Conversation of the maréchale de Mirepoix with the comtessedu Barry on court friendship—Intrigues of madame de Bearn—Preconcerted meeting with madame de Flaracourt—-Rage ofmadame de Bearn—Portrait and conversation of madame deFlaracourt with the comtesse du Barry—Insult from theprincesse de Guémenée—Her banishment—Explanation of theking and the duc de Choiseul relative to madame du Barry—The comtesse d’Egmont
However giddy I was I did not partake in the excessive gaiety of madame de Mirepoix. I was pained to see how little reliance could be placed on the sensibility of the king, as well as how far I could esteem the consideration of the maréchale for madame de Pompadour, from whom she had experienced so many marks of friendship. This courtier baseness appeared to me so villainous, that I could not entirely conceal how I was affected with displeasure. Madame de Mirepoix saw it, and, looking at me attentively, said,
“Do you feel any desire to become pathetical in the country we live in? I warn you that it will be at your own expense. We must learn to content ourselves here with appearances, and examine nothing thoroughly.”
“‘There is then no reality?” said I to her.
“Yes,” she answered me, “but only two things, power and money: the rest is ‘leather and prunella’ (contes bleus): no person has time to love sincerely; it is hatred only that takes deep root and never dies. To hope to give birth to a real passion, an Orestean and Pyladean friendship, is a dream from which you must be awakened.”
“Then you do not love me?”
“You ask me a very awkward question, my darling, I can tell you. I do love you, and very much, too: I have proved it by ranging myself on your side, and by declaring, with the utmost frankness, that I would rather see you in the situation in which you are, than any other woman of the court. But there is a long space between this and heroical friendship: I should deceive you if I were to affirm the contrary, and there would be no common sense in giving faith to my words. Every one has too much business, too much intrigue, too many quarrels on hand, to have any leisure to think of others: every one lives for himself alone. Mesdames de Guémenée and de Grammont appear very intimate: that is easily explained, they unite against a common enemy. But were your station left vacant, no sooner would the king have thrown the apple to one of them, but the other would detest her instantly.”
Contrary to custom I made no reply: I was absorbed in painful reflections to which this conversation had given rise. The maréchale perceived it, and said,
“We should fall into philosophy if we probed this subject too deeply. Let us think no more of this: besides, I have a new defection to tell you of. Madame de Flaracourt told me yesterday that she much regretted having misunderstood you, and that you were worth more than all those who persecute you. She appeared to me disposed to ally herself to you for the least encouragement which you might be induced to hold out to her.”
“You know very well,” I replied, “that I am willing to adopt your advice. The house of Flaracourt is not to be despised, and I ask no better than to be on amicable terms with the lady.”
“Well, then, come this morning and walk in the grove nearest the pavilion, I shall be there with madame de Flaracourt: we will meet by chance, compliments will follow, and the alliance will be formed.”
The maréchale and I had scarcely separated when madame de Bearn was announced. This lady besieged me night and day. Gifted with a subtle and penetrating spirit—that talent which procures advancement at court, she saw, with pain, that I sought to attract other females about me: she would fain have remained my only friend, that she might, unopposed, influence me in all I did. She saw, therefore, the appearance of madame de Mirepoix in my drawing-room with uneasiness: her bad humor was sufficiently apparent to attract the notice of the maréchale, who laughed at it: her social position as a titled woman, and the king’s friendship, giving her confidence that her credit would always exceed that of my godmother.
Madame de Bearn was compelled to submit to the ascendancy of the maréchale, but yet did not the less relax in her efforts to keep from me all other female society, she hoped that at last the king would distinguish her, and call her into his intimacy as my friend; she was not more fond of the comtesse d’Aloigny, altho’ the nullity of this lady need not have alarmed her much. For me, I began to resent the irksomeness of having incessantly at my side a person who manifested too openly her desire to compel me to submit to her wishes, and I waited, to secure my freedom, only until the circle of females I could admit to my society should be extended.
