The Duke D’aiguillon.
WHILE MELANCHOLY visages and red eyes were the order of the day on the road from Paris to Chanteloup, Luciennes was radiant with blooming faces and charming smiles.
It was because at Luciennes was enthroned, not a mere mortal, although the most beautiful and most adorable of mortals, as the poets and courtiers declared, but the real divinity which governed France.
The evening after M. de Choiseul’s disgrace, therefore, the road leading to Luciennes was thronged with the same carriages which, in the morning, had rolled after the exiled minister. There were, besides, the partisans of the chancellor, and the votaries of corruption and self-interest, and altogether they made an imposing procession.
But Madame Dubarry had her police, and Jean knew, to a baron, the names of those who had strewn the last flowers over the expiring Choiseuls. He gave a list of these names to the countess, and they were pitilessly excluded, while the courage of the others in braving public opinion was rewarded by the protecting smile and the complete view of the goddess of the day. What joy and what congratulations echoed on all sides! Pressings of the hand, little smothered laughs, and enthusiastic applause, seemed to have become the habitual language of the inhabitants of Luciennes.
After the great throng of carriages, and the general crowd, followed the private receptions. Richelieu, the secret and modest hero, indeed, but yet the real hero of the day, saw the crowd of visitors and petitioners pass away, and remained the last in the countess’s boudoir.
“It must be confessed,” said the countess, “that the Count Balsamo, or De Fenix, whichever name you give him, marshal, is one of the first men of the age. It would be a thousand pities if such sorcerers were still burned.”
“Certainly, countess, he is a great man,” replied Richelieu.
“And a very handsome man, too; I have taken quite a fancy for him, duke.”
“You will make me jealous,” said Richelieu laughing, and eager besides to direct the conversation to a more positive and serious subject. “The Count de Fenix would make a dreadful minister of police.”
“I was thinking of that,” replied the countess; “only it is impossible.”
“Why, countess?”
“Because he would render colleagues impossible.”
“How so?”
“Knowing everything — seeing into their hand —
Richelieu blushed beneath his rouge.
“Countess,” replied he, “if he were my colleague. I would wish him to see into mine always, and communicate the cards to you; for you would ever see the knave of hearts on his knees before the queen, and prostrate at the feet of the king.”
“Your wit puts us all to the blush, my dear duke,” replied the countess. “But let us talk a little of our ministry. I think you mentioned that you warned your nephew d’Aiguillon of what would take place.”
“He has arrived, madame, and with what Roman augurs would have called the best conjunction of omens possible; his carriage met Choiseul’s leaving Paris.”
“That is indeed a favorable omen,” said the countess. “Then he is coming here?”
“Madame, I thought that if M. d’Aiguillon was seen at Luciennes at such a time, it would give rise to unpleasant comment; I begged him, therefore, to remain in the village, until I should send for him according to your orders.”
“Send for him immediately, then, marshal, for we are alone, or very nearly so.”
“The more willingly that we quite understand each other; do we not, countess?”
“Certainly, duke. You prefer war to finance, do you not? or do you wish for the marine?”
“I prefer war, madame; I can be of most service in that department.”
“True; I will speak of it to the king. You have no antipathies?”
“For whom?”
“For any colleagues his majesty might present to you.”
“I am the least difficult man in the world to live with, countess; but allow me to send for my nephew, since you are good enough to grant him the favor of an audience.”
Richelieu approached the window and looked into the courtyard, now illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. He made a, sign to one of his footmen who was keeping his eye fixed upon the window, and who darted off as soon as he received the signal. Lights were now brought in.
Ten minutes after the footman had disappeared, a carriage rolled into the courtyard. The countess turned quickly toward the window.
Richelieu saw the movement, which seemed to him an excellent prognostic for M. d’Aiguillon’s affairs, and consequently for his own.
“She likes the uncle,” said he to himself, “and she is in a fair way to like the nephew. We shall be masters here.”
While he was feasting on these chimerical visions, a slight noise was heard at the door, and the confidential valet-de-chambre, throwing it open, announced the Duke d’Aiguillon.
