The Apologue.
IN THAT LITTLE cabinet at Luciennes, where we have seen the Count Jean Dubarry imbibe so much chocolate, to the great annoyance of the countess, the Marshal de Richelieu was lunching with Madame Dubarry, who, while amusing herself with pulling Zamore’s ears, carelessly reclined at full length upon a couch of brocaded satin, while the old courtier uttered sighs of admiration at each new position the charming creature assumed.
“Oh, countess!” said he, smirking like an old woman, “your hair is falling down; look, there is a ringlet drooping on your neck. Ah! your slipper is falling off, countess.”
“Bah! my dear duke, never mind,” said she, absently, and pulling a handful of hair from Zamore’s head while she took a fresh position on the couch, more lovely and fascinating than that of Venus in her shell.
Zamore, entirely insensible to these graceful attitudes, bellowed with anger. The countess endeavored to quiet him by taking a handful of sugar-plums from the table, and filling his pockets with them. But Zamore was sulky, turned his pocket inside out, and emptied his sugar-plums upon the carpet.
“Oh, the little scoundrel!” continued the countess, stretching out her tiny foot till it came in contact with the fantastic hose of the little negro.
“Oh, have mercy!” cried the old marshal; “upon my faith, you will kill him.”
“Why cannot I kill everything which angers me to-day!” said the countess; “I feel merciless!”
“Oh!” said the duke, “then perhaps I displease you.”
“Oh, no! quite the contrary; you are an old friend, and I perfectly adore you; but the fact is, I believe I am going mad.”
“Can it be that those whom you have made mad have smitten you with their complaint?”
“Take care! you provoke me dreadfully with your gallant speeches, of which you do not believe one word.”
“Countess, countess! I begin to think you are not mad, but ungrateful.”
“No, I am neither mad nor ungrateful; I am—”
“Well! confess. What are you?”
“I am angry, duke.”
“ Indeed?”
“Are you surprised at that?”
“Not in the least, countess; and upon my honor you have reason to be so.”
“Ah! that is what annoys me in you, marshal.”
“Then there is something in my conduct which annoys you, countess?”
“Yes.”
“And what is this something, pray? I am rather old to begin to correct my faults, and yet there is no effort I would not make for you.”
“Well, it is that you do not even know what is the cause of my anger, marshal.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Then you know what vexes me?”
“Of course! Zamore has broken the Chinese fountain.”
“An imperceptible smile played around the young countess’s mouth; but Zamore, who felt himself guilty, drooped his bead humbly, as if the skies were pregnant with clouds of blows and kicks.
“Oh, yes!” said the countess, with a sigh; “yes, duke, you are right; that is it, and in truth you are a very deep politician.”
“I have always been told so,” replied M. de Richelieu, with an air of profound modesty.
“Oh, I can see that without being told, duke. Have you not guessed the cause of my annoyance immediately, without looking to the right or left? It is superb.”
“Superb, indeed; but still that is not all.”
“Indeed!”
“No, I can guess something else.”
“And what can you guess?”
“That you expected his majesty yesterday evening.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Well! what then?”
“And that his majesty did not come.”
The countess reddened, and raised herself slightly upon her elbow.
“Oh!” said she.
“And yet,” said the duke, “I have just arrived from Paris.”
“Well, what does that prove?”
“Pardieu! that I could not of course know what passed at Versailles; and yet-”
“My dear duke, you are full of mystery to-day. When a person begins, he should finish, or else not have commenced.”
“You speak quite at your ease, countess. Allow me, at least, to take breath. Where was I?”
“You were at—’and yet.’”
“Oh, yes! true; and yet I not only know that his majesty did not come, but also why he did not come.”
“Duke, I have always thought you a sorcerer; and only wanted proof to be certain of the fact.”
“Well! that proof I will now give you.”
The countess, who attached much more interest to this conversation than she wished to let appear, relinquished her hold of Zamore’s head, in whose hair her long taper fingers had been carelessly playing.
“Give it, duke, give it,” said she.
“Before my lord governor?” asked the duke.
“Vanish, Zamore,” said the countess to the negro boy, who, mad with delight, made only one bound from the boudoir to the antechamber.