Such were our reciprocal feelings during our stay at Marly. The madame de Bearn watched me with more care than at Versailles, fearing, no doubt, that the freedom of the country might facilitate connections prejudicial to her interests. Little did she anticipate on this day the stroke which was in preparation for her. I asked her spitefully to take a turn with me into the park, and I took care not to announce the meeting which we had arranged.
Behold us then walking this way and that, quite by chance, without however going any distance from the pavilion. Madame de Bearn, not liking the vicinity of the château, was desirous to go into the wood. I declined this under vain excuses, when suddenly madame de Mirepoix and madame de Flaracourt appeared at the end of a very short walk.
“Let us turn this way,” said the countess to me, “here comes one of our enemies, whom it would be as well to avoid.”
“Why turn away?” I replied; “she is alone, we are two, and then the maréchale de Mirepoix is not opposed to us.”
Saying this, I advanced towards them. Madame de Flaracourt appeared very gracious: I replied to her advances with due politeness, and instead of separating, we continued to walk about together. Madame de Bearn saw clearly that chance was not the sole cause of this meeting: she dissembled as well as she could. I afterwards learnt that she owed me a spite, particularly for the mystery which I had made of this occurrence. The marked silence, and the sullen air she assumed during this interview, and which her sense and knowledge of the world should have prevented her from manifesting, proved to me, on this occasion, as on many other others, that temper cannot always be conquered, and that at times it will burst forth in spite of the experience and caution of the courtier.
I did not give myself much trouble on this subject: I had well recompensed the good offices of the countess: I had ample proof that in serving me she had acted on the impulse of self-interest: we were quits, I thought, and I saw no reason why I should remain isolated just to serve her pleasure.
When we returned to my apartments I saw plainly, by her mutterings, her sighs, and the shrugging of her shoulders, that she was deeply irritated at what had just taken place. She was desirous of provoking an explanation, but as that could only tend to her disadvantage, she contented herself with leaving me earlier than her usual want, without saying anything disagreeable. Her custom was not to leave me alone, and her abrupt departure confirmed me in the idea I had imbibed, that this sort of comedy had much thwarted her.
In the course of the same day I received a visit from the comtesse de Flaracourt. This lady, whose sparkling eyes shone with an air of mischief, presented herself to me with an appearance of openness and confidence which completely cloaked the malignity and treachery of her character. She threw her arms round my neck with as much grace as tenderness, and taking my hand, as if to arrest my attention, said:
“I ought, madame, to explain to you the delay that I have made before I introduce myself to you, as well as the promptitude of this my first visit. I was prejudiced against you, and had formed a false estimate of you. Myliaisonwith mesdames d’Egmont, de Brionne, and de Grammont naturally placed me in the rank opposed to you: so much for what has passed. But I have seen you: I have studied you at a distance, as well as close, and I have recognised, without difficulty, the injustice of your enemies. I have been enraged with myself for having been deceived regarding you: I wish to repair my wrongs. Enlightened by the opinion of the maréchale de Mirepoix, I have not hesitated to approach you under her auspices, and our first meeting has so happily furnished me with an opportunity of appreciating you, that I would not delay any longer the pleasure of making you a personal avowal of my past sentiments, and of those with which you now inspire me.”
The tone in which madame de Flaracourt uttered these words was so gracious and so persuasive, that I could not resist the pleasure of embracing her. She returned my kiss with the same eagerness, and would not listen to my thanks.
“All is explained between us,” she continued, “let us forget the past, and let us do as if meeting for the first time to-day; we henceforward date this as the first of our acquaintance.”
“The affability with which you have presented yourself to me,” I replied, “does not permit me to believe that I have only known you from this morning; I am in an illusion which will only allow me to look on our recent alliance as an ancient friendship.”
After having exchanged some conversation of the same tenor, we talked of my situation as regarded the other females of the court.
“They hate you for two reasons,” said the countess: “in the first place, because you have made a conquest which all the world envies you; secondly because you are not one of us. There is not one family who can lean on you in virtue of the rights of blood, or alliances which stand instead of it. You have superseded a woman who more than any other could have a claim to your good fortune: she is sister to the prime minister, who has in her train, like Lucifer, more than a third part of heaven, for all the courtiers hang on her brother.
