How Pleasure to Some Is Despair to Others.
“GOOD-DAY, mademoiselle, it is I,” said Nicole, with a joyous curtsey, which nevertheless, from the young girl’s knowledge of her mistress’s character, was not unmixed with anxiety.
“You! And how do you happen to be here?” replied Andree, putting down her pen, the better to follow the conversation which was thus commenced.
“Mademoiselle had forgotten me, so I came —
“But if I forgot you, mademoiselle, it was because I had my reasons for so doing. Who gave you permission to come?”
“Monsieur the baron, of course, mademoiselle,” said Nicole, smoothing the handsome black eyebrows which she owed to the generosity of M. Rafte with a very dissatisfied air.
“My father requires your services in Paris, and I do not require you here at all. You may return, child.”
“Oh, then, mademoiselle does not care — I thought mademoiselle had been more pleased with me. It is well worth while loving,” added Nicole, philosophically, “to meet with such a return at last.”
And she did her utmost to bring a tear to her beautiful eyes.
There was enough of heart and feeling in this reproach to excite Andree’s compassion.
“My child,” said she, “I have attendance here already, and I cannot permit myself unnecessarily to increase the household of the dauphiness by another mouth.”
“Oh! as if this mouth was so large!” said Nicole, with a charming smile.
“No matter, Nicole, your presence here is impossible.”
“On account of this resemblance?” said the young girl. “Then you have not looked at my face, mademoiselle?”
“In fact, you seem changed.”
“I think so! A fine gentleman, he who got the promotion for M. Philip, came to us yesterday, and as he saw the baron quite melancholy at your being here without a waiting-maid, he told him that nothing was easier than to change me from fair to dark. He brought me with him, dressed me as you see, and here I am.”
Andree smiled.
“You must love me very much,” said she, “since you are determined at all risks to shut yourself up in Trianon, where I am almost a prisoner.”
Nicole cast a rapid but intelligent glance round the room.
“The chamber is not very gay,” said she, “but you are not always in it?”
“I? Of course not,” replied Andree; “but you?”
“Well, I?”
“You, who will never enter the salons of madame the dauphiness; you, who will have neither the resource of the theater, nor the walk, nor the evening circle, but will always remain here — you will die of weariness.”
“Oh!” said Nicole, “there is always some little window or other; one can surely see some little glimpse of the gay world without, were it only through the chinks of the door. If a person can see, they can also be seen — that is all I require, so do not be uneasy on my account.”
“I repeat, Nicole, that I cannot receive you without express orders from my father.”
“Is that your settled determination?”
“It is.”
Nicole drew the Baron de Taverney’s letter from her bosom.
“There,” said she, “since my entreaties and my devotion to you have had no effect, let us see if the order contained in this will have more power.”
Andree read the letter, which was in the following terms:
“I am aware, and indeed it is already remarked, my dear Andree, that you do not occupy the position at Trianon which your rank imperatively requires. You ought to have two femmes-de-chambre and a valet, as I ought to have clear twenty thousand pounds per annum; but as I am satisfied with one thousand pounds, imitate my example, and content yourself with Nicole, who in her own person is worth all the servants you ought to have.
“Nicole is quick, intelligent, and devoted to you, and will readily adopt the tone and manners of her new locality. Your chief care indeed will he not to stimulate her, but to repress her anxiety. Keep her, then; and do not imagine that I am making any sacrifice in depriving myself of her services. Incase you should think so, remember that his majesty, who had the goodness to think of us, remarked on seeing you (this was confided to me by a good friend), that you required a little more attention to your toilet and general appearance. Think of this; it is of great importance.
“YOUR AFFECTIONATE FATHER.”
This letter threw Andree into a state of grief and perplexity. She was then to be haunted, even in her new prosperity, by the remembrance of that poverty which she alone did not feel to be a fault, while all around seemed to consider it as a crime.
Her first impulse was to break her pen indignantly, to tear the letter she had commenced, and to reply to her father’s epistle by some lofty tirade expressive of philosophical self-denial, which Philip would have approved of with all his heart. But she imagined she saw the baron’s satirical smile on reading this chef-d’oeuvre, and her resolution vanished. She merely replied to the baron’s order, therefore, by a paragraph annexed to the news of Trianon which she had already written to him according to his request.
“My father,” she added, “Nicole has this moment arrived, and I receive her, since you wish it; but what you have written on this subject has vexed me. Shall I be less ridiculous with this village girl as waiting-maid, than when I was alone amid this wealthy court? Nicole will be unhappy at seeing me humbled; she will be discontented; for servants feel proud or humbled in proportion to the wealth or poverty of their masters. As to his majesty’s remark, my father, permit me to tell you that the king has too much good sense to be displeased at my incapacity to play the grand lady, and, besides, his majesty has too much heart to have remarked or criticised my poverty without transforming it into a wealth to which your name and services would have had a legitimate claim in the eyes of all.”
