It was a dreary autumnal evening, sixteen months after the events of the last chapter, and the twilight was fast coming upon a vast forest in the province of l’Ile de France, now known as the department of the Oise. The afternoon had been chill and depressing. The wind moaned through the high branches of the trees in a dismal and monotonous wailing, and the constant rustling of the leaves as they fell to the ground showed that the season was far advanced. There were few of the wild flowers left. Two or three, here and there, in sheltered nooks, were all that remained to remind one of the past summer. The delicate heath-bell trembled in the cold breeze, as it rose amidst the dead foliage; but there were few beside. The birds were silent; the tinkling of the cattle-bells on the patches of pasture-land was hushed, as the animals huddled together, shrinking from the first approach of cold; and no sound was heard to disturb the general torpidity into which nature seemed about to fall, except the echoing noise from the blows of the axe with which the peasants were cutting down the limbs of the trees for the winter store of firewood.
Yet was the Forêt de l’Aigue a pleasant place in summer, when the sunlight danced upon the turf of its long avenues, darting through the quivering foliage, and the ground was powdered with the bright petals of its flowers, from the primroses spangling its sunny banks, to the gentle violets clustering about the mossy bolls of the fantastic trees, adding their odour to the scent-laden air that swept so warmly through the branches. And during this season alone, it might have been conceived that the chateaux, which were built widely apart upon the forest, were inhabited; for the situation was indeed desolate at other times. But although the autumn was, as we have observed, far advanced, one of the largest of these country houses that a man could come to in a long day’s walk, had not yet been forsaken for the winter by its occupants. This was a large rambling building, with many windows and turrets, surrounded by a neglected garden, with a few mutilated stone statues, corroded by the rain of many winters, and enclosed by a rude flint wall, with a broken coping. The walks were overgrown with weeds; the ponds were either dry or covered with slime and dead leaves; and water had long ceased to come from the mouths of the misshapen dolphins that formed the fountains. It was of a class of rural buildings which, in France, always appear desolate and uncared for; but this one was especially so.
In one of the large apartments of this house, a bare, uncarpeted room, which the blazing pile of firewood upon the iron ‘dogs’ of the large hearth could not render cheerful, were two persons—an elderly man and a young female. The former was seated at an escritoire, arranging a vast mass of papers bearing official seals and signatures that lay before him. His companion was plunged in a large fauteuil at the side of the fireplace, with her hands pressed against her face, as if to shut out all impressions but her own thoughts. She might have been supposed asleep, but for an occasional rapid shudder which passed through her frame, induced by the vivid recollection of some bygone scene of suffering. These two persons were M. d’Aubray, the lieutenant-civil, and his daughter, the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.
‘The wind is blowing sharply to-night, Marie,’ said the old man, as a gust of unusual violence howled round the chateau, and shook the rattling casements. ‘We must think about returning to Paris.’
‘I have no wish to go, mon père,’ replied his daughter,—‘to be pointed at as an object of pity, scorn, or curiosity. I would sooner remain here with you—for ever.’
She left the fire, and sinking on a low prie-dieu at her father’s side, took his hand in her own, and looked up in his face with a gaze of deep attachment.
‘You have nothing to fear in Paris,’ replied M. d’Aubray. ‘The court has had a thousand objects for its slander since you left; and you have been at Offemont long enough for the whole affair to be forgotten. Besides, you will return acknowledged by me, and with my countenance.’
‘Will the world believe that it is so, Monsieur?’
‘If I maintain it, they will, Marie. The dissolute life your husband is now leading at Paris—his desperate play—the orgies nightly held at his hôtel, which, if report be true, eclipse all others of the present reign in debauchery, tend to prove that there was also deep blame attached to him. The repentance—sincere, as I hope and trust it is—of more than a year should disarm all future persecution.’
‘Antoine has been very cruel to me,’ continued the daughter. ‘I should like to see my children; they must be much grown and altered. It has appeared so long a time since they were taken away.’
Her voice faltered as she spoke. She covered her face with her handkerchief, and for a few seconds remained silent, as if weeping. There was not a finer actress on the stage than Marie d’Aubray.
‘Time will effect much, Marie,’ said her father, as he fondly passed his hand over her white shoulder, and drew her towards him. ‘Your husband’s anger will be less bitter against you; be satisfied at present in knowing that your children are well and happy.’
‘And I am forgotten,’ added the Marchioness sadly.
‘I need not say,’ continued M. d’Aubray, ‘that the greatest caution in your behaviour will be necessary on your return. The cause of all this misery, M. Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, has been liberated from the Bastille, and is once more free, at Paris. You must never speak to, or recognise him again.’
‘You shall be obeyed, Monsieur: too willingly,’ replied Marie.
‘Bien—you understand me,’ said M. d’Aubray. ‘I have to rise early to-morrow, and shall retire. When I ring, let Gervais bring up my supper to my room. I have still some writings to arrange.’
‘I will see to it, mon père,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘I shall remain up some time longer. I cannot sleep if I go to rest thus early, and those long watchful nights are so terrible.’
She knelt upon the prie-dieu as her father kissed her fair forehead, and then retired.
As soon as he had gone, and the sound of his departing footsteps was no longer audible, Marie took the heavy candelabrum which was on the table, and drawing aside a curtain of rustling and faded serge, placed the light in the window. Then, watching the sulky beat of a faded pendule, rich in shepherds and shepherdesses of blackened gilding that was on a slab opposite the hearth, she remained lost in thought, starting, however, at the least noise without, although but the clatter of a falling leaf against the window.
An hour wore away. And then she became restless, pacing the room with impatience, and constantly walking towards the window, in the vain endeavour to penetrate the gloom without, unenlivened by the presence of even a single star. Yet suspense was not the only feeling expressed by her countenance. Her eyes sparkled, a breathing glow of warmth and excitement flushed her face, and a slight tremor pervaded her whole frame, extending also to her very respiration. Suddenly these emotions ceased. A footstep was plainly heard without upon the terrace of the parterre: it came nearer, and then there was a light tap against the window. She rose slowly, and opened the casement: in another moment Gaudin de Sainte-Croix entered the apartment.
There was no spring—no eager rush into each other’s arms. Despite the intense passion which had the instant previous filled her silence and her thoughts, she now remained fixed, and mute as the grave. Neither did Gaudin speak a word, as he found himself before his mistress for the first time since his long and dreary immurement. But the looks on either side were those which wrapped each other in passion; and by degrees, yet still in silence and trembling, a hand or foot stole forward, until the two forms which contained those attached, but sinful souls, met in one long and clinging embrace.
‘Gaudin! my adored one!’ exclaimed Marie. But the concluding accents were hushed by the lips of her lover.