“An excellent stop.” murmured Richelieu; “then I must tell you all, countess?”
“What! did that monkey Zamore embarrass you, duke?”
“To tell the truth, countess, any one can embarrass me.”
“Yes, I can understand that. But is Zamore any one?”
“Zamore is neither blind, deaf, not dumb; therefore he is some one. I distinguish by the title of some one, every person who is my equal in the hearing, seeing, and speaking faculties, every person who can see what I do, hear and repeat what I say; every person, in short, who might betray me. This theory explained, I proceed.”
“Yes, yes, duke, proceed; you will gratify me exceedingly.”
“Gratify! I think not, countess; but no matter, I must go on. Well, the king was at Trianon yesterday.”
“The little or the great Trianon?”
“The little. The dauphiness was leaning on his arm.” — —”Ah!”
“And the dauphiness, who is charming as you know—”
“Alas!”
“Coaxed him so much, with dear papa here, and dear papa there, that his majesty, who has a heart of gold, could not resist her. So after the walk came supper, and after supper amusing games; so that, in short—”
“In short,” said Madame Dubarry, pale with impatience, “in short, the king did not come to Luciennes — that is what you would say?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, it is perfectly easily explained; his majesty found there all that he loves.”
“Ah! by no means, and you are far from believing one word of what you say; all that pleases him he found, no doubt.”
“Take care, duke, that is much worse; to sup, chat, and play is all that he wants. And with whom did he play?”
“With M. de Choiseul.”
The countess made an angry gesture.
“Shall I not pursue the subject further, countess?” asked Richelieu.
“On the contrary, sir, speak on.”
“You are as courageous, madame, as you are witty; let me therefore take the bull by the horns, as the Spaniards say.”
“Madame de Choiseul would not forgive you for that proverb, duke.”
“Yet it is not inapplicable. I told you then, madame, that M. de Choiseul, since I must name him, held the cards; and with so much good fortune, so much address—”
“That he won.”
“By no means; that he lost, and that his majesty won a thousand louis-d’ors at piquet, a game on which his majesty piques himself very much, seeing that he plays it very badly.”
“Oh! that Choiseul, that Choiseul!” murmured Madame Dubarry. “But Madame de Grammont was of the party also, was she not?”
“That is to say, countess, she was paying her respects before her departure.”
“The duchess!”
“Yes; she is very foolish, I think.”
“Why so?”
“Finding that no one persecutes her, she pouts; finding that no one exiles her, she exiles herself.”
“Where to?”
“To the provinces.”
“She is going to plot.”
“Parbleu, what else would you expect her to do? Well, as she is about to set out, she very naturally wished to take leave of the dauphiness, who, naturally, is very fond of her. That is why she was at Trianon.”
“The great?”
“Of course. The little Trianon is not yet furnished.”
“Ah! her highness the dauphiness, by surrounding herself with all these Choiseuls, shows plainly which party she intends to embrace.”
“No, countess, do not let us exaggerate; to-morrow the duchess will be gone.”
“And the king was amused where I was absent!” cried the countess, with indignation not unmixed with terror.
“Yes; it is perfectly incredible, countess; but still it is so. Well, what do you conclude from it?”
“That you are well-informed, duke.”
“Is that all?”
“No.”
“Finish, then.”
“I gather from it that we shall all be lost if we do not rescue the king from the clutches of these Choiseuls, either with his consent or without it.”
“Alas!”
“I say we,” resumed the countess; “but do not fear, duke; I speak only of our own family.”
“And your friends, countess; permit me to claim that title. So then—”
“Then you are one of my friends?”
“I think I have said so, madame.”
“That is not enough.”
“I think I have proved it.”
“That is better. And you will assist me?”
“With all my power, countess; but—”
“But what?”
“I cannot conceal from you that the task is difficult.”
“Are these Choiseuls positively not to be rooted out then?”
“They are firmly planted, at least,”
“Then, whatever our friend La Fontaine may say, neither wind nor storm can prevail against this oak?”
“The minister is a lofty genius.”
“Bah! you speak like an encyclopedist!”
“Am I not a member of the Academy?”
“Oh! you are so slightly so.”