This was Andree’s reply, and it must be confessed that her ingenuous innocence, her noble pride, had an easy triumph over the cunning and corruption of her tempters.
Andree said no more respecting Nicole. She agreed to her remaining, so that the latter, joyous and animated, she well knew why, prepared on the spot a little bed in the cabinet on the right of the antechamber, and made herself as small, as aerial, and as exquisite as possible, in order not to inconvenience her mistress by her presence in this modest retreat. One would have thought she wished to imitate the rose-leaf which the Persian sages let fall upon a vase filled with water to show that something could be added without spilling the contents.
Andree set out for Trianon about one o’clock. She had never been more quickly or more gracefully attired. Nicole had surpassed herself; politeness, attention, and zeal — nothing had been wanting in her services.
When Mademoiselle de Taverney was gone, Nicole felt herself mistress of the domicile, and instituted a thorough examination of it. Everything was scrutinized, from the letters to the smallest knickknack on the toilet-table, from the mantelpiece to the most secret corners of the closets. Then she looked out of the windows to take a survey of the neighborhood.
Below her was a large courtyard, in which several hostlers were dressing and currying the splendid horses of the dauphiness. Hostlers! pshaw! Nicole turned away her head.
On the right was a row of windows on the same story as those of Andree’s apartment. Several heads appeared at these windows, apparently those of chambermaids and floor-scrubbers. Nicole disdainfully proceeded in her examination.
On the opposite side, in a large apartment, some music-teachers were drilling a class of choristers and instrumentalists for the mass of St. Louis. Without ceasing her dusting operations, Nicole commenced to sing; after her own fashion, thus distracting the attention of the masters, and causing the choristers to sing false.
But this pastime could not long satisfy Mademoiselle Nicole’s ambition. When the masters and the singers had quarreled, and been mystified sufficiently, the little waiting-maid proceeded to the inspection of the higher story. All the windows were closed, and, moreover, they were only attics, so Nicole continued her dusting. But a moment afterward, one of these attic windows was opened without her being able to discover by what mechanism, for no one appeared. Some person however must have opened this window; this some person must have seen Nicole and yet nut have remained to look at her, thereby proving himself a most impertinent some person. At least, such was Nicole’s opinion. But she, who examined everything so conscientiously, could not avoid examining the features of this impertinent; and she therefore returned every moment from her different avocations to the window to give a glance at this attic — that is, at this open eye from which the eyeball was so obstinately absent. Once she imagined that the person fled as she approached; but this was incredible, and she did not believe it.
On another occasion she was almost certain of the fact, having seen the back of the fugitive, surprised, no doubt, by a prompter return than he had anticipated. Then Nicole had recourse to stratagem. She concealed herself behind the curtain, leaving the window wide open to drown all suspicion.
She waited a long time, but at last a head of black hair made its appearance; then came two timid hands, which supported, buttress like, a body bending over cautiously; and, finally, a face showed itself distinctly at the window. Nicole almost fell, and grasped the curtain so tightly, in her surprise, that it shook from top to bottom.
It was Monsieur Gilbert’s face which was looking at her from this lofty attic. But the moment Gilbert saw the curtain move, he comprehended the trick, and appeared no more. To mend the matter, the attic window was closed.
No doubt Gilbert had seen Nicole; he had been astonished, and had wished to convince himself of the presence of his enemy; and when he found himself discovered instead, he had fled in agitation and in anger. At least, Nicole interpreted the scene thus, and she was right, for this was the exact state of the case.
In fact, Gilbert would rather have seen his Satanic majesty in person than Nicole. The arrival of this spy caused him a thousand terrors. He felt an old leaven of jealousy against her, for she knew his secret of the garden in the Rue Coq-Heron.
Gilbert had fled in agitation, but not in agitation alone, but also in anger, and biting his nails with rage.
“Of what use now is my foolish discovery, of which I was so proud?” said he to himself. “Even if Nicole had a lover in Paris, the evil is done, and she will not be sent away from this on that account; but if she tells what I did in the Rue Coq-Heron, I shall be dismissed from Trianon. It is not I who govern Nicole — it is she who governs me. Oh, fury!”
And Gilbert’s inordinate self-love, serving as a stimulant to his hatred, made his blood boil with frightful violence. It seemed to him that Nicole, in entering that apartment, had chased from it, with a diabolical smile, all the happy dreams which Gilbert from his garret had wafted thither every night along with his vows, his ardent love, and his flowers. Had Gilbert been too much occupied to think of Nicole before, or had he banished the subject from his thoughts on account of the terror with which it inspired him? We cannot determine; but this we do know, at least, that Nicole’s appearance was a most disagreeable surprise for him.
He saw plainly that, sooner or later, war would be declared between them; but, as Gilbert was prudent and politic, he did not wish the war to commence until he felt himself strong enough to make it energetic and effective. With this intention he determined to counterfeit death until chance should present him with a favorable opportunity of reviving, or until Nicole, from weakness or necessity, should venture on some step which would deprive her of her present vantage ground. Therefore, all eye, all ear, when Andree was concerned, but at the same time ceaselessly vigilant, he continued to make himself acquainted with the state of affairs in the first apartment of the corridor, without Nicole ever having once met him in the gardens.