At length they broke from their waking dream with the start and unwelcome sense of reality that follows slumber. And then a sigh rose to Marie’s lips far different from the acted sorrow and penitence of the last hour. Passion stamped sincerity and truth upon it.
‘And can you mix grief, Marie, with the rapture of this moment?’ asked Sainte-Croix in tones of deprecation.
‘Gaudin!’ replied the Marchioness; ‘this must be henceforth the only manner in which we can meet—this stealthy, miserable game at hide-and-seek, the only way in which I can show my love, or repay you for your suffering.’
The habitual distrust of Sainte-Croix’s mind led him to turn one searching look upon Marie’s face. But all there was real and confiding. All natures have their minutes of truth, however drilled they may be into daily lying. He was satisfied.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Do you remain here for ever?’
‘No, Gaudin,’ answered the Marchioness; ‘but my father requires, as the price of his protection and countenance, that I should cease to know you.’
The face of Sainte-Croix contracted so suddenly and fiercely that Marie started.
‘What is it that frightens you?’ he asked suddenly.
She hesitated a moment, and then she answered slowly and somewhat sadly—
‘Nothing.’
‘And yet there should—’ retorted Gaudin; but he paused as abruptly as he had begun the sentence. ‘Have I not,’ he added in a gentler and more tranquil tone—‘have I not suffered enough yet to buy your devotion?’
There was ‘Bastille’ in his look. The wily woman was overcome by the wilier man of the world, as though she had been a girl. She clung to him, and pillowed her cheek on his bosom.
‘I will leave you, if it be your wish,’ said Sainte-Croix, as he put her arms away. ‘One word of yours, and I leave you never to return, until—’ and he paused slowly on the words, and uttered them bitterly and deliberately—‘until his death!’
Again she started; but Gaudin noticed it not, or was determined not to notice it.
‘Shall we part?’ he continued, and this time passion gave eloquence to the few words—‘for ever? And yet, if what you have told me of M. d’Aubray’s determination be true, it must be so.’
‘Never! never!’ cried Marie sobbing, as her clasp grew closer and closer round his neck. Had it been possible for Exili’s soul to have been then and there present, how it would have exulted in the assurance of its second victim!
‘Nay, this is weak, Marie. Let us bear the yoke which the world imposes with something like courage,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix, with a malignant expression strangely at variance with the silken accents of his tongue.
‘You may, Gaudin, if you choose,’ said the Marchioness, ‘but I cannot.’ And the tears were dried in her eyes as she spoke, as if by the fire that blazed in them. ‘If it tramples upon me, I turn: if it spurns me, I return loathing for loathing.’
‘And what good will that do you?’ asked Sainte-Croix, as a sneer came to his lips, but vanished almost in its birth. Step by step he was leading her on to his purpose. ‘See here,’ he continued, as he took a packet from his cloak; ‘sixteen months ago I explained to you the power of this paper’s contents; had you been then guided by me, you could have averted my long and dreary imprisonment.’
‘Gaudin!’
‘You have deceived me, Marie. I imagined—fool—idiot that I was!—that I was more to you than aught beside in the world; I now see how we stand towards each other. Farewell!’ he added, with studied unconcern; ‘Paris is wide, and its beauties at present require but little courting. I release you from all ties—our liaison is over.’
He advanced towards the window as he spoke. The Marchioness started forward, and caught him by the arm, exclaiming—
‘Oh! this is cruel, Sainte-Croix! Stop—but an instant. We have arrived at the brink of a fearful precipice—a dark gulf is yawning at our feet, whose depth we may not penetrate. We are doomed to fall into it, but it shall be together. Give me the packet.’
Sainte-Croix placed it in her fevered hand as she spoke. And then for some seconds not a word passed between them, and each remained gazing at the other as if they would have looked through each other’s eyes to discover what dark passions were rising in their minds.
‘Hark!’ exclaimed the Marchioness, first breaking the silence in a low hurried voice. ‘The servant is coming. You must leave me, Gaudin. Leave all to me,—in a few days we shall be once more in Paris.’
There was a hurried but intense embrace, as though their two souls sought to merge into one form, and Gaudin left the apartment in the same manner that he had entered it. The Marchioness retired from the window, pale, and tottering in her step, and had scarcely gained her seat by the fire when Gervais, her father’s attendant, entered the apartment.
‘M. d’Aubray has rung for his wine, madame,’ said the man. ‘You have the tankard in the chiffonier.’
‘I will give it to him myself, Gervais,’ replied the Marchioness, with an assumption of indifference that was almost spasmodic. ‘You can go to bed. Nothing more will be wanted.’
‘I have told Michel to watch the terrain to-night, madame,’ continued the man. ‘He noticed some one prowling round the walls just as it was getting dusk.’
‘There is no occasion for that,’ replied Marie. ‘There is nothing out of doors worth their stealing, and very little within. Good-night.’
The retainer departed; and the Marchioness took the jug which the man had brought in, and poured it into an old cup of thin silver, embossed with figures, which might have been the
work of Benvenuto Cellini, that stood on the chiffonier. And then, with a hurried glance round the room, she broke the seals of the packet Sainte-Croix had left in her hand, and shook a few grains of its contents into the beverage. No change was visible; a few bubbles rose and broke upon the surface, but this was all.
Taking the tankard with her, she left the large room and went to her father’s chamber. M. d’Aubray had retired to rest, and it was evident that sleep had just surprised him, as the lamp was still burning at the side of his bed, and a deed was in his hand that he had been reading. The Marchioness gazed at it for a few seconds with fixed regards. The traces of the late conflict with her feelings had departed, and her face had assumed once more that terrible and unfathomable expression which has been before alluded to, although a close observer might have seen the pupils of her eyes dilated, and a strange light coruscating in them.
She touched her father lightly, and he awoke with the exclamation of surprise attendant upon being suddenly disturbed from sleep.
‘Is it you, Marie?’ he asked. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I have brought your wine, mon père,’ she replied. ‘The servants were up early this morning at work, and are tired. I have sent them to rest.’
‘Thanks—thanks, my good girl,’ said the old man, as he raised himself up in bed, and took the cup from the Marchioness.
‘We want no taster,’ he continued, ‘to bear the attacks of hidden poison, with such a Hebe as yourself, Marie; and my old blood cannot spare a drop of this vitalising draught.’
A convulsive exclamation broke from the lips of the Marchioness, but it was not observed by her father. He drank off the contents of the cup, and then, once more bestowing a benediction upon his daughter, turned again to his pillow.
Any one whom business or leisure had taken into the abode of Maître Picard one fine morning, a short time after his affair with the students, would have found the little chapelier in a wondrous state of flurry and importance; whilst his best costume was so covered with knots of ribbons and floating streamers, fixed to every available part, that he was a perfect marvel to look at as he paraded about his shop, and attracted a crowd of gamins to peep at him through the wares in the window. In fact, for once Maître Picard had completely eclipsed the glory of the large red tin hat, with the bright pendants that hung over his door, and had whilom formed the object of the students’ attack.