“True, you are right; my secretary is the member, not I. But, nevertheless, I maintain my opinion.”
“But may I ask in what does this mighty genius shine?”
“In this, madame, that he has made such a piece of work with the parliament and the English, that the king cannot do without him.”
“The parliament? Why, he excites it against his majesty.”
“Of course; therein lies his cleverness.”
“He provokes the English to war.”
“Of course. Peace would ruin him.”
“That is not genius, duke.”
“What is it then, countess?”
“It is high treason.”
“When high treason is successful, countess, it is genius, and a lofty description of genius too.”
“Then, by that mode of reasoning, I know some one who is as great a genius as M. de Choiseul.”
“Bah!”
“Why, he has at least caused the parliament to revolt.”
“You puzzle me exceedingly, countess.”
“Do you not know him, duke? He belongs to your own family.”
“Can I have a man of genius in my family? Do you speak of my uncle, the cardinal duke, madame?”
“No; I mean the Duke d’Aiguillon, your nephew.”
“Ah! Monsieur d’Aiguillon. Yes, true, it was he who set that affair of La Chalotais moving. ‘Pon honor, he is a brave youth. Yes, true; that was a tough piece of work. Countess, there is a man whom a woman of spirit should gain over to her cause.”
“Are you aware, duke,” said the countess, “that I do not know your nephew?”
“Indeed, madame? You don’t know him?”
“No; I have never seen him.”
“Poor fellow! In fact, I now remember that since you came to court, he has always been at Brittany. Let him look to himself when he first sees you; he has not latterly been accustomed to the sun.”
“What does he do among all those black gowns — a nobleman of spirit like him?”
“He revolutionizes them, not being able to do better. You understand, countess, every one takes pleasure where they can find it, and there is not much to be had in Brittany. Ah! he is an active man. Peste! what a servant the king might have in him, if he wished. Parliament would not be insolent to him. Oh! he is a true Richelieu. Permit me, therefore, countess—”
“What?”
“To present him to you on his first appearance.”
“Does he intend to visit Paris soon?”
“Oh! madame, who knows? Perhaps he will have to remain another luster in Brittany, as that scoundrel, Voltaire, says; perhaps he is on his way hither; perhaps two hundred leagues off; or perhaps at the barrier.”
And while he spoke, the marshal studied the lady’s features to see what effect his words produced. But after having reflected for a moment, she said:
“Let us return to the point where we left off.”
“Wherever you please, countess.”
“Where were we?”
“At the moment when his majesty was enjoying himself so much at Trianon in the company of M. de Choiseul.”
“And when we were speaking of getting rid of this Choiseul, duke.”
“That is to say, when you were speaking of getting rid of him, countess.”
“Oh! I am so anxious that he should go,” said the favorite, “that I think I shall die if he remains. Will you not assist me a little, my dear duke?”
“Oh!” said Richelieu, bridling, “in politics, that is called an overture.”
“Take it as you will, call it what you please, but answer categorically.”
“Oh! what a long ugly adverb, in such a pretty little mouth.”
“Do you call that answering, duke?”
“No, not exactly; I call that preparing my answer.”
“Is it prepared?”—” Wait a little.”
“You hesitate, duke?”
“Oh, no!”
“Well, I am listening.”
“What do you think of apologues, countess?”
“Why, that they are very antiquated.”
“Bah! the sun is antiquated also, and yet we have not invented any better means of seeing.”
“ Well, let me hear your apologue, then; but let it be clear.”
“As crystal, fair lady. Let us suppose then, countess — you know one always supposes something in an apologue.”
“How tiresome you are, duke.”
“You do not believe one word of what you say, countess, for you never listened to me more attentively.”
“I was wrong, then; go on.”
“Suppose, then, that you were walking in your beautiful garden at Luciennes, and that you saw a magnificent plum, one of those Queen Claudes which you are so fond of, because their vermilion and purple tints resemble your own.”
“Go on, flatterer.”
“Well, I was saying, suppose you saw one of these plums at the extremity of one of the loftiest branches of the tree, what would you do, countess?”
“I would shake the tree, to be sure!”
