The Confusion Increases.
MADAME DE BEARN followed Richelieu’s advice literally. Two hours and a half after the duke had left her, she was waiting in the antechamber at Luciennes, in the company of M. Zamore.
It was some time since she had been seen at Madame Dubarry’s, and her presence therefore excited a feeling of curiosity in the countess’s boudoir when her name was announced.
M. d’Aiguillon had not lost any time either, and he was plotting with the favorite when Chon entered to request an audience for Madame de Bearn. The duke made a movement to retire, but the countess detained him.
“I would rather you would remain,” said she. “In case my old alms-giver comes to ask a loan, you would be most useful to me, for she will ask less.”
The duke remained. Madame de Bearn, with a face composed for the occasion, took the chair opposite the countess, which the latter offered to her, and after the first civilities were exchanged:
“May I ask to what fortunate chance I am indebted for your presence, madame?” said Madame Dubarry.
“Ah! madame,” said the old litigant, “a great misfortune.”
“What! madame — a misfortune?”
“A piece of news which will deeply afflict his majesty.”
“I am all impatience, madame—”
“The parliament —
“Oh, ho!” grumbled the Duke d’Aiguillon.
“The Duke d’Aiguillon,” said the countess, hastily introducing her guest to her lady visitor, for fear of some unpleasant contretemps. But the old countess was as cunning as all the other courtiers put together, and never caused a misunderstanding, except wittingly, and when the misunderstanding seemed likely to benefit her.
“I know,” said she, “all the baseness of these lawyers, and their want of respect for merit of high birth.”
This compliment, aimed directly at the duke, drew a most graceful bow from him, which the litigant returned with an equally graceful curtsey.
“But,” continued she, “it is not the duke alone who is now concerned, but the entire population; the parliament refuse to act.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Madame Dubarry, throwing herself back upon the sofa; “there will be no more justice in France! Well! What change will that produce?”
The duke smiled. As for Madame de Bearn, instead of taking the affair pleasantly, her morose features darkened still more. “It is a great calamity, madame,” said she.
“Ah! indeed?” replied the favorite.
“It is evident, madame, that you are happy enough to have no lawsuits.”
“Hem!” said d’Aiguillon, to recall the attention of Madame Dubarry, who at last comprehended the insinuation of the litigant.
“Alas! madame,” said she, “it is true; you remind me that if I have no lawsuit, you have a very important one.”
“Ah, yes! madame, and delay will be ruinous to me.”
“Poor lady!”
“Unless, countess, the king takes some decided step.”
“Oh! madame, the king is right well inclined to do so. He will exile messieurs the councilors, and all will be right.”
“But, madame, that would be an indefinite adjournment.”
“Do you see any remedy, then? Will you be kind enough to point it out to us?”
The litigant concealed her face beneath her hood, like Caesar expiring under his toga.
“There is one remedy, certainly,” said d’Aiguillon; “but perhaps his majesty might shrink from employing it.”
“What is it?” asked the plaintiff, with anxiety.
“The ordinary resource of royalty in France, when it is rather embarrassed. It is to hold a bed of justice, and to say, ‘I will!’ when all the opponents say, ‘I will not.’”
“An excellent idea!” exclaimed Madame de Bearn, with enthusiasm.
“But which must not be divulged.” replied d’Aiguillon, diplomatically, and with a gesture which Madame de Bearn fully comprehended.
“Oh! madame!” said she instantly, “you who have so much influence with the king, persuade him to say, ‘I will have the suit of Madame de Bearn judged.’ Besides, you know, it was promised long ago.”
M. d’Aiguillon bit his lips, glanced an adieu to Madame Dubarry, and left the boudoir. He had heard the sound of the king’s carriage in the courtyard.
“Here is the king!” said Madame Dubarry, rising to dismiss her visitor.
“Oh! madame, why will you not permit me to throw myself at his majesty’s feet?”
“To ask him for a bed of justice?” replied the countess, quickly. “Most willingly! Remain here madame, since such is your desire.”
Scarcely had Madame de Bearn adjusted her head-dress when the king entered.
“Ah!” said he, “you have visitors, countess!”
“Madame de Bearn, sire.”
“Sire, justice!” exclaimed the old lady, making a most profound reverence.
“Oh!” said Louis XV. in a bantering tone, imperceptible to those who did not know him; “has any one offended you, madame?”
“Sire, I ask for justice.”
“Against whom?”
“Against the parliament.”
“Ah! good,” said the king, rubbing his hands; “you complain of my parliament. Well! do me the pleasure to bring them to reason. I too have to complain of them, and I beg you to grant me justice also,” added he, imitating the curtseys of the old countess.
“But, sire, you are the king —— the master.”
“The king — yes; the master — not always.” — —”Sire, proclaim your will.”
“I do that every evening, madame; and they proclaim theirs every morning. Now, as these two wills are diametrically opposed to each other it is with us as with the earth and the moon, which are ever running after each other without meeting.”
“Sire, your voice is powerful enough to drown all the bawlings of these fellows.”