But Maître Picard was not the only person in the establishment thus finely arrayed, for his Gascon lodger, Jean Blacquart, appeared in a military costume of great effect, albeit it had been evidently made for one of larger proportions, and the long rapier pertaining to it somewhat interfered with the free progress of the wearer. But when the weapon got between his legs, and threatened to trip him up, Jean kicked it on one side with great disdain, and strode up and down the shop, with the blade clanking at his heels, as though he had just thrust it through the bodies of a score of stalwart antagonists, and was waiting to see who would be bold enough to come forward next.
The gossips of the Rue de la Harpe and Rue des Mathurins were well aware of the cause of this unwonted excitement. There were portières in those days as at present; and they were just as garrulous. The old woman who kept the gate of the Hôtel de Cluny had heard the news from Maître Picard’s housekeeper; and it was soon known in the Quartier Latin that the Garde Bourgeois of that division were to have the honour of waiting upon their monarch at Versailles that evening, where a fete was to be given upon an unusual scale of splendour; a large part of the gardens being covered in and richly decorated, to accommodate the number of guests that it was expected would not find room in the palace;11 for the building as it then stood was comparatively small, being little more than the chateau built by the preceding monarch as his hunting-lodge, upon the site of the windmill purchased from Jean de Soissy.
Maître Picard had borrowed a horse from a neighbour—a heavy Flemish animal, as plump as the bourgeois himself, which went its own pace, and would be put into no other. He would have hired a voiture de place to go in state; but in the first place, the hire was somewhat beyond his means, and secondly, he thought a horse more warlike than sitting all the way to jolt upon a haquet or patache—his ordinary species of carriage; so he determined to ride: and Blacquart was to be seated upon the pillion,—rather against his will, but a manner he still preferred to getting there as he could; for he had adopted his martial costume on purpose to creep into the palace under the wing of Maître Picard, and fell readily into whatever plans the bourgeois proposed.
They mounted amidst the cheers and admiration of the whole neighbourhood. But scarcely had they settled on their respective divisions of the horse’s back, when Blacquart, drawing himself up to look imposing, overbalanced himself, and, together with Maître Picard, was shot over upon the ground. The girths had evidently been undone by one of the wicked students of the Sorbonne, who was standing near.
At length this was set right again, their pride preventing either of them from owning to be hurt, and they started on their progress, descending the Rue de la Harpe with great effect, and crossing the river by the Pont St. Michel. Maître Picard assumed a grave and steady bearing, becoming his dignity; but Jean Blacquart put on the airs of a gallant, winking at the windows when any pretty face appeared, or singing songs of chivalry and love in accordance with his dress.
It took a long time for Maître Picard and his companion to traverse the four leagues between Paris and Versailles. The road was filled with acquaintances journeying in the same direction; and with these the bourgeois would stop at almost every hostelry for a friendly cup, and sometimes two, in which the Gascon joined him, so that it was well-nigh evening when they came to the end of the Avenue de Paris, at the gates of the semicircular outer court which then formed the entrance to the chateau. There was great confusion and noise in the court. Numbers of heavy carriages, of the quaint fashion of the age, drawn by four, six, and even eight horses, nearly filled the area, besides soldiers, country people, and lackeys of the different guests. A richly-ornamented voiture, drawn by four cream-coloured steeds, preceded them up to the palace door, whither Maître Picard insisted on proceeding mounted, although Blacquart had descended from his pillion, thinking such a position somewhat derogatory for a man of chivalric demeanour.
The people were running at the side of the carriage and peeping into it. Maître Picard resolved to exert his authority to procure a better view for himself; so, rolling in some strange fashion from his horse, which he gave over to the care of a bystander, he put the crowd back, and cleared a way to the doors. Four females descended. The two first were elegantly dressed; the third wore a fancy costume, which had possibly attracted the attention of the mob; and the last was attired as a superior attendant. But all were handsome enough to draw the regards of the people towards them. As the first of these dames passed, Maître Picard made a low bow, and then drew himself up, and ruffled his plumes like a peacock.
‘Who is that?’ asked Jean Blacquart, who had come up to the Cour de Marbre, and was blustering his way through the crowd.
‘An excellent lady,’ replied Maître Picard aloud, ‘and my good friend. It is Madame Scarron, the widow of the author who wrote the Écolier de Salamanque. He was not a handsome man—Mass! lame, crooked, and paralytic; but he drew all the world to the theatre in the Rue de la Poterie.’
A brilliantly dressed woman followed her, and the crowd expressed their admiration as she rustled past them.
‘Stand back, fellow!’ said Maître Picard, bustling. ‘Room for Madame la Marquise de Brinvilliers! Make way there!’
The Marchioness smiled and passed on; Jean Blacquart thought her regards were directed to himself, as he cocked his hat, and stretched forward his leg in an attitude.
‘Poor lady!’ continued Maître Picard aloud, for the crowd to hear him. ‘I know her well: she is separated from her husband on account of his debaucheries.—Ah! Mademoiselle Marotte Dupré!—permit me to free your dress from the step.’
The beautiful actress passed on smiling, but without noticing the fussy little bourgeois, who perceiving that the next inmate of the carriage, although equally handsome, was but an attendant, fell back amongst the crowd.
It was indeed a strange quartette that left the carriage, although no one of them knew the position in which she stood towards another. Marie had returned to Paris, in consequence, as it was asserted, of the sudden and fearful indisposition of M. d’Aubray; who had, however, insisted on his daughter accepting the invitation to Versailles, were it only to establish her entree into society. In such a position it was not desirous that she should go alone; and Madame Scarron, who was daily finding fresh favour in the eyes of the King, was selected as a species of chaperone. Marotte Dupré, who was to appear in the mask, and for whom Scarron had written some of his best roles, was offered a seat in the voiture. And the fourth was madame’s companion, who had lived with her for more than the twelvemonth—the gentle Louise Gauthier.
The carriages and caleches of every kind kept bringing up the company. Many were masked—many came on foot, but nearly all were accompanied by torch-bearers; and when the Cour Royale became filled with these last, the effect was most beautiful. And as dusk came on, thousands of lights burst forth in every direction. Every window was illuminated as well as the gallery which connected the wings; and in the gardens long rows of lamps surrounded the basins and fountains, or quivered, by reflection, in the water of the canal, then lately finished by Le Notre. Despite the advanced season, the grounds were thronged with the guests; temporary pavilions for jousting and dancing had been built up in the various alleys, and more especially in the Allée du Roi, where a large theatre had been erected; and in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, over which a vast tarpaulin had been stretched at a great height, enclosing even the trees—which, from their sheltered position, still retained a great deal of their autumnal foliage—columns of spouting water rose like crystal pillars round the amphitheatre, with brilliant lights so artfully contrived, that they appeared to be burning in the middle of the fountains; and others, in coloured shades, sparkled amongst the foliage as if they had been the enchanted fruit of Aladdin’s garden, or twinkled upon the turf like glow-worms, until they were lost in the distance of the avenues. The very climate appeared to be subservient to the will of the luxurious monarch, for, although without the autumn was fast falling, yet in the park and gardens traces of the summer still lingered.