Unluckily for Nicole, she was not irreproachable, and even had she been so for the present, there was always one stumbling-block in the past over which she could be made to fall.
At the end of a week’s ceaseless watching, morning, noon, and night, Gilbert at last saw through the bars of his window a plume which he fancied he recognized. This plume was a source of constant agitation to Nicole, for it belonged to M. Beausire, who, following the rest of the court, had emigrated from Paris to Trianon.
For a long time Nicole was cruel; for a long time she left M. Beausire to shiver in the cold, and melt in the sun, and her prudence drove Gilbert to despair; but one fine morning, when M. Beausire had, doubtless, overleaped the barrier of mimic eloquence, and found an opportunity of bringing persuasive words to his aid, Nicole profited by Andree’s absence to descend to the courtyard and join M. Beausire, who was assisting his friend, the superintendent of the stables, to train a little Shetland pony.
From the court they passed into the garden, and from thence into the shady avenue which leads to Versailles. Gilbert followed the amorous couple with the ferocious joy of a tiger who scents his prey. He counted their steps, their sighs, learned by heart all he heard of their conversation, and it may be presumed that the result pleased him, for the next day, freed from all embarrassment, he displayed himself openly at his attic window, humming a song and looking quite at ease, and so far from fearing to be seen by Nicole, that, on the contrary, he seemed to brave her look.
Nicole was mending an embroidered silken mitten belonging to her mistress; she heard the song, raised her head, and saw Gilbert. The first evidence she gave of Ids presence was a contemptuous pouting, which bordered on the bitter, and breathed of hostility at a league’s distance. But Gilbert sustained this look with such a singular smile, and there was such provoking intelligence in his air and in his manner of singing, that Nicole looked down and blushed.
“She understands me,” thought Gilbert; “that is all I wished.” On subsequent occasions Gilbert continued the same behavior, and it was now Nicole’s turn to tremble. She went so far as to long for an interview with him, in order to free her heart from the load with which the satirical looks of the young gardener had burdened it.
Gilbert saw that she sought him. He could not misunderstand the short dry coughs which sounded near the window whenever Nicole knew him to be in his attic, nor the goings and comings of the young girl in the corridor when she supposed he might be ascending or descending the stairs. For a short time he was very proud of this triumph, which he attributed entirely to his strength of character and wise precautions. Nicole watched him so well that once she spied him as he mounted to his attic. She called him, but he did not reply.
Prompted either by curiosity or fear, Nicole went still farther. One evening she took off her pretty high-heeled slippers, a present from Andree, and with a trembling and hurried step she ventured into the corridor, at the end of which she saw Gilbert’s door. There was still sufficient daylight to enable Gilbert, aware of Nicole’s approach, to see her distinctly through the joining, or rather through the crevices of the panels. She knocked at the door, knowing well that he was in his room, but Gilbert did not reply.
It was, nevertheless, a dangerous temptation for him. He could, at his ease, humble her who thus came to entreat his pardon, and prompted by this thought, he had already raised his hand to draw the bolt which, with his habitual precaution and vigilance, he had fastened to avoid surprise.
“But no,” thought he, “no. She is all calculation; it is from fear or interest alone that she comes to seek me. She therefore hopes to gain something by her visit; but if so, what may I not lose?”
And with this reasoning he let his hand fall again by his side. Nicole, after having knocked at the door two or three times, retired frowning. Gilbert therefore kept all his advantage, and Nicole had only to redouble her cunning in order not to lose hers entirely. At last, all these projects and counter-projects reduced themselves to this dialogue, which took place between the belligerent parties one evening at the chapel door, where chance had brought them together.
“Ha! good-evening, Monsieur Gilbert; you are here, then, are you?”
“Oh! good-evening, Mademoiselle Nicole; you are at Trianon?”
“As you see — waiting-maid to mademoiselle.”
“And I am assistant-gardener.”
Then Nicole made a deep curtsey to Gilbert, who returned her a most courtly bow, and they separated. Gilbert ascended to his attic as if he had been on his way thither, and Nicole left the offices and proceeded on her errand; but Gilbert glided down again stealthily, and followed the young femme-de-chambre, calculating that she was going to meet M. Beausire.
A man was indeed waiting for her beneath the shadows of the alley; Nicole approached him. It was too dark for Gilbert to recognize M. Beausire; rind the absence of the plume puzzled him so much, that he let Nicole return to her domicile, and followed the man as far as the gate of Trianon.
It was not M. Beausire, but a man of a certain age, or rather certainly aged, with a distinguished air, and a brisk gait, notwithstanding his advanced years. When he approached, Gilbert, who carried his assurance so far as almost to brush past him, recognized M. de Richelieu.
“Peste!” said he, “first an officer, now a marshal of France! Mademoiselle Nicole ascends in the scale.”