The Parliaments.
WHILE ALL THESE minor intrigues, hatched and brought to light beneath the linden trees and amid the alleys of Trianon, formed a sufficiently animated existence for the insects of this little world, the great intrigues of the town, like threatening tempests, spread their vast wings over the palace of Themis, as M. Jean Dubarry wrote in mythological parlance to his sister.
The parliaments, those degenerate remains of the ancient French opposition, had taken breath beneath the capricious government of Louis XV.; but since their protector, M. de Choiseul, had fallen, they felt the approach of danger, and they prepared to meet it by measures as energetic as their circumstances would permit.
Every general commotion is kindled at first lay some personal quarrel, as the pitched battles of armies commence by skirmishes of outposts. Since M. de la Chalotais had attacked M. d’Aiguillon, and in so doing had personified the struggle of the tiers-etat with the feudal lords, the public mind had taken possession of the question, and would not permit it to be deferred or displaced.
Now the king — whom the parliament of Brittany and of all France had deluged with a flood of petitions, more or less submissive and foolish — the king, thanks to Madame Dubarry, had just given his countenance to the feudal against the tiers party, by nominating M. d’Aiguillon to the command of his light horse.
M. Jean Dubarry had described it very correctly; it was a smart fillip to “the dear and trusty counselors, sitting in high court of parliament.”
“How would the blow be taken?”
Town and court asked itself this question every morning at sunrise; but members of parliament are clever people, and where others are much embarrassed they see clearly. They began with agreeing among themselves as to the application and the result of this blow, after which they adopted the following resolution, when it had been clearly ascertained that the blow had been given and received:
“The court of parliament will deliberate upon the conduct of the ex-governor of Brittany, and give its opinion thereon.”
But the king parried the blow by sending a message to the peers and princes, forbidding them to repair to the palace, or be present at any deliberation which might take place concerning M. d’Aiguillon. They obeyed to the letter.
Then the parliament, determined to do its business itself, passed a decree, in which, after declaring that the Duke d’Aiguillon was seriously inculpated and tainted with suspicion, even on matters which touched his honor, it proclaimed that that peer was suspended from the functions of the peerage, until, by a judgment given in the court of peers, with the forms and solemnities prescribed by the laws and customs of the kingdom, the place of which nothing can supply, he had fully cleared himself from the accusations and suspicions now resting on his honor.
But such a decree passed merely in the court of parliament before those interested, and inscribed in their reports, was nothing; public notoriety was wanting, and, above all, that uproar which song alone ventures to raise in France, and which makes song the sovereign controller of events and rulers. This decree of parliament must be heightened and strengthened by the power of song.
Paris desired nothing better than to take part in this commotion. Little disposed to view either court or parliament with favor, Paris in its ceaseless movement was waiting for some good subject for a laugh, as a transition from all the causes for tears which had been furnished it for centuries.
The decree was therefore properly and duly passed, and the parliament appointed commissioners, who were to have it printed under their own eyes. Ten thousand copies of the decree were to be struck off, and the distribution organized without delay.
Then, as it was one of their rules that the person interested should be informed of what the court had done respecting him, the same commissioners proceeded to the hotel of the Duke d’Aiguillon, who had just arrived in Paris for an important interview, no less indeed than to have a clear and open explanation, which had become necessary between the duke and his uncle, the marshal.
Thanks to Rafte, all Versailles had been, informed within an hour of the noble resistance of the old duke to the king’s orders, touching the portfolio of M. de Choiseul. Thanks to Versailles, all Paris and all France had learned the same news; so that Richelieu had found himself for some time past on the summit of popularity’, from which he made political grimaces at Madame Dubarry and his clear nephew.
The position was unfavorable for M. d’Aiguillon, who was already so unpopular. The marshal, hated, but at the same time feared, by the people, because he was the living type of that nobility which was so respected and so respectable under Louis XV. — the marshal, so Protean in his character, that, after having chosen a part, he was able to withdraw from it without difficulty when circumstances required it, when a bon-mot might be the result — Richelieu, we repeat, was a dangerous enemy; the more so as the worst part of his enmity was always that which he concealed, in order, as he said, to create a surprise.