Maître Picard was everywhere, elbowing amongst the throng, followed by Jean Blacquart, who assumed the airs of a person high in command, and gave orders in a loud tone, whenever he fancied any of the ladies were looking at him. Of course they were never obeyed; but he conceived the effect was the same. At length, finding the company turning towards the theatre, the bourgeois took his post near one of the entrances, and Jean stationed himself where he thought he might best attract attention.
The King and his suite had not arrived; and those who had already assembled were talking loudly, in which conversation Maître Picard also joined.
‘L’Impromptu de Versailles, and La Princesse d’Elide. Ah! I know them well,’ he exclaimed, as some of the audience by him mentioned the names of the pieces to be represented that evening. ‘But they are nothing to those which have gone by. Think of Peleus and Thetis.’
‘You saw Peleus and Thetis?’ asked Jean loudly, in the manner of people anxious to draw out an acquaintance before company.
‘Did I see Peleus and Thetis?’ replied the chapelier. ‘Mass! I supplied the hats. They were shown at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon. Think of the figures being arranged by Bouty—the rhyme by Benserade, the scenes by Torelli, and the hats by me, Maître Picard, of the Rue des Mathurins!’
‘It is twelve years back, bourgeois,’ said a bystander. ‘The King was a mere boy.’
‘And played himself in five dresses,’ replied Maître Picard, ‘representing Apollo, Mars, a fury, a dryade, and a courtier. He wore my hats thrice in the ballet.’
‘He had more attractions than the applause of the audience to make him play, so it was said,’ continued the other.
‘He was desperately enamoured of the Cardinal’s niece, Mademoiselle Mancini,’ said Maître Picard; ‘but she also wore one of my perukes as the Goddess of Music. The Cardinal brought two from Rome.’
‘Hats, bourgeois!’
‘Mass! no—nieces. There was no need to go to Rome for hats whilst I was in Paris.’
And Maître Picard evidently felt insulted, and contemplated saying something sharp; but just at this moment further conversation was arrested by a sudden buzz of voices, and that undefined movement which guides a crowd to one point of attraction. ‘The King! the King!’ passed rapidly from mouth to mouth; and the next instant Louis XIV. advanced through an irregular line of spectators, respectfully uncovered.
It was a brilliant cortege. In the prime of his age, his noble figure set off by the gorgeous costume of the day, and his keen, intelligent features tempered by that look of high command which, seemed native to him, so well it sat upon his curved lip and lofty brow, Louis passed along, answering the salutations of the crowd with a slight, but courteous motion of his richly-plumed beaver, and pausing for an instant from time to time to address a whispered remark to Madame de Montespan, whose imperious beauty well entitled her to her place of honour on the King’s right hand. After them came the less distinguished suite of courtiers and court functionaries; and the mass of spectators, closing in behind them, crowded into the temporary theatre.
The auditory presented a brilliant coup d’œil of bright eyes and brighter diamonds, alive with brilliant costumes and waving plumes.
The King, with Madame de Montespan at his side, and those whose rank entitled them to the privilege, occupied the fauteuils in the front of the parterre, and the rest of the audience filled every inch of standing room.
Jean Blacquart was in ecstasies. His blood boiled in his veins; and he felt a noble for the night,—in fact, almost as great a personage as Louis himself. His next neighbour—a garrulous old abbe,—mistaking the Gascon, in his curious military garb, for some distinguished visitor, took apparent pleasure in pointing out to him the notables present.
‘You see that gay gentleman,’ he said, ‘who is leaning over his Majesty’s chair, and whispering something to Mademoiselle de Montpensier?’
‘It has brought the colour into her cheek through her rouge,’ said Blacquart. ‘I wonder what he was saying: I could perhaps produce a great effect with it.’
‘That’s the Marquis de Lauzun,’ continued the abbe. ‘He’s in favour just now. Ma foi! he divides his time between the court and the Bastille pretty equally. If all tales be true, La Grande Mademoiselle would not be sorry to grace him with another title than that of Marquis.’
‘And who is that pretty woman next to her?’ asked Jean. ‘I saw her arrive, but could not hear her name.’
‘Ah! pretty you may say. There is more wit lying under that calm gray eye than in De Montespan’s sparkling black one. That is Scarron’s widow. Madame de Maintenon they call her now. She will make her way.’
‘And talking to her—’
‘De Beringhen—an honest man, they tell me, and a sincere friend of the King; more’s the miracle! And that’s De Beauvillers, first gentleman of the King’s bedchamber. How tired he looks!’
‘There are two quietly-dressed men in the fourth row,’ said Jean, indicating the direction. ‘They are not gay; they look like a couple of crows in an aviary of bright-winged birds.’
‘They are Racine and Boileau,’ said the abbe; ‘Louis has great taste in literature. I have a little poem of my own, which I hope to be allowed to present to his Majesty. Bachelier, his garçon de garde-robe, is a cousin of mine. I wish I could read it to you: I think you would like it.’
Jean shrunk from the infliction; but luckily the curtain rose at this moment, and the Impromptu commenced. It was a satire on the courtiers who had ventured to criticise Molière’s last production, and on the rival company of actors—the tragedians of the Théâtre de Bourgogne. The King laughed heartily at the hits; and when the great author, Molière himself, delivered the ‘tag,’ which contained a well-turned compliment to the monarch, Louis rose from his chair, and bowed to the actor: a condescension which displeased Jean’s neighbour extremely.
‘To think,’ said the abbe, ‘of his paying such a mark of respect to a comedian—a vagabond whom the church has excommunicated! A bad example, monsieur—a bad example.’ And the abbe shook his head.
The comédie-ballet of the Princesse d’Elide followed; and Jean was obliged to vow that it was dull enough for a court performance, although compressed. He was a little relieved, however, by the appearance of Estelle des Urlis—the ‘Estelle’ whom Theria had left so unceremoniously when he fled to Liége, and who had returned to the profession from which he had taken her. She played Cynthie, cousin of the Princess; and her costume showed off her neat figure and pretty face to great advantage. Marotte Dupré, who enacted Aglante, her companion and friend, exchanged, as Jean observed, anything but friendly glances with Estelle, whenever the action of the piece brought them together.
