The King Divides the Spoils.
WHEN THE Duke d’Aiguillon was left alone, he felt at first somewhat embarrassed. He had perfectly understood all his uncle had said to him — perfectly understood that Madame Dubarry was listening — perfectly understood, in short, that, for a clever man, it was necessary in this conjuncture to seem a man of heart and to play alone that part in which the old marshal sought to obtain a share.
The king’s arrival luckily interrupted the explanation which must have resulted from the puritanical declaration of M. d’Aiguillon.
The marshal was not a man to remain long a dupe, nor above all one who would make another’s virtue shine with exaggerated brilliancy at the expense of his own.
But, being left alone, d’Aiguillon had time to reflect.
The king had in truth arrived. Already his pages had opened the door of the antechamber, and Zamore had darted toward the monarch, begging for bonbons — a touching familiarity which Louis, when he was in a bad temper, punished by sundry fillips on the nose or boxes on the ears, both exceedingly disagreeable to the young African.
The king installed himself in the Chinese cabinet; and what convinced d’Aiguillon that Madame Dubarry had not lost a word of his conversation with his uncle, was the fact that he, d’Aiguillon, overheard the entire interview between Madame Dubarry and the king.
His majesty seemed fatigued, like a man who has raised an immense weight. Atlas was less enfeebled when his day’s work was done, and when he had held the world suspended on his shoulders for twelve hours.
Louis XV. allowed his favorite to thank, applaud, and caress him, and tell him the whole particulars of M. de Choiseul’s departure, which amused him exceedingly.
Then Madame Dubarry ventured. It was fair weather for politics; and besides, she felt herself strong enough at that moment to have raised one of the four quarters of the world.
“Sire,” said she, “you have destroyed, that is well; you have demolished, that is superb; but now you must think about rebuilding.”
“Oh! it is done,” said the king, carelessly.
“You have a ministry!”
“Yes.”
“What! all at once, without breathing?”
“See what it is to want common sense. Oh! — woman that you are! — before sending away your cook, must you not, as you said the other day, have a new one in readiness?”
“Repeat to me that you have formed the cabinet.”
The king raised himself upon the immense sofa on which he was lying rather than sitting, using the shoulders of the beautiful countess for his principal cushion.
“One would think, Jeannette,” said he, “to hear you making yourself so uneasy, that you know my ministry, and wish to find fault with them, or propose another.”
“Well,” said the countess, “that would not be so absurd as you seem to imagine.”
“Indeed! Then you have a ministry?”
“You have one, have you not?” replied she.
“Oh! it is my place to have one, countess. Let me see your candidates.”
“By no means; tell me yours.”
“Most willingly, to set you the example.”
“In the first place, then, who have you for the navy, where that dear M. de Praslin was?”
“Ah! something new, countess; a charming man, who has never seen the sea.”
“Who is it?”
“‘Pon honor, it is a splendid idea. I shall make myself very popular, and I shall be crowned in the most distant seas — in effigy, of course.”
“But who, sire? Who is it?”
“I would wager you do not guess in a thousand attempts. It is a member of parliament, my dear; the first president of the parliament of Besancon.”
“M. de Boynes?”
“The same. Peste! how learned you are! You know all these people!”
“I cannot help it; you talk parliament to me the whole day. Why, the man would not know an oar if he saw it.”
“So much the better. M. de Praslin knew his duties too well, and made me pay dearly for all his naval constructions.”
“Well, the finance department, sire?”
“Oh! that is a different affair; I have chosen a special man.”
“A financier?”
“No; a soldier. The financiers have crushed me too long already.”
“Good heavens! And the war department?”
“Do not be uneasy; for that I have chosen a financier, Terray. He is a terrible scrutinizer of accounts! He will find errors in all Uncle Choiseul’s additions. I may tell you that I had some idea of putting a wonderful man in the war department — every inch a man, as they say. It was to please the philosophers.”
“Good. But who? Voltaire?”
“Almost. The Chevalier de Muy — a Cato.”
“Oh, heaven! You alarm me.”
“It was all arranged. I had sent for the man, his commission was signed, he had thanked me, when my good or my evil genius — judge which — prompted me to ask him to come to Luciennes this evening to sup and chat with us.”
“Fie! Horrible!”
“Well, countess, that was exactly what de Muy replied.”
“He said that to you?”
“Expressed in other words, countess. He said that his most ardent wish was to serve the king, but as for serving Madame Dubarry, it was impossible.”
“Well, that was polite of your philosopher.”
“You must know, countess, I held out my hand to him — for his brevet, which I tore in pieces with a most patient smile, and the chevalier disappeared. Louis XIV. would have let the rascal rot in one of those ugly dens in the Bastille; but I am Louis XV., and I have a parliament which gives me the whip, in place of my giving it to the parliament. Ha!”
“No matter, sire,” said the countess, covering her royal lover with kisses, “you are not the less a clever man.”
“That is not what the world in general says. Terray is execrated.”
“Who is not? And for foreign affairs?”
“That honest fellow, Berlin, whom you know.”
“No.”
“Then whom you do not know.”
“But, among them all, I cannot find one good minister.”
“So be it; now tell me yours.”
“I will only tell you one.”
“You dare not tell me; you are afraid.”
“The marshal.”
“The marshal! What marshal?” said the king, making a wry face.
“The Duke de Richelieu.”
“That old man? That chicken-hearted wretch?”
“Good! The conqueror of Mahon a chicken-hearted wretch!”
“That old debauchee?”
“Sire, your companion.”
“An immoral man, who frightens all the women.”
“That is only since he no longer runs after them.”
