The Dauphin’s Family Repast.
THE SAME DAY, about three o’clock, Mademoiselle Taverney left her apartment to attend upon the dauphiness, who was in the habit of being read to for a short time before dinner.
The abbe who had held the post of first reader to her royal highness no longer exercised his functions, as, for some time previous, ever since certain diplomatic intrigues in which he had displayed a very great talent, for business, he had employed himself entirely in important political affairs.
Mademoiselle Taverney therefore set out, dressed as well as circumstances would permit, to fulfill her office. Like all the guests at Trianon, she still suffered considerable inconvenience from the rather sudden installation in her new abode, and had not yet been able to arrange her furniture, or make the necessary provisions for establishing her modest household. She had therefore, on the present occasion, been assisted in her toilet by one of the femmes-de-chambre of Madame de Noailles, that starched lady of honor whom the dauphiness nicknamed Madame Etiquette.
Andree was dressed in a blue silk robe, with long waist, which fitted admirably to her slender figure. This robe opened in front, and displayed beneath a muslin skirt relieved with three falls of embroidery. Short sleeves, also of muslin, embroidered in the same manner as the dress, and festooned and tapering to the shoulder, were admirably in keeping with a habit shirt, worked a la paysanne, which modestly concealed her neck and shoulders. Her beautiful hair, which fell in long and luxuriant ringlets upon his shoulders, was simply tied with a ribbon of the same color as her dress, a mode of arrangement which harmonized infinitely better with the noble, yet modest and retiring air of the lovely young girl, and with her pure and transparent complexion never yet sullied by the touch of rouge, than the feathers, ornaments, and laces which were then in vogue.
As she walked, Andree drew on a pair of white silk mittens upon the slenderest and roundest fingers in the world, while the tiny points of her high-heeled shoes of pale blue satin left their traces on the gravel of the garden walk.
When she readied the pavilion of Trianon, she was informed that the dauphiness was taking a turn in the grounds with her architect and her head gardener. In the apartment of the first story overhead she could hear the noise of a turning lathe with which the dauphin was making a safety-lock for a coffer which he valued very highly.
In order to rejoin the dauphiness Andree had to cross the parterre, where, notwithstanding the advanced period of the season, flowers carefully covered through the night raised their pale beads to bask in the setting rays of a sun even paler than themselves. And as the evening was already closing in, for in that season it was dark at six o’clock, the gardener’s apprentices were employed in placing the bell-glasses over the most delicate plants in each bed.
While traversing a winding alley of evergreens clipped into the form of a hedge, bordered on each side by beds of Bengal roses, and opening on a beautiful lawn, Andree all at once perceived one of these gardeners, who, when, he saw her, raised himself upon his spade, and bowed with a more refined and studied politeness than was usual in one of his station.
She looked, and in this workman recognized Gilbert, whose hands, notwithstanding his labor, were yet white enough to excite the envy of M. de Taverney.
Andree blushed in spite of herself; it seemed to her that Gilbert’s presence in this place was too remarkable a coincidence to be the result of chance.
Gilbert repeated his bow, and Andree returned it, but without slackening her pace.
She was too upright and too courageous, however, to resist the promptings of her heart, and leave the question of her restless soul unanswered. She turned back, and Gilbert, whose cheek had already become as pale as death, and whose dark eye followed her retreating steps with a somber look, felt as if suddenly restored to life, and bounded forward to meet her.
“You here, M. Gilbert?” said Andree, coldly.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“By what chance?”
“Mademoiselle, one must live, and live honestly.”
“But do you know that you are very fortunate?”
“Oh! yes, mademoiselle, very fortunate,” said Gilbert.
“I beg your pardon; what did you say?”
“I said, mademoiselle, that I am, as you think, very fortunate.” “Who introduced you here?”
“M. de Jussieu, a protector of mine.”
“Ah!” said Andree, surprised; “then you know M. de Jussieu?”
“He is the friend of my first protector — of my master. M. Rousseau.”
“Courage, then, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Andree, making a movement to proceed.
“Do you find yourself better, mademoiselle?” asked Gilbert, in a trembling voice.
“Better? How so?” said Andree, coldly.
“Why — the accident?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. Monsieur Gilbert. I am better; it was nothing.”
“Oh! you wore nearly perishing,” said Gilbert, almost speechless with emotion, “the danger was terrible.”
Andree now began to think that it was high time to cut short this interview with a workman in the most public part of the royal park.
“Good-day, Monsieur Gilbert,” said she.
“Will mademoiselle not accept a rose?” said Gilbert, trembling, and the drops of perspiration standing on his forehead.
“But, sir,” replied Andree, “you offer me what is not yours to give.”
You Offer Me What Is Not Yours To Give
Gilbert, surprised and overwhelmed by this reply, could not utter a word. His head drooped, but as he saw Andree looking at him with something like a feeling of joy at having manifested her superiority, he drew himself up, tore a branch covered with flowers from the finest of the rose-trees, and began to pull the roses to pieces with a coolness and dignity which surprised and startled the young girl.
