Compiegne.
THE FOLLOWING morning Compiegne awoke transported, intoxicated with joy; or rather to be more exact, Compiegne never went to rest.
The evening before, the first detachment of the king’s guards had entered the town, and while the officers took up their position, the magistrates, assisted by the lord high steward and other functionaries, prepared the town for the distinguished honor which was to be conferred on it. Triumphal arches composed of evergreens, roses, and lilacs; inscriptions in Latin, French, and German; compositions in verse and prose, occupied all the sub-magistracy of Picardy from night till morn.
Young girls dressed in white, according to immemorial usage; municipal officers clad in black; monks attired in gray; the clergy in their richest vestures; officers and soldiers in their new uniforms — all were at their posts, ready to advance on the first signal of the arrival of the dauphiness.
The dauphin had arrived incognito with his two brothers about eleven o’clock the night before. Very early in the morning he mounted his horse, as if he had been a private gentleman, and, followed by his brothers, the Count de Provence and the Count d’Artois, the one fifteen and the other thirteen years of age, he galloped off in the direction of Ribecourt, the road by which the princess was to approach. It was not to the young prince, we must confess, that this gallant idea had first occurred; it was suggested by his tutor, Monsieur de Lavanguyon, who had been desired by the king to instruct his august pupil in all the duties which the next twenty-four hours would impose upon him. The tutor, therefore, had thought it right, in order to maintain the honor of the monarchy, to cause him to follow the traditional example of the kings of his race — Henry IV., Louis XIII., Louis XIV., and Louis XV. — who desired to see their future wives without any of the illusions of dress and ornament, and therefore met them when not expected on the road.
Mounted on swift horses, the three brothers accomplished three or four leagues in half an hour; the eldest had set out serious, the two others laughing. At half-past eight they returned; the dauphin still serious, the Count de Provence almost ill-tempered, the Count d’Artois more gay than before. The dauphin was uneasy, the Count de Provence envious, and the Count d’Artois enchanted, about one and the same thing — the beauty of the dauphiness. The grave, jealous, and careless character of each prince respectively was written on his face.
At ten o’clock the look-out employed to watch for the expected train announced that a white flag was displayed on the steeple of the church of Cleves, which was to be the signal that the dauphiness was approaching. The bells of the church commenced to ring, and were answered by the firing of cannon.
At that instant, as if he had only waited for this signal, the king entered Compiegne in a carriage drawn by eight horses, between a double file of his body-guards, and followed by the immense train of the carriages of the court. The guards and dragoons, at a gallop, opened a passage through the crowd, which was divided between two feelings, desire to see the king and curiosity with regard to the, dauphiness. One hundred carriages, drawn by four horses each, extending nearly a league in length, contained four hundred ladies, and as many lords, of the noblest families of France. These hundred carriages were escorted by outriders, heyducks, footmen, and pages. The gentlemen of the king’s household were on horseback, and formed a brilliant army, glittering like a sea of velvet and gold, waving plumes, and silk, in the midst of the dust raised by the horses’ feet.
They halted an instant at Compiegne, then slowly proceeded to the spot agreed on for the meeting, and marked by a cross near the village of Magny. All the young nobility thronged around the-dauphin, and all the old around the king.
On the other side the dauphiness was also slowly approaching the appointed place.
At length the two parties met. On both sides the courtiers left their carriages; two only remained occupied — that of the king and that of the dauphiness. The door of the dauphiness’s carriage was open, and the young archduchess sprang lightly to the ground, and advanced to the royal carriage. The king, on perceiving his daughter-in-law, ordered the door to be opened, and hurriedly got out.
The dauphiness had calculated her time so well, that just as the king put his foot to the ground she was close to him, and she sank on her knee. He raised the young princess and embraced her tenderly, yet casting a look upon her which made her blush.
“His royal highness the dauphin,” said the king, introducing his grandson, who had kept behind the dauphiness without being perceived by her, at least ostensibly.
The dauphiness made him a graceful curtsey; he bowed, blushing in his turn.
Then after the dauphin came his two brothers, then the three princesses; the dauphiness had something gracious to say to each.