The Duke d’Aiguillon, since his interview with Madame Dubarry, had two flaws in his coat of mail. Suspecting how much anger and thirst for revenge Richelieu concealed under the apparent equality of his temper, he acted as mariners do in certain cases of difficulty — he burst the waterspout with his cannon, assured that the danger would be less if it were faced boldly. He set about looking everywhere for his uncle, therefore, in order to have a serious conversation with him; but nothing was more difficult to accomplish than this step, since the marshal had discovered his wish. Marches and countermarches commenced. When the marshal saw his nephew at a distance, he sent him a smile, and immediately surrounded in itself by people who rendered all communication impossible, thus putting the enemy at defiance as from an impregnable fort.
The Duke d’Aiguillon burst the waterspout. He simply presented himself at his uncle’s hotel at Versailles; but Rafte, from his post at the little window of the hotel looking upon the Court, recognized the liveries of the duke, and warned his master. The duke entered the marshal’s bedroom, where he found Rafte alone, who, with a most confidential smile, was so indiscreet as to inform the nephew that his uncle had not slept at home that night.
M. d’Aiguillon bit his lips and retired. When he returned to his hotel, he wrote to the marshal to request an audience. The marshal could not refuse to reply. If he replied, he could not refuse an audience; and if he granted the audience, how could he refuse a full explanation; M. d’Aiguillon resembled too much those polite and engaging duelists, who hide their evil designs under a fascinating and graceful exterior, lead their man upon the ground with bows and reverences, and there put him to death without pity.
The marshal’s self-love was not so powerful as to mislead him; he knew his nephew’s power. Once in his presence, his opponent would force from him either a pardon or a concession. Now, Richelieu never pardoned any one, and concessions to an enemy are always a dangerous fault in politics. Therefore, on receipt of M. d’Aguillon’s letter, he pretended to have left Paris for several days.
Rafte, whom he consulted upon this point, gave him the following advice:
“We are on the fair way to ruin M. d’Aiguillon. Our friends of the parliament will do the work. If M. d’Aiguillon, who suspects this, can lay his hand upon you before the explosion, he will force from you a promise to assist him in case of misfortune; for your resentment is of that kind that you cannot openly gratify it at the expense of your family interest. If, on the contrary, you refuse, M. d’Aiguillon will leave you knowing you to he his enemy and attributing all his misfortunes to you; and he will go away comforted, as people always are when they have found out the cause of their complaint, even although the complaint itself be not removed.”
“That is quite true.” replied Richelieu; “but I cannot conceal myself forever. How many days will it be before the explosion takes place?”
“Six days, my lord.”
“Are you sure?”
Rafte drew from his pocket a letter from a counselor of the parliament. This letter contained only the following lines:
“It has been decided that the decree shall be passed. It will take place on Thursday, the final day fixed on by the company.”
“Then the affair is very simple,” replied the marshal; “send the duke back his letter with a note from your own hand:
“MY LORD DUKE — You have doubtless heard of the departure of my lord marshal for .... Change of air has been judged indispensable by the marshal’s physician, who thinks him rather overworked. If, as I believe is the case, after what you did me the honor to tell me the other day, you wish to have an interview with my lord, I can assure you that on Thursday evening next the duke, on his return from.... will sleep in his hotel in Paris, where you will certainly find him.”
“And now,” added the marshal, “hide me somewhere until Thursday.”
Rafte punctually fulfilled these instructions; the letter was written and sent, the hiding-place was found. Only one evening. Richelieu, who began to feel very much wearied, slipped out and proceeded to Trianon to speak to Nicole. He risked nothing, or thought he risked nothing, by this step, knowing the Duke d’Aiguillon to be at the pavilion of Luciennes. The result of this maneuver was, that even if M. d’Aiguillon suspected something, he could not foresee the blow which menaced him until he had actually met his enemy’s sword.
The delay until Thursday satisfied him; on that day he left Versailles with the hope of at last meeting and combating this impalpable antagonist. This Thursday was, as we have said, the day on which parliament was to proclaim its decree.
An agitation, low and muttering as yet, but perfectly intelligible to the Parisian, who knows so well the level of these popular waves, reigned in the wide streets through which M. d’Aiguillon’s carriage passed. No notice was taken of him, for he had observed the precaution of coming in a carriage without a coat of arms or other heraldic distinctions.