She was too just and too kind-hearted not to see that she had gratuitously wounded the feelings of an inferior who had unthinkingly committed a breach of propriety. But like all proud natures who feel themselves in the wrong, she preserved silence when perhaps an apology or a reparation was hovering upon her lips.
Gilbert added not a word either; he threw away the branch and resumed his spade; but his character was a mixture of pride and cunning, and while stooping to his work, he kept his eye stealthily fixed on Andree’s retreating figure. At the end of the walk she could not help looking round. She was a woman.
This weakness was sufficient for Gilbert; he said to himself that in this last struggle he had been victorious.
“She is weaker than I am,” thought he, “and I shall govern her. Proud of her beauty, of her name, of her advancing fortunes, indignant at my love, which she perhaps suspects, she is only the more an object of adoration to the poor working man who trembles while he looks at her. Oh! this trembling, this emotion, unworthy of a man! Oh! these acts of cowardice which she makes me commit, she shall one day repay me for them all! But to-day I have worked enough,” added he; “I have conquered the enemy. I, who ought to have been the weakest, since I love, have been a hundred times stronger than she.”
He repeated these words once more with a wild burst of joy, as he convulsively dashed back the dark hair from his thoughtful brow. Then he stuck his spade deep into the flower-bed, bounded through the hedge of cypress and yew-tree with the speed of a roebuck, and, light as the wind, threaded a parterre of plants under bell-glasses, not one of which he touched, notwithstanding the furious rapidity of his career, and posted himself at the extremity of a turn, which he had reached, by describing a diagonal course, before Andree, who followed the winding of the path.
From his new position he saw her advancing, thoughtful and almost humbled, her lovely eyes cast down, her moist and motionless hand gently rustling her dress as she walked. Concealed behind the thick hedge. Gilbert heard her sigh twice as if she were speaking to herself. At last she passed so close to the trees which sheltered him that had he stretched out his arm he might have touched hers, as a mad and feverish impulse prompted him to do.
But he knit his brow with an energetic movement almost akin to hatred, and, placing his trembling hand upon his heart:
“Coward again!” said he to himself. Then he added softly, “but she is so beautiful!”
Gilbert might have remained for a considerable time sunk in contemplation, for the walk was long and Andree’s step was slow and measured, but this walk was crossed by others, from which some troublesome visitor might at any moment make his appearance, and fate treated Gilbert so scurvily that a man did in fact advance from the first alley upon the left — that is to say, almost opposite the clump of evergreens behind which he was concealed.
This intruder walked with a methodic and measured step; he carried his head erect, held, his hat under his right arm, and his left hand resting upon his sword. He wore a velvet coat underneath a pelisse lined with sable fur, and pointed his foot as he walked, which he did with the easy grace of a man of high rank and breeding.
This gentleman as he advanced perceived Andree, and the young girl’s figure evidently pleased him, for he quickened his pace and crossed over in an oblique direction, so as to reach as soon as possible the path on which Andree was walking and intercept her course.
When Gilbert perceived this personage, he involuntarily gave a slight cry, and took to flight like a startled lapwing. The intruder’s maneuver was successful; he was evidently accustomed to it, and in less than three minutes he was in advance of Andree, whom three minutes before he had been following at some distance.
When Andree heard his footstep behind her she moved aside a little to let the man pass, and when he had passed she looked at him in her turn. The gentleman looked also, and most eagerly; he even stopped to see better, and, returning after he had seen her features:
“Ah! mademoiselle,” said he, in a very kind voice; “whither are you hastening so quickly, may I ask?”
At the sound of this voice Andree raised her head, and saw about twenty paces behind her two officers of the guards following slowly; she spied a blue ribbon peeping from beneath the sable pelisse of the person who addressed her, and pale and startled at this unexpected rencontre, and at being accosted thus graciously, she said, bending very low:
“The king!”
“Mademoiselle — —” replied Louis XV., approaching her; “excuse me, I have such bad eyes that I am obliged to ask your name.”
“Mademoiselle de Taverney,” stammered the young girl, so confused and trembling that her voice was scarcely audible.
“Oh! yes; I remember. I esteem myself fortunate in meeting you in Trianon, mademoiselle,” said the king.
“I was proceeding to join her royal highness the dauphiness, who expects me,” said Andree, trembling more and more.
“I will conduct you to her, mademoiselle,” replied Louis XV., “for I am just going to pay a visit to my daughter in my quality of country neighbor. Be kind enough to take my arm, as we are proceeding in the same direction.”
Andree felt a cloud pass before her eyes, and the blood flow in tumultuous waves to her heart. In fact, such an honor for the poor girl as the king’s arm, the sovereign lord of all France, such an unhoped-for, incredible piece of good fortune, a favor which the whole court might envy, seemed to her more like a dream than a reality.
She made such a deep and reverential curtsey that the king felt himself obliged to bow a second time. When Louis XV. was inclined to remember Louis XIV., it was always in matters of ceremonial and politeness. Such traditions, however, dated further back, and were handed down from Henry IV.
He offered his hand therefore to Andree, who placed the burning points of her fingers upon the king’s glove, and they both continued to advance toward the pavilion, where they had been informed that the dauphiness with her architect and her head gardener would be found.
