CHAPTER XCI.

M. De Richelieu Appreciates Nicole.

M. DE RICHELIEU drove straight to M. de Taverney’s modest hotel in the Rue Coq-Heron.

Thanks to the privilege we possess, in common with the devil on two sticks, of entering every house, be it ever so carefully locked, we are aware before M. de Richelieu that the baron was seated before the fireplace, his feet resting upon the immense andirons which supported a smoldering log, and was lecturing Nicole, sometimes pausing to chuck her under the chin, in spite of the rebellious and scornful poutings of the young waiting-maid. But whether Nicole would have been satisfied with the caress without the sermon, or whether she would have preferred the sermon without the caress, we can give no satisfactory information.

The conversation between the master and the servant turned upon the very important point, that at a certain hour of the evening Nicole never came when the bell was rung; that she had always something to do in the garden or, in the greenhouse; and that everywhere but in these two places she neglected her business.

Nicole, turning backward and forward with a charming and voluptuous grace, replied:

“So much the worse! I am dying with weariness here; you promised I should go to Trianon with mademoiselle.”

It was thereupon that the baron thought it proper in charity to pat her cheeks and chuck her chin, no doubt to distract her thoughts from dwelling on so unpleasant a subject; but Nicole continued in the same vein, and, refusing all consolation, deplored her unhappy lot.

“Yes,” sighed she, “I am shut up within four horrible walls; I have no company; I have no air; while I had the prospect of a pleasant and fortunate future before me.”

“What prospect?” said the baron.

“Trianon,” replied Nicole; “Trianon, where I should have seen the world — where I should have looked about me — where I should have been looked at.”

“Oh! oh! my little Nicole,” said the baron.

“Well, sir, I am a woman, and as well worth looking at as another, I suppose?”

“Cordieu! how she talks,” said the baron to himself. “What fire! what ambition!”

And he could not help casting a look of admiration at so much youth and beauty. Nicole seemed at limes thoughtful and impatient.

“Come, sir,” said she, “will you retire to bed, that I may go to mine!”

“One word more, Nicole.”

All at once the noise of the street-bell made Taverney start and Nicole jump.

“Who can be coming,” said the baron, “at half-past eleven o’clock at night? Go, child, and see.”

Nicole hastened to open the door, asked the name of the visitor, and left the street door half open. Through this lucky opening a, shadow, which bad apparently emerged from the courtyard, glided out, nut without making noise enough to attract the attention of the marshal, for it was he who hurried and saw the flight. Nicole preceded him, candle in hand, with a beaming look.

“Oh! oh!” said the marshal, smiling, and following her into the room, “this old rogue of a Taverney only spoke to me of his daughter.”

The duke was one of those men who do not require a second glance to see, and see completely. The shadowy figure which he had observed escaping made him think of Nicole, and Nicole of the shadow. When he saw her pretty face, he guessed what errand the shadow had come upon, and, judging from her saucy and laughing eye, her white teeth, and small waist, he drew a tolerably correct picture of her character and tastes.

At the door of the salon, Nicole, not without a palpitation of the heart, announced:

“His lordship the Duke de Richelieu.”

This name was destined to cause a sensation that evening. It produced such an effect upon the baron, that he arose from his armchair and walked straight to the door, not being able to believe the evidence of his ears.

But before he reached the door, he perceived M. de Richelieu in I he shadow of the corridor.

“The duke!” He stammered.

“Yes, my dear friend, the duke himself.” replied Richelieu, in his most whining voice. “Oh! that surprises you, after your visit the other day? Well, nevertheless, nothing can be more real. In the meantime, your hand, if you please.”

“My lord duke, you overwhelm me.”

“Where have your wits fled to, my dear friend?” said the old marshal, giving his hat and cane to Nicole, and seating himself comfortably in an armchair, “you are getting rusty, you dote; you seem no longer to know the world!”

“But yet, duke,” replied Taverney, much agitated, “it seems to me that the reception you gave me the other day was so significant that I could not mistake its purport.”

“Hark ye, my old friend.” answered Richelieu, “the other day you behaved like a school-boy, and I like a pedant. Between us there was only the difference of the ferula. You are going to speak — I will save you the trouble; you might very probably say some very foolish things to me, and I might reply in the same vein. Let us leave the other day aside, therefore, and come direct to the present time. Do you know what I have come for this evening?”

“No, certainly.”

“I have come to bring you the company which you asked me for your son the other day, and which the king has granted. Diable! can you not understand the difference? The day before yesterday I was a quasi-minister, and to ask a favor was an injustice; but to-day, when I am simply Richelieu and have refused the portfolio, it would be absurd not to ask; I have therefore asked and obtained, and I now bring it to you.”

