Inquiries.
THIS NIGHT, so long and so fertile in events, during which we have been borne about, as in the cloud of the mythological deities, from St. Denis to Muette, from Muette to the Rue Coq-Heron, from the Rue Coq-Heron to the Rue Plastriere, and from thence to the Rue St. Claude, bad been employed by Madame Dubarry in efforts to bend the king’s mind to her new political views. She insisted in particular on the danger there would be in allowing the Choiseuls to gain ground with the dauphiness.
The king replied to this with a shrug, “That the dauphiness was a child, and the Duke de Choiseul was an elderly minister, and that consequently there was no danger, seeing that he could not amuse her, and she would not understand him.” Then, enchanted with this bon mot, the king cut short all further explanations.
But if the king was enchanted, the countess was far from being so, as she thought she perceived symptoms of his majesty’s throwing off her yoke.
Louis XV, was a male coquette. His greatest happiness consisted in his making his mistresses jealous, providing always that their jealousy did not assume the form of obstinate quarrels and prolonged sulkiness.
Madame Dubarry was jealous; in the first place from vanity, secondly, from fear. It had cost her too much pains to attain her present elevated position, and it was too far removed from her point of departure, for her to dare, like Madame de Pompadour, to tolerate other favorites near the king. Madame Dubarry, then, being jealous, was determined to probe to the bottom this sudden change in the king’s manner.
The king replied to her in these memorable words, in which there was not one particle of truth; “I am thinking very seriously about the happiness of my daughter-in-law; I really do not know whether the dauphin will make her happy or not.”
“Why not, sire?”
“Because Louis, at Compiegne. St. Denis, and Muette, seemed to me much more occupied with any other woman than his own wife.”
“In truth, sire, if your majesty had not told me this yourself, I should not have believed it; for the dauphiness is lovely.”
“She is rather thin.”
“She is so young.”
“Oh, as for that, look at Mademoiselle de Taverney; she is the same age as the archduchess!”
“Well, sire?”
“Well, she is a faultless beauty.”
A flash from the countess’s eye warned the king of his mistake.
“And you yourself, dear countess,” he added quickly, “you yourself, at sixteen, were as round as one of our friend Boucher’s shepherdesses, I am sure.”
This little bit of adulation smoothed matters in some degree, but the blow had taken effect. Madame Dubarry therefore assumed the offensive.
“Ah!” said she, bridling, “so she is very handsome, this Mademoiselle de Taverney?”
“Handsome! How should I know?” replied the king.
“What? You praise her, and yet you do not know, you say, whether she is handsome or not?”
“I know that she is not thin, that is all.”
“Then you have seen her, and looked rather narrowly at her?”
“Ah! my dear countess, you push me rather closely. You know that I am short-sighted; a mass strikes me, but deuce take the details! In looking at the dauphiness I saw bones and nothing more.”
“And in looking at Mademoiselle de Taverney you saw masses, to use your own expression; for the dauphiness is an aristocratic beauty, Mademoiselle de Taverney a vulgar one.”
“Oh, ho!” said the king, “by this mode of reckoning, Jeanne, you will never be an aristocratic beauty! Come, you must be jesting, I think.”
“Very good; a compliment!” thought the countess to herself. “Unfortunately this compliment only serves as the outer covering of another compliment which is not intended for me.” Then aloud:
“On my honor,” said she. “I shall be very glad if her royal highness the dauphiness chooses for her ladies of honor those that are a little attractive; a court of old women is frightful.”
“My fairest one, you need not tell that to me. I said the same thing to the dauphin yesterday; but our newly fledged husband seems quite indifferent about the matter.”
“And suppose for a beginning she were to take this Mademoiselle de Taverney?”
“I think she has already chosen her,” replied Louis.
“Ah! you know that, sire?”
“At least, I fancy I heard some one say so.”
“She has no fortune, I hear.”
“No, but she is of an old family. The Taverneys-Maison-Rouge are of ancient descent, and have served the state honorably.”
“Who patronizes them?”
“I have no idea. But I think they are beggars, as you say.”
“In that case it cannot be the Duke de Choiseul; otherwise they would actually burst with pensions.”
“Countess, countess, I beseech you, no politics!”
“Do you call it politics to say that the Choiseuls are robbing you?”
“Certainly it is,” said the king, rising.
An hour afterward, the king arrived at the great Trianon, delighted at having awakened the countess’s jealousy, but repeating to himself, in a half-whisper, as the Duke de Richelieu might have done at thirty, “Really, jealous women are very tiresome!”
No sooner had his majesty left Madame Dubarry, than she also rose and passed into her boudoir, where Chon awaited her, impatient to near the news.
“Well!” said she, “your star has been in the ascendant these last few days — presented to the dauphiness the day before yesterday — invited to her table yesterday!”
“A great triumph, truly!”
“What! Do you speak in that tone? Are you aware that, at this moment, a hundred carriages are hastening to Luciennes, that their occupants may obtain a smile from you?”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Why so?”