“On the other hand, we are not accustomed to remain so long in opposition to the will of the king. Such a resistance is not natural to us; it weighs upon us, it harms us, the favor of our master being our chief good. We are only something thro’ him, and when combatting against him we have neither the courage nor the perseverance. Thus you may be very certain that the majority of women who oppose you do it against the grain: and if you add to this that they are incessantly exposed to the murmurs and complaints of their husbands, sons, brothers, and lovers, you will easily be convinced that they only aspire to finding a means of reconciling the regard they owe to the Choiseuls and the terror which they inspire, with the desire they have to seek your protection and the friendship of the king. The cabal only flies on one wing, and I cannot divine its situation at the commencement of the next winter. Do not disquiet yourself any more with what it can do: keep yourself quiet; continue to please the ‘master,’ and you will triumph over the multitude as easily as you have conquered the resistance of mesdames.”
Such was the language of the comtesse de Flaracourt: it agreed, as you will perceive, with that of madame de Mirepoix, and I ought the more to believe it, as it was the fruit of their experience and profound knowledge of court manners. Their example proved to me, as well as their words, that all those who approached the king could not bear for a long time the position in which he placed those whom he did not look upon with pleasure. However, Louis XV evinced more plainly from day to day the ascendancy I had over his mind. He assisted publicly at my toilette, he walked out with me, left me as little as possible, and sought by every attention to console me for the impertinences with which my enemies bespattered me. The following anecdote will prove to you how little consideration he had for those persons who dared to insult me openly.
One day at Marly, I entered the drawing-room; there was a vacant seat near the princesse de Guémenée, I went to it, and scarcely was seated when my neighbor got up, saying, “What horror!” and betook herself to the further end of the room. I was much confused: the offence was too public for me to restrain my resentment, and even when I wished to do so the thing was scarcely possible. The comte Jean, who had witnessed it, and my sisters-in-law, who learnt it from him, were enraged. I was compelled to complain to the king, who instantly sent the princesse de Guémenée an order to quit Marly forthwith, and betake herself to the princesse de Marsan,gouvernanteof the children of the royal family of France, of whose post she had the reversion.
Never did a just chastisement produce a greater effect. The outcry against me was louder than ever, it seemed as tho’ the whole nobility of France was immolated at “one fell swoop.” To have heard the universal clamor, it would have been thought that the princess had been sent to the most obscure prison in the kingdom. This proof of the king’s regard for me did much mischief, no doubt, as it furnished my enemies with a pretext to accuse me of a vindictive spirit. Could I do otherwise? Ought I to have allowed myself to be overwhelmed with impunity, and was it consistent with the dignity of my august protector, that I should be insulted thus openly by his subjects, his courtiers, his guests, even in the private apartments of his palace?
However, this wrath of the nobility did not prevent the Choiseul family from experiencing a feeling of fright. They had just received a signal favor. The government of Strasbourg, considered as the key of France and Alsace, had been given in reversion to the comte de Stainville, brother of the duc de Choiseul. Certainly this choice was a very great proof of the indulgence of the king, and the moment was badly chosen to pay with ingratitude a benefit so important. This did not hinder the duchesse de Grammont, and all the women of her house, or who were her allies, from continuing to intrigue against me. It was natural to believe that the king would not permit such doing for a long time, and that should he become enraged at them, that I should attempt to soothe his anger.
Matters were in this state, when one morning, after his accustomed routine, the duc de Choiseul requested a private audience of the king. “I grant it this moment,” said the prince, “what have you to say to me?”
“I wish to explain to your majesty how excessively painful is the situation in which I am placed with regard to some of the members of my family. All the females, and my sister at their head, attack me about a quarrel which is strange to me, and with which I have declared I would not meddle.”
“You do well, monsieur le duc,” said the king, with cool gravity, “I am much vexed at all that is going on, and have resolved not to suffer it any longer.”
