King Louis XV.’s Petit Souper.
THE MARSHAL found the king in the little salon whither several of the courtiers had followed him, preferring rather to lose their supper than to allow the wandering glance of their sovereign to fall on any others than themselves. But Louis XV. seemed to have something else to do this evening than to look at these gentlemen. He dismissed every one, saying that he did not intend to sup, or that, if he did, it would be alone. All the guests having thus received their dismissal, and fearing to displease the dauphin if they were not present at the fete which he was to give at the close of the rehearsal, instantly flew off like a cloud of parasite pigeons, and winged their way to him whom they were permitted to see, ready to assert that they had deserted his majesty’s drawing-room for him.
Louis XV. whom they left so rapidly, was far from bestowing a thought on them. At another time, the littleness of all this swarm of courtiers would have excited a smile, but on this occasion it awoke no sentiment in the monarch’s breast — a monarch so sarcastic that he spared neither bodily nor mental defect in his best friends, always supposing that Louis XV. ever had a friend.
No; at that moment Louis XV. concentrated his entire attention on a carriage which was drawn up opposite the door of the offices of Trianon, the coachman seeming to wait only for the step which should announce the owner’s presence in the gilded vehicle to urge on his horses. The carriage was Madame Dubarry’s, and was lighted by torches. Zamore, seated beside the coachman, was swinging his legs backward and forward like a child at play.
At last, Madame Dubarry, who had no doubt delayed in the corridors in the hope of receiving some message from the king, appeared, supported on M. d’Aiguillon’s arm. Her anger, or at least her disappointment, was apparent in the rapidity of her gait. She affected too much resolution not to have lost her presence of mind.
After Madame Dubarry followed Jean, looking gloomy in the extreme, and absently crushing his hat beneath his arm. He had not been present at the representation, the dauphin having forgotten to invite him; but he had stolen into the anteroom somewhat after the fashion of a lackey, and stood pensive as Hippolytus, with his shirt-frill falling over his vest embroidered with silver and red flowers, and not even looking at his tattered ruffles, which seemed in harmony with his sad thoughts. Jean had seen his sister look pale and alarmed, and had concluded from this that the danger was great. Jean was brave in diplomacy only when opposed to flesh and blood, never when opposed to phantoms.
Concealed behind the window-curtain, the king watched this funereal procession defile before him and engulf themselves in the countess’s carriage like a troop of phantoms. Then, when the door was closed, and the footman had mounted behind the carriage, the coachman shook the reins, and the horses started forward at a gallop.
“Oh!” said the king, “without making an attempt to see me — to speak to me? the countess is furious!”
And he repeated aloud:
“Yes, the countess is furious!”
Richelieu, who had just glided into the room like an expected visitor, caught these last words:
“Furious, sire! and for what? Because your majesty is amused for a moment? Oh! that is not amiable of the countess.”
“Duke,” replied Louis XV.. “I am not amused; on the contrary, I am wearied and wish for repose. Music enervates me. If I had listened to the countess, I ought to have supped at Luciennes; I ought to have eaten, and, above all, to have drunk. The countess’s wines are too strong; I do not know from what vineyards they come, but they overpower me.”
“S’death! I prefer to take my ease here.”
“And your majesty is perfectly in the right,” said the duke.
“Besides, the countess will find amusement elsewhere. Am I such an amiable companion? She may say so as much as she likes, but I do not believe her.”
“Ah! this time your majesty is in the wrong!” exclaimed the marshal.
“No, duke; no, in truth. I count my years, and I reflect.”
“Sire, the countess is well aware that she could not possibly have better company, and it is that which makes her furious.”
“In truth, duke. I do not know how you manage. You still lead the women as if you were twenty. At that age it is for a man to choose; but at mine, duke—”
“Well, sire?”
“It is for the woman to make her calculations.”
The marshal burst into a laugh.
“Well, sire,” said he, “that is only an additional reason; if your majesty thinks the countess is amused, let us console ourselves as well as we can.”
“I do not say she is amused, duke; I only say that she will, in the end, be driven to seek amusement.”
“Ah! sire, I dare not assert that such things have never happened.”
The king rose, much agitated.
“Who waits outside?” inquired he.
“All your suite, sire.”
The king reflected for a moment.