“Because they are losing their time. Neither the carriages nor their owners shall have a smile from me this morning.”
“Ah! this is a cloudy morning, then, countess?”
“Yes; very cloudy! My chocolate, quick — ray chocolate!”
Chon rang the bell, and Zamore appeared.
“My chocolate!” said the countess.
Zamore retired, walking very slowly and with a most majestic strut.
“The wretch intends that I should die of hunger!” cried the countess. “A hundred blows of the whip if you do not run.”
“Me not run — me governor,” said Zamore majestically.
“Ah! You governor?” exclaimed the countess, seizing a little riding-whip with a silver handle, which she used for keeping peace among the spaniels and monkeys; “governor, indeed! Wait, governor, and you shall see!”
At this spectacle Zamore took to flight, slamming the doors behind him and uttering loud cries.
“Really. Jeanne, you are perfectly ferocious to-day,” said Chon.
“I am at liberty to be so if I please, am I not?”
“Oh, very well; but in that case you must permit me to leave you, my dear!”
“Why so?”
“I am afraid of being devoured.”
Three taps were heard at the door.
“Well, who is knocking now?” said the countess impatiently.
“Whoever he is, he will get a warm reception,” muttered Chon.
“Oh! I should advise you to give me a bad reception!” said Jean, throwing open the door with a majestic air.
“Well, and what would happen if you were ill received? For, after all, the thing is possible.”
“It would happen,” said Jean, “that I should never come back.”
“Well?”
“And that you would lose a great deal more than I should by receiving me badly.”
“Impertinent fellow!”
“Ah! I am impertinent, because I do not flatter. What is the matter with her this morning, Chon, my beauty?”
“Don’t speak to me about her, Jean. She is perfectly insufferable. Oh, here is the chocolate.”
“Oh, well, never mind her, then. How do you do, chocolate? I am very glad to see you, my dear chocolate!” continued Jean, taking the tray from the servant, placing it on a little table in the corner, and seating himself before it.
“Come, Chon — come!” said he; “those who are too proud to speak shall not have any.”
“You are quite delightful, you two!” said the countess, seeing that Chon by a sign gave Jean to understand that he might breakfast alone. “You pretend to be hurt, and yet you do not see that I am suffering.”
“What is the matter, then?” said Chon, approaching her.
“No!” exclaimed the countess, pettishly. “Neither of them bestow a thought on what torments me.”
“And what does torment you?” asked Jean, coolly cutting a slice of bread and butter.
“Do you want money?” asked Chon.
“Oh! as for money, the king shall want before I.”
“I wish you would lend me a thousand louis-d’ors, then,” said Jean; “I require them very much.”
“A thousand fillips on your great red nose!”
“The king has positively decided on keeping that abominable Choiseul, then?” asked Chon.
“Great news that! You know very well that the Choiseuls are immovable.”
“Then the king has fallen in love with the dauphiness.”
“Now you are coming nearer it. But look at that beast stuffing himself with chocolate! He would not move his little finger to save me from destruction. Oh, those two creatures will be the death of me!”
Jean, without paying the least attention to the storm which was raging behind him, cut a second slice, buttered it carefully, and poured out another cup of chocolate.
“How! The king is really in love?” cried Chon, clasping her hands and turning pale.
Madame Dubarry nodded, as much as to say, “You have hit it.”
“Oh! if it be so, we are lost!” continued Chon; “and will you suffer that, Jeanne? But whom has he fancied?”
“Ask your brother there, who is purple with chocolate, and who looks as if he was just going to burst. He will tell you, for he knows, or at least he suspects.” Jean raised his head.
“Did you speak?” said he.
“Yes, most obliging brother! — most useful ally!” said Jeanne, “I was asking you the name of the person whom the king has fancied.”
Jean’s mouth was so well filled that it was with great difficulty he sputtered out, “Mademoiselle de Taverney.”
“Mademoiselle de Taverney! Oh, mercy on us!” cried Chon.
“He knows it, the wretch!” shrieked the countess, throwing herself back in her chair, and clasping her hands—” he knows it, and he eats!”
“Oh!” said Chon, visibly deserting from her brother’s camp to enter that of her sister.
“I wonder,” cried the countess, “what prevents me from tearing out his two great ugly eyes! Look at them, all swollen with sleep, the lazy wretch! He has just got up, my dear, just got up!”
“You are mistaken,” said Jean, “I have not been in bed at all.”
“And what were you doing, then, you glutton?”
“Why, faith, I have been running up and down all night and all morning, too.”
“I told you so. Oh, who is better served than I am? No one — no one to tell me where that girl is!”
“Where she is?” asked Jean.
“Yes.”
“Where should she be but in Paris?”
“In Paris? But whereabouts in Paris.”
“Rue Coq-Heron.”
“Who told you so?”
“The coachman who drove her; I waited for him at the stables and questioned him.”