“Duke, can this be true? And is this kindness on your part — ?”

“It is the natural consequence of my duty as your friend. The minister refused, Richelieu asks and gives.”

“Ah, duke, you enchant me — you are a true friend!”

“Pardieu!”

“But the king — the king, who confers such a favor on me—”

“The king scarcely knows what he has done; or perhaps I am mistaken, and he knows very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that his majesty has, no doubt, some motive for provoking Madame Dubarry just now; and you owe this favor which he bestows upon you more to that motive than to my influence.”

“You think so?”

“I am certain of it, for I am aiding and abetting. You know it is on account of this creature that I refused the portfolio?”

“I was told so, but—”

“But you did not believe it. Come, say it frankly.”

“Well, I confess that —

“You always thought me not likely to be troubled by many scruples of conscience — is that it?”

“At least, that I thought you without prejudices.”

“My friend, I am getting old, and I no longer care for pretty faces except when they can be useful to me. And besides I have some other plans. But, to return to your son; he is a splendid fellow!”

“But on bad terms with that Dubarry who was at your house when .1 had the folly to present myself.”

“I am aware of it, and that is why I am not a minister.”

“Oh! you refused the portfolio in order not to displease my son?”

“If I told you so you would not believe me. No, that is not the reason. I refused it because the requirements of the Dubarrys, which commenced with the exclusion of your son, would have ended in enormities of all kinds.”

“Then you have quarreled with these creatures?”

“Yes and no. They fear me — I despise them; it is tit for tat.”

“It is heroic, but imprudent.”

“Why?”

“The countess has still some power.”

“Pooh!” said Richelieu.

“How you say that!”

“I say it like a man who feels the weakness of his position, and who, if necessary, would place the miner in a good position to blow up the whole place.”

“I see the true state of the case; you do my son a favor partly to vex the Dubarrys.”

“Principally for that reason, and your perspicacity is not at fault. Your son serves me as a grenade; I shall cause an explosion by his means. But, apropos, baron, have you not also a daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Young —— lovely as Venus — and who lives at present at Trianon?”

“Ah! then you know her?”

“I have spent the evening in her company, and have conversed about her for a full hour with the king.”

“With the king?” cried Taverney, his cheeks in a flame. “The king has spoken of my daughter — of Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney?”

“The king himself, my friend. Do I vex you in telling you this?”

“Vex me? No, certainly not. The king honors me by looking at my daughter — but — the king —

“Is immoral, is that what you were going to say?”

“Heaven forbid that I should talk evil of his majesty. He has a right to adopt whatever morals he chooses.”

“Well! what does this astonishment mean, then? Do you pretend to say that Mademoiselle Andree is not an accomplished beauty, and that therefore the king may not have looked upon her with admiration?”

Taverney did not reply; he only shrugged his shoulders and fell into a reverie, during which the unrelenting inquisitorial eye of the Duke de Richelieu was still fixed upon him.

“Well, I guess what you would say, if, instead of thinking to yourself, you would speak aloud,” continued the old marshal, approaching his chair nearer the baron’s. “You would say that the king is accustomed to bad society, that he mixes with low company, and that therefore he is not likely to admire this noble girl, so modest in her demeanor and so pure and lofty in her ideas, and is not capable of appreciating the treasures of her grace and beauty.”

“Certainly, you are a great man, duke; you have guessed my thoughts exactly,” said Taverney.

“But confess, baron,” continued Richelieu, “that our master should no longer force us gentlemen, peers and companions of the king of France, to kiss the vile, open hand of a creature like Dubarry. It is time that he should restore us to our proper position. After having sunk from La Chateauroux, who was a marquise and of stuff to make duchesses, to La Pompadour, who was the daughter and the wife of a farmer of the public revenues, and from La Pompadour to the Dubarry, who calls herself simply Jeanneton, may he not fall still farther and plunge us into the lowest pitch of degradation? It is humiliating for us, baron, who wear a coronet on our caps, to bow the head before such trumpery creatures.”

“Oh! you only speak the truth,” said Taverney. “How evident is it that the court is deserted on account of these new fashions!”

“No queen, no ladies; no ladies, no courtiers. The king elevates a grisette to the rank of a consort, and the people are upon the throne, represented, by Mademoiselle Jeanne Vaubernier, a seamstress of Paris.”

“It is so, and yet—”

“You see then, baron!” interrupted the marshal, “what a noble career there is open for a woman of mind who should reign over France at present.”

“Without doubt,” said Taverney, whose heart was beating fast; “but unluckily the place is occupied.”

“For a woman,” continued the marshal, “who would have the boldness of these creatures without their vice, and who would direct her views and calculations to a loftier aim. For a woman who would advance her fortune so high, that she should be talked of when the monarchy itself should no longer exist. Do you know if your daughter has intellect, baron?”