The decision of this discourse made a deep impression M. de Choiseul: he sought to conceal it whilst he replied:
“It is difficult, sire, to make women listen to reason.”
“All are not unreasonable,” rejoined the king: “your wife, for instance, is a model of reason and wisdom: she has perfect control of herself. She is the wise woman of scripture.”
This flattery and justly merited eulogium, which the king made of the duchess whenever he found an opportunity, was the more painful to M. de Choiseul, as his conduct was not irreproachable towards a woman whose virtues he alone did not justly appreciate. It was a direct satire against his sister’s conduct, whose ascendancy over him, her brother, the king well knew. He replied that the good behavior of his wife was the safeguard of his family, and he greatly regretted that the duchesse de Grammont had not a right to the same eulogium.
“I beg you,” said the prince, “to engage her to change her language, and to conduct herself with less boldness, if she would not have me force her to repent.”
“That, sire, is a mission painful to fulfil, and words very hard to convey to her.”
“So much the worse for her,” replied the king, elevating his voice, “if she bear any friendship for you, let her prove it in this particular: your interests should keep her mouth shut.”
The duke had no difficulty to comprehend the indirect menace implied: he instantly renewed his regrets for thedisagreeabledisturbances that had occurred.
“Addinsulting,” said Louis XV. “I am content with you and your services, duke. I have just proved this to you, by giving your brother more than he could expect from me; but have not I the right to have my intimacies respected? It appears to me that if you spoke more decidedly in your family you would command more attention.”
“This makes me fear, sire, that your majesty does not believe me sincere in my expression of the regret which I just took the liberty to utter to your majesty.”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur le duc, you certainly do not like madame du Barry.”
“I neither like nor hate her, sire; but I see with trouble that she receives at her house all my enemies.”
“Whose fault is that if it be so? Your own; you, who would never visit her; she would have received you with pleasure, and I have not concealed from you the satisfaction I should have experienced.”
These last words made the duke start, his eyes became animated. After a moment’s reflection he said to the king,
“Sire, is it indispensably necessary for the service of the state that I endeavor to attain the good-will of madame la comtesse du Barry?”
“No.”
“Well, then, sire, allow matters to remain as they are. It would cost me much to quarrel with my whole family, the more so as this sacrifice is not useful to you, and would in no wise alter my position with your majesty.”
However painful to the king such a determination might be, he did not allow the duke to perceive it; he dissembled the resentment he felt, and contented himself with saying,
“Duc de Choiseul, I do not pretend to impose chains on you; I have spoken to you as a friend rather than as a sovereign. Now I return to what was said at first, and accept with confidence the promise you make me not to torment a lady whom I love most sincerely.”
Thus ended a conversation from which the duke, with a less haughty disposition, might have extracted greater advantages and played a surer game. It was the last plank of safety offered in the shipwreck which menaced him. He disdained it: the opportunity of seizing it did not present itself again. I doubt not but that if he would have united himself freely and sincerely with me I should not have played him false. Louis XV, satisfied with his condescension in my behalf, would have kept him at the head of his ministry: but his pride ruined him, he could not throw off the yoke which the duchesse de Grammont had imposed on him: he recoiled from the idea of telling her that he had made a treaty of peace with me, and that was not one of the least causes of his disgrace.
The journey to Marly gave birth to a multitude of intrigues of persons who thought to wrap themselves up in profound mystery, and all whose actions we knew. The police were very active about the royal abodes, especially since the fatal deed of the regicide Damiens. To keep them perpetually on the watch, they were ordered to watch attentively the amours of the lords and ladies of the court.
The daughter of the duc de Richelieu, the comtesse d’Egmont, whose age was no pretext for her follies, dearly liked low love adventures. She used to seek them out in Paris, when she could find none at Versailles. She was not, however, the more indulgent towards me. This lady was not always content with noble lovers, but sought them in all classes, and more than once, simple mortals, men of low order, obtained preference over demi-gods. Her conduct in this respect was the result of long experience. She used to go out alone, and traverse the streets of Paris. She entered the shops, and when her eye rested on a good figure, having wide shoulders, sinewy limbs, and a good looking face, she then called up all the resources of her mind to form and carry on an intrigue, of which the consequences, at first agreeable to him who was the object of it, terminated most frequently fatally. The following adventure will give you an idea of the talent of madame d’Egmont in this way, and how she got rid of her adorers when she had exhausted with them the cup of pleasure.
