PETTICOAT RULE

BY
BARONESS ORCZY

AUTHOR OF "THE ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL," "I WILL REPAY," "THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL," ETC.

HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1909,
By Baroness Orczy

Copyright, 1910,
By George H. Doran Company

TO
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON
THE KIND FRIEND WHOSE APPRECIATION HAS CHEERED ME, THE
IDEALIST WHOSE WORK HAS GUIDED ME, THE BRILLIANT
INTELLECT WHOSE PRAISE HAS ENCOURAGED ME
This Book is Dedicated
IN TOKEN OF ADMIRATION, REGARD, AND FRIENDSHIP

EMMUSKA ORCZY

CONTENTS

PART I
THE GIRL

PETTICOAT RULE
CHAPTER I
A FAREWELL BANQUET

"D'Aumont!"

"Eh? d'Aumont!"

The voice, that of a man still in the prime of life, but already raucous in its tone, thickened through constant mirthless laughter, rendered querulous too from long vigils kept at the shrine of pleasure, rose above the incessant babel of women's chatter, the din of silver, china and glasses passing to and fro.

"Your commands, sire?"

M. le Duc d'Aumont, Marshal of France, prime and sole responsible Minister of Louis the Well-beloved, leant slightly forward, with elbows resting on the table, and delicate hands, with fingers interlaced, white and carefully tended as those of a pretty woman, supporting his round and somewhat fleshy chin.

A handsome man M. le Duc, still on the right side of fifty, courtly and pleasant-mannered to all. Has not Boucher immortalized the good-natured, rather weak face, with that perpetual smile of unruffled amiability forever lurking round the corners of the full-lipped mouth?

"Your commands, sire?"

His eyes—gray and prominent—roamed with a rapid movement of enquiry from the face of the king to that of a young man with fair, curly hair, worn free from powder, and eyes restless and blue, which stared moodily into a goblet full of wine.

There was a momentary silence in the vast and magnificent dining hall, that sudden hush which—so the superstitious aver—descends three times on every assembly, however gay, however brilliant or thoughtless: the hush which to the imaginative mind suggests the flutter of unseen wings.

Then the silence was broken by loud laughter from the King.

"They are mad, these English, my friend! What?" said Louis the Well-beloved with a knowing wink directed at the fair-haired young man who sat not far from him.

"Mad, indeed, sire?" replied the Duke. "But surely not more conspicuously so to-night than at any other time?"

"Of a truth, a hundred thousand times more so," here interposed a somewhat shrill feminine voice—"and that by the most rigid rules of brain-splitting arithmetic!"

Everyone listened. Conversations were interrupted; glasses were put down; eager, attentive faces turned toward the speaker; this was no less a personage than Jeanne Poisson now Marquise de Pompadour; and when she opened her pretty mouth Louis the Well-beloved, descendant of Saint Louis, King of France and of all her dominions beyond the seas, hung breathless upon those well-rouged lips, whilst France sat silent and listened, eager for a share of that smile which enslaved a King and ruined a nation.

"Let us have that rigid rule of arithmetic, fair one," said Louis gaily, "by which you can demonstrate to us that M. le Chevalier here is a hundred thousand times more mad than any of his accursed countrymen."

"Nay, sire, 'tis simple enough," rejoined the lady. "M. le Chevalier hath need of a hundred thousand others in order to make his insanity complete, a hundred thousand Englishmen as mad as April fishes, to help him conquer a kingdom of rain and fogs. Therefore I say he is a hundred thousand times more mad than most!"

Loud laughter greeted this sally. Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour, so little while ago simply Jeanne Poisson or Mme. d'Étioles, was not yet blasée to so much adulation and such fulsome flattery; she looked a veritable heaven of angelic smiles; her eyes blue—so her dithyrambic chroniclers aver—as the dark-toned myosotis, wandered from face to face along the length of that gorgeously spread supper table, round which was congregated the flower of the old aristocracy of France.

She gleaned an admiring glance here, an unspoken murmur of flattery there, even the women—and there were many—tried to look approvingly at her who ruled the King and France. One face alone remained inscrutable and almost severe, the face of a woman—a mere girl—with straight brow and low, square forehead, crowned with a wealth of soft brown hair, the rich tones of which peeped daringly through the conventional mist of powder.

Mme. de Pompadour's sunny smile disappeared momentarily when her eyes rested on this girl's face; a frown—oh! hardly that; but a shadow, shall we say?—marred the perfect purity of her brow. The next moment she had yielded her much-beringed hand to her royal worshipper's eager grasp and he was pressing a kiss on each rose-tipped finger, whilst she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Brrr!" she said, with a mock shiver, "here is Mlle. d'Aumont frowning stern disapproval at me. Surely, Chevalier," she asked, turning to the young man beside her, "a comfortable armchair in your beautiful palace of St. Germain is worth a throne in mist-bound London?"

"Not when that throne is his by right," here interposed Mlle. d'Aumont quietly. "The palace of St. Germain is but a gift to the King of England, for which he owes gratitude to the King of France."

A quick blush now suffused the cheeks of the young man, who up to now had seemed quite unconscious of Mme. de Pompadour's sallies or of the hilarity directed against himself. He gave a rapid glance at Mlle. d'Aumont's haughty, somewhat imperious face and at the delicate mouth, round which an almost imperceptible curl of contempt seemed still to linger.

"La! Mademoiselle," rejoined the Marquise, with some acerbity, "do we not all hold gifts at the hands of the King of France?"

"We have no sovereignty of our own, Madame," replied the young girl drily.

"As for me," quoth King Louis, hastily interposing in this feminine passage of arms, "I drink to our gallant Chevalier de St. George, His Majesty King Charles Edward Stuart of England, Scotland, Wales, and of the whole of that fog-ridden kingdom. Success to your cause, Chevalier," he added, settling his fat body complacently in the cushions of his chair; and raising his glass, he nodded benignly toward the young Pretender.

"To King Charles Edward of England!" rejoined Mme. de Pompadour gaily.

And "To King Charles Edward of England!" went echoing all around the vast banqueting-hall.

"I thank you all," said the young man, whose sullen mood seemed in no way dissipated at these expressions of graciousness and friendship. "Success to my cause is assured if France will lend me the aid she promised."

"What right have you to doubt the word of France, Monseigneur?" retorted Mlle. d'Aumont earnestly.

"A truce! a truce! I entreat," here broke in King Louis with mock concern. "Par Dieu, this is a banquet and not a Council Chamber! Joy of my life," he added, turning eyes replete with admiration on the beautiful woman beside him, "do not allow politics to mar this pleasant entertainment. M. le Duc, you are our host, I pray you direct conversation into more pleasing channels."

Nothing loth, the brilliant company there present quickly resumed the irresponsible chatter which was far more to its liking than talk of thrones and doubtful causes. The flunkeys in gorgeous liveries made the round of the table, filling the crystal glasses with wine. The atmosphere was heavy with the fumes of past good cheer, and the scent of a thousand roses fading beneath the glare of innumerable wax-candles. An odour of perfume, of powder and cosmetics hovered in the air; the men's faces looked red and heated; on one or two heads the wig stood awry, whilst trembling fingers began fidgeting with the lace-cravats at the throat.

Charles Edward's restless blue eyes searched keenly and feverishly the faces around him; morose, gloomy, he was still reckoning in his mind how far he could trust these irresponsible pleasure-lovers, that descendant of the great Louis over there, fat of body and heavy of mind, lost to all sense of kingly dignity whilst squandering the nation's money on the whims and caprices of the ex-wife of a Parisian victualler, whom he had created Marquise de Pompadour.

These men who lived only for good cheer, for heady wines, games of dice and hazard, nights of debauch and illicit pleasures, what help would they be to him in the hour of need? What support in case of failure?

"What right have you to doubt the word of France?" was asked of him by one pair of proud lips—a woman's, only a girl's.

Charles Edward looked across the table at Mlle. d'Aumont. Like himself, she sat silent in the midst of the noisy throng, obviously lending a very inattentive ear to the whisperings of the handsome cavalier beside her.

Ah! if they were all like her, if she were a representative of the whole nation of France, the young adventurer would have gone to his hazardous expedition with a stauncher and a lighter heart. But, as matters stood, what could he expect? What had he got as a serious asset in this gamble for life and a throne? A few vague promises from that flabby, weak-kneed creature over there on whom the crown of Saint Louis sat so strangely and so ill; a few smiles from that frivolous and vain woman, who drained the very heart's blood of an impoverished nation to its last drop, in order to satisfy her costly whims or chase away the frowns of ennui from the brow of an effete monarch.

And what besides?

A farewell supper, ringing toasts, good wine, expensive food offered by M. le Duc d'Aumont, the Prime Minister of France—a thousand roses, now fading, which had cost a small fortune to coax into bloom; a handshake from his friends in France; a "God-speed" and "Dieu vous garde, Chevalier!" and a few words of stern encouragement from a girl.

With all that in hand, Chevalier St. George, go and conquer your kingdom beyond the sea!

CHAPTER II
THE RULERS OF FRANCE

Great activity reigned in the corridors and kitchens of the old château. M. le Chef—the only true rival the immortal Vatel ever had—in white cap and apron, calm and self-possessed as a field-marshal in the hour of victory, and surrounded by an army of scullions and wenches, was directing the operations of dishing-up—the crowning glory of his arduous labours. Pies and patties, haunches of venison, trout and carp from the Rhine were placed on gold and silver dishes and adorned with tasteful ornaments of truly architectural beauty and monumental proportions. These were then handed over to the footmen, who, resplendent in gorgeous liveries of scarlet and azure, hurried along the marble passages carrying the masterpieces of culinary art to the banqueting-hall beyond, whilst the butlers, more sedate and dignified in sober garb of puce or brown, stalked along in stately repose bearing the huge tankards and crystal jugs.

All of the best that the fine old Château d'Aumont could provide was being requisitioned to-night, since M. le Duc and Mlle. Lydie, his daughter, were giving a farewell banquet to Charles Edward Stuart by the grace of God—if not by the will of the people—King of Great Britain and Ireland and all her dependencies beyond the seas.

For him speeches were made, toasts drunk and glasses raised; for him the ducal veneries had been ransacked, the ducal cellars shorn of their most ancient possessions; for him M. le Chef had raged and stormed for five hours, had expended the sweat of his brow and the intricacies of his brain; for him the scullions' backs had smarted, the wenches' cheeks had glowed, all to do honour to the only rightful King of England about to quit the hospitable land of France in order to conquer that island kingdom which his grandfather had lost.

But in the noble salle d'armes, on the other hand, there reigned a pompous and dignified silence, in strange contrast to the bustle and agitation of the kitchens and the noise of loud voices and laughter that issued from the banqueting hall whenever a door was opened and quickly shut again.

Here perfumed candles flickered in massive candelabra, shedding dim circles of golden light on carved woodwork, marble floor, and dull-toned tapestries. The majestic lions of D'Aumont frowned stolidly from their high pedestals on this serene abode of peace and dignity, one foot resting on the gilded shield with the elaborate coat-of-arms blazoned thereon in scarlet and azure, the other poised aloft as if in solemn benediction.

M. Joseph, own body servant to M. le Duc, in magnificent D'Aumont livery, his cravat a marvel of costly simplicity, his elegant, well-turned calves—encased in fine silk stockings—stretched lazily before him, was sprawling on the brocade-covered divan in the centre of the room.

M. Bénédict, equally resplendent in a garb of motley that recalled the heraldic colours of the Comte de Stainville, stood before him, not in an attitude of deference of course, but in one of easy friendship; whilst M. Achille—a blaze of scarlet and gold—was holding out an elegant silver snuff-box to M. Joseph, who, without any superfluous motion of his dignified person, condescended to take a pinch.

With arm and elbow held at a graceful angle, M. Joseph paused in the very act of conveying the snuff to his delicate nostrils. He seemed to think that the occasion called for a remark from himself, but evidently nothing very appropriate occurred to him for the moment, so after a few seconds of impressive silence he finally partook of the snuff, and then flicked off the grains of dust from his immaculate azure waistcoat with a lace-edged handkerchief.

"Where does your Marquis get his snuff?" he asked with an easy graciousness of manner.

"We get it direct from London," replied M. Achille sententiously. "I am personally acquainted with Mme. Véronique, who is cook to Mme. de la Beaume and the sweetheart of Jean Laurent, own body-servant to General de Puisieux. The old General is Chief of Customs at Havre, so you see we pay no duty and get the best of snuff at a ridiculous price."

"Ah! that's lucky for you, my good Eglinton," said M. Bénédict, with a sigh. "Your Marquis is a good sort, and as he is not personally acquainted with Mme. Véronique, I doubt not but he pays full price for his snuff."

"One has to live, friend Stainville," quoth Achille solemnly—"and I am not a fool!"

"Exactly so; and with an English milor your life is an easy one, Monsieur."

"Comme-ci! comme-ça!" nodded Achille deprecatingly.

"Le petit Anglais is very rich?" suggested Bénédict.

"Boundlessly so!" quoth the other, with conscious pride.

"Now, if perchance you could see your way to introducing me to Mme. Véronique. Eh? I have to pay full price for my Count's snuff, and he will have none but the best; but if I could get Mme. Véronique's protection——"

Achille's manner immediately changed at this suggestion, made with becoming diffidence; he drew back a few steps as if to emphasize the distance which must of necessity lie between supplicant and patron. He took a pinch of snuff, he blew his nose with stately deliberation—all in order to keep the petitioner waiting on tenterhooks.

Finally he drew up his scarlet and gold shoulders until they almost touched his ears.

"It will be difficult, very, very difficult my good Stainville," he said at last, speaking in measured tones. "You see, Mme. Véronique is in a very delicate position; she has a great deal of influence of course, and it is not easy to obtain her protection. Still, I will see what I can do, and you can place your petition before her."

"Do not worry yourself, my good Eglinton," here interposed M. Bénédict with becoming hauteur. "I thought as you had asked me yesterday to use my influence with our Mlle. Mariette, the fiancée of Colonel Jauffroy's third footman, with regard to your nephew's advancement in his regiment, that perhaps—— But no matter—no matter!" he added, with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

"You completely misunderstood me, my dear Stainville," broke in M. Achille, eagerly. "I said that the matter was difficult; I did not say that it was impossible. Mme. Véronique is beset with petitions, but you may rely on my friendship. I will obtain the necessary introduction for you if you, on the other hand, will bear my nephew's interests in mind."

"Say no more about it, my good Eglinton," said Bénédict, with easy condescension; "your nephew will get his promotion on the word of a Stainville."

Peace and amity being once more restored between the two friends, M. Joseph thought that he had now remained silent far longer than was compatible with his own importance.

"It is very difficult, of course, in our position," he said pompously, "to do justice to the many demands which are made on our influence and patronage. Take my own case, for instance—my Duke leaves all appointments in my hands. In the morning, whilst I shave him, I have but to mention a name to him in connection with any post under Government that happens to be vacant, and immediately the favoured one, thus named by me, receives attention, nearly always followed by a nomination."

"Hem! hem!" came very discreetly from the lips of M. Bénédict.

"You said?" queried Joseph, with a slight lifting of the right eyebrow.

"Oh! nothing—nothing! I pray you continue; the matter is vastly entertaining."

"At the present moment," continued M. Joseph, keeping a suspicious eye on the other man, "I am deeply worried by this proposal which comes from the Parliaments of Rennes and Paris."

"A new Ministry of Finance to be formed," quoth M. Achille. "We know all about it."

"With direct control of the nation's money and responsible to the Parliaments alone," assented Joseph. "The Parliaments! Bah!" he added in tones of supreme contempt, "bourgeois the lot of them!"

"Their demands are preposterous, so says my milor. 'Tis a marvel His Majesty has given his consent."

"I have advised my Duke not to listen to the rabble," said Joseph, as he readjusted the set of his cravat. "A Ministry responsible to the Parliaments! Ridiculous, I say!"

"I understand, though," here interposed M. Achille, "that the Parliaments, out of deference for His Majesty are willing that the King himself shall appoint this new Comptroller of Finance."

"The King, my good Eglinton," calmly retorted M. Joseph—"the King will leave this matter to us. You may take it from me that we shall appoint this new Minister, and an extremely pleasant post it will be. Comptroller of Finance! All the taxes to pass through the Minister's hands! Par Dieu! does it not open out a wide field for an ambitious man?"

"Hem! hem!" coughed M. Bénédict again.

"You seem to be suffering from a cold, sir," said M. Joseph irritably.

"Not in the least," rejoined Bénédict hastily—"a slight tickling in the throat. You were saying, M. Joseph, that you hoped this new appointment would fall within your sphere of influence."

"Nay! If you doubt me, my good Stainville——" And M. Joseph rose with slow and solemn majesty from the divan, where he had been reclining, and walking across the room with a measured step, he reached an escritoire whereon ink and pens, letters tied up in bundles, loose papers, and all the usual paraphernalia commonly found on the desk of a busy man. M. Joseph sat down at the table and rang a handbell.

The next moment a young footman entered, silent and deferential.

"Is any one in the ante-room, Paul?" asked Joseph.

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"How many?"

"About thirty persons."

"Go tell them, then, that M. Joseph is not receiving to-night. He is entertaining a circle of friends. Bring me all written petitions. I shall be visible in my dressing room to those who have a personal introduction at eleven o'clock to-morrow. You may go!"

Silently as he had entered, the young man bowed and withdrew.

M. Joseph wheeled round in his chair and turned to his friends with a look of becoming triumph.

"Thirty persons!" he remarked simply.

"All after this appointment?" queried Achille.

"Their representatives, you see," explained M. Joseph airily. "Oh! my ante-chamber is always full—You understand? I shave my Duke every morning; and every one, it seems to me, is wanting to control the finances of France."

"Might one inquire who is your special protégé?" asked the other.

"Time will show," came with cryptic vagueness from the lips of M. Joseph.

"Hem! hem!"

In addition to a slight tickling of the throat, M. Bénédict seemed to be suffering from an affection of the left eye which caused him to wink with somewhat persistent emphasis:

"This is the third time you have made that remark, Stainville," said Joseph severely.

"I did not remark, my dear D'Aumont," rejoined Bénédict pleasantly—"that is, I merely said 'Hem! hem!'"

"Even so, I heard you," said Joseph, with some acerbity; "and I would wish to know precisely what you meant when you said 'Hem! hem!' like that."

"I was thinking of Mlle. Lucienne," said Bénédict, with a sentimental sigh.

"Indeed!"

"Yes! I am one of her sweethearts—the fourth in point of favour. Mlle. Lucienne has your young lady's ear, my good D'Aumont, and we all know that your Duke governs the whole of France exactly as his daughter wishes him to do."

"And you hope through Mlle. Lucienne's influence to obtain the new post of Comptroller for your own Count?" asked M. Joseph, with assumed carelessness, as he drummed a devil's tattoo on the table before him.

A slight expression of fatuity crept into the countenance of M. Bénédict. He did not wish to irritate the great man; at the same time he felt confident in his own powers of blandishments where Mlle. Lucienne was concerned, even though he only stood fourth in point of favour in that influential lady's heart.

"Mlle. Lucienne has promised us her support," he said, with a complacent smile.

"I fear me that will be of little avail," here interposed M. Achille. "We have on our side, the influence of Mme. Auguste Baillon, who is housekeeper to M. le Docteur Dubois, consulting physician to Mlle. d'Aumont. M. le Docteur is very fond of haricots cooked in lard—a dish in the preparation of which Mme. Baillon excels—whilst, on the other hand, that lady's son is perruquier to my Eglinton. I think there is no doubt that ours is the stronger influence, and that if this Ministry of Finance comes into being, we shall be the Chief Comptroller."

"Oh, it will come into being, without any doubt," said Bénédict. "I have it from my cousin François, who is one of the sweethearts of Mlle. Duprez, confidential maid to Mme. Aremberg, the jeweller's wife, that the merchants of Paris and Lyons are not at all pleased with the amount of money which the King and Mme. de Pompadour are spending."

"Exactly! People of that sort are a veritable pestilence. They want us to pay some of the taxes—the corvée or the taille. As if a Duke or a Minister is going to pay taxes! Ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous, I say," assented Achille, "though my Marquis says that in England even noblemen pay taxes."

"Then we'll not go to England, friend Eglinton. Imagine shaving a Duke or a Marquis who had paid taxes like a shopkeeper!"

A chorus of indignation from the three gentleman rose at the suggestion.

"Preposterous indeed!"

"We all know that England is a nation of shopkeepers. M. de Voltaire, who has been there, said so to us on his return."

M. Achille, in view of the fact that he represented the Marquis of Eglinton, commonly styled "le petit Anglais," was not quite sure whether his dignity demanded that he should resent this remark of M. de Voltaire's or not.

Fortunately he was saved from having to decide this delicate question immediately by the reëntry of Paul into the room.

The young footman was carrying a bundle of papers, which he respectfully presented to M. Joseph on a silver tray. The great man looked at Paul somewhat puzzled, rubbed his chin, and contemplated the papers with a thoughtful eye.

"What are these?" he asked.

"The petitions, M. Joseph," replied the young man.

"Oh! Ah, yes!" quoth the other airily. "Quite so; but—I have no time to read them now. You may glance through them, Paul, and let me know if any are worthy of my consideration."

M. Joseph was born in an epoch when reading was not considered an indispensable factor in a gentleman's education. Whether the petitions of the thirty aspirants to the new post of Comptroller of Finance would subsequently be read by M. Paul or not it were impossible to say; for the present he merely took up the papers again, saying quite respectfully:

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"Stay! you may take cards, dice, and two flagons of Bordeaux into my boudoir."

"Yes, M. Joseph."

"Have you dismissed every one from the ante-chamber?"

"All except an old man, who refuses to go."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know; he——"

Further explanation was interrupted by a timid voice issuing from the open door.

"I only desire five minutes' conversation with M. le Duc d'Aumont."

And a wizened little figure dressed in seedy black, with lean shanks encased in coarse woollen stockings, shuffled into the room. He seemed to be carrying a great number of papers and books under both arms, and as he stepped timidly forward some of these tumbled in a heap at his feet.

"Only five minutes' conversation with M. le Duc."

His eyes were very pale, and very watery, and his hair was of a pale straw colour. He stooped to pick up his papers, and dropped others in the process.

"M. le Duc is not visible," said M. Joseph majestically.

"Perhaps a little later——" suggested the lean individual.

"The Duke will not be visible later either."

"Then to-morrow perhaps; I can wait—I have plenty of time on my hands."

"You may have, but the Duke hasn't."

In the meanwhile the wizened little man had succeeded in once more collecting his papers together. With trembling eager hands he now selected a folded note, which evidently had suffered somewhat through frequent falls on dusty floors; this he held out toward M. Joseph.

"I have a letter to Monsieur le valet de chambre of the Duke," he said humbly.

"A letter of introduction?—to me?" queried Joseph, with a distinct change in his manner and tone. "From whom?"

"My daughter Agathe, who brings Monsieur's chocolate in to him every morning."

"Ah, you are Mlle. Agathe's father!" exclaimed Joseph with pleasant condescension, as he took the letter of introduction, and, without glancing at it, slipped it into the pocket of his magnificent coat. Perhaps a thought subsequently crossed his mind that the timorous person before him was not quite so simple-minded as his watery blue eyes suggested, and that the dusty and crumpled little note might be a daring fraud practised on his own influential personality, for he added with stern emphasis: "I will see Mlle. Agathe to-morrow, and will discuss your affair with her."