“But have you any one there?”
“I have Rafte.”
“Very good.”
“What shall he do, sire?”
“He must find out if the countess really returned to Luciennes.”
“The countess is already gone, I fancy, sire.”
“Yes, ostensibly.”
“But whither does your majesty think she is gone?”
“Who can tell? Jealousy makes her frantic, duke.”
“Sire, is it not rather your majesty — ?”
“How? — what?”
“Whom jealousy—”
“Duke!”
“In truth, it would be very humiliating for us all, sire.”
“I jealous?” said Louis, with a forced laugh; “are you speaking seriously, duke?”
Richelieu did not in truth believe it. It must even be confessed that he was very near the truth in thinking that, on the contrary, the king only wished to know if Madame Dubarry was really at Luciennes, in order to be sure that she would not return to Trianon.
“Then, sire,” said he aloud, “it is understood that I am to send Rafte on a voyage of discovery?”
“Send him, duke.”
“In the meantime, what will your majesty do before supper?”
“Nothing; we shall sup instantly. Have you spoken to the person in question?”
“Yes, he is in your majesty’s antechamber.”
“What did he say?”
“He expressed his deep thanks.”
“And the daughter?”
“She has not been spoken to vet.”
“Duke. Madame Dubarry is jealous, and might readily return.”
“Ah! sire, that would be in very bad taste. I think the countess would be incapable of committing such an enormity.”
“Duke, she is capable of anything in such moods, especially when hatred is combined with jealousy. She execrates you; I don’t know if you were aware of that?”
Richelieu bowed.
“I know she does me that honor, sire.”
“She execrates M. de Taverney also.”
“If your majesty would be good enough to reckon, I am sure there is a third person whom she hates even more than me — even more than the baron.”
“Whom?”
“Mademoiselle Andree.”
“Ah!” said the king. “I think that is natural enough.”
“Then—”
“Yes, but that does not prevent its being necessary to watch that Madame Dubarry does not cause some scandal this evening.”
“On the contrary, it proves the necessity of such a measure.”
“Here is the maitre-d’hotel; hush! give your orders to Rafte and join me in the dining-room with — you know whom!”
Louis rose and passed into the dining room, while Richelieu made his exit by the opposite door. Five minutes afterward, he rejoined the king, accompanied by the baron.
The king in the most gracious manner bade Taverney good-evening. The baron was a man of talent, and replied in that peculiar manner which betokens a person accustomed to good society, and which puts kings and princes instantly at their ease. They sat down to table. Louis XV. was a bad king, but a delightful companion; when he pleased, his conversation was full of attraction for boon companions, talkers, and voluptuaries. The king, in short, had studied life carefully, and from its most agreeable side.
He ate heartily, made his guests drink, and turned the conversation on music.
Richelieu caught the ball at the rebound.
“Sire,” says he, “if music makes men agree, as our ballet-master says, and as your majesty seems to think, will you say as much of women?”
“Oh, duke!” replied the king, “let us not speak of women. From the Trojan war to the present time, women have always exercised an influence the contrary of music. You, especially, have too many quarrels to compound with them, to bring such a subject on the tapis. Among others, there is one, and that not the least dangerous, with whom you are at daggers drawn.”
“The countess, sire! Is that my fault?”
“Of course it is.”
“Ah! indeed! Your majesty, I trust, will explain.”
“In two words, and with the greatest pleasure,” said the king, slyly.
“I am all ears, sire.”
“What! she offers you the portfolio of I don’t know which department, and you refuse, because, you say, she is not very popular!”
“I?” exclaimed Richelieu, a good deal embarrassed by the turn the conversation was taking.
“Dame! the report is quite public,” said the king, with that feigned off-hand good-nature which was peculiar to him. “I forget now who told it to me — most probably the gazette.”
“Well, sire!” said Richelieu, taking advantage of the freedom which the unusual gayety of the august host afforded his guests, “I must confess that on this occasion rumors and even the gazettes have reported something not quite so absurd as usual.”
“What!” exclaimed Louis XV., “then you have really refused a portfolio, my dear duke?”