Intrigue of the comtesse d’Egmont with a shopman—Hisunhappy fate—The comtesse du Barry protects him—Conduct ofLouis XV upon the occasion—The young man quits France—Madame du Barry’s letter to the comtesse d’Egmont—Quarrelwith the maréchal de Richelieu
The comtesse d’Egmont was one day observed to quit her house attired with the most parsimonious simplicity; her head being covered by an enormously deep bonnet, which wholly concealed her countenance, and the rest of her person enveloped in a pelisse, whose many rents betrayed its long service. In this strange dress she traversed the streets of Paris in search of adventures. She was going, she said, wittily enough, “to return to the cits what her father and brother had so frequently robbed them of.” Chance having led her steps to the rue St. Martin, she was stopped there by a confusion of carriages, which compelled her first to shelter herself against the wall, and afterwards to take refuge in an opposite shop, which was one occupied by a linen-draper.
She looked around her with the eye of a connoisseur, and perceived beneath the modest garb of a shopman one of those broad-shouldered youths, whose open smiling countenance and gently tinged complexion bespoke a person whose simplicity of character differed greatly from the vast energy of his physical powers: he resembled the Farnese Hercules upon a reduced scale. The princess approached him, and requested to see some muslins, from which she selected two gowns, and after having paid for them, requested the master of the shop to send his shopman with them, in the course of half an hour, to an address she gave as her usual abode.
The comtesse d’Egmont had engaged an apartment on the third floor of a house in the rue Tiquetonne, which was in the heart of Paris. The porteress of the dwelling knew her only as madame Rossin: her household consisted of a housekeeper and an old man, both devoted to a mistress whose character they well understood, and to whom they had every motive to be faithful.
Here it was, then, that the lady hastened to await the arrival of the new object of her plebeian inclinations. Young Moireau (for such was the shopman’s name) was not long ere he arrived with his parcel. Madame d’Egmont was ready to receive him: she had had sufficient time to exchange her shabby walking dress for one which bespoke both coquetry and voluptuousness; the softness of her smile, and the turn of her features announced one whose warmth of passions would hold out the most flattering hopes of success to him who should seek her love.
Madame Rossin and the young shopman were soon engaged in conversation, further animated by the bright glances sent direct from the eyes of madame to the unguarded heart of her admiring visitor. Emboldened by the graciousness of her manner, he presumed to touch her fair hand: the lady, in affected anger, rose, and commanded him to quit the house. The terrified youth fell at her feet, imploring pardon for his boldness, and then hastily quitted the room ere the feigned madame Rossin could pronounce the forgiveness he demanded. “The fool,” was (doubtless) the princess’s exclamation, “had he been brought up at court he would have conducted himself very differently.”
This silliness of proceeding was, however, far from being displeasing to the princess: on the contrary, it seemed to increase her determination to prosecute the adventure. Accordingly, on the following day she hastened to resume her former walking dress, and in it to take the road which led to the rue St. Martin, and again to present herself as a customer at the linen-draper’s shop. This time she purchased cloth for chemises. Indescribable and unspeakable was the joy of young Moireau, when, after having served the mistress of his thoughts, he heard her request of his master to allow the goods she had selected to be sent to her residence; and equally was he surprised that she omitted to name him as the person she wished should convey them. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, Moireau obtained possession of the parcel, and was soon on his way to the rue Tiquetonne, where he found the lady more languishing and attractive than before; and soon they were deep in the most earnest and interesting conversation. Moireau, who now saw that his boldness was not displeasing to the lady, became more and more presuming: true, his overtures were refused, but so gently, that it only fanned his flame; nor was it till after reiterated prayers that he succeeded in obtaining her promise to meet him on the following Sunday. The princess, like a skilful manoeuvrer, reckoned upon the additional violence his ardor would receive from this delay. The affection with which she had inspired him would only gain strength by thus deferring the day for their next meeting, whilst he would have time to meditate upon the virtue as well as the charms of her he had won.