“Yes, but in vain, for the tree is large and massive, and not to be rooted out, as you said just now; and you would soon perceive that without even succeeding in shaking it, you would tear your charming little hands against its rough bark. And then you would say, reclining your head to one side in that adorable manner which belongs only to you and the flowers; “Oh! how I wish I had this plum upon the ground!’ and then you would get angry.”
“That is all very natural, duke.”
“I shall certainly not be the person to contradict you.”
“Go on, my dear duke; your apologue is exceedingly interesting.”
“All at once, when turning your little head from side to side, you perceive your friend the Duke de Richelieu, who is walking behind you, thinking.”
“Of what?”
“What a question! Pardieu! of you; and you say to him with your heavenly voice; ‘Oh! duke, duke!’”
“Well?”
“‘You are a man; you are strong; you took Mahon; shake this devil of a plum-tree for me, that I may pluck this provoking plum!’ Is not that it, countess?”
“Exactly, duke; I repeated that to myself while you were saying it aloud. But what did you reply?”
“Reply? Oh! I replied; ‘How you run on, countess! Certainly nothing could give me greater pleasure; but only look how firm the tree is, how knotty the branches. I have a sort of affection for my hands as well as you, though they are fifty years older than yours.’”
“Ah!” said the countess, suddenly, “yes, yes; I comprehend.”
“Then finish the apologue. What did you say to me?”
“I said, ‘My little marshal, do not look with indifferent eyes upon this plum, which you look at indifferently only because it is not for you. Wish for it along with me, my dear marshal; covet it along with me; and if you shake the tree properly, if the plum falls, then we will eat it together.’”
“Bravo!” exclaimed the duke, clapping his hands.
“Is that it?”
“Faith, countess, there is no one like you for finishing an apologue. By mine honor, as my deceased father used to say, it is right well tricked out.”
“You will shake the tree, duke?”
“With two hands and three hearts, countess.”
“And the plum was really a Queen Claude?”
“I am not quite sure of that, countess.”
“What was it, then?”
“Do you know it seemed much more like a portfolio dangling from the tree.”
“Then we will divide the portfolio.”
“Oh no! for me alone. Do not envy me the morocco, countess. There will fall so many beautiful things from the tree along with the portfolio when I shake it, that you will not know how to choose.”
“Then, marshal, it is a settled affair?”
“I am to have M. de Choiseul’s place?”
“If the king consents.”
“Does not the king do all you wish?”
“You see plainly he does not, since he will not send this Choiseul away.”
“Oh! I trust the king will gladly recall his old companion.”
“And you ask nothing for the Duke d’Aiguillon?”
“No, faith. The rascal can ask for himself.”
“Besides, you will be there. And now it is my turn to ask.”
“That is but just.”
“What will you give me?”
“Whatever you wish.”
“I want everything.”
“That is reasonable.”
“And shall I have it?”
“What a question! But will you be satisfied, at least, and ask me for nothing farther.”
“Except the merest trifle. You know M. de Taverney?”
“He is a friend of forty years’ standing.”
“He has a son?”
“And a daughter. Well?”
“That is all.”
“How! all?”
“Yes; the other demand I have to make shall be made in proper time and place. In the meantime, we understand each other, duke?”
“Yes, countess.”
“Our compact is signed.”
“Nay more — it is sworn.”
“ Then shake the tree for me.”
“Oh, rest satisfied; I have the means.”
“What are they?”
“My nephew.”
“What else?”
“The Jesuits.”
“Oh! ho!”
“I have a very nice little plan cut and dry.”
“May I know it?”
“Alas! countess—”
“Well, you are right.”
“You know, secrecy—”
“Is half the battle. I complete your thought for you.”
“You are charming.”
“But I wish to shake the tree also.”
“Oh, very well; shake away, countess; it can do no harm.”
“But when will you begin to undermine, duke?” asked the countess.
“To-morrow. And when do you commence to shake?”
A loud noise of carriages was heard in the courtyard, and almost immediately cries of “Long live the king!” rose on the air.
“I?” said the countess, glancing at the window, “I shall commence directly.”
“Bravo!”
“Retire by the little staircase, duke, and wait in the courtyard. You shall have my answer in an hour.”