He was an extremely handsome and graceful nobleman, richly, and at the same time elegantly and tastefully, dressed. M. d’Aiguillon had passed his earliest prime, but he was one of those men who, whether judged by their looks or minds, seem young until old age renders them infirm.
The cares of government had traced no wrinkles on his brow; they had only enlarged the natural fold which seems to be the birthplace of great thoughts both in statesmen and in poets. His air and carriage were lofty and commanding, and his handsome features wore an expression at once of intelligence and melancholy, as if he knew that the hatred of ten millions of men weighed upon his head, but at the same time wished to prove that the weight was not beyond his strength.
M. d’Aiguillon had the most beautiful hands in the world; they looked white and delicate, even when buried in the softest folds of lace. A well-turned leg was prized very highly at that period, and the duke’s was a model of manly elegance and aristocratic form. He combined the suavity of the poet with the nobility of the lord and the suppleness and ease of the dashing guardsman. He was thus a beau ideal for the countess in the three several qualities which the instinct of this beautiful sensualist taught her to love.
By a remarkable coincidence, or rather by a chain of circumstances skillfully contrived by M. d’Aiguillon, these two objects of public animadversion, the favorite and the courtier, had, with all their mutual advantages, never yet met each other face to face at court.
For the last three years M. d’Aiguillon had managed to be very busy either in Brittany or in his closet, and had not once shown himself at court, knowing well that a favorable or unfavorable crisis must soon take place. In the first case, it would be better to be comparatively unknown; in the second, to disappear without leaving any trace behind, and thus be able easily to emerge from the gulf under new auspices, and in a new character.
Another motive influenced his calculations — a motive winch is the main-spring of romance, but which nevertheless was the most powerful of all.
Before Madame Dubarry was a countess, and every evening touched the crown of France with her lips, she had been a lovely, smiling, and adored creature — she had been loved, a happiness she could no longer hope for, since she was feared.
Among all the young, rich, powerful, and handsome men who had paid court to Jeanne Vaubernier, among all the rhymers who had coupled her in their verses with the epithets of angel and divinity, the Duke d’Aiguillon had formerly figured in the first rank; but whether it was that the duke was not sufficiently ardent, or whether Mademoiselle Lange was not so easily pleased as her detractors pretended, or lastly, whether the sudden attachment of the king had separated two hearts ready to unite, is not known, but the fact remains that M. d’Aiguillon got his verses, acrostics, bouquets, and perfumes returned, and Mademoiselle Lange closed her door in the Rue des Petits Champs against him. The duke hastened to Brittany, suppressing his sighs; Mademoiselle Lange wafted all hers toward Versailles, to the Baron de Gonesse, that is, the king of France.
d’Aiguillon’s sudden disappearance had troubled Madame Dubarry very little, for she feared the remembrances of the past; but when subsequently she saw the silent attitude of her former admirer, she felt at first perplexed, then astonished, and, being in a good position for judging of men, she ended by thinking him a man of profound tact and discretion.
For the countess this was a great distinction, but it was not all, and the moment was perhaps come when she might think d’Aiguillon a man of heart.
We have seen that the marshal, in all his conversations with Madame Dubarry, had never touched upon the subject of his nephew’s acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lunge. This silence, from a man accustomed, as the old duke was, to say the most difficult things in the world, had much surprised and even alarmed the countess. She, therefore, impatiently awaited M. d’Aiguillon’s arrival, to know how to conduct herself, and to ascertain whether the marshal had been discreet or merely ignorant.
The duke entered, respectful, but at the same time easy, and sufficiently master of himself to draw the distinction in his salutation between the reigning sultana and the court lady. By this discriminating tact he instantly gained a protectress quite disposed to find good perfect, and perfection wonderful.
M. d’Aiguillon then took his uncle’s hand, and the latter, advancing toward the countess, said in his most insinuating voice:
“The Duke d’Aiguillon, madame. It is not so much my nephew as one of your most ardent servants whom I have the honor to present to you.”
The countess glanced at the duke as the marshal spoke, and looked at him like a woman, that is to say, with eyes which nothing can escape. But she saw only two heads bowing respectfully before her, and two faces erect, serene, and calm after the salutation was over.
