The Patroness and the Patronized.
IT IS NOW TIME that we should return to Gilbert, of whose flight the reader has been made aware by an imprudent exclamation of his protectress, Mademoiselle Chon, but of whom we have since heard nothing.
Our philosopher had cooled very much in his admiration of his patroness from the moment that he had, during the preliminaries of the duel between Philip de Taverney and Viscount Jean, become aware that her name was Dubarry.
Often at Taverney, when, hidden by some hedge, he had followed Andree and her father in their walks, he had heard the baron explain, at great length, all about the Dubarry family. The hatred of the old baron to Madame Dubarry — a feeling which in him, however, sprang from no dislike to what was in itself vicious — found a ready echo in Gilbert’s heart, arising principally from her conduct being regarded by Andree with contempt and reprobation, sentiments which may be taken as expressing the general opinion of the nation toward her whole family.
During the journey Chon was too much occupied with matters of a more serious import to pay any attention to the change of feeling which the knowledge of who were his traveling companions had produced in Gilbert. She reached Versailles, therefore, only thinking of how the viscount’s wound, since it would not redound to his honor, might be turned to his greatest profit.
As to Gilbert, scarcely had he entered the capital — if not of France, at least of the French monarchy — than he forgot every unpleasant thought, and gave free scope to his undisguised admiration. Versailles, so majestic and stately, with its lofty trees already beginning to show symptoms of decay, touched his heart with that religious sadness which poetic minds always experience in contemplating the mighty works of nature, or those erected by the perseverance of man.
From this impression — a very novel one to Gilbert, and one against which his innate pride struggled in vain — he became silent and submissive, overcome by wonder and admiration.
The feeling of his inferiority crushed him to the earth. When the great lords in their stars and ribbons passed by him, how deeply did he feel the wretchedness of his attire! How inferior did he feel, even to the porters and footmen! How did he tremble when, in his hob-nailed shoes, he had to walk over the shining marble or polished inlaid floors!
At such times he felt that the protection of his patroness was indispensable to him, unless he wished to sink into absolute nothingness. He drew near her, that it might be seen he belonged to her; yet it was for the very reason that he needed her that he disliked her.
We are already aware that Madame Dubarry occupied at Versailles the magnificent suite of rooms formerly inhabited by the Princess Adelaide. The gold, the marble, the perfumes, the carpets, the hangings, at first intoxicated Gilbert; and it was only after these had become somewhat familiar to him that this understanding — dazzled by the reflected light which so many marvels cast on it — roused itself in the end to a clear perception of surrounding objects, and he found that he was in a little attic room, hung with serge — that there had been placed before him a basin of soup, some cold mutton, and a custard. The servant who brought these eatables had said, with the tone of a master, “Remain here!” and then left him.
But Gilbert soon found that the picture had its sunny side. From the window of his garret he could see the park of Versailles, studded with marble statues, and ornamented with fountains. Beyond were the dense and lofty summits of the trees, rolling like a sea of verdure; and farther still, the checkered plains, and the blue horizon of the neighboring mountains. The only subject which occupied Gilbert’s mind while eating his dinner was that, like the greatest lords of France, without being either a courtier or a lackey, without having been introduced there either by birth or baseness, he was living in Versailles, in the palace of the king.
His dinner, too, was an excellent one, when compared with those to which he had been accustomed. When it was over, he returned to his contemplation at the window. Meantime Chon had, as the reader may remember, joined her sister — had whispered that her business with Madame de Bearn was happily executed — and then related aloud the accident which their brother met with at Lachaus, see. This accident, although it made a great noise at first, was lost, as the reader has seen, in that great gulf which swallowed up so many things much more important — the king’s indifference.
Gilbert had fallen into one of those reveries to which he often gave way while meditating on what was beyond his comprehension, or on what was impracticable for him to accomplish, when he was told that his patroness requested his presence. He took his hat, brushed it, compared by a glance his old worn coat with the new one of the footman, and saying to himself that that of the latter was a livery coat, he followed him. Yet, notwithstanding this philosophic reflection, he could not help blushing with shame to observe how little he resembled the men who elbowed him, and how much out of keeping he was with everything around him.