“While these introductions were going on, Madame Dubarry stood anxiously behind the princesses. Would she be thought of? — would she be forgotten?
After the introduction of the Princess Sophie, the last of the king’s daughters, there was a pause; every breath was suspended. The king seemed to hesitate; the dauphiness seemed to expect some incident concerning which she had been previously informed.
The king looked round, and seeing the countess within reach, took her hand; all near him stepped back, and he found himself in the midst of a circle with the dauphiness.
“The Countess Dubarry,” said he, “my very dear friend.”
The dauphiness turned pale, yet a gracious smile appeared on her white lips, “Your majesty is happy,” said she, “in possessing so charming a friend; and I am not surprised at the attachment which she inspires.”
Every one heard these words with astonishment amounting to stupefaction. It was evident that the dauphiness followed the instructions of the court of Austria; perhaps the very words she repeated were dictated by Maria Theresa.
The Duke de Choiseul then thought that his presence was necessary. He advanced to be presented in his turn; but the king made a sign with his head, the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon were fired. His majesty took the young princess’s hand, to conduct her to her carriage. She passed close to the Duke de Choiseul. Did she see him or did she not? It was impossible to see; but it is certain that she made no sign of recognition. At the moment when she entered her carriage, the bells of the town pealed out, and their clear tones were heard above all the other festive sounds.
The countess returned to her carriage, all radiant with delight and pride.
There was a halt for about ten minutes while the king was reentering his carriage and giving his orders to return to Compiegne. During this time, conversation, which had been suspended from respect or by the interest of the scene, again became general. Dubarry drew near his sister’s carriage — she received him with smiles, expecting his congratulations.
“Jeanne,” said he, pointing to a gentleman on horseback, who was talking at the door of a carriage in the train of the dauphiness;” do you know that young man?”
“No,” replied the countess; “but do you know what the dauphiness said when the king presented me to her?”
“I am not thinking of that. That young man is the Chevalier Philip de Taverney.”
“He who wounded you?”
““Yes; and do you know who that beautiful creature is with whom he is talking?”
“The young girl so pale and so majestic?”
“Yes, she at whom the king is looking at this moment — I think he is asking the dauphiness her name.”
“Well, what then?”
“That young girl is Taverney’s sister.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the countess.
“Jeanne, I don’t know why, but I think you have as much reason to fear the sister as I the brother.”
“You are a fool!”
“No, I am tolerably wise; and I shall, at all events, look after the youth.”
“Well, then, I shall keep an eye on the girl.”
“Hush! He is your friend. Marshal Richelieu!” The marshal drew near, shaking his head.
“What is the matter, my dear marshal?” inquired the countess, with her most fascinating smile; “you seem dissatisfied with something.”
“Don’t you think, countess,” said the duke, “that we all seem very grave, not to say sorrowful, for such a joyous occasion? Formerly, I know, we were much more gay when we went to meet a princess as amiable and as beautiful as this, the mother of his royal highness the dauphin. Was it because we were younger then?”
“No,” answered a voice behind the marshal; “no, my dear marshal, but because the monarchy was not so old.”
“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the marshal, “it is the Baron de Taverney! Countess, one of my oldest friends, for whom I solicit your kindness — the Baron de Taverney Maison-Rouge.”
“The father,” whispered Jean and the countess to each other, as they stooped to salute the baron.
“To your carriages, gentlemen — to your carriages!” cried the major of the guards commanding the escort.
The two old gentlemen bowed to the countess and to the viscount, and both entered the same carriage, delighted to meet once more after so long a separation.
“And now,” said the viscount, “shall I tell you another thing, my dear? I have as little love for the father as for the children.”
“What a pity,” replied the countess, “that that little wretch, Gilbert, ran away! He was brought up in their house, and could have told us so much about them.”
“Pshaw! I shall find him again, now that I have nothing else to think about.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the carriages being again put in motion.
After having passed the night in Compiegne, the two courts — the one the sunset, the other the dawn, of an age — set out on the following day for Paris — that yawning gulf which was to entomb them both!