“Lofty intellect, and above all, good sense.”

“She is very lovely.”

“Is she not?”

“Her beauty is of that soft and charming character which pleases men so much, while her whole being is stamped with that air of candor and virgin purity which imposes respect even upon women. You must take great care of that treasure, my old friend.”

“You speak of her with such fire —

“I! I am madly in love with her, and would marry her to-morrow were I twenty instead of seventy-four years of age! But is she comfortably placed? Has she the luxury which befits such a lovely flower? Only think, baron! this evening she returned alone to her apartments, without waiting-women or lackey. A servant of the dauphin carried a lantern before her! That looks more like a servant than a lady of her rank.”

“What can I do, duke? you know I am not rich.”

“Rich or not, your daughter must at least have a waiting-maid.”

Taverney sighed.

“I know very well,” said he, “that she wants one, or at least, that she ought to have one.”

“Well! have you none?”

The baron did not reply.

“Who is that pretty girl you had here just now?” continued Richelieu. “A fine spirited looking girl, i’faith.”

“Yes, but — I — I cannot send her to Trianon.”

“Why not, baron? On the contrary, she seems to me perfectly suited for the post; she would make a capital femme-de-chambre.”

“You did not look at her face then, duke?”

“I! — I did nothing else.”

“You looked at her and did not remark her strange resemblance?”

“To whom?”

“To — guess. Come hither, Nicole.”

Nicole advanced; like a true waiting woman, she had been listening at the door. The duke took her by both hands and looked her steadily in the face, but the impertinent gaze of this great lord and debauchee did not alarm or embarrass her for a moment.

“Yes,” said he, “it is true; there is a resemblance.”

“You know to whom, and you see therefore that it is impossible to expose the fortunes of our house to such an awkward trick of fate. Would it be thought agreeable that this little minx of a Nicole should resemble the most illustrious lady in France?”

“Oh, no!” replied Nicole sharply, and disengaging herself from the marshal’s grasp, the better to reply to M. de Taverney, “is it so certain that this little minx resembles this illustrious lady so exactly? Has this lady the low shoulder, the quick eye, the round ankle, and the plump arm of the little minx?”

Nicole was crimson with rage, and therefore ravishingly beautiful.

The duke once more took her pretty hands in his, and with a look full of caresses and promises:

“Baron,” said he, “Nicole has certainly not her equal at court, at least in my opinion. As for the illustrious lady to whom she has, I confess, a slight resemblance, we shall know how to spare her self-love. You have fair hair of a lovely shade, Mademoiselle Nicole; you have eyebrows and nose of a most imperial form; well, in one quarter of an hour employed before the mirror, these imperfections, since the baron thinks them such, will disappear. Nicole, my child, would you like to be at Trianon?”

“Oh!” said Nicole, and her whole soul full of longing was expressed in this monosyllable.

“You shall go to Trianon, then, my dear, and without prejudicing in any way the fortunes of others. Baron, one word more.”

“Speak, my dear duke.”

“Go, my pretty child,” said Richelieu, “and leave us alone a moment.”

Nicole retired. The duke approached the baron.

“I press you the more to send your daughter a waiting-maid, because it will please the king. His majesty does not like poverty, and pretty faces do not frighten him. Let me alone, I understand what I am about.”

“Nicole shall go to Trianon, if you think it will please the king,” replied the baron, with a meaning smile.

“Then, if you will allow me, I will bring her with me; she can take advantage of the carriage.”

“But still, her resemblance to the dauphiness! We must think of that, duke.”

“I have thought of it. This resemblance will disappear in a quarter of an hour under Rafte’s hands, I will answer for it. Write a note to your daughter to tell her of what importance it is that she should have a femme-de-chambre, and that this femme-de-chambre should be Nicole.”

“You think it important that it should be Nicole.”

“I do.”

“And that no other than Nicole would do?”

“Upon my honor, I think so.”

“Then I will write immediately.”

And the baron sat down and wrote a letter, which he handed to Richelieu.

“And the instructions, duke?”

“I will give them to Nicole. Is she intelligent?”

The baron smiled.

“Then you confide her to me, do you not?” said Richelieu.

“That is your affair, duke; you asked me for her, I give her to you; make of her what you like.”

“Mademoiselle, come with me,” said the duke, rising and calling into the corridor, “and that quickly.”

Nicole did not wait to be told twice. Without asking the baron for his consent, she made up a packet of clothes in five minutes, and light as a bird, she flew downstairs and took her place beside the coachman.

Richelieu took leave of his friend, who repeated his thanks for the service he had rendered Philip. Of Andree not a word was said; it was necessary to do more than speak of her.