” repeated the countess to herself, while the mysterious stranger disappeared among the groups of courtiers—”Joseph Balsamo! — I shall not forget it!”