“There you are mistaken. I am not a lawyer, as they are. If I say yes, they say no; it is impossible for us to come to any arrangement. If, when I have said yes, you can find any means to prevent their saying no, I will make an alliance with you.”
“Sire, I have the means.”
“Let me hear it quickly.”
“I will, sire. Hold a bed of justice.”
“That is another embarrassment,” said the king; “a bed of justice — remember, madam — is almost a revolution.”
“It is simply telling these rebellious subjects that you are the master. You know, sire, that when the king proclaims his will in this manner, he alone has a right to speak; no one answers. You say to them, I will, and they bow their assent.”
“The fact is,” said the Countess Dubarry, “the idea is a magnificent one.”
“Magnificent it may be, but not good,” replied Louis.
“But what a noble spectacle!” resumed Madame Dubarry, with warmth; “the procession, the nobles, the peers, the entire military staff of the king! Then the immense crowd of people; then the bed of justice, composed of five cushions embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis — it would be a splendid ceremony!”
“You think so?” said the king, rather shaken in his resolution.
“Then the king’s magnificent dress — the cloak lined with ermine, the diamonds in the crown, the golden scepter — all the splendor which so well suits an august and noble countenance! Oh! how handsome you would look, sire!”
“It is a long time since we had a bed of justice,” said Louis, with affected carelessness.
“Not since your childhood, sire,” said Madame de Bearn. “The remembrance of your brilliant beauty on that occasion has remained engraven on the hearts of all.”
“And then,” added Madame Dubarry, “there would be an excellent opportunity for the chancellor to display his keen and concise eloquence — to crush these people with his truth, dignity, and power.”
“I must wait for the parliament’s next misdeed,” said Louis; “then I shall see.”
“What can you wait for, sire, more outrageous than what they have just committed?”
“Why, what have they done?”
“Do you not know?”
“They have teased M. d’Aiguillon a little, but that is not a hanging offense; although,” said the king, looking at Madame Dubarry, “although this dear duke is a friend of mine. Besides, if the parliament has teased the duke a little, I have punished them for their ill-nature by my decree of yesterday or the day before — I do not remember which. We are now even.”
“Well, sire,” said Madame Dubarry, with warmth, “Madame de Bearn has just informed us that this morning these black-gowned gentlemen have taken the start of you.”
“How so?” said the king, frowning.
“Speak, madame, the king permits it,” said the favorite.
“Sire, the councilors have determined not to hold a court of parliament until your majesty yields to their wishes.”
“What say you?” said the king. “You mistake, madame; that would be an act of rebellion, and my parliament dares not revolt, I hope.”
“Sire, I assure you—”
“Oh! Madame, it is a mere rumor.”
“Will your majesty deign to hear me?”
“Speak, countess.”
“Well, my procureur has this morning returned me all the papers relating to my lawsuit. He can no longer plead, since they will no longer judge.”
“Mere reports, I tell you — attempts at intimidation.”
But while he spoke, the king paced up and down the boudoir in agitation.
“Sire, will your majesty believe M. de Richelieu, if you will not believe me? In my presence his papers were returned to him also, and the duke left the house in a rage.”
“Some one is tapping at the door,” said the king, to change the conversation.
“It is Zamore, sire.”
Zamore entered.
“A letter, mistress,” said he.
“With your permission, sire,” said the countess. “Ah! good heavens!” exclaimed she, suddenly.
“What is the matter?”
“From the chancellor, sire. M. de Maupeou, knowing that your majesty has deigned to pay me a visit, solicits my intervention to obtain an audience for him.”
“What is in the wind now?”
“Show the chancellor in,” said Madame Dubarry. The Countess de Bearn rose to take her leave.
“You need not go, madame,” said the king. “Good-day, M. de Maupeou. What news?”
“Sire,” said the chancellor, bowing, “the parliament embarrassed you; you have no longer a parliament.”
“How so? Are they all dead? Have they taken arsenic?”
“Would to Heaven they had! No, sire, they live; but they will not sit any longer, and have sent in their resignations. I have just received them in a mass.”
“The counselors?”
“No, sire, the resignations.”
“I told you, sire, that it was a serious matter,” said the countess, in a low voice.
“Most serious,” replied Louis, impatiently. “Well, chancellor, what have you done?”
“Sire, I have come to receive your majesty’s orders.”
“We shall exile these people, Maupeou.”
“Sire, they will not judge any better in exile.”
“We shall command them to judge. Bah! injunctions are out of date — letters-of-order likewise—”
“Ah! sire, this time you must be determined.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Courage!” said Madame de Bearn aside to the countess.
“And act the master, after having too often acted only the father,” said the countess.
“Chancellor,” said the king, slowly. “I know only one remedy; it is serious, but efficacious. I will hold a bed of justice; these people must be made to tremble once for all.”
“Ah! sire.” exclaimed the chancellor, “that is well spoken; they must bend or break!”
“Madame,” added the king, addressing Madame de Bearn, “if your suit be not judged, you see it will not be my fault.”
“Sire, you are the greatest monarch in the world!”
“Oh! yes,” echoed the countess, Chon, find the chancellor.
“The world does not say so, however,” murmured the king.