Then, as the little man did not wince under the suggestion, M. Joseph said more urbanely:

"By the way, what is your affair? These gentlemen"—and with a graceful gesture he indicated his two friends—"these gentlemen will pardon the liberty you are taking in discussing it before them."

"Thank you, Monsieur; thank you, gentlemen," said the wizened individual humbly; "it is a matter of—er—figures."

"Figures!"

"Yes! This new Ministry of Finance—there will be an auditor of accounts wanted—several auditors, I presume—and—and I thought——"

"Yes?" nodded M. Joseph graciously.

"My daughter does bring you in your chocolate nice and hot, M. Joseph, does she not?—and—and I do know a lot about figures. I studied mathematics with the late M. Descartes; I audited the books of the Société des Comptables of Lyons for several years; and—and I have diplomas and testimonials——"

And, carried away by another wave of anxiety, he began to fumble among his papers and books, which with irritating perversity immediately tumbled pell-mell on to the floor.

"What in the devil's name is the good of testimonials and diplomas to us, my good man?" said M. Joseph haughtily. "If, on giving the matter my serious consideration, I come to the conclusion that you will be a suitable accountant in the new Ministerial Department, ma foi! my good man, your affair is settled. No thanks, I pray!" he added, with a gracious flourish of the arm; "I have been pleased with Mlle. Agathe, and I may mention your name whilst I shave M. le Duc to-morrow. Er—by the way, what is your name?"

"Durand, if you please, M. Joseph."

The meagre little person with the watery blue eyes tried to express his gratitude by word and gesture, but his books and papers encumbered his movements, and he was rendered doubly nervous by the presence of these gorgeous and stately gentlemen, and by the wave of voices and laughter which suddenly rose from the distance, suggesting that perhaps a brilliant company might be coming this way.

The very thought seemed to completely terrify him; with both arms he hugged his various written treasures, and with many sideway bows and murmurs of thanks he finally succeeded in shuffling his lean figure out of the room, closely followed by M. Paul.

CHAPTER III
POMPADOUR'S CHOICE

M. Durand's retreat had fortunately occurred just in time; men's voices and women's laughter sounded more and more distinct, as if approaching toward the salle d'armes.

In a moment, with the swiftness born of long usage, the demeanour of the three gentlemen underwent a quick and sudden change. They seemed to pull their gorgeous figures together; with practised fingers each readjusted the lace of his cravat, reëstablished the correct set of his waistcoat, and flickered the last grain of dust or snuff from the satin-like surface of his coat.

Ten seconds later the great doors at the east end of the hall were thrown open, and through the embrasure and beyond the intervening marble corridor could be seen the brilliantly lighted supper-room, with its glittering company broken up into groups.

Silent, swift and deferential, MM. Joseph, Bénédict, and Achille glided on flat-heeled shoes along the slippery floors, making as little noise as possible, effacing their gorgeous persons in window recesses or carved ornaments whenever a knot of gentlemen or ladies happened to pass by.

Quite a different trio now, MM. Joseph, Bénédict, and Achille—just three automatons intent on their duties.

From the supper-room there came an incessant buzz of talk and laughter. M. Joseph sought his master's eye, but M. le Duc was busy with the King of England and wanted no service; M. Achille found his English milor, "le petit Anglais," engaged in conversation with his portly and somewhat overdressed mamma; whilst M. Bénédict's master was nowhere to be found.

The older ladies were beginning to look wearied and hot, smothering yawns behind their painted fans. Paniers assumed a tired and crumpled appearance, and feathered aigrettes nodded dismally above the high coiffures.

Not a few of the guests had taken the opportunity of bringing cards or dice from a silken pocket, whilst others in smaller groups, younger and not yet wearied of desultory talk, strolled toward the salle d'armes or the smaller boudoirs which opened out of the corridor.

One or two gentlemen had succumbed to M. le Duc's lavish hospitality; the many toasts had proved too exacting, the copious draughts altogether too heady, and they had, somewhat involuntarily, exchanged their chairs for the more reliable solidity of the floor, where their faithful attendants, stationed under the table for the purpose, deftly untied a cravat which might be too tight or administered such cooling antidotes as might be desirable.

The hot air vibrated with the constant babel of voices, the frou-frou of silk paniers, and brocaded skirts, mingled with the clink of swords and the rattle of dice in satinwood boxes.

The atmosphere, surcharged with perfumes, had become overpoweringly close.

His Majesty, flushed with wine, and with drowsy lids drooping over his dulled eyes, had pushed his chair away from the table and was lounging lazily toward Mme. de Pompadour, his idle fingers toying with the jewelled girdle of her fan. She amused him; she had quaint sayings which were sometimes witty, always daring, but which succeeded in dissipating momentarily that mortal ennui of which he suffered.

Even now her whispered conversation, interspersed with profuse giggles, brought an occasional smile to the lips of the sleepy monarch. She chatted and laughed, flirting her fan, humouring the effeminate creature beside her by yielding her hand and wrist to his flabby kisses. But her eyes did not rest on him for many seconds at a time; she talked to Louis, but her mind had gone a-wandering about the room trying to read thoughts, to search motives or divine hidden hatreds and envy as they concerned herself.

This glitter was still new to her; the power which she wielded seemed as yet a brittle toy which a hasty movement might suddenly break. It was but a very little while ago that she had been an insignificant unit in a third-rate social circle of Paris—always beautiful, but lost in the midst of a drabby crowd, her charms, like those of a precious stone, unperceived for want of proper setting. Her ambition was smothered in her heart, which at times it almost threatened to consume. But it was always there, ever since she had learnt to understand the power which beauty gives.

An approving smile from the King of France, and the world wore a different aspect for Jeanne Poisson. Her whims and caprices became the reins with which she drove France and the King. Why place a limit to her own desires, since the mightiest monarch in Europe was ready to gratify them?

Money became her god.

Spend! spend! spend! Why not? The nation, the bourgeoisie—of which she had once been that little insignificant unit—was now the well-spring whence she drew the means of satisfying her ever-increasing lust for splendour.

Jewels, dresses, palaces, gardens—all and everything that was rich, beautiful, costly, she longed for it all!

Pictures and statuary; music, and of the best; constant noise around her, gaiety, festivities, laughter; the wit of France and the science of the world all had been her helpmeets these past two years in this wild chase after pleasure, this constant desire to kill her Royal patron's incurable ennui.

Two years, and already the nation grumbled! A check was to be put on her extravagance—hers and that of King Louis! The parliaments demanded that some control be exercised over Royal munificence. Fewer jewels for Madame! And that palace at Fontainebleau not yet completed, the Parc aux Cerfs so magnificently planned and not even begun! Would the new Comptroller put a check on that?

At first she marvelled that Louis should consent. It was a humiliation for him as well as for her. The weakness in him which had served her own ends seemed monstrous when it yielded to pressure from others.

He had assured her that she should not suffer; jewels, palaces, gardens, she should have all as heretofore. Let Parliament insist and grumble, but the Comptroller would be appointed by D'Aumont, and D'Aumont was her slave.

D'Aumont, yes! but not his daughter—that arrogant girl with the severe eyes, unwomanly and dictatorial, who ruled her father just as she herself, Pompadour, ruled the King.

An enemy, that Lydie d'Aumont! Mme. la Marquise, whilst framing a witticism at which the King smiled, frowned because in a distant alcove she spied the haughty figure of Lydie.

And there were others! The friends of the Queen and her clique, of course; they were not here to-night; at least not in great numbers; still, even the present brilliant company, though smiling and obsequious in the presence of the King, was not by any means a close phalanx of friends.

M. d'Argenson, for instance—he was an avowed enemy; and Marshal de Noailles, too—oh! and there were others.

One of them, fortunately, was going away; Charles Edward Stuart, aspiring King of England; he had been no friend of Pompadour. Even now, as he stood close by, lending an obviously inattentive ear to M. le Duc d'Aumont, she could see that he still looked gloomy and out of humour, and that whenever his eyes rested upon her and the King he frowned with wrathful impatience.

"You are distraite, ma mie!" said Louis, with a yawn.

"I was thinking, sire," she replied, smiling into his drowsy eyes.

"For God's sake, I entreat, do not think!" exclaimed the King, with mock alarm. "Thought produces wrinkles, and your perfect mouth was only fashioned for smiles."

"May I frame a suggestion?" she queried archly.

"No, only a command."

"This Comptroller of Finance, your future master, Louis, and mine——"

"Your slave," he interrupted lazily, "and he values his life."

"Why not milor Eglinton?"

"Le petit Anglais?" and Louis's fat body was shaken with sudden immoderate laughter. "Par Dieu, ma mie! Of all your witty sallies this one hath pleased us most."

"Why?" she asked seriously.

"Le petit Anglais!" again laughed the King. "I'd as soon give the appointment to your lapdog, Marquise. Fido would have as much capacity for the post as the ornamental cypher that hangs on his mother's skirts."

"Milor Eglinton is very rich," she mused.

"Inordinately so, curse him! I could do with half his revenue and be a satisfied man."

"Being a cypher he would not trouble us much; being very rich he would need no bribe for doing as we wish."

"His lady mother would trouble us, ma mie."

"Bah! we would find him a wife."

"Nay! I entreat you do not worry your dainty head with these matters," said the King, somewhat irritably. "The appointment rests with D'Aumont; an you desire the post for your protégé, turn your bright eyes on the Duke."

Pompadour would have wished to pursue the subject, to get something of a promise from Louis, to turn his inveterate weakness then and there to her own account, but Louis the Well-beloved yawned, a calamity which the fair lady dared not risk again. Witty and brilliant, forever gay and unfatigued, she knew that her power over the monarch would only last whilst she could amuse him.

Therefore now with swift transition she turned the conversation to more piquant channels. An anecdote at the expense of the old Duchesse de Pontchartrain brought life once more into the eyes of the King. She was once more untiring in her efforts, her cheeks glowed even through the powder and the rouge, her lips smiled without intermission, but her thoughts drifted back to the root idea, the burden of that control to be imposed on her caprices.

She would not have minded Milor Eglinton, the courteous, amiable gentleman, who had no will save that expressed by any woman who happened to catch his ear. She felt that she could, with but very little trouble, twist him round her little finger. His dictatorial mamma would either have to be got out of the way, or won over to Mme. la Marquise's own views of life, whilst Milor could remain a bachelor, lest another feminine influence prove antagonistic.

Pompadour's bright eyes, whilst she chatted to the King, sought amidst the glittering throng the slim figure of "le petit Anglais."

Yes, he would suit her purpose admirably! She could see his handsome profile clearly outlined against the delicate tones of the wall; handsome, yes! clear-cut and firm, with straight nose and the low, square brow of the Anglo-Saxon race, but obviously weak and yielding; a perfect tool in the hands of a clever woman.

Elegant too, always immaculately, nay daintily dressed, he wore with that somewhat stiff grace peculiar to the English gentleman the showy and effeminate costume of the time. But there was weakness expressed in his very attitude as he stood now talking to Charles Edward Stuart: the kindly, pleasant expression of his good-looking face in strange contrast to the glowering moodiness of his princely friend.

One Lord Eglinton had followed the deposed James II into exile. His son had risked life and fortune for the restoration of the old Pretender, and having managed by sheer good luck to save both, he felt that he had done more than enough for a cause which he knew was doomed to disaster. But he hated the thought of a German monarch in England, and in his turn preferred exile to serving a foreigner for whom he had scant sympathy.

Immensely wealthy, a brilliant conversationalist, a perfect gentleman, he soon won the heart of one of the daughters of France. Mlle. de Maille brought him, in addition to her own elaborate trousseau and a dowry of three thousand francs yearly pin-money, the historic and gorgeous chateau of Beaufort which Lord Eglinton's fortune rescued from the hands of the bailiffs.

Vaguely he thought that some day he would return to his own ancestral home in Sussex, when England would have become English once again; in the meanwhile he was content to drift on the placid waters of life, his luxurious craft guided by the domineering hand of his wife. Independent owing to his nationality and his wealth, a friend alike of the King of France and the Stuart Pretender, he neither took up arms in any cause, nor sides in any political intrigue.

Lady Eglinton brought up her son in affluence and luxury, but detached from all partisanship. Her strong personality imposed something of her own national characteristics on the boy, but she could not break the friendship that existed between the royal Stuarts and her husband's family. Although Charles Edward was her son's playmate in the gardens and castle of Beaufort, she nevertheless succeeded in instilling into the latter a slight measure of disdain for the hazardous attempts at snatching the English crown which invariably resulted in the betrayal of friends, the wholesale slaughter of adherents, and the ignominious flight of the Pretender.

No doubt it was this dual nationality in the present Lord Eglinton, this detachment from political conflicts, that was the real cause of that inherent weakness of character which Mme. de Pompadour now wished to use for her own ends. She was glad, therefore, to note that whilst Charles Edward talked earnestly to him, the eyes of "le petit Anglais" roamed restlessly about the room, as if seeking for support in an argument, or help from a personality stronger than his own.

Lady Eglinton's voice, harsh and domineering, often rose above the general hum of talk. Just now she had succeeded in engaging the Prime Minister in serious conversation.

The King in the meanwhile had quietly dropped asleep, lulled by the even ripple of talk of the beautiful Marquise and the heavily scented atmosphere of the room. Pompadour rose from her chair as noiselessly as her stiff brocaded skirt would allow; she crossed the room and joined Lady Eglinton and M. le Duc d'Aumont.

She was going to take King Louis's advice and add the weighty influence of her own bright eyes to that of my lady's voluble talk in favour of the appointment of Lord Eglinton to the newly created Ministry of Finance.

CHAPTER IV
A WOMAN'S SURRENDER

In a small alcove, which was raised above the level of the rest of the floor by a couple of steps and divided from the main banqueting hall by a heavy damask curtain now partially drawn aside, Mlle. d'Aumont sat in close conversation with M. le Comte de Stainville.

From this secluded spot these two dominated the entire length and breadth of the room; the dazzling scene was displayed before them in a gorgeous kaleidoscope of moving figures, in an ever-developing panorama of vividly coloured groups, that came and went, divided and reunited; now forming soft harmonies of delicate tones that suggested the subtle blending on the palette of a master, anon throwing on to the canvas daring patches of rich magentas or deep purples, that set off with cunning artfulness the masses of pale primrose and gold.

Gaston de Stainville, however, did not seem impressed with the picturesqueness of the scene. He sat with his broad back turned toward the brilliant company, one elbow propped on a small table beside him, his hand shielding his face against the glare of the candles. But Lydie d'Aumont's searching eyes roamed ceaselessly over the gaily plumaged birds that fluttered uninterruptedly before her gaze.

With one delicate hand holding back the rich damask curtain, the other lying idly in her lap, her white brocaded gown standing out in stiff folds round her girlish figure, she was a picture well worth looking at.

Lydie was scarcely twenty-one then, but already there was a certain something in the poise of her head, in every movement of her graceful body, that suggested the woman accustomed to dominate, the woman of thought and action, rather than of sentiment and tender emotions.

Those of her own sex said at that time that in Lydie's haughty eyes there was the look of the girl who has been deprived early in life of a mother's gentle influence, and who has never felt the gentle yet firm curb of a mother's authority on her childish whims and caprices.

M. le Duc d'Aumont, who had lost his young wife after five years of an exceptionally happy married life, had lavished all the affection of his mature years on the girl, who was the sole representative of his name. The child had always been headstrong and self-willed from the cradle; her nurses could not cope with her babyish tempers; her governesses dreaded her domineering ways. M. le Duc was deaf to all complaints; he would not have the child thwarted, and as she grew up lovable in the main, she found her father's subordinates ready enough to bend to her yoke.

From the age of ten she had been the acknowledged queen of all her playmates, and the autocrat of her father's house. Little by little she obtained an extraordinary ascendancy over the fond parent, who admired almost as much as he loved her.

He was deeply touched when, scarce out of the school room, she tried to help him in the composition of his letters, and more than astonished to see how quick was her intelligence and how sharp her intuition. Instinctively, at first he took to explaining to her the various political questions of the day, listening with paternal good-humour, to her acute and sensitive remarks on several important questions.

Then gradually his confidence in her widened. Many chroniclers aver that it was Lydie d'Aumont who wrote her father's celebrated memoirs, and those who at that time had the privilege of knowing her intimately could easily trace her influence in most of her father's political moves. There is no doubt that the Duc himself, when he finally became Prime Minister of France, did very little without consulting his daughter, and even l'Abbé d'Alivet, in his "Chroniques de Louis XV," admits that the hot partisanship of France for the Young Pretender's ill-conceived expeditions was mainly due to Mlle. d'Aumont's influence.

When Vanloo painted her a little later on, he rendered with consummate and delicate skill the haughty look of command which many of Lydie's most ardent admirers felt to be a blemish on the exquisite purity and charm of her face.

The artist, too, emphasized the depth and earnestness of her dark eyes, and that somewhat too severe and self-reliant expression which marked the straight young brow.

Perhaps it was this same masterful trait in the dainty form before him that Gaston de Stainville studied so attentively just now; there had been silence for some time between the elegant cavalier and the idolized daughter of the Prime Minister of France. She seemed restless and anxious, even absent-minded, when he spoke. She was studying the various groups of men and women as they passed, frowning when she looked on some faces, smiling abstractedly when she encountered a pair of friendly eyes.

"I did not know that you were such a partisan of that young adventurer," said Gaston de Stainville at last, as if in answer to her thoughts, noting that her gaze now rested with stern intentness on Charles Edward Stuart.

"I must be on the side of a just cause," she rejoined quietly, as with a very characteristic movement of hers she turned her head slowly round and looked M. de Stainville full in the face.

She could not see him very well, for his head was silhouetted against the dazzling light beyond, and she frowned a little as she tried to distinguish his features more clearly in the shadow.

"You do believe, Gaston, that his cause is just?" she asked earnestly.

"Oh!" he replied lightly; "I'll believe in the justice of any cause to which you give your support."

She shrugged her shoulders, whilst a slightly contemptuous curl appeared at the corner of her mouth.

"How like a man!" she said impatiently.

"What is like a man?" he retorted. "To love—as I love you?"

He had whispered this, hardly above his breath lest he should be overheard by some one in that gay and giddy throng who passed laughingly by. The stern expression in her eyes softened a little as they met his eager gaze, but the good-humoured contempt was still apparent, even in her smile; she saw that as he spoke he looked through the outspread fingers of his hand to see if he was being watched, and noted that one pair of eyes, distant the whole length of the room, caught the movement, then was instantly averted.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans is watching you," she said quietly.

He seemed surprised and not a little vexed that she had noticed, and for a moment looked confused; then he said carelessly:

"Why should she not? Why should not the whole world look on, and see that I adore you?"

"Meseems you protest over-much, Gaston," she said, with a sigh.

"Impossible!"

"You talk of love too lightly."

"I am in earnest, Lydie. Why should you doubt? Are you not beautiful enough to satisfy any man's ardour?"

"Am I not influential enough, you mean," she said, with a slight tremor in her rich young voice, "to satisfy any man's ambition?"

"Is ambition a crime in your eyes, Lydie?"

"No; but——"

"I am ambitious; you cannot condemn me for that," he said, now speaking in more impressive tone. "When we were playmates together, years ago, you remember? in the gardens at Cluny, if other lads were there, was I not always eager to be first in the race, first in the field—first always, everywhere?"

"Even at the cost of sorrow and humiliation to the weaker ones."

He shrugged his shoulders with easy unconcern.

"There is no success in life for the strong," he said, "save at the cost of sorrow and humiliation for the weak. Lydie," he added more earnestly, "if I am ambitious it is because my love for you has made me humble. I do not feel that as I am, I am worthy of you; I want to be rich, to be influential, to be great. Is that wrong? I want your pride in me, almost as much as your love."

"You were rich once, Gaston," she said, a little coldly. "Your father was rich."

"Is it my fault if I am poor now?"

"They tell me it is; they say that you are over-fond of cards, and of other pleasures which are less avowable."

"And you believe them?"

"I hardly know," she whispered.

"You have ceased to love me, then?"

"Gaston!"

There as a tone of tender reproach there, which the young man was swift enough to note; the beautiful face before him was in full light; he could see well that a rosy blush had chased away the usual matt pallor of her cheeks, and that the full red lips trembled a little now, whilst the severe expression of the eyes was veiled in delicate moisture.

"Your face has betrayed you, Lydie!" he said, with sudden vehemence, though his voice even now hardly rose above a whisper. "If you have not forgotten your promises made to me at Cluny—in the shadow of those beech trees, do you remember? You were only thirteen—a mere child—yet already a woman, the soft breath of spring fanned your glowing cheeks, your loose hair blew about your face, framing your proud little head in a halo of gold—you remember, Lydie?"

"I have not forgotten," she said gently.

"Your hand was in mine—a child's hand, Lydie, but yours for all that—and you promised—you remember? And if you have not forgotten—if you do love me, not, Heaven help me! as I love you, but only just a little better than any one else in the world; well, then, Lydie, why these bickerings, why these reproaches? I am poor now, but soon I will be rich! I have no power, but soon I will rule France, with you to help me if you will!"

He had grown more and more vehement as he spoke, carried along by the torrent of his own eloquence. But he had not moved; he still sat with his back to the company, and his face shaded by his hand; his voice was still low, impressive in its ardour. Then, as the young girl's graceful head drooped beneath the passionate expression of his gaze, bending, as it were, to the intensity of his earnest will, his eyes flashed a look of triumph, a premonition of victory close at hand. Lydie's strong personality was momentarily weakened by the fatigue of a long and arduous evening, by the heavy atmosphere of the room; her senses were dulled by the penetrating odours of wine and perfumes which fought with those of cosmetics.

She seemed to be yielding to the softer emotions, less watchful of her own dignity, less jealous of her own power. The young man felt that at this moment he held her just as he wished; did he stretch out his hand she would place hers in it. The recollections of her childhood had smothered all thoughts of present conflicts and of political intrigues. Mlle. d'Aumont, the influential daughter of an all-powerful Minister, had momentarily disappeared, giving way to madcap little Lydie, with short skirts and flying chestnut curls, the comrade of the handsome boy in the old gardens at Cluny.

"Lydie, if you loved me!" whispered Stainville.

"If I loved you!" and there was a world of pathos in that girlish "if."

"You would help me instead of reproaching."

"What do you want me to do, Gaston?"

"Your word is law with your father," he said persuasively. "He denies you nothing. You said I was ambitious; one word from you—this new Ministry——"

He realized his danger, bit his lip lest he had been too precipitate. Lydie was headstrong, she was also very shrewd; the master-mind that guided the destinies of France through the weak indulgence of a father was not likely to be caught in a snare like any love-sick maid. Her woman's instinct—he knew that—was keen to detect self-interest; and if he aroused the suspicions of the wealthy and influential woman before he had wholly subjugated her heart, he knew that he would lose the biggest stake of his life.

Lately she had held aloof from him, the playmates had become somewhat estranged; the echoes of his reckless life must, he thought, have reached her ears, and he himself had not been over-eager for the companionship of this woman, who seemed to have thrown off all the light-heartedness of her sex for the sake of a life of activity and domination.

She was known to be cold and unapproachable, rigidly conscientious in transacting the business of the State, which her father with easy carelessness gradually left on her young shoulders, since she seemed to find pleasure in it.

But her influence, of which she was fully conscious, had rendered her suspicious. Even now, when the call of her youth, of her beauty, of the happy and tender recollections of her childhood loudly demanded to be heard, she cast a swift, inquiring glance at Gaston.