Here and there he saw busy-looking crowds, who were showing each other some paper which they read with many gesticulations, and collecting in noisy groups, like ants round a piece of sugar fallen to the ground. But this was the period of inoffensive agitation; the people were then in the habit of congregating together in this manner for a corn tax, for an article in the “Gazette de Holland,” for a verse of Voltaire’s, or for a song against Dubarry or Maupeou.
M. d’Aiguillon drove straight to M. de Richelieu’s hotel. He found there M. Rafte.
“The marshal,” the secretary said, “was expected every moment; some delay of the post must have detained him at the barrier.”
M. d’Aiguillon proposed waiting, not without expressing some impatience to Rafte, for he took this excuse as a new defeat. His ill-humor increased however when Rafte told him that the marshal would be in despair on his return to find that M. d’Aiguillon had been kept waiting; that besides, he was not to sleep in Paris, as he had at first intended; and that, most probably, he would not return from the country alone, and would just call in passing at his hotel to see if there was any news; that therefore M. d’Aiguillon would be wiser to return to his house, where the marshal could call as he passed.
“Listen, Rafte,” said d’Aiguillon, who had become more gloomy during this mysterious reply; “you are my uncle’s conscience, and I trust you will answer me as an honest man. I am played upon, am I not, and the marshal does not wish to see me? Do not interrupt me, Rafte; you have been a valuable counselor to me, and I might have been, and can yet be, a good friend to you; must I return to Versailles?”
“My lord duke, I assure you, upon my honor, you will receive a visit at your own house from the marshal in less than an hour.”
“Then I can as well wait here, since he will come this way.”
“I have had the honor of informing you that he will probably not be alone.”
“I understand. And I have your word, Rafte?”
At these words the duke retired deep in thought, but with an air as noble and graceful as the marshal’s was the reverse, when, after his nephew’s departure, he emerged from a closet, through the glass door of which he had been peeping.
The marshal smiled like one of those hideous demons which Callot has introduced in his “Temptations.”
“He suspects nothing, Rafte?” said he.
“Nothing, my lord.”
“What hour is it?”
“The hour has nothing to do with the matter, my lord. You must wait until our little procureur of the chatelet makes his appearance. The commissioners are still at the printer’s.”
Rafte had scarce finished, when a footman opened a secret door, and introduced a personage, very ugly, very greasy, very black — one of those living pens for which Monsieur Dubarry professed such a profound antipathy.
Rafte pushed the marshal into a closet, and hastened, smiling, to meet this man.
“Ah! it is you, M. Flageot?” said he; “I am delighted to see you!”
“Your servant, Monsieur Rafte. Well! the business is done.”
“Is it printed?”
“Five thousand are struck off. The first proofs are already scattered over the town, the others are drying.”
“What a misfortune, my dear M. Flageot! What a blow to the marshal’s family!”
M. Flageot, to avoid the necessity of answering — that is, of telling a lie — drew a large silver box from his pocket, and slowly inhaled a pinch of Spanish snuff.
“Well, what is to be done now?” asked Rafte.
“The forms, my dear sir, the forms. The commissioners, now that they are sure of the printing and the distribution, will immediately enter their carriages, which are waiting at the door of the printing-office, and proceed to make known the decree to M. the Duke d’Aiguillon, who happens luckily — I mean unfortunately, M. Rafte — to be in his hotel in Paris, where they can have an interview with him in person.”
Rafte hastily seized an enormous bag of legal documents from a shelf, which he gave to M. Flageot, saying:
“These are the suits which I mentioned to you, sir; the marshal has the greatest confidence in your abilities, and leaves this affair, which ought to prove most remunerative, entirely in your hands. I have to thank you for your good offices in this deplorable conflict of M. d’Aiguillon’s with the all-powerful parliament of Paris, and also for your very valuable advice.”
And he gently, but with some haste, pushed M. Flageot, delighted with the weight of his burden, toward the door of the antechamber. Then, releasing the marshal from his prison:
“Quick, my lord, to your carriage! You have no time to lose if you wish to be present at the scene. Take care that your horses go more quickly than those of the commissioners.”