Chon was descending to the court at the same time as himself, with this difference, that she took the grand staircase, he a little back one more resembling a ladder. A carriage was waiting for them. It was a kind of low phaeton, containing seats for four persons, and resembled that historical vehicle in which the great king used to drive out with Madame de Montespan, Madame de Foutanges, and frequently with them the queen.
Chon got in and took the front seat, with a large box and a little dog beside her; the other seat was for Gilbert and a kind of steward called Monsieur Grange. Gilbert hastened to take the place behind Chon, in order to keep up his dignity; the steward, without thinking there was any degradation in the matter, placed himself behind the box and the dog.
As Mademoiselle Chon, like all who inhabited Versailles, felt joyous on leaving the great palace to inhale the air of the woods and the meadows, she became communicative, and was scarcely out of the town, when she turned half round and said, “Well, what do you think of Versailles, M. Philosopher?”
“It is very beautiful, madame; but are we quitting it already?”
“Yes — now we are going to our own home.”
“That is to say, to your home, madame,” said Gilbert, with the tone of a half-tamed bear.
“That is what I meant. I shall introduce you to my sister; try to please her. All the greatest noblemen in France are only too happy if they can succeed in doing so. By-the-by, Grange, you must order a complete suit for this boy.”
Gilbert blushed up to the eyes.
“What kind of suit, madame?” asked the steward. “The usual livery?”
Gilbert half started from his seat.
“Livery?” cried he, with a fierce look at the steward.
Chon burst into a laugh.
“No,” said she; “you will order — but no matter, I will tell you another time. I have an idea, on which I wish for my sister’s opinion. But take care to have the suit ready at the same time as Zamore’s.”
“Very well, madame.”
“Do you know Zamore?” asked Chon, turning to Gilbert, who began to be very much alarmed by the conversation.
“No, madame, I have not that honor,” replied he.
“He will be a young companion of yours; he is going to be governor of the chateau of Luciennes. Endeavor to gain his friendship — for Zamore is a good creature, in spite of his color.”
Gilbert was about to ask of what color he was; but recollecting the reproof he had already received on the subject of curiosity, he refrained, for fear of another reprimand.
“I shall try,” he answered, with a dignified smile.
They reached Luciennes. The philosopher saw everything; the road, lately planted — the shady slopes — the great aqueduct, which resembled a work of the Romans — the dense wood of chestnut trees — the varied and magnificent prospect of plains and woods stretching away on both sides of the Seine to Maisons.
“This, then,” said he to himself, “is the country-seat which cost France so much, and of which I have heard the baron often speak!”
Bounding dogs and eager domestics ran out to welcome Chon, and interrupted Gilbert in the midst of his aristocratico-philosophical reflections.
“Has my sister arrived?” asked Chon.
“No, madame, but there are visitors waiting for her.”
“Who are they?”
“The chancellor, the minister of police, and the Duke d’Aiguillon.”
“Well, run quickly and open my sister’s private cabinet, and tell her when she arrives that I am there; do you understand? Oh, Sylvia,” added she, addressing a femme-de-chambre who had taken from her the box and the little dog, “give the box and Misapouf to Grange, and take my little philosopher to Zamore.”
Sylvia looked all round, doubtless to find out what sort of animal Chon was speaking of; but her eyes and those of her mistress happening to rest on Gilbert at the same moment, Chon made a sign that the young man was the person in question.
“Come!” said Sylvia.
Gilbert, still more and more surprised at all that he saw, followed the femme-de-chambre, while Chon, light as a bird, disappeared by a side-door of the pavilion.
Had it not been for the commanding tone in which Chon addressed her, Gilbert would have taken Mademoiselle Sylvia to be a great lady rather than a femme-de-chambre, as her dress resembled Andree’s much more than Nicole’s. The young and handsome waiting woman took him by the hand with a gracious smile; for her mistress’s words showed that, if not an object of affection, he was chosen at least through some new whim.
“What is your name, sir?” said she.
“Gilbert, mademoiselle,” replied the young man, in a gentle voice.
“Well, sir, I am going to introduce you to my lord Zamore.”
“To the governor of the chateau of Luciennes?”
“Yes, to the governor.”
Gilbert pulled down his sleeves, dusted his coat a little, and wiped his hands with his handkerchief. He was in reality rather intimidated at the idea of appearing before so important a personage; but he recalled Chon’s remark, “Zamore is a good creature,” and recovered his courage. He was already the friend of a countess and a viscount; he was going to be the friend of a governor. “Well,” thought he, “surely people calumniate the court; it is certainly easy enough to find friends in it; at least, as far as my experience goes, I have found every one kind and hospitable.”