‘Would you like to visit the coulisses!’ asked the abbe, when the curtain fell at the end of the second act. ‘I have the entree; we shall escape the crowd of the salle, and perhaps I may find time to read you my poem.’
Jean shuddered at the prospect; but his wish to display himself braved even this condition, and he replied—
‘With pleasure. I know some of the ladies of the company, and should be glad to exchange a few words with one of them.’
He winked significantly as he said so; wishing to impress the abbe with a notion that his acquaintance with the actresses was something very mysterious and improper.
Making their way with difficulty through the crowd, they left the auditory, and after some trouble found the entrée des artistes, or stage door.
The abbe procured instant admission; and Jean, who was all impatience to show off his martial dress to Estelle, took advantage of his companion’s seizing the button of Chapelle, the friend of Molière, and noted epicurean, to slip away to the foyer, where he found, not Estelle, as he had expected, for she was on the stage at the moment, but Marotte Dupré, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and flinging bright glances and bon mots amongst them with a prodigality that was rewarded by a constant accession to her circle.
Jean hovered about, in the vain endeavour to thrust his little body into the way of a stray compliment, but in vain, until the appearance of Mademoiselle Molière—as Amande de Béjart was called, though the wife of the great author-actor—drew away the greater number of Marotte’s court to the more potent one of the handsomest and most spirituelle coquette of the stage. Upon this, with true Gascon assurance, Jean seized the opportunity of commencing a fire of high-flown compliments to Marotte, who, nothing loath, added fuel to the fire by her answers. In fact, he quite forgot Estelle, and was becoming helpless in the toils of her lively rival, when he was suddenly recalled to his responsibilities by a terrific box on the ear. He turned, and, to his intense terror, beheld Mademoiselle des Urlis, who had watched his flirtation until her woman’s jealousy could bear it no longer. Tiresome as Blacquart’s admiration was to herself, she could not see it transferred to Marotte, who, from her first appearance in Molière’s comedy, seemed to have taken a malicious pleasure in rivalling poor Estelle alike on the stage and the coulisses.
‘Trou de Diou! that you were a man, mademoiselle!’ cried the Gascon, as red as a turkey-cock, and fumbling at his sword-hilt.
‘Mademoiselle des Urlis is labouring under a misconception,’ said Marotte, with provoking coolness. ‘She mistakes the green room for the Halles,12 and monsieur for an old admirer. It is a souvenir she presents to you, monsieur,’ she added, turning to the indignant Jean.
‘Fourbe!’ exclaimed Estelle. ‘Do not imagine I shall submit to your impertinence as I have done.’
‘Impertinence! Take care, mademoiselle,’ was Marotte’s rejoinder.
‘Tiens!’ rapidly retorted Estelle. ‘Voilà pour toi!’
And she slapped Marotte’s face, so that the room rang with the blow. Fortunately the crowd was gathered round La Molière, and did not heed what was passing at the opposite end of the apartment.
‘A blow!’ cried Marotte, springing forward; ‘this must be accounted for.’ And whilst Jean gazed open-mouthed and utterly bewildered, she walked up to Estelle, and in a half whisper said, ‘You can use a sword: unless you are a coward as well as a coquette meet me, when the comedy is over, on the Tapis Vert, opposite the fountain of Latona. Bring a woman for your second.’
‘Soit,’ said Estelle; ‘I ask nothing better. This struggle must finish sooner or later.’
At this moment the ‘call-boy,’ putting his head into the room, shouted, with the shrill nasal twang peculiar to his class, ‘Ma’amselle Dupré—Ma’amselle des Urlis!’ and the rivals, obeying the summons, passed on to the stage arm-in-arm, radiant with ready smiles, and commenced a most friendly dialogue. Jean, who heard the challenge imperfectly, could hardly believe his ears. He was too averse to fighting himself to believe in the possibility of women resorting to this plan of adjusting a quarrel—which, strange as it may appear to modern minds, was by no means without a parallel in the days of Louis XIV. However, it is probable he would have taken some step to prevent such a consummation, had he not been seized upon by the persevering abbe, who, drawing him into a corner of the room, contrived to wedge him there with fauteuils whilst he read his new poem. Poor Jean groaned, and winced, and yawned, and sneezed, but in vain. On went the flow of the abbe’s rounded verse. He knew the value of a victim; and in the vernacular of the nineteenth century was determined to take it out of him. Meanwhile the play had terminated, and the guests who were admitted to the honour had sought the Bosquet de Bal, where the orchestra was vigorously giving out the newest minuets and gavottes, under the experienced leadership of Lulli.
The Tapis Vert—the scene of the actresses’ rendezvous—was a wide alley of smooth green turf, bordered by statues, fronting the terrace of the chateau, and the magnificent fountain of Latona. All the guests of the fete had been attracted towards the salle de danse, and the only sounds that mingled with the distant fanfare of the band were the sighing of the gusty autumn wind as it swept through the long avenues, whirling the reddening leaves to the ground, and the plashing of the numerous fountains.
There were two figures standing near one of the statues, and throwing their shadows athwart the moonlight: they were Marotte Dupré and Louise Gauthier, who, at the request of her friend, had accompanied her, without any knowledge of what was to take place. Marotte was in her stage dress, over which she wore a roquelaure.
‘But what is the purpose of this rendezvous, Marotte?’ asked Louise, as her friend uttered a hasty exclamation of impatience, and began pacing up and down before the statue.
‘You will learn that in a moment, Louise, if Estelle keep her appointment,’ replied Marotte.
‘Some one comes this way,’ cried Louise. ‘See—they are emerging from the shadow of the fountain.’
‘They are here at last—Dieu merci!’ exclaimed Marotte. And throwing off her cloak, she disclosed to the astonished eyes of her friend a pair of swords—not ‘stage’ swords, but good serviceable rapiers.
‘For the Virgin’s sake, Marotte,’ said Louise, ‘tell me what you are about to do with those weapons.’
‘Only a duel between Estelle and myself. Nay,’ she added, seeing Louise start, ‘it is not the first time I have handled a hilt.’
And after trying the quality of the blades by bending them until they almost formed a circle, she went through a series of passes and stockades that would have done honour to a fencing-master. Louise was almost too bewildered for speech, but with a woman’s instinct she threw her arms round Marotte, imploring her to abandon her purpose.
But by this time it was too late. Estelle had come up, accompanied by a second in the person of Mademoiselle Duparc, an actress in Molière’s company. The rivals bowed courteously to each other, and Estelle’s second with perfect gravity saluted Louise, who was going wildly from one to the other, mingling tears, prayers, threats, ridicule—but all in vain.
‘Is it à l’outrance?’ asked Mademoiselle Duparc.