“I know, marshal, that you love the duke,” said the countess. “You are my friend. I shall request M. d’Aiguillon, therefore, in deference to his uncle, to imitate him in all that will be agreeable to me.”
“That is the conduct I had traced out beforehand for myself, madame,” said d’Aiguillon, with another bow.
“You have suffered much in Brittany?” asked the countess.
“Yes, madame, and it is not yet over,” replied d’Aiguillon.
“I believe it is, sir; besides, there is M. de Richelieu, who will be a powerful assistance to you.”
d’Aiguillon looked at Richelieu as if surprised.
“Ah.” said the countess, “I see that the marshal has not yet had time to have any conversation with you. That is very natural, as you have just arrived from a journey. Well, you must have a thousand things to say to each other, and I shall therefore leave you, marshal, for the present. My lord duke, pray consider yourself at home here.”
So saying, the countess retired; but she did not proceed far. Behind the boudoir there opened a large closet filled with all sorts of fantastic baubles with which the king was very fond of amusing himself when he came to Luciennes. He preferred this closet to the boudoir, because in it one could hear all that was said in the next room. Madame Dubarry, therefore, was certain to hear the whole conversation between the duke and his nephew, and she calculated upon forming from it a correct and irrevocable opinion of the latter.
But the duke was not duped; he knew most of the secrets of every royal and ministerial residence. To listen when people were speaking of him was one of his means; to speak while others were overhearing him was one of his ruses.
He determined, therefore, still joyous at the reception which d’Aiguillon had met with, to proceed in the same vein, and to reveal to the favorite, under cover of her supposed absence, such a plan of secret happiness and of lofty power complicated with intrigues, as would present a double bait too powerful for a pretty woman, and above all for a court lady, to resist.
He desired the duke to be seated, and commenced:
“You see, duke, I am installed here.”
“Yes, sir, I see it.”
“I have had the good fortune to find the favor of this charming woman, who is looked upon as a queen here, and who is one in reality.” d’Aiguillon bowed.
“I must tell you, duke,” continued Richelieu, “what I could not say in the open street — that Madame Dubarry has promised me a portfolio!”
“Ah!” said d’Aiguillon, “that is only your desert, sir.”
“I do not know if I deserve it or not, but I am to have it — rather late in the day, it is true. Then, situated as I shall be. I shall endeavor to advance your interests, d’Aiguillon.”
“Thank you, my lord duke; you are a kind relative, and have often proved it.”
“You have nothing in view, d’Aiguillon?”
“Absolutely nothing, except to escape being degraded from my title of duke and peer, as the parliament insist upon my being.”
“Have you supporters anywhere?”
“Not one.”
“You would have fallen, then, had it not been for the present circumstances?”
“I should have bit the dust, my lord duke.”
“Ah! you speak like a philosopher. Diable! that is the reason I am so harsh, my poor d’Aiguillon, and address you more like a minister than an uncle.”
“My uncle, your goodness penetrates me with gratitude.”
“When I sent for you in such a hurry, you may be certain it was because I wished you to play an important part here. Let me see; have you reflected on the part M. de Choiseul played for ten years?”
“Yes; certainly his was an enviable position.”
“Enviable! Yes, enviable, when along with Madame de Pompadour he governed the king, and exiled the Jesuits; but very sad when, having quarreled with Madame Dubarry, who is worth a hundred Pompadours, he was dismissed from office in four and twenty hours. You do not reply.”
“I am listening, sir, and am endeavoring to discover your meaning.”
“You like M. de Choiseul’s first part best, do you not?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, my dear duke, I have decided upon playing this part.”
d’Aiguillon turned abruptly toward his uncle:
“Do you speak seriously?” said he.
“Yes. Why not?”
“You intend to be a candidate for Madame Dubarry’s favor?”
“Ah! diable! you proceed too fast. But I see you understand me. Yes, Choiseul was very lucky; he governed the king, and governed his favorite also. It is said he was attached to Madame de Pompadour — in fact, why not? Well, no, I cannot act the lover; your cold smile tells me plainly so! You, with your young eyes, look compassionately at my furrowed brow, my bending knees, and my withered hands, which were once so beautiful. In place of saying, when I was speaking of Choiseul’s part, that I would play it, I should have said we will play it,”
“Uncle!”