We can assure the reader that Louis XV., although not particularly fond of walking, chose the longest road to conduct Andree to the little Trianon. Although the king was apparently unaware of his error, the two officers who walked behind perceived it but too plainly, and bemoaned themselves bitterly, as they were lightly clad and the weather was cold.
They arrived too late to find the dauphiness where they had expected, as Marie Antoinette had just set out for Trianon, that she might not keep the dauphin waiting, for he liked to sup between six and seven o’clock.
Her royal highness arrived therefore at the exact hour, and as the punctual dauphin was already upon the threshold of the salon that he might lose no time in reaching the dining-room the moment the maitre d’hotel appeared, the dauphiness threw her mantle to a femme-de-chambre, took the dauphin’s arm with a winning smile, and drew him into the dining-room.
The table was laid for the two illustrious hosts. They occupied each, the center of the table, so as to leave the place of honor vacant, which, since several unexpected visits of the king, was never occupied in his majesty’s absence, even when the room was filled with guests.
At this end of the table, the king’s cover and cadenas occupied a considerable space; but the maitre d’hotel, not calculating upon it being occupied this evening, was conducting the service on this side.
Behind the dauphiness’s chair, leaving the necessary space between for the valets to pass, was stationed Madame de Noailles, stiff and upright, and yet wearing as amiable an expression on her features as she could conjure up for the festive occasion.
Near Madame de Noailles were some other ladies, whose position at the court gave them the right, or merited the privilege, of being present at the supper of their royal highnesses.
Three times a week Madame de Noailles supped at the same table with the dauphin and dauphiness; but on the days when she did not sup with them, she would not for anything in the world have missed being present. Besides, it was a delicate mode of protesting against the exclusion of the four days out of seven.
Opposite the Duchesse de Noailles, surnamed by the dauphiness Madame Etiquette, was the Duke de Richelieu, on a raised seat very similar to her own.
He was also a strict observer of forms; but his etiquette was undistinguishable to a casual observer, being always veiled beneath the most perfect elegance and sometimes beneath the wittiest raillery.
The result of this antithesis between the first gentleman of the bed-chamber and the first lady of honor of the dauphiness was that the conversation, always dropped by the Duchesse de Noailles, was incessantly renewed by M. de Richelieu.
The marshal had traveled through all the courts of Europe, and had adopted the tone of elegance in each which was best suited to his character; so that, from his admirable tact and propriety, he knew exactly what anecdotes to relate at the table of the youthful couple, and what would be suitable to the private suppers of Madame Dubarry.
Perceiving this evening that the dauphiness had a good appetite, and that the dauphin was voracious, he concluded that this would give no heed to the conversation going on around them, and that he had consequently only to make Madame de Noailles suffer an hour of purgatory in anticipation.
He began therefore to speak of philosophy and theatrical affairs, a twofold subject of conversation doubly obnoxious to the venerable duchess. He related the subject of one of the last philanthropic sallies of the philosopher of Ferney, the name already given to the author of the “Henriade.” and when he saw the duchess on the tenterhooks, he changed the text and detailed all the squabbles and disputes which, in his office of gentleman of the chamber, he had to undergo in order to make the actresses in ordinary to the king play more or less badly.
The dauphiness loved the arts, and above all the theater; she had sent a complete costume for Clytemnestra to Mademoiselle Raucourt, and she therefore listened to M. de Richelieu not only with indulgence but with pleasure.
Then the poor lady of honor, in violation of all etiquette, was forced to fidget on her bench, blow her nose noisily, and shake her venerable head, without thinking of the cloud of powder which at each movement fell upon her forehead, like the cloud of snow which surrounds the summit of Mont Blanc at every gust of the east wind.
But it was not enough to amuse the dauphiness — the dauphin must also be pleased. Richelieu abandoned the subject of the theater, for which the heir to the crown had never displayed any great partiality, to discourse of humanity and philosophy. When he spoke of the English, he did so with all the warmth and energy which Rousseau displays in drawing the character of Edward Bromston.
Now Madame de Noailles haled the English as much as she did the philosophers. To admit a new idea was a fatiguing operation for her, and fatigue deranged the economy of her whole person. Madame de Noailles, who felt herself intended by nature for a conserver, growled at all new ideas like a dog at a frightful mask.
Richelieu, in playing this game, had a double end in view; he tormented Madame Etiquette, which evidently pleased the dauphiness, and he threw in, here and there, some virtuous apophthegm, some axiom in mathematics, which was rapturously received by the dauphin, the royal amateur of exact sciences.
He was paying his court, therefore, with great skill and address, and from time to time directing an eager glance toward the door, as if he expected some one who had not yet arrived, when a cry from the foot of the staircase echoed along the arched corridors, was repeated by two valets stationed at regular intervals from the entrance door, and at last reached the dining salon:
“The king!”
At this magic word Madame de Noailles started bolt upright from her seat, as if moved by a spring; Richelieu rose more slowly, and with easy grace; the dauphin hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood up before his seat, his face turned toward the door.
As for the dauphiness, she hastened toward the staircase to meet the king, and do the honors of her mansion to him.