‘A l’outrance!’ exclaimed Marotte and Estelle in a breath.
‘You shall not murder each other, then!’ shrieked Louise. ‘I will prevent it.’
And before they could hinder her, she was off at the top of her speed.
‘Quick! quick!’ cried Marotte, ‘or she will give the alarm, and we shall be interrupted.’ At the same moment she threw herself into position, and Estelle did the same.
The combatants were well matched; but Marotte was the cooler of the two. Had it been a stage fight, she could not have parried her rival’s thrusts, and riposted more dexterously. It would have been ludicrous, but for the serious purpose of the affair, could a male spectator have seen the two young women in their theatrical costumes, which allowed free motion to the limbs, advancing and retreating, thrusting and parrying, with the skill of practised duellists.
‘This for your cutting me out of Madelon!’ said Estelle, with a vigorous flanconnade.
‘That for spoiling my last scene in the ballet!’ retorted Marotte, with a thrust in tierce.
‘Be cool, Estelle!’ cried her second.
It was too late. Estelle had laid herself open by a furious lunge over Marotte’s guard. Unable to recover herself in time, she received her adversary’s point in the sword-arm, and falling on one knee, lowered her blade in token of submission.
‘This will teach you better manners another time, Mademoiselle des Urlis,’ said Marotte as she wiped her sword. ‘Ha! Louise has given the alarm, as I feared. Save yourself!’
She darted off through the trees which bordered the alley, as Louise, who had in vain sought Madame de Maintenon, came up, followed by some of the Garde Royale, and accompanied by the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, whom she had encountered passing along the terrace, on her way to the ball. They found poor Estelle faint and bleeding; whilst Mademoiselle Duparc was in vain trying to staunch the blood, which darted freely in jets from a wounded artery in her arm. With a severe reprimand, and a threat of the King’s displeasure, the Marchioness consigned Estelle to the guards, who raising her up, quietly turned towards the chateau, accompanied by her second and Louise.
They had scarcely departed, when, as she was about to turn on her way to the Bosquet de Bal by one of the cross avenues, a voice that thrilled her called, in a low tone, ‘Marie!’
A man advanced from the trees, and she directly saw that it was Sainte-Croix! His face looked ghastly in the moonbeams,
and his eyes gleamed with a light that conscience made demoniac in the eyes of the Marchioness.
‘You here!’ she exclaimed.
‘Where should I be but in the place of rejoicing just now?’ replied Gaudin through his set teeth, and with a sardonic smile. ‘I am this moment from Paris. We are free!’
‘My father?’ cried the Marchioness, as a terrible expression overspread her countenance.
‘He is dead,’ returned Sainte-Croix; ‘and—we are free!’
There was a pause, and they looked at each other for nearly a minute.
‘Come,’ at length said the Marchioness;—‘Come. To the ball!’
As the Marchioness and Sainte-Croix entered the covered room in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, it presented a most brilliant spectacle. The whole of the company had adjourned there from the theatre in the Allée du Roi, and many were now dancing on the almost polished turf of the circular parterre. Others were seated on the steps, also of turf, which surrounded the salle in the manner of an amphitheatre, except for about an eighth of its circumference, where several fountains of sparkling water shot up nearly to the roof, falling back again to tumble with an agreeable murmur over the steps, which here were of bright pebbles and shells, until they reached the basin beneath. The roof was of deep blue, strained tightly upon poles, which were high enough to overtop the tallest trees, and an artificial moon had been constructed in it with consummate skill; whilst stars of brilliant pieces of metal hung by short invisible threads from the ceiling, and as they caught the light on their different facets with the slightest vibration had the appearance of twinkling.
Jean Blacquart was there, as well as the abbe, who, having found him a listener to his poem, had never once left him since the victim was caught in the foyer of the theatre. The Gascon, of course, did not dance, being only admitted to the bosquet by virtue of his assumed office of guard, under the auspices of Maître Picard; but he talked so largely, and indulged in such remarkable rhodomontades as to whom he knew and what he had done, that the abbe set him down for some distinguished officer, and was more than ever determined to keep by his side.
Louis was not dancing. He was seated on a platform slightly elevated from the ground, at the edge of the fountain; and was dividing his attentions between Madame de Montespan, who was still at his side, on his right hand, and another lady on his left, who had now joined the royal party. She was very lovely, although a close observer might have perceived that she was slightly marked with the small-pox. Her skin was delicately fair, and her beautiful flaxen hair clustered in heavy ringlets, less showery than generally worn according to the fashion of the time, over her forehead and neck. Her eyes were blue, swimming in softened light, and her countenance was overspread by a regard so tender yet so full of modesty, that she gained at the same moment the love and esteem of all who gazed upon her; and yet, when the occasional lighting up of her features as the King addressed her, died away, they became pale and sad. Her smile was followed by a pensive expression, which accorded but ill with the festivity around her.
‘Ah, times are changing!’ said the abbe, as he gazed at her; ‘and that fair lady’s reign is nearly over. I question whether La Montespan, with all her witcheries, will love him half so well though.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Jean.
The abbe appeared slightly astonished at the ignorance of his new acquaintance, as he replied—
‘Who could it be but Louise de la Vallière? Ah! hers was a curious destiny. Picked out by Louis to cover his attention to his sister-in-law Henriette, she has supplanted her. But it does not seem likely that the liaison will last much longer. Montespan has his heart.’
As he spoke, Mademoiselle de la Vallière rose from her seat and crossed over to speak to Madame de Maintenon, who was sitting on the parapet of the basin that received the water from the fountain. She limped as she walked along, and Jean saw that she was lame.
‘She seldom dances,’ continued the garrulous abbe, ‘on account of her defect; and so she does not care always to be present at the balls. I can conceive the reason of her not being at the play.’
‘How was that?’ inquired the Gascon.
‘Because the King’s sentiments appear to be somewhat changed since our Molière was commanded to write the Princesse d’Elide. He was then madly in love with La Vallière, although at the time she resisted all his entreaties. What else could these lines mean?’
And Jean flinched as the abbe again commenced a piece of declamation, quoting from the piece in question in a monotonous tone of dulness suited to the subject—
The homage which is offer’d to a countenance refined
Is an honest indication of the beauty of the mind;
And scarcely possible it is, if love be not innate,
That a young prince should come to be or generous or great:
And this above all other regal qualities I love,
This sign alone the tenderness of royal hearts can prove!
To one like you, a bright and good career we may presage,
When once the soul is capable of loving, at your age.
Yes, this immortal passion, the most noble one of all,
An hundred goodly virtues training after it can call;
The most illustrious actions are engender’d by its fires,
And all the greatest heroes have experienced its desires.’13
Jean bowed respectfully at the termination of each line, as if he fully concurred in the sentiments it conveyed, but was very glad when it was over.