The long looked for Sunday at length arrived, and Moireau was first at the place of rendezvous. His simple dress augmented his natural good looks, whilst the countess had spared no pains to render her appearance calculated to captivate and seduce. All reserve was thrown aside; and to satisfy the eager curiosity of her lover, she stated herself to be the widow of a country lawyer, who had come to Paris to carry on a lawsuit. It would be useless to follow the princess during the further course of this meeting. Suffice it to say, that Moirreau and madame d’Egmont separated mutually happy and satisfied with each other.
The youth, who was now ages gone in love, had only reached his twenty-second year, and madame Rossin was his first attachment. So ardent and impetuous did his passion hourly grow, that it became a species of insanity. On the other hand, the high-born dame, who had thus captivated him, felt all the attractions of his simple and untutored love, further set off by the fine manly figure of the young shopman. Indeed, so much novelty and interest did she experience in her new amour, that, far from finding herself, as she had expected, disposed to relinquish the affair (as she had anticipated) at the end of two or three interviews, which she had imagined would have satisfied her capricious fancy, she put off, to an indefinite period, her original project of ending the affair by feigning a return to the country.
This resolution, however, she did not feel courage to carry into effect; and two or three months rolled rapidly away without any diminution of their reciprocal flame, when one fine Sunday evening Moireau, whose time hung heavily on his hands, took it into his head to visit the opera. This species of amusement constitutes thene plus ultraof the delights of a French cit. Moireau seated himself in the pit, just opposite the box of the gentlemen in waiting. The performance was “Castor and Pollux.” At the commencement of the second act a sudden noise and bustle drew Moireau from the contemplative admiration into which the splendor of the piece had thrown him. The disturbance arose from a general move, which was taking place in the box belonging to the gentlemen in waiting. Madame d’Egmont had just arrived, attended by four or five grand lords of the court covered with gold, and decorated with the order of the Holy Ghost, and two ladies richly dressed, from whom she was distinguished as much by the superior magnificence of her attire as by her striking beauty.
Moireau could not believe his eyes; he felt assured he beheld madame Rossin, yet he fancied he must be under the influence of some fantastic dream; but every look, every gesture of the princess, a thousand trifles, which would have escaped the notice of a common observer, but which were engraved in indelible characters on the heart of her admirer, all concurred to assure him that he recognised in this lovely and dazzling female, so splendidly attired and so regally attended, the cherished mistress of his affections; she whom that very morning he had held in his embrace. He addressed a thousand questions to those about him, from whom he learnt his own good fortune and the exalted rank of her he had won. Scarcely could he restrain the burst of joy, when informed that the fair object, glittering with jewels and radiant in beauty, was the daughter of Richelieu, and the wife of one of the princes of the noble houses of Egmont.
A thousand tumultuous and flattering ideas rushed in crowds to the brain of young Moireau, and he saw in anticipation a long and brilliant vista opening before him. Poor inexperienced youth! He mistook the wisest and safest path, which would have been to have appeared ignorant of the high rank of his mistress, and to have induced her, from motives of affection, to preside over his fortunes, and to rise by her means without allowing her to suspect he guessed her ability to bestow riches and preferment. He, on the contrary, hastened to her with the account of his having discovered her real rank and station. Madame d’Egmont, whose self-possession enabled her to conceal the terror and uneasiness his recital inspired her with, listened calmly and silently till he had ceased speaking, and then asked him, with a playful smile, if he was quite sure of being in his right senses? “For how otherwise could you,” said she, “confuse a poor obscure widow like myself with the rich and powerful princess you speak of? My friend, you are under the influence of a dream; believe me, I am neither more nor less than poor widow Rossin, and can boast of no claim to the illustrious name of Egmont or Richelieu.”