“He told you—”
“That he had just driven the entire Taverney family to a little hotel in the Rue Coq-Heron, situated in a garden adjoining the Hotel d’Armenonville.”
“Oh, Jean, Jean!” cried the countess, “this reconciles me to you, my dear. But now what we want is to know the particulars. How she lives? Whom she sees? What she does? Does she receive any letters? These are the important points.”
“Well, you shall know all that.”
“But how? But how?”
“Ah! Just so. Now try to find out how yourself. I have found out a great deal for my share.”
“Oh,” said Chon, “there might be lodgings to let in the Rue Coq-Heron.”
“An excellent idea!” exclaimed the countess. “You must hasten to the Rue Coq-Heron, Jean, and hire a house. We will conceal some one there who can see every one that goes in or comes out. We shall know all. Quick! Order the carriage.”
“It is useless — there is neither house nor lodging to be let in that street.”
“How do you know?”
“Faith, in the surest way that one can know! — I have inquired; but there are apartments—”
“Where — where?”
“In the Rue Plastriere?”
“And where is the Rue Plastriere?
“It is a street whose rear looks toward the garden of the hotel.”
“Well! quick, quick!” said the countess, “let us hire an apartment in the Rue Plastriere.”
“It is already hired,” said Jean.
“Admirable man!” cried the countess; “kiss me, Jean.”
Jean wiped his mouth, kissed Madame Dubarry on both cheeks, and then made a ceremonious bow of thanks for the honor that had been done him.
“Was it not luck?” said he.
“But I hope no one recognized you?”
“Who the devil should recognize me in a street like that?”
“And what have you engaged?”
“A little apartment in an obscure out-of-the-way house.”
“But they must have asked for whom?”
“Certainly they did.”
“And what did you say?”
“That it was for a young widow — are you a widow, Chon?”
“Of course I am!” said Chon.
“Excellent!” said the countess. “Then it is Chon who shall be installed in the apartment; she will watch, she will spy — but not a moment must be lost.”
“Therefore I shall set off at once,” said Chon. “The carriage! the carriage!”
“The carriage!” repeated Madame Dubarry, ringing loud enough to have awakened the whole household of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.
Jean and the countess knew perfectly what they had to dread from Andree’s presence. She had, even on her first appearance, attracted the king’s attention, therefore she was dangerous.
“This girl,” said the countess, while the horses were being put to, “is not a true provincial if she have not brought some rustic lover with her from her dovecot at Taverney; let us but discover the swain, and patch up a marriage at once. Nothing would cool the king like a marriage between country lovers.”
“Oh, the devil! I am not quite so sure of that,” said Jean; “I rather distrust his Most Christian Majesty. But the carriage is ready.”
Chon sprang into it, after having embraced her sister and pressed Jean’s hand.
“But why not take Jean?” asked the countess.
“No, no; I shall go my own way.” replied Jean. “Wait for me in the Rue Plastriere; I shall be your first visitor in your new domicile.”
Chon drove off. Jean seated himself at his table again, and poured out a third cup of chocolate.
Chon called first at the family residence and changed her dress, studying as much as possible to assume the costume and appearance of a tradesman’s wife. Then, when she was satisfied with her labors, she threw over her aristocratic shoulders a meager black silk mantle; ordered a sedan chair to the door, and about half an hour afterward, she and Sylvie were mounting the steep, narrow staircase leading up to’ the fourth story of a house in the Rue Plastriere. For in a fourth story was situated that lodging so fortunately procured by the viscount.
When she reached the landing of the second story, Chon turned, for she heard some one following her. It was the old proprietress of the house, who lived on the first floor, and who, hearing a noise, had come out to see what caused it, and was rather puzzled at beholding two women, so young and pretty, enter her abode. Raising her snappish countenance to the landing above her, her gaze was met by two faces whose smiling expression formed a strong contrast to her own.
“Stop, ladies, stop!” cried she; “what do you want here?”
“The lodging which my brother was to engage for us, ma’am,” said Chon, assuming the serious air of a widow. “Have you not seen him, or can we have made a mistake in the house?”
“Oh, no.” replied the old proprietress; “you are quite right; it is on the fourth story. Poor young creature! A widow at your age!”
“Alas! alas!” sighed Chon, raising her eyes to heaven.
“But do not grieve; you will be very pleasantly situated in the Rue Plastriere. It is a charming street; you will hear no noise, and your apartment looks into the gardens.”
“That is just what I wished, ma’am.”
“And besides, by means of the corridor, you can see into the street when any procession is passing, or when the learned dogs are exhibited.”
“Thank you; that will be a great relief to me,” sighed Chon, and she continued to ascend.
The old proprietress followed her with her eyes until she reached the fourth story. Then Chon, after shutting the door, hurried to the window which looked on the garden.
Jean had committed no mistake; almost immediately below the window of the apartment which he had engaged was the garden pavilion which the coachman had described to him.
Soon, however, all doubts were removed; a young girl came forward to the window of the pavilion, and seated herself before a little embroidery frame. It was Andree.