Sylvia threw open the door of an anteroom, which, from its splendor, might rather have been supposed a boudoir. The panels of the walls were of tortoiseshell, inlaid with copper gilt; and one might have imagined himself in the atrium of Lucullus, but that that ancient Roman used pure gold to decorate his walls.
There, in an immense armchair, half-buried in cushions, sitting cross-legged and gnawing chocolate cakes, reposed my lord Zamore, whom we already know, but whom Gilbert till now had never seen. The effect, therefore, which the governor of Luciennes produced on the mind of the philosopher was rather curiously depicted in his face. He stared with all his might “at the strange being, for it was the first time he had ever seen a negro.
“Oh, oh!” cried he, “what is that?”
As for Zamore, he never raised his head, but continued to munch his cakes, rolling his eyes and showing the whites of them in the excess of his enjoyment.
“That,” said Sylvia, “is my lord Zamore.”
“That person?” said Gilbert, almost dumb with amazement.
“Yes, to be sure,” answered Sylvia, laughing in spite of herself at the turn the scene was taking.
“He the governor?” continued Gilbert. “That ape the governor of the chateau of Luciennes? Oh, mademoiselle, you are certainly jesting with me!”
At these words Zamore raised his hi-ad and showed his white teeth.
“Me governor,” said he, “me not ape.”
Gilbert looked from Zamore to Sylvia, and his glance, at first uneasy, became wrathful, when the young woman, in spite of all her efforts, burst into a fit of laughter. As for Zamore, grave and solemn as an Indian fetish, he plunged his black claw in a satin bag, and took out a handful of his cakes.
At this moment the door opened, and the steward entered, followed by a tailor.
“Here,” said he, pointing to Gilbert, “is the person for whom you are to make the suit; take the measure according to the directions I gave you.”
Gilbert mechanically submitted his arms and shoulders to be measured, while Sylvia and Grange were talking in another part of the room, and at every word of the steward the chambermaid laughed louder and louder.
“Oh, it will be delightful!” she said. “And will he wear a pointed cap, like Sganarello?”
Gilbert heard no more; he rudely pushed the tailor aside, and absolutely refused to submit to the rest of the ceremony. He knew nothing about Sganarello; but the name, and particularly Sylvia’s mirth, plainly declared that he was some pre-eminently ridiculous personage.
“It is of no consequence,” said the steward to the tailor; “don’t hurt him! I suppose you can do very well with the measure you have taken.”
“Certainly,” replied the tailor, “for width does no harm in such suits. I shall make it very wide.”
“Whereupon Sylvia, the steward, and the tailor, walked off, leaving Gilbert with the little negro, who continued to gnaw his cakes and roll his great eyes. What an enigma was all this to the poor country lad! What fears, what anguish, did the philosopher experience, in seeing his dignity as a man evidently more compromised at Luciennes than ever it had been at Taverney!
However, he tried to talk to Zamore. It occurred to him that he might be some Indian prince, such as he had read of in the romances of M. Crebillon the younger. But the Indian prince, instead of replying, made the circuit of the apartment from mirror to mirror, admiring his splendid clothes like a bride in her wedding-dress. After that he got astride on a chair with wheels, and impelling it with his feet, he whirled round the antechamber some dozen times with a velocity which showed that he had made a profound study of that ingenious exercise.
Suddenly a bell rang. Zamore jumped up from his chair, and hurried through one of the doors in the direction of the sound. This promptness in obeying the silvery tinkling convinced Gilbert that Zamore was not a prince.
For a moment he entertained the idea of following him; but on reaching the end of the passage which led into a salon, he saw so many blue ribbons and red ribbons, guarded by lackeys so bold, impudent, and noisy, that he felt a chill run through his veins, and, with the cold perspiration on his forehead, he returned to his anteroom.
An hour passed. Zamore did not return; Sylvia was seen no more. Any human face would have seemed then to Gilbert better than none, were it even that of the dreaded tailor who was to complete the mystification with which he was threatened.
Just at that moment the door by which he had entered the room opened, and a footman appeared and said, “Come!”