M. D’Aiguillon Takes His Revenge.
THE MORNING SUCCEEDING the day on which the terrible decree had thrown Paris and Versailles into an uproar, when every one was anxiously awaiting the result of this decree, the Duke de Richelieu, who had returned to Versailles and had resumed his regularly irregular life, saw Rafte enter his apartment with a letter in his hand. The secretary scrutinized and weighed this letter with such an appearance of anxiety that his emotion quickly communicated itself to his master.
“What is the matter now?” asked the marshal.
“Something not very agreeable, I presume, my lord, and which is inclosed in this letter.”
“Why do you imagine so?”
“Because the letter is from the Duke d’Aiguillon.”
“Ha!” said the duke, “from nephew?”
“Yes, my lord marshal; after the king’s council broke up, an usher of the chamber called on me and handed me this paper for you. I have been turning it over and over for the last ten minutes, and I cannot help suspecting that it contains some evil tidings.”
The duke held out his hand.
“Give it me,” said he, “I am brave.”
“I warn you,” interrupted Rafte, “that when the usher gave me the paper, he chuckled outrageously.”
“Diable! that bodes ill,” replied the marshal; “but give it me, nevertheless.”
“And he added; ‘M. d’Aiguillon wishes the marshal to have this immediately.’”
“Pain! thou shalt not make me say that thou art an evil,” said the marshal, breaking the seal with a firm hand. And he read it.
“Ha! you change countenance,” said Rafte, standing with his hands crossed behind him, in an attitude of observation.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Richelieu, continuing to read.
“It seems, then, that it is serious?”
“You look quite delighted.”
“Of course — I see that I was not mistaken.”
The marshal read on.
“The king is good,” said he, after a moment’s pause.
“He appoints M. d’Aiguillon minister?”
“Better than that.”
“Oh! What then?”
“Read and ponder.”
Rafte in his turn read the note. It was in the handwriting of d’Aiguillon, and was couched in the following terms:
“MY DEAR UNCLE — Your good advice has borne its fruit; I confided my wrongs to that excellent friend of our house, the Countess Dubarry, who has deigned to lay them at his majesty’s feet. The king is indignant at the violence with which the gentlemen of the parliament pursue me, and in consideration of the services I have so faithfully rendered him, his majesty, in this morning’s council, has annulled the decree of parliament, and has commanded me to continue my functions as peer of France.
“Knowing the pleasure this news will cause you, my dear uncle, I send you the tenor of the decision, which his majesty in council came to to-day. I have had it copied by a secretary, and you have the announcement before any one else.
“Deign to believe in my affectionate respect, my dear uncle, and continue to bestow on me your good will and advice.
“(Signed) — DUKE D’AIGUILLON.”
“He mocks at me into the bargain!” cried Richelieu.
“Faith, I think so, my lord.”
“The king throws himself into the hornet’s nest!”
“You would not believe me yesterday, when I told you so.”
“I did not say he would not throw himself into it, Rafte; I said he would contrive to get out of it. Now, you see, he does get out of it.”
“The fact is, the parliament is beaten.”
“And I also.”
“For the present, yes.”
“Forever! Yesterday I foresaw it, and you consoled me so well, that some misfortune could not fail to ensue.”
“My lord, you despair a little too soon, I think.”
“Master Rafte, you are a fool. I am beaten, and I must pay the stake. You do not fully comprehend, perhaps, how disagreeable it is to me to be the laughingstock of Luciennes; at this moment, 1 he duke is mocking me in company with Madame Dubarry; Mademoiselle Chon, and Monsieur Jean are roaring themselves hoarse at my expense, while the little negro ceases to stuff himself with sweetmeats to make game of me. Parbleu! I have a tolerably good temper, but all this makes me furious.”
“Furious, my lord?”
“I have said it — furious!”
“Then you have done what you should not have done,” said Rafte, philosophically.
“You urged me on. Master Secretary.”
“I?”
“ Yes, you.”
“Why, what is it to me whether M. d’Aiguillon is a peer of France or not — I ask you, my lord? Your nephew does me no injury, I think.”
“Master Rafte, you are impertinent.”
“You have been telling me so for the last forty-nine years, my lord.”
“Well, I shall repeat it again.”
“Not for forty-nine years more, that is one comfort.”
“Rafte, if this is the way you care for my interests—”
“The interests of your little passions? No, my lord duke, never! Man of genius as you are, you sometimes commit follies which I could not forgive even in an understrapper like myself.”
“Explain yourself, Rafte, and if I am wrong. I will confess it.”