‘Ha! the music has ceased,’ said the abbe; ‘and there will be a masque, and some fireworks on the Bassin de Neptune, and the étang beyond. That will be also a trial for La Vallière. The last fetes at night were in her honour, and they are going to use the old machines newly decorated. It will be a renaissance of the Ile Enchantée.’
The company retired to the banks of turf which surrounded the Salle de Bal, Louis, and a few immediately attached to him only remained below, amongst whom were of course La Montespan and La Vallière. When the floor was cleared, a cavalcade of heralds, pages, and squires, all richly clad in armour, and dresses embroidered with thread of silver and of gold, marched into the bosquet, the music of Lulli’s band of twenty-four violins being exchanged for that of martial instruments. When they had taken their places, a large car, made to imitate the chariot of the Sun, was slowly moved into the ballroom by concealed means, conveying the Sun, surrounded by the four Ages of gold, silver, iron, and brass; the Seasons, the Hours, and other mythological characters. On arriving opposite the point where Louis was sitting, the colossal machine halted, and Spring addressed a complimentary oration to the King, involving also some flattering sentences for Madame de Montespan and Mademoiselle de la Vallière—but more especially for the former. When this had finished, the young person who had played the character of Spring descended from the car, and having offered some rare bouquets to Louis and his favourites, took her place amongst the company. She was the only performer in the masque who did this, being the lovely Françoise de Sévigné—the daughter of Madame de Sévigné—now about eighteen years of age. She had been requested, on account of her extreme beauty and propriety of expression to play the part,—since, in the fetes at Versailles, it was not usual for the dames de la cour to figure.
This portion of the masque having finished, the various mythological personages descended as well, but it was only to bring in a number of long tables, which they placed before the company on the lowest turf-benches of the amphitheatre. These they spread with cloth of gold, and thus gave the signal for another large piece of mechanism to enter, representing a mountain, on which were seated Pan and Diana. When it stopped, these deities opened various parts of it, and aided by the others, brought out an exquisite collation, which they placed upon the tables, the music playing all the time. At the first sight of the banquet, the abbe bustled off to find a place at the tables; and Jean Blacquart, not wishing to lose the caste which he imagined he had acquired, and knowing that he could not join the feasters, turned upon his heel into the gardens, to see if anywhere he could discover Maître Picard.
Few who had seen Marie de Brinvilliers, as she mingled in the dances which had been taking place before the appearance of the pageant, would have conceived that any other feelings but those of mirth and excitement amidst the glittering throng by which she was surrounded were paramount in her bosom. There was the same kind expression—so terrible in its quietude had her heart at that time been laid open—the same sweet features, almost girlish in their contour (for although she was now thirty years of age, she could well have passed for eighteen), which all admired so much. And when she smiled, the witchery that played around her rosy mouth, as her parted lips displayed that most beautiful set of teeth, whose dazzling whiteness had been the theme of more than one court epigram, captivated by its spell all who came within its magnetic influence. Of all that lovely throng of women who graced the court of Louis Quatorze—the bevy of fair dames, so many of whom swelled the conquests of that heartless, selfish, roué monarch—the Marchioness of Brinvilliers was the most fascinating. And this fair creature, who now, in the light of her peerless beauty, of which she seemed unconscious, moved gracefully in the dance—this fearful woman—had broken up a home; deserted her children at an age when a mother’s guidance was all they needed, with an unnatural indifference towards her offspring that one might have sought for in vain amidst the lowest animals; and adding parricide as a coup to her already dark career, was yet but on the verge of the terrible line she had marked out to be pursued. Woman, in her love and gentleness, in her ministering care and patient endurance, when all the holiest attributes of her sex exist in her character, approaches far nearer to the angel than her companion, man. Alas! it is equally true, that in the absence of these characteristics she sinks far deeper in approximating to the demon!
Gaudin de Sainte-Croix had studiously avoided Marie in the Salle de Bal. The reports which had crept about Paris rendered them both cautious, for the present, of their deportment, although they were about to set all restraint at defiance. Whilst she was dancing, he had walked out into the gardens of the palace, that the night air might come cold and refreshing upon his brow, fevered with the events of the last few hours. He had told her as he left where she would find him when the dance concluded; and he now sauntered towards the rendezvous in question.
There formerly existed in the gardens of Versailles, at the right angle of the central body of the palace, where the north wing now stands, a fountain and cavern of marvellous construction, called the Grotto of Thetis. The chapel at present occupies its site, built by Louis in 1699, when, under the influence of Madame de Maintenon, his pursuits changed from those of the most unbridled licentiousness to the extreme of devotion. The statues which it contained, with some fragments of its structure, may be seen at the present day by the visitor to Versailles, in the bosquet of the Bains d’Apollon. Three arcades, closed by iron doors of exquisite workmanship, formed the entrance to this grotto, on one of which a representation of the sun, gilt and highly polished, was so artfully contrived as to catch the rays of the real setting sun, and throw an almost magic light into the interior. All the artists that Louis XIV. had about him were employed in turn to ornament this delicious retreat. Perrault had designed the architecture, and Lebrun the figures, with the exception of the principal group, which was by Girardon, still existing, and represented Apollo attended by his nymphs, in the midst of the sheets of water flowing on all sides over rock-work of mother-of-pearl and coral.14
It was in this retreat, lighted by a few illustrated shades, which cast a subdued warm light upon the groups of statuary and plashing water, that Gaudin awaited the Marchioness. Nor was he long in expectation. Little time elapsed before Marie’s step was heard upon the terrace, and she entered the grotto. Gaudin took her hand and led her to a seat. There was still no trace of emotion from the late terrible intelligence: her hand was cool, and her step equal and unfaltering. On the other hand, Sainte-Croix was pale and agitated: he might have felt less than the Marchioness, but his outward demeanour was a clearer index to his feelings.
‘Why do you not speak, Gaudin?’ asked Marie, as her lover had remained some minutes in silence: ‘and you are pale as this cold marble! What has occurred?’
‘It is the ghastly light of the lamp,’ said Gaudin. ‘I am well—quite well—could I be otherwise when all has prospered?’
‘I will tell you what you are thinking of,’ returned the Marchioness, as she riveted her basilisk eyes upon Sainte-Croix: ‘I should be but a poor enchantress if I could not read your inmost thoughts. It is the reaction of your spirit, Gaudin. The cord has been stretched too tightly, and it has broken; you know that a fearful tie has now bound us to each other, and for the first time you feel that I am a clog upon your free actions.’