“Do not speak to me of Richelieu; he is my raw-head-and-bloody-bones. The conqueror of Mahon took me into all the gaming-houses in Paris. We were lampooned. No! no! — Richelieu! The very name puts me beside myself.”
“You hate them so much?”
“Whom?”
“The Richelieus.”
“I abhor them.”
“All?”
“All. What a worthy duke and peer M. Fronsac makes. He has deserved the rack twenty times.”
“I give him up; but there are more Richelieus in the world than he.”
“Ah! yes; d’Aiguillon.”
“Well?”
The reader may judge if, at these words, the ears of the nephew were not strained in the boudoir.
“I ought to hate him more than all the others, for he hounds all the bawlers in France upon me; and yet — it is a weakness which I cannot conquer — he is bold and does not displease rue.”
“He is a man of spirit!” cried the countess.
“A brave man, and zealous in the defense of the royal prerogative. Hs is a model of a peer!”
“Yes, yes — a hundred times, yes! Make something of him.”
The king looked at the countess and folded his arms.
“What, countess! Is it possible that you propose such a thing to me, when all France demands that I should exile and degrade this man?”
Madame Dubarry folded her arms in her turn.
“Just now,” said she, “you called Richelieu chicken-hearted — the name belongs more properly to yourself.”
“Oh, countess!”
“You are very proud because you have dismissed M. de Choiseul.”
“Well, it was not an easy task.”
“You have done it, and you have done well; but you are afraid of the consequences.”
“I!”
“Of course. What do you accomplish by sending away M. de Choiseul?”
“Give the parliament a kick in the seat of honor.”
“And you will not give them two? Diable! Raise both your feet — one after the other, be it understood. The parliament wished to keep Choiseul; you send him away. They want to send away d’Aiguillon; keep him.”
“I do not send him away.”
“Keep him — improved and considerably enlarged.”
“You want an office for this firebrand?”
“I want a recompense for him who defended you at the risk of his position and fortune.”
“Say of his life, for he will be stoned some fine morning, along with your friend Maupeou.”
“You would encourage your defenders very much, if they could only hear you.”
“They pay me back with interest, countess.”
“Do not say so; facts contradict you in this case.”
“Ah, well! But why this eagerness for d’Aiguillon?”
“Eagerness! I do not know him; I have seen and spoken to him to-day for the first lime.”
“Ah! that is a different affair. Then it is from conviction of his merit — and I respect conviction in others, because I never have it myself.”
“Then give Richelieu something in d’Aiguillon’s name, since you will not give d’Aiguillon anything in his own.”
“Richelieu? nothing! Never, never, never!”
“Then something to M. d’Aiguillon, since you refuse Richelieu?”
“What! give him a portfolio! That is impossible at present.”
“I understand that; but after some time, perhaps. Remember that he is a man of resources and action, and that with Terray, d’Aiguillon, and Maupeou you will have the three heads of Cerberus. Remember, too, that your minister is only a jest which cannot last.”
“You are mistaken, countess, it will last three months.”
“In three months, then, I have your promise?”
“Oh! oh! countess.”
“That is enough; in the meantime, something for the present.”
“But I have nothing.”
“You have the light horse; M. d’Aiguillon is an officer — what is called a sword; give him your light horse.”
“Very well, he shall have them.”
“Thanks!” exclaimed the countess, transported with joy, “a thousand thanks!”
And M. d’Aiguillon could hear a very plebeian kiss resound on the cheeks of his majesty Louis XV.
“In the meantime,” said the king, “order supper to be served, countess.”
“No,” said she, “there is nothing here; you have overpowered me with politics. My people have made speeches and fireworks, but no supper.”
“Then come to Marly. I will take you with me.”
“Impossible! My poor head is splitting in pieces.”
“With headache?”
“Dreadful headache.”
“You must go to bed, countess.”
“I am just going to do so, sire.”
“Adieu! then.”
“Au revoir, rather.”
“I am somewhat like M. de Choiseul; I am dismissed.”
“Yes, but accompanied, feasted, cajoled,” said the giddy creature, pushing the king gently toward the door, and from thence to the foot of the stairs, laughing loudly, and turning round at each step.
On the peristyle the countess stopped, candle in hand.
“Countess,” said the king, turning round and ascending a step.
“Sire?”
“I trust the poor marshal will not die of it.”
“Of what?”
“Of the portfolio which he has missed.”
“How ill-natured you are!” said the countess, escorting him with another loud laugh.
And his majesty drove off, very much delighted with his last quolibot upon the duke, whom he really hated.
When Madame Dubarry returned to her boudoir, she found d’Aiguillon on his knees before the door, his hands clasped, his eyes ardently fixed upon her. She blushed.
“I have failed,” said she. “The poor marshal!”
“Oh, I know all!” said he; “I could hear — thanks, madame — thanks!”
“I thought I owed you that,” she replied, with a sweet smile; “but rise, duke, else I shall think your memory is as retentive as your mind is highly cultivated.”
“That may well be, madame; my uncle has told you I am nothing but your admiring and zealous servant.”
“And the king’s; tomorrow you must go and pay your respects to his majesty — rise, I beg.” And she gave him her hand, which he kissed respect fully.
The countess seemed to be deeply moved, for she did not add a single word.
M. d’Aiguillon was also silent, as deeply moved as she. At last, Madame Dubarry, raising her head, said:
“Poor marshal, he must know this defeat.”
M. d’Aiguillon looked upon these words as a dismissal, and bowed.
“Madame,” said he, “I am going to him.”
“Oh, duke! unpleasant news is always soon enough told; do something better — sup with me!”
The day was gained. d’Aiguillon, as we have seen, was a lucky man.