He caught the glance, and, with an involuntary movement of impatience, his hand, which up to now had so carefully masked the expression of his face, came crashing down upon the table.

"Lydie," he said impetuously, "in the name of God throw aside your armour for one moment! Is life so long that you can afford to waste it? Have you learned the secret of perpetual youth that you deliberately fritter away its golden moments in order to rush after the Dead Sea fruit of domination and power? Lydie!" he whispered with passionate tenderness; "my little Lydie of the crisp chestnut hair, of the fragrant woods around Cluny, leave those giddy heights of ambition; come down to earth, where my arms await you! I will tell you of things, my little Lydie, which are far more beautiful, far more desirable, than the sceptre and kingdom of France; and when I press you close to my heart you will taste a joy far sweeter than that which a crown of glory can give. Will you not listen to me, Lydie? Will you not share with me that joy which renders men the equal of God?"

His hand had wandered up the damask curtain, gently drawing its heavy folds from out her clinging fingers. The rich brocade fell behind him with a soft and lingering sound like the murmured "Hush—sh—sh!" of angels' wings shutting out the noise and glare beyond, isolating them both from the world and its conflicts, its passions, and its ceaseless strife.

Secure from prying eyes, Gaston de Stainville threw all reserve from him with a laugh of pride and of joy. Half kneeling, wholly leaning toward her, his arms encircled her young figure, almost pathetic now in its sudden and complete abandonment. With his right hand he drew that imperious little head down until his lips had reached her ear.

"Would you have me otherwise, my beautiful proud queen?" he whispered softly. "Should I be worthy of the cleverest woman in France if my ambition and hopes were not at least as great as hers? Lydie," he added, looking straight into her eyes, "if you asked me for a kingdom in the moon, I swear to God that I would make a start in order to conquer it for you! Did you, from sheer caprice, ask to see my life's blood ebbing out of my body, I would thrust this dagger without hesitation into my heart."

"Hush! hush!" she said earnestly; "that is extravagant talk, Gaston. Do not desecrate love by such folly."

"'Tis not folly, Lydie. Give me your lips and you, too, will understand."

She closed her eyes. It was so strange to feel this great gladness in her heart, this abasement of all her being; she, who had so loved to dictate and to rule, she savoured the inexpressible delight of yielding.

He demanded a kiss and she gave it because he had asked it of her, shyly wondering in her own mind how she came to submit so easily, and why submission should be so sweet.

Up to now she had only tasted the delights of power; now she felt that if Gaston willed she would deem it joy to obey. There was infinite happiness, infinite peace in that kiss, the first her vestal lips had ever granted to any man. He was again whispering to her now with that same eager impetuosity which had subjugated her. She was glad to listen, for he talked much of his love, of the beautiful days at Cluny, which she had feared that he had wholly forgotten.

It was sweet to think that he remembered them. During the past year or two when evil tongues spoke of him before her, of his recklessness, his dissipations, his servility to the growing influence of the Pompadour, she had not altogether believed, but her heart, faithful to the child-lover, had ached and rebelled against his growing neglect.

Now he was whispering explanations—not excuses, for he needed none, since he had always loved her and only jealousies and intrigues had kept him from her side. As he protested, she still did not altogether believe—oh, the folly of it all! the mad, glad folly!—but he said that with a kiss she would understand.

He was right. She did understand.

And he talked much of his ambitions. Was it not natural? Men were so different to women! He, proud of his love for her, was longing to show her his power, to rule and to command; she, half-shy of her love for him, felt her pride in submitting to his wish, in laying down at his feet the crown and sceptre of domination which she had wielded up to now with so proud and secure a hand.

Men were so different. That, too, she understood with the first touch of a man's kiss on her lips.

She chided herself for her mistrust of him; was it not natural that he should wish to rule? How proud was she now that her last act of absolute power should be the satisfaction of his desire.

That new Ministry? Well, he should have it as he wished. One word from her, and her father would grant it. Her husband must be the most powerful man in France; she would make him that, since she could: and then pillow her head on his breast and forget that she ever had other ambitions save to see him great.

Smiling through her tears, she begged his forgiveness for her mistrust of him, her doubts of the true worth of his love.

"It was because I knew so little," she said shyly as her trembling fingers toyed nervously with the lace of his cravat; "no man has ever loved me, Gaston—you understand? There were flatterers round me and sycophants—but love——"

She shook her head with a kind of joyous sadness for the past. It was so much better to be totally ignorant of love, and then to learn it—like this!

Then she became grave again.

"My father shall arrange everything this evening," she said, with a proud toss of her head. "To-morrow you may command, but to-night you shall remain a suppliant; grant me, I pray you, this fond little gratification of my overburdened vanity. Ask me again to grant your request, to be the means of satisfying your ambition. Put it into words, Gaston, tell me what it is you want!" she insisted, with a pretty touch of obstinacy; "it is my whim, and remember I am still the arbiter of your fate."

"On my knees, my queen," he said, curbing his impatience at her childish caprice; and, striving to hide the note of triumph in his voice, he put both knees to the ground and bent his head in supplication. "I crave of your bountiful graciousness to accord me the power to rule France by virtue of my office as Chief Comptroller of her revenues."

"Your desire is granted, sir," she said with a final assumption of pride; "the last favour I shall have the power to bestow I now confer on you. To-morrow I abdicate," she continued, with a strange little sigh, half-tearful, half-joyous, "to-morrow I shall own a master. M. le Comte de Stainville, Minister of the Exchequer of France, behold your slave, Lydie, bought this night with the priceless currency of your love! Oh, Gaston, my lord, my husband!" she said, with a sudden uncontrollable outburst of tears, "be a kind master to your slave—she gives up so much for your dear sake!"

CHAPTER V
THE FIRST TRICK

A shrill laugh suddenly broke on their ears. So absorbed had Lydie been in her dream that she had completely forgotten the other world, the one that laughed and talked, that fought and bickered on the other side of the damask curtain which was the boundary of her own universe.

Gaston de Stainville, we may assume, was not quite so unprepared for interruption as the young girl, for even before the shrill laugh had expended itself, he was already on his feet, and had drawn the damask curtain back again, interposing the while his broad figure between Lydie d'Aumont and the unwelcome intruder on their privacy.

"Ah! at last you are tracked to earth, mauvais sujet," said Mme. de Pompadour, as soon as the Comte de Stainville stood fully revealed before her. "Faith! I have had a severe task. His Majesty demanded your presence a while ago, sir, and hath gone to sleep in the interval of waiting. Nay! nay! you need make neither haste nor excuses. The King sleeps, Monsieur, else I were not here to remind you of duty."

She stood at the bottom of the steps looking up with keen, malicious eyes at Gaston's figure framed in the opening of the alcove, and peering inquisitively into the sombre recesses, wherein already she had caught a glimpse of a white satin skirt and the scintillation of many diamonds.

"What say you, milady?" she added, turning to the florid, somewhat over-dressed woman who stood by her side. "Shall we listen to the excuses M. de Stainville seems anxious to make; meseems they are clad in white satin and show a remarkably well-turned ankle."

But before Lady Eglinton could frame a reply, Lydie d'Aumont had risen, and placing her hand on Stainville's shoulder, she thrust him gently aside and now stood smiling beside him, perfectly self-possessed, a trifle haughty, looking down on Jeanne de Pompadour's pert face and on the older lady's obviously ill-humoured countenance.

"Nay, Mme. la Marquise," she said, in her own quiet way, "M. le Comte de Stainville's only excuse for his neglect of courtly duties stands before you now."

"Ma foi, Mademoiselle!" retorted the Marquise somewhat testily. "His Majesty, being over-gallant, would perhaps be ready enough to accept it, and so, no doubt, would the guests of M. le Duc, your father—always excepting Mlle, de St. Romans," she added, with more than a point of malice, "and she is not like to prove indulgent."

But Lydie was far too proud, far too conscious also of her own worth, to heed the petty pinpricks which the ladies of the Court of Louis XV were wont to deal so lavishly to one another. She knew quite well that Gaston's name had oft been coupled with that of Mlle. de St. Romans—"la belle brune de Bordeaux," as she was universally called—daughter of the gallant Maréchal just home from Flanders. This gossip was part and parcel of that multifarious scandal to which she had just assured her lover that she no longer would lend an ear.

Therefore she met Mme. de Pompadour's malicious look with one of complete indifference, and ignoring the remark altogether, she said calmly, without the slightest tremor in her voice or hint of annoyance in her face:

"Did I understand you to say, Madame, that His Majesty was tired and desired to leave?"

The Marquise looked vexed, conscious of the snub; she threw a quick look of intelligence to Lady Eglinton, which Lydie no doubt would have caught had she not at that moment turned to her lover in order to give him a smile of assurance and trust.

He, however, seemed self-absorbed just now, equally intent in avoiding her loving glance and Mme. de Pompadour's mocking gaze.

"The King certainly asked for M. de Stainville a while ago," here interposed Lady Eglinton, "and M. le Chevalier de Saint George has begun to make his adieux."

"We'll not detain Mlle. d'Aumont, then," said Mme. de Pompadour. "She will wish to bid our young Pretender an encouraging farewell! Come, M. de Stainville," she added authoritatively, "we'll to His Majesty, but only for two short minutes, then you shall be released man, have no fear, in order to make your peace with la belle brune de Bordeaux. Brrr! I vow I am quite frightened; the minx's black eyes anon shot daggers in this direction."

She beckoned imperiously to Gaston, who still seemed ill at ease, and ready enough to follow her. Lydie could not help noting with a slight tightening of her heartstrings with what alacrity he obeyed.

"Men are so different!" she sighed.

She would have allowed the whole world to look on and to sneer whilst she spent the rest of the evening beside her lover, talking foolish nonsense, planning out the future, or sitting in happy silence, heedless of sarcasm, mockery, or jests.

Her eyes followed him somewhat wistfully as he descended the two steps with easy grace, and with a flourishing bow and a "Mille grâces, Mlle. Lydie!" he turned away without another backward look, and became merged with the crowd.

Her master and future lord, the man whose lips had touched her own! How strange!

She herself could not thus have become one of the throng. Not just yet. She could not have detached herself from him so readily. For some few seconds—minutes perhaps—her earnest eyes tried to distinguish the pale mauve of his coat in the midst of that ever-changing kaleidoscope of dazzling colours. But the search made her eyes burn, and she closed them with the pain.

Men were so different!

And though she had learned much, understood much, with that first kiss, she was still very ignorant, very inexperienced, and quite at sea in those tortuous paths wherein Gaston and Mme. de Pompadour and all the others moved with such perfect ease.

In the meanwhile, M. de Stainville and the Marquise had reached the corridor. From where they now stood they could no longer see the alcove whence Lydie's aching eyes still searched for them in vain; with a merry little laugh Madame drew her dainty hand away from her cavalier's arm.

"There! am I not the beneficent fairy, you rogue?" she said, giving him a playful tap with her fan. "Fie! Will you drive in double harness? You'll come to grief, fair sir, and meseems 'twere not good to trifle with either filly."

"Madame, I entreat!" he protested feebly, wearied of the jest. But he tried not to scowl or to seem impatient, for he was loth to lose the good graces of a lady whose power and influence were unequalled even by Lydie d'Aumont.

Pompadour had favoured him from the very day of her first entry in the brilliant Court of Versailles. His handsome face, his elegant manners, and, above all, his reputation as a consummate mauvais sujet had pleased Mme. la Marquise. Gaston de Stainville was never so occupied with pleasures or amours, but he was ready to pay homage to one more beautiful woman who was willing to smile upon him.

But though she flirted with Gaston, the wily Marquise had no wish to see him at the head of affairs, the State-appointed controller of her caprices and of the King's munificence. He was pleasant enough as an admirer, unscrupulous and daring; but as a master? No.

The thought of a marriage between Mlle. d'Aumont and M. de Stainville, with its obvious consequences on her own future plans, was not to be tolerated for a moment; and Madame wondered greatly how far matters had gone between these two, prior to her own timely interference.

"There!" she said, pointing to an arched doorway close at hand; "go and make your peace whilst I endeavour to divert His Majesty's thoughts from your own wicked person; and remember," she added coquettishly as she bobbed him a short, mocking curtsey, "when you have reached the blissful stage of complete reconciliation, that you owe your happiness to Jeanne de Pompadour."

Etiquette demanded that he should kiss the hand which she now held extended toward him; this he did with as good a grace as he could muster. In his heart of hearts he was wishing the interfering lady back in the victualler's shop of Paris; he was not at all prepared at this moment to encounter the jealous wrath of "la Belle brune de Bordeaux."

Vaguely he thought of flight, but Mme. de Pompadour would not let him off quite so easily. With her own jewelled hand she pushed aside the curtain which masked the doorway, and with a nod of her dainty head she hinted to Gaston to walk into the boudoir.

There was nothing for it but to obey.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans," said the Marquise, peeping into the room in order to reassure herself that the lady was there and alone, "see, I bring the truant back to you. Do not be too severe on him; his indiscretion has been slight, and he will soon forget all about it, if you will allow him to make full confession and to do penance at your feet."

Then she dropped the curtain behind Gaston de Stainville, and, as an additional precaution, lest those two in there should be interrupted too soon, she closed the heavy folding doors which further divided the boudoir from the corridor.

"Now, if milady plays her cards cleverly," she murmured, "she and I will have done a useful evening's work."

CHAPTER VI
A FALSE POSITION

"Gaston!"

M. de Stainville shook off his moodiness. The vision of la belle Irène standing there in the satin-hung boudoir, the soft glow of well-shaded candles shedding an elusive, rosy light on the exquisite figure, with head thrown back and arms stretched out in a gesture of passionate appeal, was too captivating to permit of any other thought having sway over his brain, for the next second or two at any rate.

"I thought you had completely forgotten me to-night," she said as he came rapidly toward her, "and that I should not even get speech of you."

She took his hand and led him gently to a low divan; forcing him to sit down beside her, she studied his face intently for a moment or two.

"Was it necessary?" she asked abruptly.

"You know it was, Irène," he said, divining her thoughts, plunging readily enough now into the discussion which he knew was inevitable. His whole nature rebelled against this situation; he felt a distinct lowering of his manly pride; his masterful spirit chafed at the thought of an explanation which Irène claimed the right to demand.

"I told you, Irène," he continued impatiently, "that I would speak to Mlle. d'Aumont to-night, and if possible obtain a definite promise from her."

"And have you obtained that definite promise?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Lydie d'Aumont promised you that you should be the new State-appointed Minister of Finance?" she insisted.

"Yes! I have her word."

"And—what was the cost?"

"The cost?"

"Yes, the cost," she said, with what was obviously enforced calm. "Lydie d'Aumont did not give you that promise for nothing; you gave her or promised her something in return. What was it?"

Her lips were trembling, and she had some difficulty in preventing her nervous fingers from breaking into pieces the delicate mother-of-pearl fan which they held. But she was determined to appear perfectly calm, and that he should in no way suspect her of working up to a vulgar scene of jealousy.

"You are foolish, Irène!" he said, with his characteristic nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.

"Foolish?" she repeated, still keeping her temper well under control, though it was her voice which was shaking now. "Foolish? Ma foi! when my husband obtains——"

"'Sh! 'sh! 'sh!" he said quickly, as with rough gesture he grasped her wrist, and gave it a warning pressure.

"Bah!" she retorted; "no one can hear."

"The walls have ears!"

"And if they have? I cannot keep up this deception for ever, Gaston."

"'Twere worse than foolish to founder within sight of port."

"You trust Lydie d'Aumont's word then?"

"If you will do nothing to spoil the situation!" he retorted grimly. "Another word such as you said just now, too long a prolongation of this charming tête-à-tête, and Mlle. d'Aumont will make a fresh promise to some one else."

"I was right, then?"

"Right in what?"

"Mlle. d'Aumont promised you the appointment because you made love to her."

"Irène!"

"Why don't you tell me?" she said with passionate vehemence. "Can't you see that I have been torturing myself with jealous fears? I am jealous—can I help it? I suffered martyrdom when I saw you there with her! I could not hear your words, but I could see the earnestness of your attitude. Do I not know every line of your figure, every gesture of your hand? Then the curtain fell at your touch, and I could no longer see—only divine—only tremble and fear. Mon Dieu! did I not love you as I do, were my love merely foolish passion, would I not then have screamed out the truth to all that jabbering crowd that stood between me and you, seeming to mock me with its prattle, and its irresponsible laughter? I am unnerved, Gaston," she added, with a sudden breakdown of her self-control, her voice trembling with sobs, the tears welling to her eyes, and her hands beating against one another with a movement of petulant nervosity. "I could bear it, you know, but for this secrecy, this false position; it is humiliating to me, and—Oh, be kind to me—be kind to me!" she sobbed, giving finally way to a fit of weeping. "I have spent such a miserable evening, all alone."

Stainville's expressive lips curled into a smile. "Be kind to me!"—the same pathetic prayer spoken to him by Lydie a very short while ago. Bah! how little women understood ambition! Even Lydie! Even Irène!

And these two women were nothing to him. Lydie herself was only a stepping-stone; the statuesque and headstrong girl made no appeal to the essentially masculine side of his nature, and he had little love left now for the beautiful passionate woman beside him, whom in a moment of unreasoning impulse he had bound irrevocably to him.

Gaston de Stainville aspired to military honours a couple of years ago; the Maréchal de Saint Romans, friend and mentor of the Dauphin, confidant of the Queen, seemed all-powerful then. Unable to win the father's consent to his union with Irène—for the Maréchal had more ambitious views for his only daughter and looked with ill-favour on the young gallant who had little to offer but his own handsome person, an ancient name, and a passionate desire for advancement—Gaston, who had succeeded in enchaining the young girl's affections, had no difficulty in persuading her to agree to a secret marriage.

But the wheel of fate proved as erratic in its movements as the flights of Stainville's ambition. With the appearance of Jeanne Poisson d'Étioles at the Court of Versailles, the Queen's gentle influence over Louis XV waned, and her friends fell into disfavour and obscurity. The Maréchal de Saint Romans was given an unimportant command in Flanders; there was nothing to be gained for the moment from an open alliance with his daughter. Gaston de Stainville, an avowed opportunist, paid his court to the newly risen star and was received with smiles, but he could not shake himself from the matrimonial fetters which he himself had forged.

The rapid rise of the Duc d'Aumont to power and the overwhelming ascendancy of Lydie in the affairs of State had made the young man chafe bitterly against the indestructible barrier which he himself had erected between his desires and their fulfilment. His passion for Irène did not yield to the early love of his childhood's days; it was drowned in the newly risen flood of more boundless ambition. It was merely the casting aside of one stepping-stone for another more firm and more prominent.

Just now in the secluded alcove, when the proud, reserved girl had laid bare before him the secrets of her virginal soul, when with pathetic abandonment she laid the sceptre of her influence and power at his feet, he had felt neither compunction nor remorse; now, when the woman who had trusted and blindly obeyed him asked for his help and support in a moral crisis, he was conscious only of a sense of irritation and even of contempt, which he tried vainly to disguise.

At the same time he knew well that it is never wise to tax a woman's submission too heavily. Irène had yielded to his wish that their marriage be kept a secret for the present only because she, too, was tainted with a touch of that unscrupulous ambition which was the chief characteristic of the epoch. She was shrewd enough to know that her husband would have but little chance in elbowing his way up the ladder of power—"each rung of which was wrapped in a petticoat," as M. de Voltaire had pertinently put it—if he was known to be dragging a wife at his heels; Gaston had had no difficulty in making her understand that his personality as a gay and irresponsible butterfly, as a man of fashion, and a squire of dames, was the most important factor in the coming fight for the virtual dominion of France.

She had accepted the position at first with an easy grace; she knew her Gaston, and knew that he must not be handled with too tight a curb; moreover, her secret status pleased her, whilst he remained avowedly faithful to her she liked to see him court and smile, a preux chevalier with the ladies; she relished the thought of being the jailer to that gaily-plumaged bird, whom bright eyes and smiling lips tried to entice and enchain.

But to-night a crisis had come; something in Gaston's attitude toward Lydie had irritated her beyond what she was prepared to endure. His love for her had begun to wane long ago; she knew that, but she was not inclined to see it bestowed on another. Stainville feared that she was losing self-control, and that she might betray all and lose all if he did not succeed in laying her jealous wrath to rest. He was past master in the art of dealing with a woman's tears.

"Irène," he said earnestly, "I have far too much respect for you to look upon this childish outburst of tears as representing the true state of your feelings. You are unnerved—you own it yourself. Will you allow me to hold your hand?" he said with abrupt transition.

Then as she yielded her trembling hand to him he pressed a lingering kiss in the icy cold palm.

"Will you not accept with this kiss the assurance of my unswerving faith and loyalty?" he said, speaking in that low, deep-toned voice of his which he knew so well how to make tender and appealing to the heart of women. "Irène, if I have committed an indiscretion to-night, if I allowed my ambition to soar beyond the bounds of prudence, will you not believe that with my ambition my thoughts flew up to you and only came down to earth in order to rest at your feet?"

He had drawn her close to him, ready to whisper in her ear, as he had whispered half an hour ago in those of Lydie. He wanted this woman's trust and confidence just a very little while longer, and he found words readily enough with which to hoodwink and to cajole. Irène was an easier prey than Lydie. She was his wife and her ambitions were bound up with his; her mistrust only came from jealousy, and jealousy in a woman is so easily conquered momentarily, if she be beautiful and young and the man ardent and unscrupulous.

Gaston as yet had no difficult task; but every day would increase those difficulties, until he had finally grasped the aim of his ambitious desires and had rid himself of Lydie.

"Irène!" he whispered now, for he felt that she was consoled, and being consoled, she was ready to yield. "Irène, my wife, a little more patience, a little more trust. Two days—a week—what matter? Shut your eyes to all save this one moment to-night, when your husband is at your feet and when his soul goes out to yours in one long, and tender kiss. Your lips, ma mie!"

She bent her head to him. Womanlike, she could not resist. Memory came to his aid as he pleaded, the memory of those early days on the vine-clad hills near Bordeaux, when he had wooed and won her with the savour of his kiss.

CHAPTER VII
THE YOUNG PRETENDER

And Lydie d'Aumont's eyes had watched his disappearing figure through the crowd, until she could bear the sight no longer, and closed them with the pain.

An even, pleasant, very courteous voice roused her from her reverie.

"You are tired, Mlle. d'Aumont. May I—that is, I should be very proud if you would allow me to—er——"

She opened her eyes and saw the handsome face of "le petit Anglais" turned up to her with a look of humility, a deprecatory offer of service, and withal a strange mingling of compassion which somehow at this moment, in her sensitive and nervous state, seemed to wound and sting her.

"I'm not the least tired," she said coldly; "I thank you, milor. The colours and the light were so dazzling for the moment, my eyes closed involuntarily."

"I humbly beg your pardon," said Eglinton with nervous haste; "I thought that perhaps a glass of wine——"

"Tush child!" interposed Lady Eglinton in her harsh dry voice; "have you not heard that Mlle. d'Aumont is not fatigued. Offer her the support of your arm and take her to see the Chevalier de Saint George, who is waiting to bid her 'good-bye.'"

"Nay! I assure you I can walk alone," rejoined Lydie, taking no heed to the proffered arm which Lord Eglinton, in obedience to his mother's suggestion, was holding out toward her. "Where is His Majesty the King of England?" emphasizing the title with marked reproof, and looking with somewhat good-natured contempt at the young Englishman who, with a crestfallen air, had already dropped the arm which she had disdained and stepped quickly out of her way, whilst a sudden blush spread over his good-looking face.