Richelieu, it may easily be imagined, was in an awkward position. The king well knew that he had refused nothing; but it was necessary that Taverney should continue to believe what Richelieu had told him. The duke had therefore to frame his reply so as to avoid furnishing matter for amusement to the king, without at the same time incurring the reproach of falsehood, which was already hovering on the baron’s lips, and twinkling in his smile.
“Sire,” said Richelieu, “pray let us not speak of effects, but of the cause. Whether I have, or have not refused a portfolio, is a state secret which your majesty is not bound to divulge over the bottle; but the cause for which I should have refused the portfolio had it been offered to me is the important point.”
“Oh! oh! duke,” said the monarch, laughing; “and this cause is not a state secret?”
“No, sire, and certainly not for your majesty, who is at this moment, I beg pardon of the divinity, the most amiable earthly Amphytrion in the universe for my friend the Baron de Taverney and myself. I have no secrets, therefore, from my king. I give my whole soul up to him, for I do not wish it to be said that the king of France has not one servant who would tell him the entire truth.”
“Let us hear the truth, then, duke,” said the king, while Taverney, fearing that Richelieu might go too far, pinched up his lips and composed his countenance scrupulously after the king’s.
“Sire, in your dominions there are two powers which a minister must obey; the first is, your will; the second, that of your majesty’s most intimate friends. The first power is irresistible; none dare to rebel against it; the second is yet more sacred, for it imposes duties of the heart on whosoever serves you. It is termed “your confidence.” To obey it, a minister must have the most devoted regard for the favorite of the king.”
Louis XV. laughed.
“Duke,” said he, “that is a very good maxim, and one I am delighted to hear from your lips; but I dare you to proclaim it aloud by sound of trumpet upon the Pont Neuf.”
“Oh, I know, sire,” said Richelieu, “that the philosophers would be up in arms; but I do not think that their objurgations would matter much to your majesty or to me. The chief point is that the two preponderating influences in the kingdom be satisfied. Well! the will of a certain person — I will confess it openly to your majesty, even should my disgrace, that is my death, be the consequence — Madame Dubarry’s will I could not conform to.”
Louis was silent.
“It occurred to me the other day.” continued Richelieu, “to look around among your majesty’s court, and in truth I saw so many noble girls, so many women of dazzling beauty, that had I been king of France I should have found it almost impossible to choose.”
Louis turned to Taverney, who, seeing things take such a favorable turn for him, sat trembling with hope and fear, aiding the marshal’s eloquence with eyes and breath, as if he would waft forward the vessel loaded with his fortunes to a safe harbor.
“Come, baron, what is your opinion?” said the king.
“Sire,” replied Taverney, with swelling heart, “the duke, as it seems to me, has been discoursing most eloquently, and at the same time with profound discernment, to your majesty for the last few minutes.”
“Then you are of his opinion, in what he says of lovely girls?”
“In fact, sire, I think there are indeed very lovely girls at the French court.”
“Then you are of his opinion?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And, like him, you advise me to choose among the beauties of the court?”
“I would venture to confess that I am of the marshal’s opinion, if I dared to believe that it was also your majesty’s.”
There was a short silence, during which the king looked complaisantly at Taverney.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “no doubt I would follow your advice, if I were only thirty years of age. I should have a very natural predilection for it, but I find myself at present rather too old to be credulous.”
“Credulous I pray, sire, explain the meaning of the word.”
“To be credulous, my dear duke, means to believe. Now, nothing will make me believe certain things.”
“What are they?”
“That at my age it would be possible to inspire love.”
“Ah, sire,” exclaimed Richelieu, “until this moment I thought your majesty was the most polite gentleman in your dominions, but with deep regret I see that I have been mistaken.”
“How so?” asked the king, laughing.
“Because, in that case, I must be old as Methuselah, as I was born in ‘94. Remember, sire, I am sixteen years older than your majesty.”
This was an adroit piece of flattery on the duke’s part. Louis XV. had always admired this man’s age, who had outlived so many younger men in his service; for, having this example before him, he might hope to reach the same advanced period.
“Granted.” said Louis; “but I hope you no longer have the pretension to be loved for yourself, duke?”
“If I thought so, sire, I would instantly quarrel with two ladies who told me the contrary only this very morning.”
“Well! duke,” said Louis, “we shall see; M. de Taverney, we shall see! youth is certainly catching, that is very true.”