“Yesterday you thirsted for vengeance, did you not? You wished to behold the humiliation of your nephew; you wished, as it were, to be the bearer of the decree of parliament, and gloat over the tremblings and palpitations of your victim, as M. Crebillon the younger says. Well! my lord marshal, such sights as these must be well paid for; such pleasures cost dear. You are rich — pay, pay, my lord marshal!”
“What would you have done in my place, then, O most skillful of tacticians? Come, let me see.”
“Nothing! I would have waited without giving any sign of life. But you itched to oppose the parliament to the Dubarry, from the moment she found that M. d’Aiguillon was a younger man than yourself.”
A groan was the marshal’s only reply.
“Well!” continued Rafte, “the parliament was tolerably well prompted by you before it did what it has done. The decree once passed, you should have offered your services to your nephew, who would have suspected nothing.”
“That is all well and good, and I admit that I did wrong, but you should have warned me.”
“I hinder any evil! You take me for some one else, my lord marshal; you repeat to every one that comes that I am your creature, that you have trained me, and yet you would have me not in — lighted when I see a folly committed, or a misfortune approaching! Fie! fie!”
“Then a misfortune will happen. Master Sorcerer?” — —”Certainly.”
“What misfortune?”
“You will quarrel, and M. d’Aiguillon will become the link between the parliament and Madame Dubarry; then he will be minister, and you exiled, or at the Bastille.”
The marshal in his anger upset the contents of his snuff-box upon the carpet.
“In the Bastille!” said he, shrugging his shoulders; “is Louis XV., think you, Louis XIV.?”
“No, but Madame Dubarry, supported by M. d’Aiguillon, is quite equal to Madame de Maintenon. Take care; I do not know any princess in the present day who would bring you bonbons and eggs.”
“These are melancholy prognostics,” replied the marshal, after a long silence. “You read the future; but what of the present, if you please?”
“My lord marshal is too wise for me to give him advice.”
“Come, master witty-pate, are you too not mocking me?”
“I beg you to remark, my lord marshal, that you confound dates; a man is never called a witty-pate after forty; now, I am sixty-seven.”
“No matter, assist me out of this scrape — and quickly too — quickly!”
“By an advice?”
“By anything you please.”
“The time has not come yet.”
“Now you are certainly jesting.”
“Would to Heaven I were! When I jest, the subject shall be a jesting matter — and unfortunately this is not.”
“What do you mean by saying that it is not yet time?”
“No, my lord, it is not time. If the announcement of the king’s decree were known in Paris beforehand. I would not say. Shall we send a courier to the President d’Aligre?”
“That they may laugh at us all the sooner?”
“What a ridiculous self-love, my lord marshal! You would make a saint lose patience. Stay, let me finish my plan of a descent on England, and you can finish drowning yourself in your portfolio intrigue, since the business is already half done.”
The marshal was accustomed to these sullen humors of his secretary. He knew that when his melancholy had once declared itself he was dangerous to touch with ungloved fingers.
“Come,” said he, “do not pout at me, and if I do not understand, explain yourself.”
“Then my lord wishes me to trace out a line of conduct for him?”
“Certainly, since you think I cannot conduct myself.”
“Well then, listen.”
“I am all attention.”
“You must send by a trusty messenger to M. d’Aligre,” said Rafte, abruptly, “the Duke d’Aiguillon’s letter, and also the decree of the king in council. You must then wait till the parliament has met and deliberated upon it, which will take place immediately; whereupon you must order your carriage, and pay a visit to your little procureur, M. Flageot.”
“Eli!” said Richelieu, whom this name made start as it had done on the previous day; “M. Flageot again! What the deuce has M. Flageot to do with all this, and what am I to do at his house?”
“I have had the honor to tell you, my lord, that M. Flageot is your procureur.”
“Well! what then?”
“Well, if he is your procureur, he has certain bags of yours — certain lawsuits on hand; you must go and ask him about them.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes, my lord marshal, to-morrow.”
“But all this is your affair, M. Rafte.”
“By no means! by no means! When M. Flageot was a simple scribbling drudge, then I could treat with him as an equal; but as, dating from to-morrow, M. Flageot is an Attila, a scourge of kings — neither more nor less — it is not asking too much of a duke, a peer, a marshal of France, to converse with this all-powerful man.”
“Is this serious, or are we acting a farce?”
“You will see to-morrow if it is serious, my lord.”
“But tell me what will be the result of my visit to your M. Flageot.”
“I should be very sorry to do so; you would endeavor to prove to me to-morrow that you had guessed it beforehand. Good-night, my lord marshal. Remember; a courier to M. d’Aligre immediately — a visit to M. Flageot to-morrow. Oh! the address? — The coachman knows it; he has driven me there frequently during the last week.”