He looked so confused and sheepish, so like a chidden child, that she was instantly seized with remorse, as if she had teased a defenseless animal, and though the touch of contempt was still apparent in her attitude, she said more kindly:

"I pray you forgive me, milor. I am loth to think that perhaps our gallant Chevalier will never bear his rightful title in his own country. I feel that it cheers him to hear us—who are in true sympathy with him—calling him by that name. Shall we go find the King of England and wish him 'God-speed'?"

She beckoned to Lord Eglinton, but he had probably not yet sufficiently recovered from the snub administered to him to realize that the encouraging glance was intended for him, and he hung back, not daring to follow, instinctively appealing to his mother for guidance as to what he should do.

"He is modest," said Lady Eglinton, with the air of a proud mother lauding her young offspring. "A heart of gold, my dear Mlle. d'Aumont!" she whispered behind her fan, "under a simple exterior."

Lydie shrugged her shoulders with impatience. She knew whither Lady Eglinton's praises of her son would drift presently. The pompous lady looked for all the world like a fussy hen, her stiff brocaded gown and voluminous paniers standing out in stiff folds each side of her portly figure like a pair of wings, and to Lydie d'Aumont's proud spirit it seemed more than humiliating for a man, rich, young, apparently in perfect health, to allow himself to be domineered over by so vapid a personality as was milady Eglinton.

Instinctively her thoughts flew back to Gaston; very different physically to "le petit Anglais;" undoubtedly not so attractive from the point of view of manly grace and bearing, but a man for all that! with a man's weaknesses and failings, and just that spice of devilry and uncertainty in him which was pleasing to a woman.

"So unreliable, my dear Mlle. d'Aumont," came in insinuating accents from Lady Eglinton. "Look at his lengthy entanglement with Mlle. de Saint Romans."

Lydie gave a start sudden; had she spoken her thoughts out loudly whilst her own mind was buried in happy retrospect? She must have been dreaming momentarily certainly, and must have been strangely absent-minded, for she was quite unconscious of having descended the alcove steps until she found herself walking between Lord Eglinton and his odious mother, in the direction of the corridors, whilst milady went prattling on with irritating monotony:

"You would find such support in my son. The Chevalier de Saint George—er—I mean the King of England—trusts him absolutely, you understand—they have been friends since boyhood. Harry would do more for him if he could, but he has not the power. Now as Comptroller of Finance—you understand? You have such sympathy with the Stuart pretensions, Mademoiselle, and a union of sympathies would do much towards furthering the success of so just a cause; and if my son—you understand——"

Lydie's ears were buzzing with the incessant chatter. Had she not been so absorbed in her thoughts she would have laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. This insignificant nonentity beside her, with the strength and character of a chicken, pushed into a place of influence and power by that hen-like mother, and she—Lydie—lending a hand to this installation of a backboneless weakling to the highest position of France!

The situation would have been supremely ridiculous were it not for the element of pathos in it—the pathos of a young life which might have been so brilliant, so full of activity and interest, now tied to the apron-strings of an interfering mother.

Lydie herself, though accustomed to rule in one of the widest spheres that ever fell to woman's lot, wielded her sceptre with discretion and tact. In these days when the King was ruled by Pompadour, when Mme. du Châtelet swayed the mind of Voltaire, and Marie Thérèse subjugated the Hungarians, there was nothing of the blatant petticoat government in Lydie's influence over her father. The obtrusive domination of a woman like milady was obnoxious and abhorrent to her mind, proud of its feminity, gentle in the consciousness of its strength.

Now she feared that, forgetful of courtly manners, she might say or do something which would offend the redoubtable lady. There was still the whole length of the banqueting-hall to traverse, also the corridor, before she could hope to be released from so unwelcome a companionship.

Apparently unconscious of having roused Lydie's disapproval, milady continued to prattle. Her subject of conversation was still her son, and noting that his attention seemed to be wandering, she called to him in her imperious voice:

"Harry! Harry!" she said impatiently. "Am I to to be your spokesman from first to last? Ah!" she added, with a sigh, "men are not what they were when I was wooed and won. What say you, my dear Mlle. Lydie? The age of chivalry, of doughty deeds and bold adventures, is indeed past and gone, else a young man of Lord Eglinton's advantages would not depute his own mother to do his courting for him."

A shriek of laughter which threatened to be hysterical rose to Lydie's throat. How gladly would she have beaten a precipitate retreat. Unfortunately the room was crowded with people, who unconsciously impeded progress. She turned and looked at "le petit Anglais," the sorry hero of this prosaic wooing, wondering what was his rôle in this silly, childish intrigue. She met his gentle eyes fixed upon hers with a look which somehow reminded her of a St. Bernard dog that she had once possessed; there was such a fund of self-deprecation, such abject apology in the look, that she felt quite unaccountably sorry for him, and the laughter died before it reached her lips.

Something prompted her to try and reassure him; the same feeling would have caused her to pat the head of her dog.

"I feel sure," she said kindly, "that Lord Eglinton will have no need of a proxy once he sets his mind on serious wooing."

"But this is serious!" retorted Lady Eglinton testily. Lydie shook her head:

"As little serious as his lordship's desire to control the finances of France."

"Oh! but who better fitted for the post than my son. He is so rich—the richest man in France, and in these days of bribery and corruption—you understand, and—and being partly English—not wholly, I am thankful to say—for I abominate the English myself; but we must own that they are very shrewd where money is concerned—and——"

"In the name of Heaven, milady," said Lydie irritably, "will you not allow your son to know his own mind? If he has a request to place before M. le Duc my father or before me, let him do so for himself."

"I think—er—perhaps Mlle. d'Aumont is right," here interposed Lord Eglinton gently. "You will—er—I hope, excuse my mother, Mademoiselle; she is so used to my consulting her in everything that perhaps—— You see," he continued in his nervous halting, way, "I—I am rather stupid and I am very lazy; she thinks I should understand finance, because I—but I don't believe I should; I——"

Her earnest eyes, fixed with good-humoured indulgence upon his anxious face, seemed to upset him altogether. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt as if it were several sizes too large for his parched mouth. For the moment it looked as if the small modicum of courage which he possessed would completely give out, but noting that just for the moment his mother was engaged in exchanging hasty greetings with a friend, he seemed to make a violent and sudden effort, and with the audacity which sometimes assails the preternaturally weak, he plunged wildly into his subject.

"I have no desire for positions which I am too stupid to fill," he said, speaking so rapidly that Lydie could hardly follow him; "but, Mademoiselle, I entreat you do not believe that my admiration for you is not serious. I know I am quite unworthy to be even your lacquey, though I wouldn't mind being that, since it would bring me sometimes near you. Please, please, don't look at me—I am such a clumsy fool, and I daresay I am putting things all wrong! My mother says," he added, with a pathetic little sigh, "that I shall spoil everything if I open my mouth, and now I have done it, and you are angry, and I wish to God somebody would come and give me a kick!"

He paused, flushed, panting and excited, having come to the end of his courage, whilst Lydie did not know if she should be angry or sorry. A smile hovered round her lips, yet she would gladly have seen some manlike creature administer chastisement to this foolish weakling. Her keenly analytical mind flew at once to comparisons.

Gaston de Stainville—and now this poor specimen of manhood! She had twice been wooed in this self-same room within half an hour; but how different had been the methods of courting. A look of indulgence for the weak, a flash of pride for the strong, quickly lit up her statuesque face. It was the strong who had won, though womanlike, she felt a kindly pity for him who did not even dare to ask for that which the other had so boldly claimed as his right—her love.

Fortunately, the tête-à-tête, which was rapidly becoming embarrassing—for she really did not know how to reply to this strange and halting profession of love—was at last drawing to a close. At the end of the corridor Charles Edward Stuart, surrounded by a group of friends, had caught sight of her, and with gracious courtesy he advanced to meet her.

"Ah! the gods do indeed favour us," he said gallantly in answer to her respectful salute, and nodding casually to Lady Eglinton, who had bobbed him a grudging curtsey, "We feared that our enemy, Time, treading hard on our heels, would force us to depart ere we had greeted our Muse."

"Your Majesty is leaving us?" she asked. "So soon?"

"Alas! the hour is late. We start to-morrow at daybreak."

"God speed you, Sire!" she said fervently.

"To my death," he rejoined gloomily.

"To victory, Sire, and your Majesty's own kingdom!" she retorted cheerily. "Nay! I, your humble, yet most faithful adherent, refuse to be cast down to-night. See," she added, pointing to the group of gentlemen who had remained discreetly in the distance, "you have brave hearts to cheer you, brave swords to help you!"

"Would I were sure of a brave ship to rescue me and them if I fail!" he murmured.

She tossed her head with a characteristic movement of impatience.

"Nay! I was determined not to speak of failure to-night, Sire."

"Yet must I think of it," he rejoined, "since the lives of my friends are dependent on me."

"They give their lives gladly for your cause."

"I would prefer to think that a good ship from France was ready to take them aboard if evil luck force us to flee."

"France has promised you that ship, Monseigneur," she said earnestly:

"If France meant you, Mademoiselle," he said firmly, "I would believe in her."

"She almost means Lydie d'Aumont!" retorted the young girl, with conscious pride.

"Only for a moment," broke in Lady Eglinton spitefully; "but girls marry," she added, "and every husband may not be willing to be held under the sway of satin petticoats."

"If France fails you, Monseigneur," here interposed a gentle voice, "I have already had the honour of assuring you that there is enough Eglinton money still in the country to fit out a ship for your safety; and—er——"

Then, as if ashamed of this outburst, the second of which he had been guilty to-night, "le petit Anglais" once more relapsed into silence. But Lydie threw him a look of encouragement.

"Well spoken, milor!" she said approvingly.

With her quick intuition she had already perceived that milady was displeased, and she took a malicious pleasure in dragging Lord Eglinton further into the conversation. She knew quite well that milady cared naught about the Stuarts or their fate. From the day of her marriage she had dissociated herself from the cause, for the furtherance of which her husband's father had given up home and country.

It was her influence which had detached the late Lord Eglinton from the fortunes of the two Pretenders; justly, perhaps, since the expeditions were foredoomed to failure, and Protestant England rightly or wrongly mistrusted all the Stuarts. But Lydie's romantic instincts could not imagine an Englishman in any other capacity save as the champion of the forlorn cause; one of the principal reasons why she had always disliked the Eglintons was because they held themselves aloof from the knot of friends who gathered round Charles Edward.

She was, therefore, not a little surprised to hear "le petit Anglais" promising at least loyal aid and succour in case of disaster, since he could not give active support to the proposed expedition. That he had made no idle boast when he spoke of Eglinton money she knew quite well, nor was it said in vain arrogance, merely as a statement of fact. Milady's vexation proved that it was true.

Delighted and eager, she threw herself with all the ardour of her romantic impulses into this new train of thought suggested by Lord Eglinton's halting speech.

"Ah, milor," she said joyously, and not heeding Lady Eglinton's scowl, "now that I have an ally in you my dream can become a reality. Nay, Sire, you shall start for England with every hope, every assurance of success, but if you fail, you and those you care for shall be safe. Will you listen to my plan?"

"Willingly."

"Lord Eglinton is your friend—at least, you trust him, do you not?"

"I trust absolutely in the loyalty of his house toward mine," replied Charles Edward unhesitatingly.

"Then do you agree with him, and with him alone, on a spot in England or Scotland where a ship would find you in case of failure."

"That has been done already," said Eglinton simply.

"And if ill-luck pursues us, we will make straight for that spot and await salvation from France."

Lydie said no more; she was conscious of a distinct feeling of disappointment that her own plan should have been forestalled. She had fondled the notion, born but a moment ago, that if her own influence were not sufficiently great in the near future to induce King Louis to send a rescue ship for the Young Pretender if necessary, she could then, with Lord Eglinton's money, fit out a private expedition and snatch the last of the Stuarts from the vengeance of his enemies. The romantic idea had appealed to her, and she had been forestalled. She tried to read the thoughts of those around her. Lady Eglinton was evidently ignorant of the details of the plan; she seemed surprised and vastly disapproving. Charles Edward was whispering a few hasty words in the ear of his friend, whom obviously he trusted more than he did the word of France or the enthusiasm of Mlle. d'Aumont.

"Le petit Anglais" had relapsed into his usual state of nervousness, and his eyes wandered uneasily from Lydie's face to that of his royal companion, whilst with restless fingers he fidgeted the signet ring which adorned his left hand. Suddenly he slipped the ring off and Charles Edward Stuart examined it very attentively, then returned it to its owner with a keen look of intelligence and a nod of approval.

Lydie was indeed too late with her romantic plan; these two men had thought it all out before her in every detail—even to the ring. She, too, had thought of a token which would be an assurance to the fugitives that they might trust the bearer thereof. She felt quite childishly vexed at all this. It was an unusual thing in France these days to transact serious business without consulting Mlle. d'Aumont.

"You are taking it for granted, Sire, that France will fail you?" she said somewhat testily.

"Nay! why should you say that?" he asked.

"Oh! the ring—the obvious understanding between you and milor."

"Was it not your wish, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh! a mere suggestion—in case France failed you, and I were powerless to remind her of her promise."

"Pa ma foi," he rejoined gallantly, "and you'll command me, I'll believe that contingency to be impossible. The whole matter of the ring is a whim of Eglinton's, and I swear that I'll only trust to France and to you."

"No, no!" she said quickly, her own sound common sense coming to the rescue just in time to rout the unreasoning petulance of a while ago, which truly had been unworthy of her. "It was foolish of me to taunt, and I pray your Majesty's forgiveness. It would have been joy and pride to me to feel that the plans for your Majesty's safety had been devised by me, but I gladly recognize that milor Eglinton hath in this matter the prior claim."

Her little speech was delivered so simply and with such a noble air of self-effacement that it is small wonder that Charles Edward could but stand in speechless admiration before her. She looked such an exquisite picture of proud and self-reliant womanhood, as she stood there, tall and erect, the stiff folds of her white satin gown surrounding her like a frame of ivory round a dainty miniature. Tears of enthusiasm were in her eyes, her lips were parted with a smile of encouragement, her graceful head, thrown slightly back and crowned with the burnished gold of her hair, stood out in perfect relief against the soft-toned gold and veined marble of the walls.

"I entreat you, Mademoiselle," said the Young Pretender at last, "do not render my departure too difficult by showing me so plainly all that I relinquish when I quit the fair shores of France."

"Your Majesty leaves many faithful hearts in Versailles, none the less true because they cannot follow you. Nay! but methinks Lord Eglinton and I will have to make a pact of friendship, so that when your Majesty hath gone we might often speak of you."

"Speak of me often and to the King," rejoined Charles Edward, with a quick return to his former mood. "I have a premonition that I shall have need of his help."

Then he bowed before her, and she curtsyed very low until her young head was almost down to the level of his knees. He took her hand and kissed it with the respect due to an equal.

"Farewell, Sire, and God speed you!" she murmured. He seemed quite reluctant to go. Gloom had once more completely settled over his spirits, and Lydie d'Aumont, clad all in white like some graceful statue carved in marble, seemed to him the figure of Hope on which a relentless fate forced him to turn his back.

His friends now approached and surrounded him. Some were leaving Versailles and France with him on the morrow, others accompanied him in spirit only with good wishes and anxious sighs. Charles Edward Stuart, the unfortunate descendant of an unfortunate race, turned with a final appealing look to the man he trusted most.

"Be not a broken reed to me, Eglinton," he said sadly. "Try and prevent France from altogether forgetting me."

Lydie averted her head in order to hide the tears of pity which had risen to her eyes.

"Oh, unfortunate Prince! if thine only prop is this poor weakling whose dog-like affection has no moral strength to give it support!"

When she turned once more toward him, ready to bid him a final adieu, he was walking rapidly away from her down the long narrow corridor, leaning on Eglinton's arm and closely surrounded by his friends. In the far distance King Louis the Well-beloved strolled leisurely toward his departing guest, leaning lightly on the arm of Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour.

CHAPTER VIII
THE LAST TRICK

The noise of talk and laughter still filled the old château from end to end. Though the special guest of the evening had departed and royalty no longer graced the proceedings, since His Majesty had driven away to Versailles after having bidden adieu to the Chevalier de Saint George, M. le Duc d'Aumont's less important visitors showed no signs as yet of wishing to break up this convivial night.

The sound of dance music filled the air, and from the salle d'armes the merry strains of the gavotte, the tripping of innumerable feet, the incessant buzz of young voices, reached the more distant corridor like an echo from fairyland.

Lydie had remained quite a little while leaning against the cool marble wall, watching with eager intentness the group of gallant English and Scotch gentlemen congregated round their young Prince. Louis the Well-beloved, with that graciousness peculiar to all the Bourbons, had, severally and individually bidden "good-bye" to all. Each in turn had kissed the podgy white hand of the King of France, who had been so benignant a host to them all. None understood better than Louis XV, the art of leaving a pleasing impression on the mind of a departing friend. He had a smile, a jest, a word of encouragement for each whilst Jeanne de Pompadour, with one dainty hand on the King's shoulder, the other flirting her fan, emphasized each token of royal goodwill and of royal favour.

"Ah! milor Dunkeld, a pleasing journey to you. M. le Marquis de Perth, I pray you do not, amidst the fogs of England, forget the sunshine of France. Sir André Seafield, your absence will bring many tears to a pair of blue eyes I wot of."

She pronounced the foreign names with dainty affectation, and Louis had much ado to keep his eyes away from that bright, smiling face, and those ever-recurring dimples. Lydie felt a strange nausea at sight of these noble, high-born gentlemen paying such reverential homage to the low-born adventuress, and a deep frown appeared between her eyes when she saw Charles Edward Stuart bending as low before Jeanne Poisson as he had done just now before her—Lydie, daughter of the Duc d'Aumont.

Bah! what did it matter, after all? This world of irresponsible butterflies, of petty machinations and self-seeking intrigues: would she not quit it to-morrow for a land of poetry and romance, where women wield no sceptre save that of beauty, and where but one ruler is acknowledged and his name is Love?

She made a strenuous attempt to detach herself mentally from her surroundings; with a great effort of her will she succeeded in losing sight of the individuality of all these people round her. Lady Eglinton still talking at random beside her, Mme. de Pompadour yielding her hand to the kiss of a Stuart Prince, that fat and pompous man, whom duty bade her call "Your Majesty," all became mere puppets—dolls that laughed and chatted and danced, hanging on invisible strings, which the mighty hand of some grim giant was dangling for the amusement of his kind.

How paltry it seemed all at once! What did it matter if France was ruled by that vapid King or by that brainless, overdressed woman beside him? What did it matter if that young man with the shifty blue eyes and the fair, curly hair succeeded in ousting another man from the English throne?

What did matter was that Gaston was not faithless, that he loved her, and that she had felt the sweetness of a first kiss!

Happily back in dreamland now, she could once more afford to play her part amongst the marionettes. She was willing to yield the string which made her dance and talk and move into the hands of the fiercely humorous giant up aloft. No doubt it was he who pulled her along the corridor, made her join the group that congregated round departing royalty.

M. le Duc d'Aumont—the perfect courtier and gentleman—was already formulating his adieux. His Majesty the King of France would, by the rigid rule of etiquette, be the first to leave. Accompanied by Mme. de Pompadour and followed by M. le Duc, he was commencing his progress down the monumental staircase which led to the great entrance hall below.

Lydie, still made to move no doubt by that invisible giant hand, found it quite simple and easy to mingle with the crowd, to take the King's arm, being his hostess, whilst M. le Duc her father and Mme. de Pompadour followed close behind.

With her spirit wandering in dreamland, she was naturally somewhat distraite—not too much so, only sufficiently to cause Louis XV to make comparisons betwixt his sprightly Jeanne and this animated statue, whose cold little hand rested so impassively on the satin of his coat.

At the foot of the perron the King's Flemish horses, as round of body and heavy of gait as himself, were impatiently pawing the ground. The opening of the great gates sent a wave of sweet-scented air into the overheated château. Lydie was glad that her duty demanded that she should accompany the King down the steps to the door of his coach. The cool night breeze fanned her cheeks most pleasingly, the scent of June roses and of clove carnations filled the air, and from below the terraced gardens there came the softly-murmuring ripple of the Seine, winding her graceful curves toward the mighty city of Paris beyond.

Far away to the east, beyond the grim outline of cedar and poplar trees, a fair crescent moon appeared, chaste and cold.

"An emblem of our fair hostess to-night," said Louis with clumsy gallantry and pointing up to the sky, as Lydie bent her tall figure and kissed the royal hand.

Then she stood aside, having made a cold bow to Mme. de Pompadour; the fair Marquise was accompanying His Majesty to Versailles; she stepped into the coach beside him, surrounded by murmurs of flattery and adulation. Even Charles Edward made her a final speech of somewhat forced gallantry; he was the last to kiss her hand, and Lydie could almost hear the softly whispered words of entreaty with which he bade her not to forget.

And Jeanne Poisson—daughter of a kitchen wench—was condescendingly gracious to a Stuart Prince; then she calmly waved him aside, whilst the King apparently was content to wait, and called Lady Eglinton to the door of the coach.

"You are wasting too much time," she whispered quickly; "an you don't hurry now, you will be too late."

At last the departure was effected; the crowd, with backbone bent and tricornes sweeping the ground, waited in that uncomfortable position until the gilded coach and the men in gorgeous blue and gold liveries were swallowed in the gloom of the chestnut avenue; then it broke up into isolated groups. Lydie had done her duty as hostess; she had taken such leave as etiquette demanded from Charles Edward Stuart and his friends. Coaches and chairs came up to the perron in quick succession now, bearing the adventurers away on this, the first stage of their hazardous expedition. When would they sup again in such luxury? when would the frou-frou of silk, the flutter of fans, the sound of dance music once more pleasantly tickle their ears? To-morrow, and for many a long day to come it would be hurried meals in out-of-the-way places, the call to horse, the clink of arms.

Puppets! puppets all! for what did it matter?

Lydie would have loved to have lingered out on the terrace awhile longer. The oak-leaved geraniums down at the foot of the terrace steps threw an intoxicating lemon-scented fragrance in the air, the row of stunted orange trees still bore a few tardy blossoms, and in the copse yonder, away from the din and the bustle made by the marionettes, it must be delicious to wander on the carpet of moss and perchance to hear the melancholy note of a nightingale.

"Do you think not, Mademoiselle, that this night air is treacherous?" said Lord Eglinton, with his accustomed diffidence. "You seem to be shivering; will you allow me the honour of bringing your cloak?"

She thanked him quite kindly. Somehow his gentle voice did not jar on her mood. Since Gaston was not there, she felt that she would sooner have this unobtrusive, pleasant man beside her than any one else. He seemed to have something womanish and tender in his feeble nature which his mother lacked. Perhaps milady had divested herself of her natural attributes in order to grace her son with them, since she had been unable to instil more manly qualities into him.

But Lydie's heart ached for a sight of Gaston. The clock in the tower of the old château chimed the hour before midnight. It was but half an hour since she had parted from him on the steps of the alcove; she remembered quite distinctly hearing the bracket clock close by strike half-past ten, at the same moment as Pompadour's shrill laugh broke upon her ear.

Half an hour? Why, it seemed a lifetime since then; and while she had made her bow to the Stuart Prince and then to King Louis, while she had allowed the unseen giant to move her from place to place on a string, perhaps Gaston had been seeking for her, perhaps his heart had longed for her too, and a sting of jealousy of her multifarious social duties was even now marring the glory of happy memories.