‘You are mistaken, Marie,’ replied Sainte-Croix with energy, although every word of the Marchioness thrilled through him. ‘I may call Heaven to witness—’
‘Heaven!’ exclaimed his companion, interrupting him, and clutching his arm with nervous force, as a sneer played over her beautiful lips,—‘do not invoke that power again, Gaudin: what have we to do with Heaven now? I put as little faith in your protestations made before it, as you do in its testimony to your truth. We are both without its pale,’ she added coldly.
‘What can I say, then, that you will trust me? Is there any oath I can take that will give my asseverations weight with you, Marie? How will you believe me?’
Gaudin half knelt before her as he spoke, and the large drops of agony stole over his brow. He saw that the Marchioness was trying her power over him, now that they had been so fearfully bound to each other,—that she was playing with his feelings, until they could be broken, and rendered servilely subservient to her will.
‘What oath will you have me take?’ he continued, as he threw the whole intensity of his soul into every word. ‘Marie!—answer me, I implore you,—if not from love, from pity at what I have undergone. If you will not think of me as I believed you did, look on me as an animal that was in pain and suffering from an evil you had caused. What means this fearful revulsion of your feelings?’
He grasped her hands whilst he spoke, until the Marchioness felt them as though they had been in a vice of hot iron. But she returned no answer. That fearful aggravation which woman can exert with such crushing power,—that frigid and apparently insensible demeanour, the colder in proportion as the heart she has drawn into her toils is anguished and convulsed, was driving Gaudin to distraction. ‘Marie!’ he again cried, ‘do you not believe in the love which I bear for you?’
‘It is not love, Sainte-Croix,’ at length she replied. ‘A liaison like ours has little love to nourish its continuance; passion and jealousy can be its only ties of endurance, and sooner or later it must end in misery. It is my turn now to say—let us part, for ever.’
‘Part!’ cried Gaudin rapidly—‘never! What fearful change has passed over your feelings? How can I assure you of my truth, Marie. Think on what I underwent for your sake in the gloomy cells of the Bastille. Look at me now—at your feet, so blindly, servilely in your power, that I could hate myself for such concession, had not my reason taken flight before your influence over me. Be satisfied with the crime—by committing which both our souls are lost—as a sufficient safeguard of our future attachment; if you will take no more human assurance. Believe in me, if not from truth, from mutual guilt, and reign my sole, adored one.’
Subdued by his overcharged feelings, his head fell upon the lap of the Marchioness as he uttered the foregoing words with wild and impassioned energy, and he burst into tears. It is a strange sight, that of a man weeping: and when Marie saw a man like Gaudin de Sainte-Croix thus overcome and at her feet, she was for the moment affected. But she returned no answer; and would have remained silent until her companion in guilt and passion again spoke, had not a sudden interruption diverted her attention. A short hurried moan, which, low as it was, teemed with anguish, sounding from the group of figures as though one of the statues had uttered it, caused her to start affrighted from the coral bank on which she was seated. Sainte-Croix also heard it even through his excitement, and started to his feet; whilst the Marchioness rushed immediately behind the statues to discover the cause. There was another cry of alarm, and she returned leading forth Louise Gauthier. The girl had sought a retreat from the glare and tumult of the crowd within the grotto, previous to Sainte-Croix’s arrival, and on his approach had retired behind the statues to conceal herself, imagining until he spoke that he was some lounger who had entered merely from curiosity, and would soon depart.
The calm expression on the features of the Marchioness for once gave way to a withering look of hate and jealousy. Gaudin started back as the words, ‘Louise Gauthier here!’ burst almost involuntarily from his lips; and then, paralysed by the sudden apparition of the trembling Languedocian, he remained silent.
The Marchioness was the first to speak.
‘So!’ she exclaimed, quivering with emotion, in a voice almost stifled by her anger; ‘this was the reason that you named the grotto for a rendezvous, and it appears I came too soon. There—take your latest conquest—the servant of Madame Scarron. She is yours—we meet no more.’
With a glance of contempt at Louise, she threw her arm away, and, impelling her towards Sainte-Croix, was about to leave the grotto, when Louise caught hold of her robe and tried to draw her back.
‘Stop, madame,’ she cried, ‘you are wrong. I was here by accident,—on my soul, and by our Lady, this is the truth.’
There was an earnestness of appeal in her voice that caused the Marchioness to stop. And perhaps her asseveration might have derived additional force from the manner in which she called that power which the others dared not look to, to witness her sincerity.
‘But you have met before,’ said Marie, after gazing at Louise for an instant with the strangest of expressions; ‘you know each other.’
‘It was long ago,’ replied Louise despondingly, as she looked at Sainte-Croix: ‘I would not have sought him; and yet, after what I have heard,—for not a syllable of your conversation has escaped me,—perhaps Providence sent me here to save him—to save you both.’
As she spoke she advanced towards Gaudin, and took his hand. There was no attempt on the part of the Marchioness to stop her. Her curiosity was singularly roused as she watched the progress of this strange interview.
‘Do not speak to me, Louise,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix, with averted face, and struggling with his feelings. ‘Leave me, I beseech you.’
‘I am going to leave you, Gaudin,’ she replied; ‘and I shall never trouble you more. I did not willingly intrude upon you now, for I knew that all had long since passed away between us—even the recollection of what once was. I am sorry that we have met.’
‘You have my thanks for this interposition, girl,’ said the Marchioness; ‘for my eyes have been opened through it. Monsieur de Sainte-Croix,’ she added coldly to Gaudin, ‘there is little confidence, it appears, between us. I should be sorry to come in upon an old attachment. This lady can still be yours.’
‘Heed her not, Marie,’ cried Sainte-Croix, after a powerful effort to master his feelings. ‘I had no other motive in concealing this from you than the wish to spare you. Believe in me still. This has been madness—infatuation—call it what name you will, but you are the only one I ever loved.’
And he advanced towards the Marchioness; whilst Louise, pale as death, gasped forth hurriedly—
‘This is indeed cruel; but even now you have yet to learn what woman can put up with from affection. You know your secrets are in my possession.’
‘You threaten us!’ said Marie furiously.
‘Far from it,’ replied the other; ‘I would save rather than destroy you. Gaudin! I am ignorant what fearful influence has spellbound your better feelings; but I know that such is not your nature. Have I the slightest power—discarded, heart-broken as I am—that can snatch you from these fearful toils?’
‘Our absence will be remarked,’ observed the Marchioness coldly to Sainte-Croix; ‘let us rejoin the court.’
‘Hear me,’ cried Louise, seizing Gaudin’s hand, ‘for the last time perhaps on earth—hear me, Gaudin. By the recollection of what we once were to each other, although you scorn me now, and the shadowy remembrance of old times, before these terrible circumstances, whatever they may be, had thus turned your heart from me, and from your God. There is still time to make amends for all that has occurred. I do not speak for myself, for all those feelings have passed; but for you alone. Repent, and be happy,—for happy now you are not.’