“Yes, yes, sire; and we must not forget that a powerful constitution like your majesty’s always gains and never loses.”
“Yet I remember,” said Louis, “that my predecessor, when he became old, thought not of such toys as woman’s love, but became exceedingly devout.”
“Come, come, sire!” said Richelieu; “your majesty knows my great respect for the deceased king, who twice sent me to the Bastille, but that ought not to prevent me from saying that there is a vast difference between the ripe age of Louis XV. and that of Louis XIV. Diable! your Most Christian Majesty, although honoring fully your title of eldest son of the Church, need not carry asceticism so far as to forget your humanity.”
“Faith, no!” said Louis. “I may confess it, since neither my doctor nor confessor is present.”
“Well, sire! the king, your grandfather, frequently astonished Madame de Maintenon, who was even older than he, by his excess of religious zeal and his innumerable penances. I repeat it, sire, can there be any comparison made between your two majesties?”
The king this evening was in a good humor. Richelieu’s words acted upon him like so many drops of water from the fountain of youth.
Richelieu thought the time had come; he touched Taverney’s knee with his.
“Sire,” said the latter, “will your majesty deign to accept my thanks for the magnificent present you have made my daughter?”
“You need not thank me for that, baron,” said the king. “Mademoiselle de Taverney pleased me by her modest and ingenuous grace. I wish my daughters had still their households to form; certainly, Mademoiselle Andree — that is her name, is it not — ?”
“Yes, sire,” said Taverney, delighted that the king knew his daughter’s Christian name.
“A very pretty name — certainly Mademoiselle Andree should have been the first upon the list; but every post in my house is filled up. In the meantime, baron, you may reckon upon my protection for your daughter. I think I have heard she has not a rich dowry?”
“Alas! no, sire.”
“Well, I will make her marriage my especial care.”
Taverney bowed to the ground.
“Then your majesty must be good enough,” said he, “to select a husband; for I confess that, in our confined circumstances — our almost poverty—”
“Yes, yes; rest easy on that point,” said Louis; “but she seems very young — there is no haste.”
“The less, sire, that I am aware your majesty dislikes marriage.”
“Ha!” said Louis, rubbing his hands and looking at Richelieu. “Well! at all events, M. de Taverney, command me whenever you are at all embarrassed.”
Then, rising, the king beckoned the duke, who approached.
“Was the little one satisfied?” asked he.
“With what?”
“With the casket.”
“Your majesty must excuse my speaking low, but the father is listening, and he must not overhear what I have to tell you.”
“Bah!”
“No, I assure you, sire.”
“Well, speak!”
“Sire, the little one has indeed a horror of marriage; but of one thing I am certain — viz., that she has not a horror of your majesty.”
Uttering these words in a tone of familiarity which pleased the king from its very frankness, the marshal, with his little pattering steps, hastened to rejoin Taverney, who, from respect, had moved away to the doorway of the gallery.
Both retired by the gardens. It was a lovely evening. Two servants walked before them, holding torches in one hand, and with the other pulling aside the branches of the flowering shrubs. The windows of Trianon were blazing with light, and, flitting across them, could be discerned a crowd of joyous figures, the honored guests of the dauphiness.
His majesty’s band gave life and animation to the minuet, for dancing had commenced after supper, and was still kept up with undiminished spirit.
Concealed in a dense thicket of lilac and snowball shrubs, Gilbert, kneeling upon the ground, was gazing at the movements of the shadows through the transparent curtains. A thunderbolt cleaving the earth at Ins feet would scarcely have distracted the attention of the gazer, so much was he entranced by the lovely forms he was following with his eyes through all the mazes of the dance. Nevertheless, when Richelieu and Taverney passed, and brushed against the thicket in which this night-bird was concealed, the sound of their voices, and, above all, a certain word, made Gilbert raise his head; for this word was an all-important one for him.
The marshal, leaning upon his friend’s arm, and bending down to his ear, was saying:
“Everything well-weighed and considered, baron — it is a hard thing to tell you — but, you must at once send your daughter to a convent.”
“Why so?” asked the baron.
“Because I would wager,” replied the marshal, “that the king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Taverney.”
At these words Gilbert started and turned paler than the flaky snow-berries which, at his abrupt movement, showered down upon his head and shoulders.