Without another moment's hesitation she turned her back on the peaceful gloom of the night, on the silver crescent moon, the fragrance of carnations and orange-blossoms, and walked quickly up the perron steps with a hasty: "You are right, milor, the night air is somewhat chilling and my guests will be awaiting me," thrown over her shoulder at her bashful cavalier.

Beyond the noble entrance doors the vast hall was now practically deserted, save for a group of flunkeys, gorgeous and solemn, who stood awaiting the departure of their respective masters. At the farther end which led to the main corridor, Lydie, to her chagrin, caught sight of Lady Eglinton's brobdingnagian back.

"What an obsession!" she sighed, and hoped that milady would fail to notice her. Already she was planning hasty flight along a narrow passage, when a question authoritatively put by her ladyship to a magnificent person clad in a purple livery with broad white facings arrested her attention.

"Is your master still in the boudoir, do you know?"

"I do not know, Mme. la Marquise," the man replied. "I have not seen M. le Comte since half an hour."

The purple livery with broad white facings was that of the Comte de Stainville.

"I have a message for M. le Comte from Mme. de Pompadour," said Lady Eglinton carelessly. "I'll find him, I daresay."

And she turned into the great corridor.

Lydie no longer thought of flight; an unexplainable impulse caught her to change her mind, and to follow in Lady Eglinton's wake. She could not then have said if "le petit Anglais" was still near her not. She had for the moment forgotten his insignificant existence.

There was an extraordinary feeling of unreality about herself and her movements, about the voluminous person ahead clad in large-flowered azure brocade and closely followed by a stiff automaton in purple and white; they seemed to be leading her along some strange and unexpected paths, at the end of which Lydie somehow felt sure that grinning apes would be awaiting her.

Anon Lady Eglinton paused, with her hand on the handle of a door; she caught sight of Mlle. d'Aumont and seemed much surprised to see her there. She called to her by name, in that harsh voice which Lydie detested, whilst the obsequious automaton came forward and relieved her from the trouble of turning that handle herself.

"Allow me, milady."

The door flew open, the flunkey at the same moment also drew a heavy curtain aside.

Lydie had just come up quite close, in answer to Lady Eglinton's call. She was standing facing the door when Bénédict threw it open, announcing with mechanical correctness of attitude:

"Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, M. le Comte!"

At first Lydie only saw Gaston as he turned to face the intruders. His face was flushed, and he muttered a quickly-suppressed oath. But already she had guessed, even before Lady Eglinton's strident voice had set her every nerve a-tingling.

"Mlle. de Saint Romans!" said milady, with a shrill laugh, "a thousand pardons! I had a message from Mme. de Pompadour for M. le Comte de Stainville, and thought to find him alone. A thousand pardons, I beg—the intrusion was involuntary—and the message unimportant—I'll deliver it when Monsieur is less pleasantly engaged."

Lydie at that moment could not have stirred one limb, if her very life had depended on a movement from her. The feeling of unreality had gone. It was no longer that. It was a grim, hideous, awful reality. That beautiful woman there was reality, and real, too, were the glowing eyes that flashed defiance at milady, the lips parted for that last kiss which the flunkey's voice had interrupted, the stray black curls which had escaped from the trammels of the elaborate coiffure and lay matted on the damp forehead.

And those roses, too, which had adorned her corsage, now lying broken and trampled on the floor, the candles burning dimly in their sockets, and Gaston's look of wrath, quickly followed by one of fear—all—all that was real!

Real to the awful shame of it all—milady's sneer of triumph, the oath which had risen to Gaston's lips, the wooden figure of the lacquey standing impassive at the door!

Instinctively Lydie's hand flew to her lips; oh, that she could have wiped out the last, lingering memory of that kiss. She, the proud and reserved vestal, a Diana chaste and cold, with lips now for ever polluted by contact with those of a liar. A liar, a traitor, a sycophant! She lashed her haughty spirit into fury, the better to feel the utter degradation of her own abasement.

She did not speak. What could she say! One look at Gaston's face and she understood that her humiliation was complete; his eyes did not even seek her pardon, they expressed neither sorrow nor shame, only impotent wrath and fear of baffled ambition. Not before all these people would she betray herself, before that beautiful rival, or that vulgar intrigante, not before Gaston or his lacquey, and beyond that mechanical movement of hand to lips, beyond one short flash of unutterable pride and contempt, she remained silent and rigid, whilst her quick eyes took in a complete mental vision of that never to-be-forgotten picture—the dimly-lighted boudoir, the defiant figure of Irène de Saint Romans, the crushed roses on the floor.

Then with a heart-broken sigh unheard by the other actors in this moving tableaux, and covering her face with her hands, she began to walk rapidly down the corridor.

CHAPTER IX
THE WINNING HAND

But Lydie d'Aumont had not gone five paces before she heard a quick, sharp call, followed by the rustle of silk on the marble floor.

The next moment she felt a firm, hot grip on her wrist, and her left hand was forcibly drawn away from her face, whilst an eager voice spoke quick, vehement words, the purport of which failed at first to reach her brain.

"You shall not go, Mlle. d'Aumont," were the first coherent words which she seemed to understand—"you cannot—it is not just, not fair until you have heard!"

"There is nothing which I need hear," interrupted Lydie coldly, the moment she realized that it was Irène de Saint Romans who was addressing her; "and I pray you to let me go."

"Nay! but you shall hear, you must!" rejoined the other without releasing her grasp on the young girl's wrist. Her hand was hot, and her fingers had the strength of intense excitement. Lydie could not free herself, strive how she might.

"Do you not see that this is most unfair?" continued Irène with great volubility. "Am I to be snubbed like some kitchen wench caught kissing behind doorways? Look at milady Eglinton and her ill-natured sneer. I'll not tolerate it, nor your looks of proud contempt! I'll not—I'll not! Gaston! Gaston!" she now exclaimed, turning to de Stainville, who was standing, silent and sullen, whilst he saw his wife gradually lashing herself into wrathful agitation at his own indifference and Lydie's cold disdain. "If you have a spark of courage left in you, tell that malicious intrigante and this scornful minx that if I were to spend the whole evening in the boudoir en tête-à-tête with you, aye! and behind closed doors if I chose who shall have a word to say, when I am in the company of my own husband?"

"Your husband!"

The ejaculation came from Lady Eglinton's astonished lips. Lydie had not stirred. She did not seem to have heard, and certainly Irène's triumphant announcement left her as cold, as impassive as before. What did it matter, after all, what special form Gaston's lies to her had assumed? Nothing that he or Irène said or did could add to his baseness and infamy.

"Aye, my husband, milady!" continued the other more calmly, as she finally released Lydie's wrist and cast it, laughing, from her. "I am called Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, and will be called so in the future openly. Now you may rejoin your guests, Mlle. d'Aumont; my reputation stands as far beyond reproach as did your own before you spent a mysterious half hour with my husband behind the curtains of an alcove."

She turned to de Stainville, who, in spite of his wife's provocative attitude, had remained silent, cursing the evil fate which had played him this trick, cursing the three women who were both the cause and the witnesses of his discomfiture.

"Your arm, Gaston!" she said peremptorily; "and you, Benedict, call your master's coach and my chair. Mlle. d'Aumont, your servant. If I have been the means of dissipating a happy illusion, you may curse me now, but you will bless me to-morrow. Gaston has been false to you—he is not over true to me—but he is my husband, and as such I must claim him. For the sake of his schemes, of his ambitions, I kept our marriage a secret so that he might rise to higher places than I had the power to give him. When your disdainful looks classed me with a flirty kitchen-wench I rebelled at last. I trust that you are proud enough not to vent your disappointment on Gaston; but if you do, 'tis no matter; I'll find means of consoling him."

She made the young girl a low and sweeping curtesy in the most approved style demanded by the elabourate etiquette of the time. There was a gleam of mocking triumph in her eyes, which she did not attempt to conceal, and which suddenly stung Lydie's pride to the quick.

It is strange indeed that often at a moment when a woman's whole happiness is destroyed with one blow, when a gigantic cataclysm revolutionises with one fell swoop her entire mode of thought, dispels all her dreams and shatters her illusions, it is always the tiny final pin-prick which causes her the most acute pain and influences the whole of her subsequent conduct.

It was Irène's mocking curtsey which roused Lydie from her mental torpor, because it brought her—as it were—in actual physical contact with all that she would have to endure openly in the future, as apart from the hidden misery of her heart.

Gaston's shamed face was no longer the only image which seared her eyes and brain. The world, her own social world, seemed all at once to reawaken before her. That world would sneer even as Irène de Stainville sneered; it would laugh at and enjoy her own discomfiture. She—Lydie d'Aumont—the proud and influential daughter of the Prime Minister of France, whom flatterers and sycophants approached mentally on bended knees, for whom suitors hardly dared even to sigh, she had been tricked and fooled like any silly country mouse whose vanity had led to her own abasement.

Half an hour ago in the fullness of her newly-found happiness she had flaunted her pride and her love before those who hated and envied her. To-morrow—nay, within an hour—this humiliating scene would be the talk of Paris and Versailles. Lydie's burning ears seemed even now to hear the Pompadour retailing it with many embellishments, which would bring a coarse laugh to the lips of the King and an ill-natured jest to those of her admirers; she could hear the jabbering crowd, could feel the looks of compassion or sarcasm aimed at her as soon at this tit-bit of society scandal had been bruited abroad.

The scene itself had become real and vivid to her; the marble corridor, the flickering candles, the flunkey's impassive face; she understood that the beautiful woman before her was in fact and deed the wife of Gaston de Stainville. She even contrived to perceive the humour of Lady Eglinton's completely bewildered expression, the blank astonishment of her round, bulgy eyes, and close to her she saw "le petit Anglais," self-effaced as usual, and looking almost as guilty, as shamefaced as Gaston.

Lydie turned to him and placed a cool, steady hand upon his sleeve.

"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville," she then said with perfect calm, "I fear me I must beg of your courtesy to tarry awhile longer, whilst I offer you an explanation to which I feel you are entitled. Just now I was somewhat surprised because your news was sudden—and it is my turn to ask your pardon, although my fault—if fault there be—rests on a misapprehension. M. le Comte de Stainville's amours or his marriage are no concern of mine. True, he begged for my influence and fawned upon my favour just now, for his ambition soared to the post of High Controller of the Finances of France. That appointment rests with the Duc, my father, who no doubt will bestow it on him whom he thinks most worthy. But it were not fair to me, if you left me now thinking that the announcement of your union with a gentleman whose father was the friend of mine could give me aught but pleasure. Permit me to congratulate you, Madame, on the choice of a lord and master, a helpmeet no doubt. You are indeed well matched. I am all the more eager to offer you my good wishes as I have been honoured to-night with a proposal which has greatly flattered me. My lord the Marquis of Eglinton has asked me to be his wife!"

Once more she turned her head toward the young Englishman and challenged a straight look from his eyes. He did not waver and she was satisfied. Her instinct had not misled her, for he expressed no astonishment, only a sort of dog-like gratitude and joy as, having returned her gaze quite firmly, he now slowly raised his arm bringing her hand on a level with his lips.

Lady Eglinton also displayed sufficient presence of mind not to show any surprise. She perhaps alone of all those present fully realized that Lydie had been wounded to the innermost depths of her heart, and that she herself owed her own and her son's present triumph to the revolt of mortified pride.

What Gaston thought and felt exactly it were difficult to say. He held women in such slight esteem, and his own vanity was receiving so severe a blow, that, no doubt, he preferred to think that Lydie, like himself, had no power of affection and merely bestowed her heart there where self-interest called.

Irène, on the other hand, heaved a sigh of relief; the jealous suspicions which had embittered the last few days were at last dispelled. Hers was a simple, shallow nature that did not care to look beyond the obvious. She certainly appeared quite pleased at Lydie's announcement, and if remorse at her precipitancy did for one brief second mar the fullness of her joy, she quickly cast it from her, not having yet had time to understand the future and more serious consequences of her impulsive avowal.

She wanted to go up to Lydie and to offer her vapid expressions of goodwill, but Gaston, heartily tired of the prolongation of this scene, dragged her somewhat roughly away.

From the far distance there came the cry of the flunkeys.

"The chair of Mlle. de Saint Romans!"

"The coach of M. le Comte de Stainville!"

M. Bénédict, resplendent in purple and white, reappeared at the end of the corridor, with Irène's hood and cloak. Gaston, with his wife on his arm, turned on his heel and quickly walked down the corridor.

Milady, puzzled, bewildered, boundlessly overjoyed yet fearing to trust her luck too far, had just a sufficient modicum of tact left in her to retire discreetly within the boudoir.

Lydie suddenly found herself alone in this wide corridor with the man whom she had so impulsively dragged into her life. She looked round her somewhat helplessly, and her eyes encountered those of her future lord fixed upon hers with that same air of dog-like gentleness which she knew so well and which always irritated her.

"Milor," she said very coldly, "I must thank you for your kind coöperation just now. That you expressed neither surprise nor resentment does infinite credit to your chivalry."

"If I was a little surprised, Mademoiselle," he said, haltingly, "I was too overjoyed to show it, and—and I certainly felt no resentment."

He came a step nearer to her. But for this she was not prepared, and drew back with a quick movement and a sudden stiffening of her figure.

"I hope you quite understood milor, that there is no desire on my part to hold you to this bond," she said icily. "I am infinitely grateful to you for the kind way in which you humoured my impulse to-night, and if you will have patience with me but a very little while, I promise you that I will find an opportunity for breaking, without too great a loss of dignity, these bonds which already must be very irksome to you."

"Nay, Mademoiselle," he said gently, "you are under a misapprehension. Believe me, you would find it well-nigh impossible to—to—er—to alter your plans now without loss of dignity, and—er—er—I assure you that the bonds are not irksome to me."

"You would hold me to this bargain, then?"

"For your sake, Mademoiselle, as well as mine, we must now both be held to it."

"It seems unfair on you, milor."

"On me, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, on you," she repeated, with a thought more gentleness in her voice; "you are young, milor; you are rich—soon you will regret the sense of honour which ties you to a woman who has only yielded her hand to you out of pique! Nay, I'll not deceive you," she added quickly, noting the sudden quiver of the kind little face at her stinging words. "I have no love for you, milor—all that was young and fresh, womanly and tender in my heart was buried just here to-night."

And with a mournful look she glanced round at the cold marble of the walls, the open door to that boudoir beyond, the gilded sconces which supported the dimly-burning candles. Then, smitten with sudden remorse, she said eagerly, with one of those girlish impulses which rendered her domineering nature so peculiarly attractive:

"But if I can give you no love, milor, Heaven and my father's indulgence have given me something which I know men hold far greater of importance than a woman's heart. I have influence, boundless influence, as you know—the State appointed Controller of Finance will be the virtual ruler of France, his position will give him power beyond the dreams of any man's ambition. My father will gladly give the post to my husband and—"

But here a somewhat trembling hand was held deprecatingly toward her.

"Mademoiselle, I entreat you," said Lord Eglinton softly, "for the sake of your own dignity and—and mine, do not allow your mind to dwell on such matters. Believe me, I am fully conscious of the honour which you did me just now in deigning to place your trust in me. That I have—have loved you, Mlle. Lydie," he added, with a nervous quiver in his young voice, "ever since I first saw you at this Court I—I cannot deny; but"—and here he spoke more firmly, seeing that once again she seemed to draw away from him, to stiffen at his approach, "but that simple and natural fact need not trouble you. I could not help loving you, for you are more beautiful than anything on earth, and you cannot deem my adoration an offence, though you are as cold and pure as the goddess of chastity herself. I have seen Catholics kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin Mary; their eyes were fixed up to her radiant image, their lips murmured an invocation or sometimes a hymn of praise. But their hands were clasped together; they never even raised them once toward that shrine which they had built for her, and from which she smiled whilst listening coldly to their prayers. Mlle. d'Aumont, you need have no mistrust of my deep respect for you; you are the Madonna and I the humblest of your worshippers. I am proud to think that the name I bear will be the shrine wherein your pride will remain enthroned. If you have need of me in the future you must command me, but though the law of France will call me your husband and your lord, I will be your bondsman and serve you on my knees; and though my very soul aches for the mere touch of your hand, my lips will never pollute even the hem of your gown." His trembling voice had sunk down to a whisper. If she heard or not he could not say. From far away there came to his ears the tender melancholy drone of the instruments playing the slow movement of the gavotte. His Madonna had not stirred, only her hand which he so longed to touch trembled a little as she toyed with her fan.

And, like the worshippers at the Virgin's shrine, he bent his knee and knelt at her feet.

PART II
THE STATESMAN

CHAPTER X
THE BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK

Monsieur le Marquis d'Eglinton, Comptroller-General of Finance, Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, Peer of England and of France, occupied the west wing of the Château of Versailles. His Majesty the King had frequent and urgent need of him; Mme. de Pompadour could scarce exist a day without an interview behind closed doors with the most powerful man in France: with him, who at the bidding of the nation, was set up as a bar to the extravagances of her own caprice.

And le petit lever of M. le Contrôleur was certainly more largely attended than that of M. le Duc d'Aumont, or even—softly be it whispered—than that of His Majesty himself. For although every one knew that M. le Marquis was but a figurehead, and that all graces and favours emanated direct from the hand of Mme. la Marquise Lydie, yet every one waited upon his good pleasure, for very much the same reason that those who expected or hoped something from the King invariably kissed the hand of Mme. de Pompadour.

M. le Contrôleur very much enjoyed these petits levers of his, which were considered the most important social events in Versailles. He was very fond of chocolate in the morning, and M. Achille—that prince of valets—brought it to his bedside with such inimitable grace and withal the beverage itself so aromatic and so hot, that this hour between ten and eleven each day had become extremely pleasant.

He had no idea that being Comptroller-General of Finance was quite so easy and agreeable an occupation, else he had not been so diffident in accepting the post. But in reality it was very simple. He governed France from the depths of his extremely comfortable bed, draped all round with rich satin hangings of a soft azure colour, embroidered with motifs of dull gold, which were vastly pleasing to the eye. Here he was conscious of naught save fine linen of a remarkably silken texture, of a lace coverlet priceless in value, of the scent of his steaming chocolate, and incidentally of a good many pleasant faces, and some unamiable ones, and of a subdued hive-like buzz of talk, which went on at the further end of the room, whilst M. Achille administered to his comforts and Mme. de Pompadour or Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville told him piquant anecdotes.

Yes, it was all very pleasant, and not at all difficult. A wave of the hand in the direction of Mme. la Marquise, his wife, who usually sat in a window embrasure overlooking the park, was all that was needed when petitioners were irksome or subjects too abstruse.

Lydie was so clever with all that sort of thing. She had the mind of a politician and the astuteness of an attorney, and she liked to govern France in an energetic way of her own which left milor free of all responsibility if anything happened to go wrong.

But then nothing ever did go wrong. France went on just the same as she had done before some of her more meddlesome Parliaments insisted on having a Comptroller of Finance at the head of affairs. Mme. de Pompadour still spent a great deal of money, and the King still invariably paid her debts; whereupon, his pockets being empty, he applied to M. le Contrôleur for something with which to replenish them. M. le Contrôleur thereupon ordered M. Achille to bring one more cup of aromatic chocolate for Mme. de Pompadour, whilst His Majesty the King spent an uncomfortable quarter of an hour with Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton.

The usual result of this quarter of an hour was that His Majesty was excessively wrathful against Mme. Lydie for quite a fortnight; but no one could be angry with "le petit Anglais," for he was so very amiable and dispensed such exceedingly good chocolate.

Par ma foi! it is remarkably easy to govern a country if one happen to have a wife—that, at least, had been milor's experience—a wife and a perfect valet-de-chambre.

M. Achille, since his Marquis's elevation to the most important position in France, had quite surpassed himself in his demeanour. He stood on guard beside the azure and gold hangings of his master's bed like a veritable gorgon, turning the most importunate petitioners to stone at sight of his severe and repressive visage.

Oh! Achille was an invaluable asset in the governing of this kingdom of France. Achille knew the reason of each and every individual's presence at the petit lever of milor. He knew who was the most likely and most worthy person to fill any post in the country that happened to be vacant, from that of examiner of stars and planets to His Majesty the King down to that of under-scullion in the kitchen of Versailles.

Had he not been the means of introducing Baptiste Durand to the special notice of M. le Marquis? Durand's daughter being girl-in-waiting to M. Joseph, valet-de-chambre to M. le Duc d'Aumont, and personal friend of M. Achille, what more natural than, when milor wanted a secretary to make notes for him, and to—well, to be present if he happened to be wanted—that the worthy Baptiste should with perfect ease slip into the vacant post?

And Baptiste Durand was remarkably useful.

A small ante-chamber had been allotted for his occupation, through which all those who were on their way to the petit lever held in milor's own bedchamber had of necessity to pass; and Baptiste knew exactly who should be allowed to pass and who should not. Without venturing even to refer to His Majesty, to Mme. de Pompadour, to Monseigneur le Dauphin, or persons of equally exalted rank, the faithful chroniclers of the time tell us that no gentleman was allowed a private audience with M. le Contrôleur-Général if his valet-de-chambre was not a personal friend of Monsieur Durand.

There sat the worthy Baptiste enthroned behind a secretaire which was always littered with papers, petitions, letters, the usual paraphernalia that pertains to a man of influence. His meagre person was encased in a coat and breeches of fine scarlet cloth, whereon a tiny fillet of gold suggested without unduly flaunting the heraldic colours of the house of Eglinton. He wore silk stockings—always; and shoes with cut-steel buckles, whilst frills of broidered lawn encircled his wrists and cascaded above his waistcoat.

He invariably partook of snuff when an unknown and unrecommended applicant presented himself in his sanctum. "My good friend, it is impossible," he was saying on this very morning of August 13, 1746, with quiet determination to a petitioner who was becoming too insistent. "Milor's chamber is overcrowded as it is."

"I'll call again—another day perhaps; my master is anxious for a personal interview with yours."

Whereupon M. Durand's eyebrows were lifted upward until they almost came in contact with his perruque; he fetched out a voluminous handkerchief from his pocket and carefully removed a few grains of dust from his cravat. Then he said, without raising his voice in the slightest degree or showing impatience in any way at the man's ignorance and stupidity—

"My good—— What is your name? I forgot."

"I am Hypolite François, confidential valet to M. le Maréchal de Coigni and——"

M. Durand's thin and delicately veined hand went up in gentle deprecation.

"Ma foi! my worthy Coigni, 'tis all the same to me if you are a maréchal or a simple lieutenant. As for me, young man," he added, with dignified severity, "remember in future that I serve no one. I assist M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances to—to——"—he paused a second, waving his hand and turning the phrase over in his mouth, whilst seeking for its most appropriate conclusion—"to, in fact, make a worthy selection amidst the hundreds and thousands of petitions which are presented to him."

And with a vague gesture he indicated the papers which lay in a disordered heap on his secretaire.

"For the rest, my good Coigni," he added, with the same impressive dignity, "let me assure you once again that M. le Marquis's bedchamber is overcrowded, that he is busily engaged at the present moment, and is likely to be so for some considerable time to come. What is it your maréchal wants?"

"His pension," replied Hypolite curtly, "and the vacant post in the Ministry of War."

"Impossible! We have fourteen likely applicants already."

"M. le Maréchal is sure that if he could speak with M. le Contrôleur——"

"M. le Contrôleur is busy."