“No, she cannot love me, I know it; nevertheless — I may confess it to you without fear, for she will never learn it! — I could have loved this woman beyond everything — but—”
D’Aiguillon frowned. “But—” said he.
“I have a splendid project,” continued the marshal. “This part, which my age renders impossible for me, I will divide into two.”
“Ha!” said d’Aiguillon.
“Some one of my family,” continued Richelieu, “will love Madame Dubarry. Parbleu! a glorious chance — such an accomplished woman!”
And Richelieu, in saying these words, raised his voice.
“You know it cannot be Fronsac. A degenerate wretch, a fool, a coward, a rogue, a gambler — duke, will you be the man?”
“I?” cried d’Aiguillon; “are you mad, uncle?”
“Mad! What! you are not already on your knees before him who gives you this advice? What! you do not bound with joy? You do not burn with gratitude? You are not already out of your senses with delight at the manner in which she received you? You are not yet mad with love? Go, go!” cried the old marshal, “since the days of Alcibiades there has been but one Richelieu in the world, and I see there will be no more after him.”
“My uncle,” replied the duke, with much agitation, either feigned, and in that case it was admirably counterfeited, or real, for the proposition was sudden, “my uncle. I perceive all the advantage you would gain by the position of which you speak; you would govern with the authority of M. de Choiseul, and I should be the lover who would constitute that authority. The plan is worthy of the cleverest man in France, but you have forgotten one thing in projecting it.”
“What!” cried Richelieu uneasily, “is it possible you do not lore Madame Dubarry? Is that it? — fool! — triple fool! — wretch! — is that it?”
“Ah! no, that is not it, my dear uncle,” cried d’Aiguillon, as if he knew that not one of his words was lost; “Madame Dubarry, whom I scarcely know, seems to me the most charming of women. I should, on the contrary, love Madame Dubarry madly, I should love her only too well; that is not the question.”
“What is it, then?”
“This, my lord duke. Madame Dubarry will never love me, and the first condition of such an alliance is love. How do you imagine the beautiful countess could distinguish among all the gentlemen of this brilliant court — surrounded as she is by the homage of so much youth and beauty — how should she distinguish one who has no merit, who is already no longer young, who is overwhelmed with sorrows, and who hides himself from all eyes because he feels that he will soon disappear forever? My uncle, if I had known Madame Dubarry in the period of my youth and beauty, when women admired in me all that is lovable in a man, then she might have given me a place in her memory. That would have been much. But now there is no hope — neither past, nor present, nor future. No, uncle, we must renounce this chimera. You have pierced my hart by presenting it to me in such bright and glowing colors.”
During this tirade, which was delivered with a fire which Mole might have envied, and Lekain would have thought worthy of imitation, Richelieu bit his lips, muttering to himself:
“Has the man guessed that the countess is listening? Peste! he is a clever dog. He is a master of his craft. In that case, I must take care!”
Richelieu was right; the countess was listening, and every word d’Aiguillon spoke sunk deep into her heart. She eagerly drank in the charm of this confession, and appreciated his exquisite delicacy in not betraying the secret of their former intimacy to his nearest confidant, for fear of throwing a shadow over a perhaps still dearly cherished portrait.
“Then you refuse?” said Richelieu.
“Oh! as for that, yes, my uncle, for unfortunately I see it is impossible.”
“But try, at least, unfortunate that you are!”
“And how?”
“You are here one of us — you will see the countess every day; please her, morbleu!”
“With an interested aim? Never! If I should be so unfortunate as to please her with this unworthy view, I should flee to the end of the world, for I should be ashamed of myself.”
Richelieu scratched his chin.
“The thing is settled,” said he to himself, “or d’Aiguillon is a fool.”
All at once a noise was heard in the courtyard, and several voices cried out, “The king!”
“Diable!” cried Richelieu, “the king must not see me here; I shall make my escape.”
“And I?” said the duke.
“It is different with you; he must see you. Remain; and, for God’s sake, do not throw the handle after the ax.”
With these words Richelieu stole out by the back stairs, saying, as he left the room:
“Adieu till to-morrow.”