"To-morrow, then——"

"To-morrow he will be even more busy than to-day."

"M. Durand!" pleaded Hypolite.

"Impossible! You are wasting my time, my good Coigni; I have hundreds to see to-day."

"Not for your daughter's sake?"

"My daughter?"

"Yes; didn't you know? You remember Henriette, her great friend?"

"Yes, yes—little Henriette Dessy, the milliner," assented M. Durand with vast condescension. "A pretty wench; she was at the Ursulines convent school with my daughter; they have remained great friends ever since. What about little Henriette?"

"Mlle. Henriette is my fiancée," quoth the other eagerly, "and I thought——"

"Your fiancée? Little Henriette Dessy?" said M. Durand gaily. "Pardieu my good Coigni, why did you not tell me so before? My daughter is very fond of Henriette—a pretty minx, par ma foi! Hé! hé!"

"You are very kind, M. Durand."

"Mais non, mais non," said the great man, with much affability; "one is always ready to oblige a friend. Hé, now! give me your hand, friend Coigni. Shoot your rubbish along—quoi!—your Maréchal; he may pass this way. Anything one can do to oblige a friend."

With the affairs of M. le Maréchal de Coigni the present chronicle hath no further concern; but we know that some ten minutes later on this same August 13, 1746, he succeeded in being present at the petit lever of M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances. Once within the secret precincts of the bedchamber he, like so many other petitioners and courtiers, was duly confronted by the stony stare of M. Achille, and found himself face to face with an enormous bedstead of delicately painted satinwood and ormulu mounts, draped with heavy azure silk curtains which hung down from a gilded baldachin, the whole a masterpiece of the furniture-maker's art.

The scent of chocolate filled his nostrils, and he vaguely saw a good-looking young man reclining under a coverlet of magnificent Venetian lace, and listening placidly to what was obviously a very amusing tale related to him by well-rouged lips. From the billowy satins and laces of the couch a delicate hand was waved toward him as he attempted to pay his respects to the most powerful man in France; the next moment the same stony-faced gorgon clad in scarlet and gold beckoned to him to follow, and he found himself being led through the brilliantly dressed crowd toward a compact group of backs, which formed a sort of living wall, painted in delicate colours of green and mauve and gray, and duly filled up the approach to the main window embrasure.

It is interesting to note from the memoirs of M. le Comte d'Argenson that the Maréchal de Coigni duly filled the post of State Secretary to the Minister of War from the year 1746 onward. We may, therefore, presume that he succeeded in piercing that wall of respectful backs and in reaching sufficiently far within the charmed circle to attract the personal attention of Mme. la Marquise Lydie d'Eglinton née d'Aumont.

He had, therefore, cause to bless the day when his valet-de-chambre became the fiancé of Mlle. Henriette Dessy, the intimate friend of M. Baptiste Durand's dearly beloved daughter.

CHAPTER XI
LA BELLE IRÈNE

Monsieur Durand had indeed not exaggerated when he spoke of M. le Contrôleur's bedchamber being overcrowded this same eventful morning.

All that France possessed of nobility, of wit and of valour, seemed to have found its way on this beautiful day in August past the magic portal guarded by Baptiste, the dragon, to the privileged enclosure beyond, where milor in elegant robe de chambre reclined upon his gorgeous couch, whilst Madame, clad in hooped skirt and panniers of dove-gray silk, directed the affairs of France from the embrasure of a window.

"Achille, my shoes!"

We must surmise that his lordship had been eagerly awaiting the striking of the bracket clock which immediately faced the bed, for the moment the musical chimes had ceased to echo in the crowded room he had thrown aside the lace coverlet which had lain across his legs and called peremptorily for his valet.

"Only half-past ten, milor!" came in reproachful accents from a pair of rosy lips.

"Ma foi, so it is!" exclaimed Lord Eglinton, with well-feigned surprise, as he once more glanced up at the clock.

"Were you then so bored in my company," rejoined the lady, with a pout, "that you thought the hour later?"

"Bored!" he exclaimed. "Bored, did you say, Madame? Perish the very thought of boredom in the presence of Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville!"

But in spite of this gallant assertion, M. le Contrôleur seemed in a vast hurry to quit the luxuriance of his azure-hung throne. M. Achille—that paragon among flunkeys—looked solemnly reproachful. Surely milor should have known by now that etiquette demanded that he should stay in bed until he had received every person of high rank who desired an intimate audience.

There were still some high-born, exalted, and much beribboned gentlemen who had not succeeded in reaching the inner precincts of that temple and fount of honours and riches—the bedside of M. le Contrôleur. But Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai was there—he in whose veins flowed royal blood, and who spent a strenuous life in endeavouring to make France recognize this obvious fact. He sat in an arm-chair at the foot of the bed, discussing the unfortunate events of June 16th at Piacenza and young Comte de Maillebois's subsequent masterly retreat on Tortone, with Christian Louis de Montmorenci, Duc de Luxembourg, the worthy son of an able father and newly created Marshal of France.

Close to them, Monsieur le Comte de Vermandois, Grand Admiral of France, was intent on explaining to M. le Chancelier d'Aguesseau why England just now was supreme mistress of the seas. M. d'Isenghien talked poetry to Jolyot Crébillon, and M. le Duc d'Harcourt discussed Voltaire's latest play with ex-comedian and ex-ambassador Néricault-Destouche, whilst Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, still called "la belle brune de Bordeaux" by her many admirers, had been endeavouring to divert M. le Contrôleur's attention from this multiplicity of abstruse subjects.

Outside this magic circle there was a gap, a barrier of parquet flooring which no one would dare to traverse without a distinct look of encouragement from M. Achille. His Majesty had not yet arrived, and tongues wagged freely in the vast and gorgeous room, with its row of tall windows which gave on the great slopes of the Park of Versailles. Through them came the pleasing sound of the perpetual drip from the monumental fountains, the twitter of sparrows, the scent of lingering roses and of belated lilies. No other sound from that outside world, no other life save the occasional footstep of a gardener along the sanded walks. But within all was chatter and bustle; women talked, men laughed and argued, society scandals were commented upon and the newest fashions in coiffures discussed. The men wore cloth coats of sober hues, but the women had donned light-coloured dresses, for the summer was at its height and this August morning was aglow with sunshine.

Mme. de Stainville's rose-coloured gown was the one vivid patch of colour in the picture of delicate hues. She stood close to M. le Contrôleur's bedside and unceremoniously turned her back on the rest of the company; we must presume that she was a very privileged visitor, for no one—not even Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai—ventured to approach within earshot. It was understood that in milor's immediate entourage la belle Irène alone was allowed to be frivolous, and we are told that she took full advantage of this permission.

All chroniclers of the period distinctly aver that the lady was vastly entertaining; even M. de Voltaire mentions her as one of the sprightliest women of that light-hearted and vivacious Court. Beautiful, too, beyond cavil, her position as the wife of one of the most brilliant cavaliers that e'er graced the entourage of Mme. de Pompadour gave her a certain dignity of bearing, a self-conscious gait and proud carriage of the head which had considerably added to the charms which she already possessed. The stiff, ungainly mode of the period suited her somewhat full figure to perfection; the tight corslet bodice, the wide panniers, the ridiculous hooped skirt—all seemed to have been specially designed to suit the voluptuous beauty of Irène de Stainville.

M. d'Argenson when speaking of her has described her very fully. He speaks of her abnormally small waist, which seemed to challenge the support of a masculine arm, and of her creamy skin which she knew so well how to veil in transparent folds of filmy lace. She made of dress a special study, and her taste, though daring, was always sure. Even during these early morning receptions, when soft-toned mauves, tender drabs or grays were mostly in evidence, Irène de Stainville usually appeared in brocade of brilliant rosy-red, turquoise blue, or emerald green; she knew that these somewhat garish tones, mellowed only through the richness of the material, set off to perfection the matt ivory tint of her complexion, and detached her entire person from the rest of the picture.

Yet even her most ardent admirers tell us that Irène de Stainville's vanity went almost beyond the bounds of reason in its avidity for fulsome adulation. Consciousness of her own beauty was not sufficient; she desired its acknowledgment from others. She seemed to feed on flattery, breathing it in with every pore of her delicate skin, drooping like a parched flower when full measure was denied to her. Many aver that she marred her undoubted gifts of wit through this insatiable desire for one sole topic of conversation—her own beauty and its due meed of praise. At the same time her love of direct and obsequious compliments was so ingenuous, and she herself so undeniably fascinating, that, in the hey-day of her youth and attractions, she had no difficulty in obtaining ready response to her wishes from the highly susceptible masculine element at the Court of Louis XV.

M. le Contrôleur-Général—whom she specially honoured with her smiles—had certainly no intention of shirking the pleasing duty attached to this distinction, and, though he was never counted a brilliant conversationalist, he never seemed at a loss for the exact word of praise which would tickle la belle Irène's ears most pleasantly.

And truly no man's heart could be sufficiently adamant to deny to that brilliantly-plumaged bird the tit-bits which it loved the best. Milor himself had all the sensitiveness of his race where charms—such as Irène freely displayed before him—were concerned, and when her smiling lips demanded acknowledgment of her beauty from him he was ready enough to give it.

"Let them settle the grave affairs of State over there," she had said to him this morning, when first she made her curtsey before him. And with a provocative smile she pointed to the serious-looking group of grave gentlemen that surrounded his bedside, and also to the compact row of backs which stood in serried ranks round Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton in the embrasure of the central window. "Life is too short for such insignificant trifles."

"We only seem to last long enough to make love thoroughly to half a dozen pretty women in a lifetime," replied M. le Contrôleur, as he gallantly raised her fingers to his lips.

"Half a dozen!" she retorted, with a pout. "Ah, milor, I see that your countrymen are not maligned! The English have such a reputation for perfidy!"

"But I have become so entirely French!" he protested. "England would scarce know me now."

And with a whimsical gesture he pointed to the satin hangings of his bed, the rich point lace coverlet, and to his own very elaborate and elegant robe de chambre.

"Is that said in regret?" she asked.

"Nay," he replied, "there is no more place for regret than there is for boredom in sight of smiles from those perfect lips."

She blushed, and allowed her hands—which were particularly beautiful—to finger idly the silks and laces which were draped so tastefully about his person. As her eyes were downcast in dainty and becoming confusion, she failed to notice that M. le Contrôleur was somewhat absent-minded this morning, and that, had he dared, he would at this juncture undoubtedly have yawned. But of this she was obviously unconscious, else she had not now murmured so persuasively.

"Am I beautiful?"

"What a question!" he replied.

"The most beautiful woman here present?" she insisted.

"Par ma foi!" he protested gaily. "Was ever married man put in so awkward a predicament?"

"Married man? Bah!" and she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"I am a married man, fair lady, and the law forbids me to answer so provoking a question."

"This is cowardly evasion," she rejoined. "Mme. la Marquise, your wife, only acknowledges one supremacy—that of the mind. She would scorn to be called the most beautiful woman in the room."

"And M. le Comte de Stainville, your lord, would put a hole right through my body were I now to speak the unvarnished truth."

Irène apparently chose to interpret milor's equivocal speech in the manner most pleasing to her self-love. She looked over her shoulder toward the window embrasure. She saw that Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton's court was momentarily dismissed, and that M. le Duc d'Aumont had just joined his daughter. She also saw that Lydie looked troubled, and that she threw across the room a look of haughty reproof.

Nothing could have pleased Irène de Stainville more.

Apart from the satisfaction which her own inordinate vanity felt at the present moment by enchaining milor's attention and receiving his undivided homage in full sight of the élite of aristocratic Versailles, there was the additional pleasure of dealing a pin-prick or so to a woman who had once been her rival, and who was undoubtedly now the most distinguished as she was the most adulated personality in France.

Irène had never forgiven Lydie Gaston's defalcations on that memorable night, when a humiliating exposure and subsequent scene led to the disclosure of her own secret marriage, and thus put a momentary check on her husband's ambitious schemes.

From that check he had since then partially recovered. Mme. de Pompadour's good graces which she never wholly withdrew from him had given him a certain position of influence and power, from which his lack of wealth would otherwise have debarred him. But even with the uncertain and fickle Marquise's help Gaston de Stainville was far from attaining a position such as his alliance with Lydie would literally have thrown into his lap, such, of course, as fell to the share of the amiable milor, who had succeeded in capturing the golden prey. In these days of petticoat government feminine protection was the chief leverage for advancement; Irène, however, could do nothing for her husband without outside help; conscious of her own powers of fascination, she had cast about for the most likely prop on which she could lean gracefully whilst helping Gaston to climb upward.

The King himself was too deeply in the toils of his fair Jeanne to have eyes for any one save for her. M. le Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of France, was his daughter's slave; there remained M. le Contrôleur-Général himself—a figure-head as far as the affairs of State were concerned, but wielding a great deal of personal power through the vastness of his wealth which Lydie rather affected to despise.

Irène, therefore—faute de mieux—turned her languishing eyes upon M. le Contrôleur. Her triumph was pleasing to herself, and might in due course prove useful to Gaston, if she succeeded presently in counterbalancing Lydie's domineering influence over milor. For the moment her vanity was agreeably soothed, although "la belle brune de Bordeaux" herself was fully alive to the fact that, while her whispered conversations at milor's petits levers, her sidelong glances and conscious blushes called forth enough mischievous oglings and equivocal jests from the more frivolous section of society butterflies, Lydie only viewed her and her machinations with cold and somewhat humiliating indifference.

"And," as M. d'Argenson very pertinently remarked that self-same morning, "would any beautiful woman care to engage the attentions of a man unless she aroused at the same time the jealousy or at least the annoyance of a rival?"

CHAPTER XII
THE PROMISES OF FRANCE

Indeed, if Irène de Stainville had possessed more penetration, or had at any rate studied Lydie's face more closely, she would never have imagined for a moment that thoughts of petty spite or of feminine pique could find place in the busiest brain that ever toiled for the welfare of France.

History has no doubt said the last word on the subject of that brief interregnum, when a woman's masterful hand tried to check the extravagances of a King and the ruinous caprices of a wanton, and when a woman's will tried to restrain a nation in its formidable onrush down the steep incline which led to the abyss of the Revolution.

Many historians have sneered—perhaps justly so—at this apotheosis of feminity, and pointed to the fact that, while that special era of petticoat government lasted, Louis XV in no way stopped his excesses nor did Pompadour deny herself the satisfaction of a single whim, whilst France continued uninterruptedly to groan under the yoke of oppressive taxation, of bribery and injustice, and to suffer from the arrogance of her nobles and the corruption of her magistrates.

The avowed partisans of Lydie d'Eglinton contend on the other hand that her rule lasted too short a time to be of real service to the country, and that those who immediately succeeded her were either too weak or too self-seeking to continue this new system of government instituted by her, and based on loftiness of ideals and purity of motives, a system totally unknown hitherto. They also insist on the fact that while she virtually held the reins of government over the heads of her indolent lord and her over-indulgent father, she brought about many highly beneficent social reforms which would have become firmly established had she remained several years in power; there is no doubt that she exercised a wholesome influence over the existing administration of justice and the distribution of the country's money; and this in spite of endless cabals and the petty intrigues and jealousies of numberless enemies.

Be that as it may, the present chronicler is bound to put it on record that, at the moment when Irène de Stainville vaguely wondered whether Madame la Marquise was looking reprovingly at her, when she hoped that she had at last succeeded in rousing the other woman's jealousy, the latter's mind was dwelling with more than usual anxiousness on the sad events of the past few months.

Her severe expression was only the outcome of a more than normal sense of responsibility. The flattering courtiers and meddlesome women who surrounded her seemed to Lydie this morning more than usually brainless and vapid. Her own father, to whose integrity and keen sense of honour she always felt that she could make appeal, was unusually absent and morose to-day; and she felt unspeakably lonely here in the midst of her immediate entourage—lonely and oppressed. She wanted to mix more with the general throng, the men and women of France, arrogant nobles or obsequious churls, merchants, attorneys, physicians, savants, she cared not which; the nation, in fact, the people who had sympathy and high ideals, and a keener sense of the dignity of France.

While these sycophants were for ever wanting, wanting, wanting, standing before her, as it were, with hands outstretched ready to receive bribes, commissions, places of influence or affluence, Charles Edward Stuart, lately the guest of the nation, the friend of many, whom France herself little more than a year ago had feasted and toasted, to whom she had wished "God-speed!" was now a miserable fugitive, hiding in peasants' huts, beneath overhanging crags on the deserted shores of Scotland, a price put upon his head, and the devotion of a few helpless enthusiasts, a girl, an old retainer, as sole barrier 'twixt him and death.

And France had promised that she would help him. She promised that she would succour him if he failed, that she would not abandon him in his distress—neither him nor his friends.

And now disaster had come—disaster so overwhelming, so appalling, that France at first had scarce liked to believe. Every one was so astonished; had they not thought that England, Scotland and Ireland were clamouring for a Stuart? That the entire British nation was wanting him, waiting for him, ready to acclaim him with open arms? The first successes—Falkirk, Prestonpans—had surprised no one. The young Pretender's expedition was bound to be nothing but a triumphal procession through crowded streets, decorated towns and beflagged villages, with church bells ringing, people shouting, deputations, both civic and military, waiting hat in hand, with sheaves of loyal addresses.

Instead of this, Culloden, Derby, the hasty retreat, treachery, and the horrible reprisals. All that was common property now.

France knew that the young prince whom she had féted was perhaps at this moment dying of want, and yet these hands which had grasped his were not stretched out to help him, the lips which had encouraged and cheered him, which had even gently mocked his gloomy mood, still smiled and chatted as irresponsibly as of yore, and spoke the fugitive's name at careless moments 'twixt a laugh and a jest.

And this in spite of promises.

She had dismissed her entourage with a curt nod just now, when her father first joined her circle. At any rate, her position of splendid isolation should give her the right this morning to be alone with him, since she so wished it. At first glance she saw that he was troubled, and her anxious eyes closely scanned his face. But he seemed determined not to return her scrutinizing glance, and anon, when one by one M. de Coigni, the Count de Bailleul, and others who had been talking to Lydie, discreetly stepped aside, he seemed anxious to detain them, eager not to be left quite alone with his daughter.

Seeing his manœuvres, Lydie's every suspicion was aroused; something had occurred to disturb her father this morning, something which he did not intend to tell her. She drew him further back into the window embrasure and made room for him close to her on the settee. She looked up impatiently at the Dowager Lady Eglinton, who had calmly stood her ground whilst the other intimates were being so summarily dismissed. Miladi appeared determined to ignore her daughter-in-law's desire to be alone with her father, and it even seemed to Lydie as if a look of understanding had passed between the Duke and the old lady when first they met.

She felt her nervous system on the jar. Thoroughly frank and open in all political dealings herself, she loathed the very hint of a secret understanding. Yet she trusted her father, even though she feared his weakness.

She talked of Charles Edward Stuart, for that was her chief preoccupation. She lauded him and pitied him in turn, spoke of his predicament, his flight, the devotion of his Scotch adherents, and finally of France's promise to him.

"God grant," she said fervently, "that France may not be too late in doing her duty by that ill-starred prince."

"Nay, my dear child, it is sheer madness to think of such a thing," said the Duke, speaking in tones of gentle reproof and soothingly, as if to a wilful child.

"Hé! pardieu!" broke in miladi's sharp, high-pitched voice: "that is precisely what I have been trying to explain to Lydie these past two weeks, but she will not listen and is not even to be spoken to on that subject now. Do you scold her well, M. le Duc, for I have done my best—and her obstinacy will lead my son into dire disgrace with His Majesty, who doth not favour her plans."

"Miladi is right, Lydie," said the Duke, "and if I thought that your husband——"

"Nay, my dear father!" interrupted Lydie calmly; "I pray you do not vent your displeasure on Lord Eglinton. As you see, Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville is doing her best to prevent his thoughts from dwelling on the fate of his unfortunate friend."

It was the Duke's turn to scrutinize his daughter's face, vaguely wondering if she had spoken in bitterness, not altogether sorry if this new train of thought were to divert her mind from that eternal subject of the moribund Stuart cause, which seemed to have become an obsession with her. He half-turned in the direction where Lydie's eyes were still fixed, and saw a patch of bright rose colour, clear and vivid against the dull hangings of M. le Contrôleur's couch, whilst the elegant outline of a woman's stately form stood between his line of vision and the face of his son-in-law.

The Duc d'Aumont dearly loved his daughter, but he also vastly admired her intellectual power, therefore at sight of that graceful, rose-clad figure he shrugged his shoulders in amiable contempt. Bah! Lydie was far too clever to dwell on such foolish matters as the vapid flirtations of a brainless doll, even if the object of such flirtations was the subjugation of milor.

Lady Eglinton had also perceived Lydie's fixity of expression just now when she spoke of Irène, but whilst M. le Duc carelessly shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the matter from his mind, miladi boldly threw herself across her daughter-in-law's new trend of thought.

"My son for once shows sound common sense," she said decisively; "why should France be led into further extravagance and entangle herself, perhaps, in the meshes of a hopeless cause by——"

"By fulfilling a solemn promise," interrupted Lydie quietly, whilst she turned her earnest eyes on her mother-in-law in the manner so characteristic of her—"a promise which the very hopelessness of which you speak has rendered doubly sacred."

"His Majesty is not of that opinion," retorted the older woman testily, "and we must concede that he is the best judge of what France owes to her own honour."

To this challenge it was obviously impossible to reply in the negative, and if Lydie's heart whispered "Not always!" her lips certainly did not move.

She looked appealingly at her father; she wanted more than ever to be alone with him, to question him, to reassure herself as to certain vague suspicions which troubled her and which would not be stilled. She longed, above all, to be rid of her mother-in-law's interfering tongue, of the platitudes, which she uttered, and which had the knack of still further jarring on Lydie's over-sensitive nerves.

But the Duke did not help her. Usually he, too, was careful to avoid direct discussions with Lady Eglinton, whose rasping voice was wont to irritate him, but this morning he seemed disinclined to meet Lydie's appealing eyes. He fidgeted in his chair, and anon he crossed one shapely leg over the other and thoughtfully stroked his well-turned calf.

"There are moments in diplomacy, my dear child——" he began, after a moment of oppressive silence.

"My dear father," interrupted Lydie, with grave determination, "let me tell you once for all that over this matter my mind is fully made up. While I have a voice in the administration of this Kingdom of France, I will not allow her to sully her fair name by such monstrous treachery as the abandonment of a friend who trusted in her honour and the promises she made him."

Her voice had shaken somewhat as she spoke. Altogether she seemed unlike herself, less sure, less obstinately dominant. That look of understanding between her father and Lady Eglinton had troubled her in a way for which she could not account. Yet she knew that the whole matter rested in her own hands. No one—not even His Majesty—had ever questioned her right to deal with Treasury money. And money was all that was needed. Though the final word nominally rested with milor, he left her perfectly free, and she could act as she thought right, without let or hindrance.

Yet, strangely enough, she felt as if she wanted support in this matter. It was a purely personal feeling, and one she did not care to analyse. She had no doubt whatever as to the justice and righteousness of her desire, but in this one solitary instance of her masterful administration she seemed to require the initiative, or at least the approval, of her father or of the King.

Instead of this approval she vaguely scented intrigue.

She rose from the settee and went to the window behind it. The atmosphere of the room had suddenly become stifling. Fortunately the tall casements were unlatched. They yielded to a gentle push, and Lydie stepped out on to the balcony. Already the air was hot, and the sun shone glaringly on the marble fountains, and drew sparks of fire from the dome of the conservatories. The acrid, pungent smell of cannas and of asters rose to her nostrils, drowning the subtler aroma of tea roses and of lilies; the monotonous drip of the fountains was a soothing contrast in her ear to the babel of voices within.

At her feet the well-sanded walks of the park stretched out like ribbons of pale gold to the dim, vast distance beyond; the curly heads of Athenian athletes peeped from among the well-trimmed bosquets, showing the immaculate whiteness of the polished marble in the sun. A couple of gardeners clad in shirts of vivid blue linen were stooping over a bed of monthly roses, picking off dead leaves and twigs that spoilt the perfect symmetry of the shrubs, whilst two more a few paces away were perfecting the smoothness of a box hedge, lest a tiny leaflet were out of place.

Lydie sighed impatiently. Even in this vastness and this peace, man brought his artificiality to curb the freedom of nature. Everything in this magnificent park was affected, stilted and forced; every tree was fashioned to a shape not its own, every flower made to be a counterpart of its fellow.

This sense of unreality, of fighting nature in its every aspect, was what had always oppressed her, even when she worked at first in perfect harmony with her father, when she still had those utopian hopes of a regenerate France, with a wise and beneficent monarch, an era of truth and of fraternity, every one toiling hand-in-hand for the good of the nation.

What a child she had been in those days! How little she had understood this hydra-headed monster of self-seeking ambition, of political wire-pulling, of petty cabals and personal animosities which fought and crushed and trampled on every lofty ideal, on every clean thought and high-minded aspiration.

She knew and understood better now. She had outgrown her childish ideals: those she now kept were a woman's ideals, no less pure, no less high or noble, but lacking just one great quality—that of hope. She had continued to work and to do her best for this country which she loved—her own beautiful France. She had—with no uncertain hand—seized the reins of government from the diffident fingers of her lord, she still strove to fight corruption, to curb excesses and to check arrogance, and made vain endeavours to close her eyes to the futility of her noblest efforts.

This attitude of King Louis toward the Young Pretender had brought it all home to her; the intrigues, the lying, the falseness of everything, the treachery which lurked in every corner of this sumptuous palace, the egoism which was the sole moving power of those overdressed dolls.

Perhaps for the first time since—in all the glory and pride of her young womanhood—she became conscious of its power over the weaker and sterner vessel, she felt a sense of discouragement, the utter hopelessness of her desires. Her heart even suggested contempt of herself, of her weak-minded foolishness in imagining that all those empty heads in the room yonder could bring forth one single serious thought from beneath their powdered perruques, one single wholly selfless aspiration for the good of France; any more than that stultified rose-tree could produce a bloom of splendid perfection or that stunted acacia intoxicate the air with the fragrance of its bloom.

Solitude had taken hold of Lydie's fancy. She had allowed her mind to go roaming, fancy-free. Her thoughts were melancholy and anxious, and she sighed or frowned more than once. The air was becoming hotter and hotter every moment, and a gigantic bed of scarlet geraniums sent a curious acrid scent to her nostrils, which she found refreshing. Anon she succeeded in shutting out from her eyes the picture of those gardeners maiming the rose-trees and bosquets, and in seeing only that distant horizon with the vague, tiny fleecy clouds which were hurrying quite gaily and freely to some unknown destination, far, no doubt, from this world of craft and affectation. She shut her ears to the sound of miladi's shrill laugh and the chatter of senseless fools behind her, and only tried to hear the rippling murmur of the water in the fountains, the merry chirrup of the sparrows, and far, very far away, the sweet, sad note of a lark soaring upward to the serene morning sky.

The sound of a footstep on the flag-stones of the balcony broke in on her meditations. Her father, still wearing that troubled look, was coming out to join her. Fortunately miladi had chosen to remain indoors.

Impulsively now, for her nerves were still quivering with the tension of recent introspection, she went straight up to this man whom she most fully trusted in all the world, and took his hands in both hers.

"My dear, dear father," she pleaded, with her wonted earnestness, "you will help me, will you not?"

He looked more troubled than ever at her words, almost pathetic in his obvious helplessness, as he ejaculated feebly:

"But what can we do, my dear child?"

"Send Le Monarque to meet Prince Charles Edward," she urged; "it is so simple."

"It is very hazardous, and would cost a vast amount of money. In the present state of the Treasury——"

"My dear father, France can afford the luxury of not selling her honour."

"And the English will be furious with us."

"The English cannot do more than fight us, and they are doing that already!" she retorted.

"The risks, my dear child, the risks!" he protested again.

"What risks, father dear?" she said eagerly. "Tell me, what do we risk by sending Le Monarque with secret orders to the Scottish coast, to a spot known to no one save to Lord Eglinton and myself, confided to my husband by the unfortunate young Prince before he started on this miserable expedition? Captain Barre will carry nothing that can in any way betray the secret of his destination nor the object of his journey—my husband's seal-ring on his finger, nothing more; this token he will take on shore himself—not even the ship's crew will know aught that would be fatal if betrayed."

"But the English can intercept Le Monarque!"

"We must run that risk," she retorted. "Once past the coast of England, Scotland is lonely enough. Le Monarque will meet no other craft, and Captain Barre knows the secrets of his own calling—he has run a cargo before now."

"This is childish obstinacy, Lydie, and I do not recognize the statesman in this sentimental chit, who prates nonsense like a schoolgirl imbued with novel-reading," said the Duke now with marked impatience; "and pray, if His Majesty should put a veto on your using one of his ships for this privateering expedition?"

"I propose sending Le Monarque to-morrow," rejoined Lydie quietly. "Captain Barre will have his orders direct from the Ministry of Finance; and then we'll obtain His Majesty's sanction on the following day."

"But this is madness, my child!" exclaimed the Duke. "You cannot openly set at defiance the wishes of the King!"

"The wishes of the King?" she cried, with sudden vehemence. "Surely, surely, my dear, dear father, you cannot mean what you suggest! Think! oh, think just for one moment! That poor young man, who was our guest, whom we all liked—he broke bread with us in our own house, our beautiful château de la Tour d'Aumont, which has never yet been defiled by treachery. And you talk of leaving him there in that far-off land which has proved so inhospitable to him? Of leaving him there either to perish miserably of want and starvation or to fall into the hands of that Hanoverian butcher whose name has become a by-word for unparalleled atrocities?"

She checked herself, and then resumed more calmly:

"Nay, my dear father, I pray you let us cease this argument; for once in the history of our happy life together you and I look at honour from opposite points of view."

"Yes, my dear, I see that, too," he rejoined, speaking now with some hesitation. "I wish I could persuade you to abandon the idea."

"To abandon the unfortunate young Prince, you mean, to break every promise we ever made to him—to become the by-word in our turn for treachery and cowardice in every country in Europe—and why?" she added, with helpless impatience, trying to understand, dreading almost to question. "Why? Why?"

Then, as her father remained silent, with eyes persistently fixed on some vague object in the remote distance, she said, as if acting on a sudden decisive thought:

"Father, dear, is it solely a question of cost?"

"Partly," he replied, with marked hesitation.

"Partly? Well, then, dear, we will remove one cause of your unexplainable opposition. You may assure His Majesty in my name that the voyage of Le Monarque shall cost the Treasury nothing."

Then as her father made no comment, she continued more eagerly:

"Lord Eglinton will not deny me, as you know; he is rich and Charles Edward Stuart is his friend. What Le Monarque has cost for provisioning, that we will immediately replace. For the moment we will borrow this ship from His Majesty's navy. That he cannot refuse! and I give you and His Majesty my word of honour that Le Monarque shall not cost the Treasury one single sou—even the pay of her crew shall be defrayed by us from the moment that she sails out of Le Havre until the happy moment when she returns home with Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends safe and sound aboard."

There was silence between them for awhile. The Duc d'Aumont's eyes were fixed steadily on a distant point on the horizon, but Lydie's eyes never for a second strayed away from her father's face.

"Will Le Monarque have a long journey to make?" asked the Duke lightly.

"Yes!" she replied.

"To the coast of Scotland?"

"Yes."

"The west coast, of course?"

"Why should you ask, dear?"

She asked him this question quite casually, then, as he did not reply, she asked it again, this time with a terrible tightening of her heart-strings. Suddenly she remembered her suspicions, when first she caught the glance of intelligence which passed swiftly from him to miladi.

With a quick gesture of intense agitation she placed a hand on his wrist.

"Father!" she said in a scarce audible murmur.

"Yes, my dear. What is it?"

"I don't know. I—I have been much troubled of late. I do not think that my perceptions are perhaps as keen as they were—and as you say, this matter of the Stuart Prince has weighed heavily on my mind. Therefore, will you forgive me, dear, if—if I ask you a question which may sound undutiful, disloyal to you?"

"Of course I will forgive you, dear," he said, after a slight moment of hesitation. "What is it?"

He had pulled himself together, and now met his daughter's glance with sufficient firmness, apparently to reassure her somewhat, for she said more quietly:

"Will you give me your word of honour that you personally know of no act of treachery which may be in contemplation against the man who trusts in the honour of France?"

Her glowing eyes rested upon his; they seemed desirous of penetrating to the innermost recesses of his soul. M. le Duc d'Aumont tried to bear the scrutiny without flinching but he was no great actor, nor was he in the main a dishonourable man, but he thought his daughter unduly chivalrous, and he held that political considerations were outside the ordinary standards of honour and morality.

Anyway he could not bring himself to give her a definite reply; her hand still grasped his wrist—he took it in his own and raised it to his lips.

"My father!" she pleaded, her voice trembling, her eyes still fixed upon him, "will you not answer my question?"

"It is answered, my dear," he replied evasively. "Do you think it worthy of me—your father—to protest mine honesty before my own child?"

She looked at him no longer, and gently withdrew her hand from his grasp. She understood that, indeed, he had answered her question.

CHAPTER XIII
THE WEIGHT OF ETIQUETTE

Perhaps certain characteristics which milor the Marquis of Eglinton had inherited from his English grandfather caused him to assume a more elaborate costume for his petit lever than the rigid court etiquette of the time had prescribed.

According to every mandate of usage and fashion, when, at exactly half-past ten o'clock, he had asked M. Achille so peremptorily for his shoes and then sat on the edge of his bed, with legs dangling over its sides, he should have been attired in a flowered dressing gown over a lace-ruffled chemise de nuit, and a high-peaked bonnet-de-coton with the regulation tassel should have taken the place of the still absent perruque.

Then all the distinguished gentlemen who stood nearest to him would have known what to do. They had all attended petits levers of kings, courtisanes, and Ministers, ever since their rank and dignities entitled them so to do. Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, for instance, would have stepped aside at this precise juncture with a deep curtsey and mayhap a giggle or a smirk—since she was privileged to be frivolous—whereupon M. Achille would with the proper decorum due to so solemn a function have handed M. le Contrôleur's day shirt to the visitor of highest rank there present, who was privileged to pass it over milor's head.

That important formality accomplished, the great man's toilet could be completed by M. le valet-de-chambre himself. But who had ever heard of a Minister's petit-lever being brought to a close without the ceremony of his being helped on with his shirt by a prince of the blood, or at least a marshal of France?

However, le petit Anglais had apparently some funny notions of his own—heirlooms, no doubt, from that fog-ridden land beyond the seas, the home of his ancestors—and vainly had Monsieur Achille, that paragon among flunkeys, tried to persuade his Marquis not to set the hitherto inviolate etiquette of the Court of France quite so flagrantly at defiance.

All his efforts had been in vain.

Monsieur d'Argenson, who was present on this 13th of August, 1746, tells us that when milor did call for his shoes at least ten minutes too soon, and was thereupon tenderly reproached by Madame la Comtesse de Stainville for this ungallant haste, he was already more than half dressed.

True, the flowered robe-de-chambre was there—and vastly becoming, too, with its braided motifs and downy lining of a contrasting hue—but when milor threw off the coverlet with a boyish gesture of impatience, he appeared clad in a daintily frilled day-shirt, breeches of fine faced cloth, whilst a pair of white silk stockings covered his well-shaped calves.

True, the perruque was still absent, but so was the regulation cotton night-cap; instead of these, milor, with that eccentricity peculiar to the entire British race, wore his own hair slightly powdered and tied at the nape of the neck with a wide black silk bow.

Monsieur Achille looked extremely perturbed, and, had his rigorous features ventured to show any expression at all, they would undoubtedly have displayed one of respectful apology to all the high-born gentlemen who witnessed this unedifying spectacle. As it was, the face of Monsieur le valet-de-chambre was set in marble-like rigidity; perhaps only the slightest suspicion of a sigh escaped his lips as he noted milor's complete unconsciousness of the enormity of his offense.

Monsieur le Contrôleur had been in the very midst of an animated argument with Madame de Stainville anent the respective merits of rose red and turquoise blue as a foil to a mellow complexion. This argument he had broken off abruptly by calling for his shoes. No wonder Irène pouted, her pout being singularly becoming.

"Had I been fortunate enough in pleasing your lordship with my poor wit," she said, "you had not been in so great a hurry to rid yourself of my company."

"Nay, madame, permit me to explain," he protested gently. "I pray you try and remember that for the last half-hour I have been the happy yet feeble target for the shafts aimed at me by your beauty and your wit. Now I always feel singularly helpless without my waistcoat and my shoes. I feel like a miserable combatant who, when brought face to face with a powerful enemy, hath been prevented from arming himself for the fray."

"But etiquette——" she protested.

"Etiquette is a jade, madame," he retorted; "shall not you and I turn our backs on her?"

In the meantime M. Achille had, with becoming reverence, taken M. le Contrôleur's coat and waistcoat in his august hands, and stood there holding them with just that awed expression of countenance which a village curé would wear when handling a reliquary.

With that same disregard for ceremony which had characterized him all along, Lord Eglinton rescued his waistcoat from those insistent hands, and, heedless of Achille's look of horror, he slipped it on and buttoned it himself with quick, dexterous fingers, as if he had never done anything else in all his life.

For a moment Achille was speechless. For the first time perhaps in the history of France a Minister of Finance had put his waistcoat on himself, and this under his—Achille's—administration. The very foundations of his belief were tottering before his eyes; desperately now he clung to the coat, ready to fight for its possession and shed his blood if need be for the upkeep of the ancient traditions of the land.

"Will milor take his coat from the hands of Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai—prince of the blood?" he asked, with a final supreme effort for the reëstablishment of those traditions, which were being so wantonly flouted.

"His Majesty will be here directly," interposed Irène hastily.

"His Majesty never comes later than half-past ten," protested milor feebly, "and he has not the vaguest idea how to help a man on with his coat. He has had no experience and I feel that mine would become a heap of crumpled misery if his gracious hands were to insinuate it over my unworthy shoulders."

He made a desperate effort to gain possession of his coat, but this time M. Achille was obdurate. It seemed as if he would not yield that coat to any one save at the cost of his own life.

"Then it is the privilege of Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai," he said firmly.

"But M. de Courtenai has gone to flirt with my wife!" ejaculated Lord Eglinton in despair.

"In that case no doubt M. le Duc de Luxembourg will claim the right——"

"Mais comment donc?" said the Duke with great alacrity, as, in spite of milor's still continued feeble protests, he took the coat from the hands of M. Achille.

M. de Luxembourg was very pompous and very slow, and there was nothing that Lord Eglinton hated worse than what he called amateur valeting. But now there was nothing for it but forbearance and resignation; patience, too, of which le petit Anglais had no more than a just share. He gathered the frills of his shirt sleeves in his hands and tried not to look as if he wished M. de Luxembourg at the bottom of the nearest pond; but at this very moment Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai, who, it appeared, had not gone to flirt with Madame la Marquise, since the latter was very much engaged elsewhere, but had merely been absorbed in political discussions with M. de Vermandois, suddenly realized that one of his numerous privileges was being encroached upon.

Not that he had any special desire to help M. le Contrôleur-Général on with his coat, but because he was ever anxious that his proper precedence as quasi prince of the blood should always be fully recognized. So he gave a discreet cough just sufficiently loud to attract M. Achille's notice, and to warn M. le Duc de Luxembourg that he was being presumptuous.

Without another word the coat was transferred from the hands of the Maréchal to those of the quasi-royal Prince, whilst Eglinton, wearing an air of resigned martyrdom, still waited for his coat, the frills of his shirt sleeves gripped tightly in his hands.

Monseigneur advanced. His movements were always sedate, and he felt pleased that every one who stood close by had noticed that the rank and precedence, which were rightfully his, had been duly accorded him, even in so small a matter, by no less a personage than M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances.

He now held the coat in perfect position, and Lord Eglinton gave a sigh of relief, when suddenly the great doors at the end of the long room were thrown wide open, and the stentorian voices of the royal flunkeys announced:

"Messieurs, Mesdames! His Majesty the King!"

The buzz of talk died down, giving place to respectful murmurs. There was a great rustle of silks and brocades, a clink of dress swords against the parquet floor, as the crowd parted to make way for Louis XV. The various groups of political disputants broke up, as if scattered by a fairy wand; soon all the butterflies that had hovered in the further corners of the room fluttered toward the magic centre.

Here an avenue seemed suddenly to form itself of silken gowns, of brocaded panniers, of gaily embroidered coats, topped by rows of powdered perruques that bent very low to the ground as, fat, smiling, pompous, and not a little bored, His Majesty King Louis XV made slow progress along the full length of the room, leaning lightly on the arm of the inevitable Marquise de Pompadour, and nodding with great condescension to the perruqued heads as he passed.

Near the window embrasure he met la Marquise d'Eglinton and M. le Duc d'Aumont, her father. To Lydie he extended a gracious hand, and engaged her in conversation with a few trivial words. This gave Mme. de Pompadour the opportunity of darting a quick glance, that implied an anxious query, at the Duc d'Aumont, to which he responded with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

All the while M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances was still standing, shirt frills in hand, his face a picture of resigned despair, his eyes longingly fixed on his own coat, which Monseigneur de Courtenai no longer held up for him.

Indeed, Monseigneur, a rigid stickler for etiquette himself, would never so far have forgotten what was due to the house of Bourbon as to indulge in any pursuit—such as helping a Minister on with his coat—at the moment when His Majesty entered a room.

He bowed with the rest of them, and thus Louis XV at the end of his progress, found the group around milor's bedside; his cousin de Courtenai bowing, Monsieur Achille with his nose almost touching his knees, and milor Eglinton in shirt sleeves looking supremely uncomfortable, and not a little sheepish.

"Ah! ce cher milor!" said the King with charming bonhomie, as he took the situation in at a glance. "Nay, cousin, I claim an ancient privilege! Monsieur le Contrôleur-Général, have you ever been waited on by a King of France?"

"Never to my knowledge, Sire," stammered le petit Anglais.

Louis XV was quite delightful to-day; so fresh and boyish in his movements, and with an inimitable laisser aller and friendliness in his manner which caused many pairs of eyes to stare, and many hearts to ponder.

"Let this be an epoch-making experience in your life, then," he said gaily. "Is this your coat?"

And without more ado he took that much-travelled garment from Monseigneur de Courtenai's hands.

Such condescension, such easy graciousness had not been witnessed for years! And His Majesty was not overfond of that State-appointed Ministry of Finance of which milor was the nominal head.

"His Majesty must be sorely in need of money!" was a whispered comment which ran freely enough round the room.

Withal the King himself seemed quite unconscious of the wave of interest to which his gracious behaviour was giving rise. He was holding up the coat, smiling benevolently at M. le Contrôleur, who appeared to be more than usually nervous, and now made no movement toward that much-desired portion of his attire.

"Allons, milor, I am waiting," said King Louis at last.

"Er—that is," murmured Lord Eglinton pitiably, "could I have my coat right side out?"

"Ohé! par ma foi!" quoth the King with easy familiarity, "your pardon, milor, but 'tis seldom I hold such an article in my hands, and I believe, by all the saints in the calendar, that I was holding it upside down, wrong side out, sleeves foremost, and collar awry!"

He laughed till his fat sides ached, and tears streamed from his eyes; then, amidst discreet murmurs of admiration at so much condescension, such gracious good humour, the ceremony of putting on M. le Contrôleur's coat was at last performed by the King of France, and milor, now fully clothed and apparently much relieved in his mind, was able to present his respects to Madame de Pompadour.

CHAPTER XIV
ROYAL FAVOURS

Apparently there was to be no end to royal graciousness this morning, as every one who looked could see. Hardly was the coat on M. le Contrôleur's shoulders than the King engaged him in conversation, whilst Mme. de Pompadour dropped into the armchair lately vacated by Monseigneur de Courtenai. The well-drilled circle of courtiers and ladies, including la belle Irène herself, retired discreetly. Once more there was a barrier of emptiness and parquet flooring round the inner group, now composed of His Majesty, of M. le Contrôleur-Général, and of Mme. de Pompadour. Into these sacred precincts no one would have dared to step. Lydie, having paid her respects to His Majesty, had not joined that intimate circle, and it seemed as if Louis XV had noted her absence, and was duly relieved thereat.

Anon M. le Duc d'Aumont approached the King, offering him a chair. Louis took it, and in the act of so doing he contrived to whisper four quick words in his Prime Minister's ear.

"Eh bien! Your daughter?"

Lord Eglinton just then was busy trying to find a suitable place whereon to deposit his own insignificant person, and blushing violently because Mme. de Pompadour had laughingly waved her fan in the direction of his monumental bed; M. le Duc, therefore, whilst adjusting a cushion behind the King's back, was able to reply hurriedly:

"Impossible, Sire!"

"And l'Anglais?"

"I have not yet tried."

"Ah! ah! ah!" laughed Pompadour merrily. "M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances, are all Englishmen as modest as you?"

"I—I don't know, Madame. I don't know very many," he replied.

"Here is M. le Contrôleur too bashful to sit on the edge of his own bed in my presence," she continued, still laughing. "Nay, milor, I'll wager that you were reclining on those downy cushions when you were flirting with Mme. de Stainville."

"Only under the compulsion of my valet-de-chambre, Madame," he protested, "or I'd have got up hours ago."

"Is he such a tyrant, then?" asked Louis.

"Terrible, your Majesty."

"You are afraid of him?"

"I tremble at his look."

"Ah! it is well M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances should tremble sometimes, even if only before his valet-de-chambre," sighed Louis XV with comic pathos.

"But, Sire, I tremble very often!" protested Lord Eglinton.

"I' faith he speaks truly," laughed Mme. de Pompadour, "since he trembles before his wife."

"And we tremble before M. le Contrôleur," concluded the King gaily.

"Before me, Sire?"

"Aye, indeed, since our Parliaments have made you our dragon."

"A good-tempered, meek sort of dragon, Sire, you'll graciously admit."

"That we will, milor, and gladly!" said Louis XV, now with somewhat too exuberant good-humour; "and you'll not have cause to regret that meekness, for your King hath remained your friend."

Then, as Lord Eglinton seemed either too much overcome by the amazing condescension, or too bashful to respond, his Majesty continued more sedately:

"We are about to prove our friendship, milor."

"Your Majesty—finds me—er—quite unprepared—er——" stammered milor, who in verity appeared distinctly confused, for his eyes roamed round the room as if in search of help or support in this interesting crisis.

"Nay! nay!" rejoined the King benignly, "this we understand, milor. It is not often the King of France chooses a friend amongst his subjects. For we look upon you as our subject now, M. le Contrôleur, since we have accepted your oath of allegiance. You have only just enough English blood left in your veins to make you doubly loyal and true to your King. Nay! nay! no thanks—we speak as our royal heart moves us. Just now we spoke of proofs of our friendship. Milor, tell us frankly, are you so very rich?"

The question came so abruptly at the end of the sentimental peroration that Lord Eglinton was completely thrown off his balance. He was not used to private and intimate conversations with King Louis; his wife saw to all affairs of State, and the present emergency found him unprepared.

"I—I believe so, Sire," he stammered.

"But surely not so rich," insisted the King, "that a million or so livres would come amiss? Hé!"?

"I don't rightly know, Sire; it a little depends."

"On what?"

"On the provenance of the million."

"More than one, good milor—two, mayhap," said the King exultantly.

Then he drew his chair in somewhat closer. Lord Eglinton had taken Mme. de Pompadour's advice and was sitting on the edge of the bed. We may presume that that edge was very hard and uncomfortable, for milor fidgeted and looked supremely unhappy. Anon the King's knees were close to his own, and Madame's brocaded skirt got entangled with his feet. The buzz of talk in the large room drowned the King's whispers effectually, the wide barrier of empty floor was an effectual check on eavesdropping. Obviously no one would hear what Louis was about to confide to his Minister; he leaned forward and dropped his voice so that Eglinton himself could scarcely hear, and had to bend his head so that he got Louis's hot, excited breath full on the cheek. Being General Comptroller of Finance and receiving the confidences of a King had its drawbacks at times.

"Milor," whispered his Majesty, "'tis a good affair we would propose, one which we could carry through without your help, but in which we would wish to initiate you, seeing that you are our friend."

"I listen, Sire."

"The Duke of Cumberland—you know him?"

"Yes."

"He has quelled the rebellion and humbled the standard of that arrogant Stuart Pretender."

"Your Majesty's friend—yes," said Eglinton innocently.

"Bah! our friend!" and Louis XV shrugged his shoulders, whilst Mme. de Pompadour gave a short contemptuous laugh.

"Oh! I am sorry! I thought——" said milor gently. "I pray your Majesty to continue."

"Charles Edward Stuart was no friend to us, milor," resumed Louis decisively: "observe, I pray you, the trouble which he hath brought about our ears. We had had peace with England ere now, but for that accursed adventurer and his pretensions; and now that he has come to disaster and ruin——"

"I understand," said Eglinton, with a little sigh of sympathy. "It is indeed awkward for your Majesty; the solemn promise you gave him——"

"Bah, man! prate not to me of promises," interrupted Louis irritably. "I promised him nothing; he knows that well enough—the young fool!"

"Do not let us think of him, Sire; it seems to upset your Majesty."

"It does, milor, it does; for even my worst enemies concede that Louis the Well-beloved is a creature of sympathy."

"A heart of gold, Sire—a heart of gold—er—shall we join the ladies?"

"Milor," said the King abruptly, putting a firm hand on Eglinton's wrist, "we must not allow that young fool to thwart the external politics of France any longer. The Duke of Cumberland, though our own enemy on the field of battle, has shown that England trusts in our honour and loyalty even in the midst of war, but she wants a proof from us."

"Oh, let us give it, Sire, by all means. Prince Charles Edward Stuart——"

"Exactly, milor," said Louis XV quietly; "that is the proof which England wants."

"I am afraid I don't quite understand," said Lord Eglinton, a little bewildered. "You see, I am very stupid; and—and perhaps my wife——"

Then, as King Louis gave a sharp ejaculation of impatience, Mme. de Pompadour broke in, in tones which she knew how to render velvety and soothing to the ear, whilst her delicate fingers rested lightly on M. le Contrôleur's hand.

"It is quite simple, milor," she whispered just as confidentially as the King had done. "This Charles Edward Stuart is a perpetual worry to England. His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland has been accused of unnecessary cruelty because he has been forced to take severe measures for the suppression of that spirit of rebellion, which is only being fostered in Scotland because of that young Pretender's perpetual presence there. He fans smouldering revolt into flame, he incites passions, and creates misguided enthusiasms which lead to endless trouble to all!"

Then as she paused, somewhat breathless and eager, her bright myosotis-coloured eyes anxiously scanning his face he said mildly:

"How beautifully you put things, Mme. la Marquise. I vow I have never heard such a perfect flood of eloquence."

"'Tis not a matter of Madame's eloquence," interposed Louis, with impatience, "though she hath grasped the subject with marvellous clearness of judgment."

"Then 'tis a matter of what, Sire?"

"The Duke of Cumberland has appealed to our loyalty. Though we are at war with England we bear no animus toward her reigning house, and have no wish to see King George's crown snatched from him by that beardless young adventurer, who has no more right to the throne of England than you, milor, to that of France."

"And his Grace of Cumberland has asked his Majesty's help," added Mme. de Pompadour.

"How strange! Just as Prince Charles Edward himself hath done."

"The Duke of Cumberland desires the person of the Pretender," she said, without heeding the interruption, "so that he may no longer incite misguided enthusiasts to rebellion, and cease to plunge Scotland and England into the throes of civil war."

"His Grace asks but little, methinks!" said Lord Eglinton slowly.

"Oh, England is always ready to pay for what she wants," said the Marquise.

"And on this occasion?" asked milor mildly.

"His Grace hath offered us, as man to man, fifteen millions livres for the person of the Pretender," said the King, with sudden decision, and looking M. le Contrôleur straight in the face.

"Ah! as man to man?"

Louis XV and Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour both drew a quick sigh of relief. M. le Contrôleur had taken the proposal with perfect quietude. He had not seemed startled, and his kindly face expressed nothing but gentle amazement, very natural under the circumstances, whilst his voice—even and placid as usual—was not above a whisper.

"As man to man," he repeated, and nodded his head several times, as if pondering over the meaning of this phrase.

How extremely fortunate! Milor had raised no objection! What a pity to have wasted quite so much thought, anxiety, and a wealth of eloquence over a matter which was so easily disposed of! Jeanne de Pompadour gave her royal patron an encouraging nod.

There was a world of wisdom in that nod and in the look which accompanied it. "He takes it so easily," that look seemed to say; "he thinks it quite natural. We must have his help, since we do not know where the fugitive Prince is in hiding. This little milor alone can tell us that, and give us a token by which Charles Edward would trustingly fall into the little ambush which we have prepared for him. But he thinks the affair quite simple. We need not offer him quite so large a share in the pleasant millions as we originally had intended."

All this and more Mme. de Pompadour's nod conveyed to the mind of Louis the Well-beloved, and he too nodded in response before he continued, speaking now more casually, in a calmer, more business-like tone.

"'Tis a fair offer," he said at last; "though the affair will not be quite so easy to conduct as his Grace supposes. He suggests our sending a ship to the coast of Scotland to meet the young adventurer and his friends, take them on board and convey them to an English port, where they will be handed over to the proper authorities. 'Tis fairly simple, methinks."

"Remarkably simple, your Majesty."

"Of course, we need a little help from you, milor. Oh, nothing much—advice as to the spot where our good ship will be most like to find Charles Edward Stuart—a token which if shown to that young firebrand will induce him to trust its bearer, and come on board himself with at least some of his friends. You follow me, milor?"

The question seemed necessary, for Lord Eglinton's face wore such a look of indifference as to astonish even the King, who had been prepared for some measure of protest, at any rate from this man who was being asked to betray his friend. Although Louis was at this period of his life quite deaf to every call of honour and loyalty through that constant, ever-present and exasperating want of money for the satisfaction of his extravagant caprices, nevertheless, there was Bourbon blood in him, and this cried out loudly now, that he was suggesting—nay, more, contemplating—a deed which would have put any of his subjects to shame, and which would have caused some of his most unscrupulous ancestors in mediæval times to writhe with humiliation in their graves. Therefore he had expected loud protest from Lord Eglinton, arguments more or less easy to combat, indignation of course; but this ready acceptance of this ignoble bargain—so strange is human nature!—for the moment quite horrified Louis. Milor took the selling of his friend as calmly as he would that of a horse.

"You follow me, milor?" reiterated the King.

"Yes, yes, Sire," replied Eglinton readily enough. "I follow you."

"You understand the service we ask of you?"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"For these services, milor, you shall be amply rewarded. We would deem one million livres a fair amount to fall to your share."

"Your Majesty is generous," said Eglinton quite passively.

"We are just, milor," said the King, with a sigh of satisfaction.

M. le Contrôleur seemed satisfied, and there was little else to say. Louis XV began to regret that he had offered him quite so much. Apparently five hundred thousand would have been enough.

"Then we'll call that settled," concluded his Majesty, pushing back his chair preparatory to ending this conversation, which he had so dreaded and which had turned out so highly satisfactory. Pity about that million livres, of course! five hundred thousand might have done, certainly seven! Nathless, M. le Contrôleur's private fortune was not so large as popular rumour had it, or did Mme. Lydie actually hold the purse strings?

"C'est entendu, milor," repeated Louis once more. "We will see to commissioning the ship and to her secret orders. As you see, there is no risk—and we shall be glad to be in the good graces of M. le Duc de Cumberland. To oblige an enemy, eh, milor? an act of peace and good-will in the midst of war. Chivalry, what?—worthy of our ancestor Henri of Navarre! Methinks it will make history."

"I think so, too, Sire," said Eglinton, with obvious conviction.

"Ah! then we'll see to the completion of the affair; we—the King and M. le Duc d'Aumont. You are lucky, milor, your share of the work is so simple; as soon as the ship is ready to sail we'll call on you for the necessary instructions. Par ma foi! 'tis a fine business for us all, milor; one million in your pocket for a word and a token, the residue of the fifteen millions in our royal coffers, and the thanks of his Grace of Cumberland to boot, not to mention the moral satisfaction of having helped to quell an unpleasant rebellion, and of placing one's enemy under lasting obligation. All for the good of France!"

Louis the Well-beloved had risen; he was more than contented; an unctuous smile, a beaming graciousness of expression pervaded his entire countenance. He groped in the wide pocket of his coat, bringing forth a letter which bore a large red seal.

"His Grace's letter, milor," he said with final supreme condescension, and holding the document out to M. le Contrôleur, who took it without a word. "Do you glance through it, and see that we have not been mistaken, that the whole thing is clear, straightforward and——"

"And a damned, accursed, dirty piece of business, Sire!"

It was undoubtedly Lord Eglinton who had spoken, for his right hand, as if in response to his thoughts, was even now crushing the paper which it held, whilst the left was raised preparatory to tearing the infamous proposal to pieces. Yes, it had been milor's even, gentle voice which had uttered this sudden decisive condemnation in the same impassive tones, and still scarce audible even to these two people near him, without passion, without tremor, seemingly without emotion. Just a statement of an undisputable fact, a personal opinion in answer to a question put to him.

Louis, completely thrown off his balance, stared at milor as if he had been suddenly shaken out of a dream; for the moment he thought that his ears must have played him a trick, that he must have misunderstood the words so calmly uttered; instinctively his hand sought the support of the chair which he had just vacated. It seemed as if he needed a solid, a materialistic prop, else his body would have reeled as his brain was doing now. Mme. de Pompadour, too, had jumped to her feet, pushing her chair away with an angry, impatient movement. The disappointment was so keen and sudden, coming just at the moment when triumph seemed so complete. But whilst Louis stared somewhat blankly, at M. le Contrôleur, she, the woman, flashed rage, contempt, vengeance upon him.

He had tricked and fooled her, her as well as the King, leading them on to believe that he approved, the better to laugh at them both in his sleeve.

The contemptible, arrogant wretch!

He was still half sitting, half leaning against the edge of his bed, and staring straight out before him through the big bay window which gave on to the park, passively, gently, as if the matter had ceased to concern him, as if he were quite unconscious of the enormity of his action.

"A—a damned—what?—accursed!—what?——" stammered the King; "but, milor——"

"Nay, Sire, I pray you!" broke in a grave voice suddenly; "my lord seems to have angered your Majesty. Will you deign to explain?"

CHAPTER XV
DIPLOMACY

The buzz of talk was going on as loudly and incessantly as before. The whispered conversation around M. le Contrôleur's bedside had excited no violent curiosity. The first surprise occasioned by His Majesty's unparalleled condescension soon gave way to indifference; it was obvious that the King's assiduity beside the Minister of Finance was solely due to a more than normal desire for money, and these royal demands for renewed funds were too numerous to cause more than passing interest.

Eavesdropping was impossible without gross disrespect, the latter far more unpardonable than the most insatiable curiosity. Lydie alone, privileged above all, had apparently not heeded the barrier which isolated Louis XV, Pompadour and milor from the rest of the vast apartment, for she now stood at the foot of the bed—a graceful, imposing figure dressed in somewhat conventual gray, with one hand resting on the delicate panelling, her grave, luminous eyes fixed on the King's face.

Louis shook himself free from the stupor in which milor's unexpected words had plunged him. Surprise yielded now to vexation. Lydie's appearance, her interference in this matter, would be the final death-blow to his hopes. Those tantalizing millions had dangled close before his eyes, his royal hands had almost grasped them, his ears heard their delicious clink; milor's original attitude had brought them seemingly within his grasp. Now everything was changed. The whole affair would have to be argued out again at full length, and though le petit Anglais might prove amenable, Mme. Lydie was sure to be obdurate.

Louis XV scowled at the picture of youth and beauty presented by that elegant figure in dove-gray silk, with the proud head carried high, the unconscious look of power and of strength in the large gray eyes, so grave and so fixed. In his mind there had already flashed the thought that milor's sudden change of attitude—for it was a change, of that his Majesty had no doubt—was due to a subtle sense of fear which had made him conscious of his wife's presence, although from her position and his own he could not possibly have seen her approach.

This made him still more vexed with Lydie, and as she seemed calmly to be waiting for an explanation, he replied quite gruffly:

"Nay, madame, you mistake; I assure you milor and ourselves are perfectly at one—we were so until a few moments ago."

"Until I came," she said quietly. "I am glad of that, for 'twill be easy enough, I hope, to convince your Majesty that my presence can have made no difference to M. le Contrôleur's attitude of deep respect."

"Pardi, we hope not!" interposed Mme. de Pompadour acidly; "but we hope milor hath found his tongue at last and will do the convincing himself."

But Louis XV was not prepared to reopen the discussion in the presence of Mme. Lydie. He knew, quite as well as M. le Duc d'Aumont himself, that she would have nothing but contempt and horror for that infamous proposal, which he was more determined than ever to accept.

It was tiresome of course not to have the coöperation of Lord Eglinton; that weak fool now would, no doubt, be overruled by his wife. At the same time—and Louis hugged the thought as it sprang to his mind—there were other ways of obtaining possession of Charles Edward Stuart's person than the direct one which he had proposed to milor just now. The young Pretender was bound sooner or later to leave the shores of Scotland. Unbeknown to King Louis a ship might be sent by private friends to rescue the fugitive, but that ship could be intercepted on her way home, and, after all, Charles Edward was bound to land in France some day!—and then——

And there were other means besides of earning the tempting millions. But these would have to be thought out, planned and arranged; they would be difficult and not nearly so expeditious, which was a drawback when royal coffers were clamouring to be filled. Still, it would be distinctly unadvisable to broach the subject with Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, and unnecessarily humiliating, since a rebuff was sure to be the result.

Therefore, when—as if in placid defiance of Pompadour's challenge—Lord Eglinton handed the Duke of Cumberland's letter silently back to the King, the latter slipped it into his pocket with a gesture of ostentatious indifference.

"Nay! we need not trouble Mme. la Marquise with the discussion now," he said; "she is unacquainted with the subject of our present conversation, and it would be tedious to reiterate."

"I crave your pardon, Sire," rejoined Lydie, "if I have transgressed, but my zeal in the service of France and in that of your Majesty has rendered my senses preternaturally acute. My eyes see in the gloom, my ears hear across vast spaces."

"In a word, Mme. la Marquise has been listening!" said Pompadour, with a sneer.

"I did not listen," said Lydie quietly. "I only heard."

"Then you know?" said Louis, with well-assumed indifference.

"Oh, yes!"

She smiled at him as she replied. This was apparently a day of surprises, for the smile seemed distinctly encouraging.

"And—and what do you say?" asked his Majesty somewhat anxiously, yet emboldened by that encouraging smile.

Of a truth! was he about to find an ally there, where he expected most bitter opposition?

"Meseems that milor was somewhat hasty," replied Lydie quietly.

"Ah!"

It was a sigh of intense, deep, heartfelt, satisfaction breathed by Louis the Well-beloved, and unrestrainedly echoed by Mme. de Pompadour.

"This proposal, Sire," continued Lydie; "'tis from England, I understand?"

"From his Grace of Cumberland himself, Madame," assented the King, once more drawing the letter from out his pocket.

"May I be permitted to see it?" she asked.

For a moment Louis hesitated, then he gave her the letter. There was no risk in this, since she practically owned to knowing its contents.

And the whole affair would be so much easier, so much more expeditious with the coöperation of the Eglintons.

Lydie read the letter through, seemingly deeply engrossed in its contents. She never once raised her eyes to see how she was being watched. She knew quite well that the King's eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face, that Pompadour's cupidity and greed for the proposed millions were plainly writ upon her face. But she had not once looked at her husband. She did not look at him now. He had not spoken since that sudden burst of indignation, when his slender hand crushed the infamous document which she now studied so carefully, crushed it and would have torn it to ribbons in loathing and contempt.

When first she interposed he had turned and faced her. Since then she knew that his eyes had remained fixed on her face. She felt the gaze, yet cared not to return it. He was too weak, too simple to understand, and of her own actions she would be sole mistress; that had been the chief clause in the contract when she placed her hand in his.

Her intuitive knowledge of this Court in which she moved, her suspicions of this feeble monarch, whose extravagant caprices had led him to deeds at which in his earlier days he had been the first to blush, her dread of intrigues and treachery, all had whispered in her ear the word of prudence—"Temporize."

The whole infamous plan had been revealed to her through those same supernaturally keen senses, which her strong domineering nature had coerced, until they became the slaves of her will. Mingling with the crowd, her graceful body present in the chattering throng, her mind had remained fixed on that group beside the bed. She had noticed the King's expression of face when he engaged milor in conversation, his extraordinary bonhomie, his confidential attitude, his whispers, all backed and seconded by Pompadour. Gradually she manœuvred and, still forming a unit with the rest of the crowd, she had by degrees drawn nearer and nearer, until she saw her husband's movement, his almost imperceptible change of expression, as he clutched the letter which was handed him by the King.

Then she boldly entered the inner precincts; being privileged, she could do even that, without creating attention. Milor's words of contempt, the royal arms of England on the seal of the letter, coupled with her father's attitude with her just now, and his veiled suggestions, told her all she wanted to know. And quick as flashes of summer lightning her woman's intuition whispered words of wisdom in her ear.

"Know everything first—then temporize! Diplomacy will do more than defiance."

Having read the letter through, she of course knew all. It was simple enough—a monstrous proposal which the King of France was ready to adopt. She felt real physical nausea at contact with so much infamy.

But she folded the document neatly and carefully, then looked quietly at the King.

"The Duke of Cumberland is generous," she said, forcing herself to smile.

"Heu, heu!" assented Louis lightly, with a return of his wonted bonhomie. Matters were shaping themselves to a truly satisfactory end.

"Do I understand that your Majesty would desire us to accept his Grace's proposal?"

"What think you yourself, Madame?"

"It is worth considering," she mused.

"Parbleu! And you are a true woman!" exclaimed Louis XV, beaming with delight. "Full of wisdom as a statesman should be. To think that we could ever have mistrusted so clear a head and so sound a judgment."

"Your Majesty, I hope, will always remember that my sole desire is to serve France and her King!"

"Par ma foi! We'll not forget your help in this, Madame," he exclaimed whole-heartedly. "Then we may rely on your help?"

"What does your Majesty desire me to do?"

He came quite close to her, and she forced herself not to draw back one inch. For the sake of the fugitive prince and his friends, who had trusted in the honour of France; for the sake of that honour which, in her peculiar position, was as dear to her as her own, she would not flinch now; she would show no repulsion, no fear, though her whole being rose in revolt at contact with this man.

A man, not a king! Par Dieu, not a King of France!

His face to her looked hideous, the eyes seemed to leer, and there was lust for money, and ignoble treachery writ on every feature.

"We have explained it all to milor," whispered Louis under his breath; "a ship to be commissioned and sent to meet the Stuart. She will have secret orders—no one shall know but her captain—and he will be a man whom we can trust—a man whom we shall have to pay—you understand?"

"I understand."

"Then from you we want to know the place in Scotland where we will find Charles Edward—eh? And also a token—a ring, a word perhaps, by which that young adventurer will be made to trust his own person and that of his friends to our good ship. It is very simple, you see."

"Quite simple, your Majesty."

"The ship's orders will be that once the Stuart and his faction are on board, she shall make straight for the first English port—and—and—that is all!" he added complacently.

"Yes, that is all, your Majesty."

"And on the day that Charles Edward Stuart is handed over to the English authorities, there will be fifteen millions for your King, Madame, and a million livres pin money for the most able statesman in Europe."

And with consummate gallantry, Louis bowed very low and took her hand in his. It rested cold and inert between his hot fingers, but he was far too eager, far too triumphant to notice anything beyond the fact that he had succeeded in enlisting the help of Lydie d'Eglinton, without whom his project was bound to have been considerably delayed, if not completely frustrated. He had indeed not wasted this glorious morning.

"I am eternally your debtor, Madame!" he said gaily; "and 'tis well, believe me, to serve the King of France."

"I have done nothing as yet, Sire," she rejoined.

"Nay, but you will," he said confidently.

She bowed her head and he interpreted the movement according to his will. But he was impatient, longing to see this matter finally settled to his entire satisfaction.

"Will you not give me a definite answer now?"

"In the midst of so much chatter, Sire?" she said, forcing herself to smile gaily. "Nay, but 'tis a serious matter—and I must consult with my father."

Louis smiled contentedly. M. le Duc d'Aumont was at one with him in this. The letter had been originally sent to the Prime Minister, and the Duke, who was weak, who was a slave to the Bourbon dynasty, and who, alas! was also tainted with that horrible canker which was gradually affecting the whole of the aristocracy of France, the insatiable greed for money, had been bribed to agree with the King.

Therefore Louis was content. It was as well that Lydie should speak with the Duke. The worthy D'Aumont would dissipate her last lingering scruples.

"And your husband?" he added, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at milor, and smiling with good-natured sarcasm.

"Oh, my husband will think as I do," she replied evasively.

At thought of her father and the King's complacent smile, Lydie had winced. For a moment her outward calm threatened to forsake her. She felt as if she could not keep up this hideous comedy any longer. She would have screamed aloud with horror or contempt, aye! and deep sorrow, too, to think that her father wallowed in this mire.

She too cast a quick glance at milor. His eyes were no longer fixed on her face. He stood quietly beside Madame de Pompadour, who, leaving the King to settle with Lydie, had engaged Lord Eglinton in frivolous conversation. He was quite placid again, and in his face, gentle and diffident as usual, there was no longer the faintest trace of that sudden outburst of withering contempt.

The Duke of Cumberland's letter was still in her hand. It seemed to scorch her fingers with its loathsome pollution. But she clung to it, and after a violent effort at self control, she contrived to look Louis straight in the face and to give him a reassuring smile, as she slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown.

"I will consult with my father, Sire," she repeated, "and will read the letter when I am alone and undisturbed."

"And you will give me a final answer?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Why not sooner?" he urged impatiently.