But the more she spoke the less she persuaded, and young Moireau was not to be reasoned out of his conviction of her identity with the high-born princess of Egmont, and he alternately employed threats and promises to induce her to confess the fact; but the lady was firm and immovable. Resolved at all risk to preserve her incognito, she found herself compelled to bring the affair to a conclusion, by feigning extreme anger at the pertinacity with which Moireau importuned her upon a subject which she protested she knew nothing: her lover retaliated, and a desperate quarrel ensued. Moireau rushed angrily from her presence, vowing that he would publish his adventure thro’out Paris; an empty threat, which his devotion to the princess would never have permitted him to carry into execution.
Madame d’Egmont, however, was not so sure that her secret was safe, and she lost not an instant in repairing to the house of M. de Sartines, to obtain from him alettre de cachetagainst the aspiring shopman, who, seized in the street, was conveyed away, and confined as a maniac in a madhouse, where, but for a circumstance you shall hear, he would doubtless be still.
I happened to be with the king when the lieutenant of police arrived upon matters connected with his employment. According to custom, Louis inquired whether he had anything very amusing to communicate to him? “Many things, sire,” replied he, “and amongst others an anecdote of madame d’Egmont”; and he began to relate to us, word for word, what I have written you. The king laughed till he cried; as for me, altho’ I could not help finding the tale sufficiently comic to induce risibility, I listened with more coolness; and when it was completed, I exclaimed,
“Can it be, sire, that you will permit this unfortunate young man to be the eternal victim of so unprincipled a woman?”
“What would you have me do?” said Louis; “how can I interfere without compromising the reputation of madame d’Egmont?”
“Allow me to say,” replied I, “that this fear ought not to prevent your majesty’s interference. You are father of your subjects; and the respect you entertain for madame d’Egmont should not outweigh your duty, which imperatively calls upon you to command the release of this wretched young man.”
“But,” argued the king, “by such a step I shall for ever disoblige the duc de Richelieu and his family.”
“Fear it not,” cried I, “if your majesty will trust to me, I will undertake to bring the maréchal and his nephew to approve of your proceedings; and as for the rest of his family, let them go where they will; for the empire of the world I should be sorry to bear them company.”
This manner of speaking pleased the king; and, turning to M. de Sartines, “Lieutenant of police,” said he, “you have heard my fair chancellor; you will act in strict conformity with the orders she will transmit you from me.”
“Then take these orders now, sir,” said I: “in the first place, this ill-treated young Moireau must immediately be set at liberty, and my own police (for I must tell you I had them) will give me the faithful account of all your proceedings in this affair.”
The king comprehended my meaning. “You will keep a careful watch,” added he to M. de Sartines, “that no harm befalls this unfortunate youth, whom, I beg, you will discreetly recommend to quit France ere the malice of those who have reason to fear his reappearance works him some evil.”
“And who, sire,” asked I, “shall dare injure one whom your majesty deigns to honor with your protection?”
“Madame,” replied M. de Sartines, “even his majesty’s high patronage cannot prevent a secret blow from some daring hand; a quarrel purposely got up; a beverage previously drugged; a fall from any of the bridges into the river; or, even the supposition of one found dead, having destroyed himself.”
“You make me shudder,” said I, “in thus unveiling the extent of human depravity. So, then, this young man, whose only fault appears to have been that captivating the eyes of a noble lady, should perish in a dungeon, or save his life at the sacrifice of country, friends, connections; and all this for having listened to the passion of a woman, as licentious in manners as illustrious by birth: this frightful injustice rouses all my indignation. Well, then, since the power of the monarch of France is insufficient to protect his oppressed subject in his own realms, let him shield him from want in a foreign land, by allowing him a pension of one hundred louis. I will take upon myself to defray the expenses of his journey.”
Thus saying, I was hastening to the adjoining room, where stood mysecretaire, to take from it a thousand crowns I wished to give for the purpose. The king held me back by my arm, saying to me,
“You are the most excellent creature I know of, but you see I am always master. I will undertake to provide for this young man. M. de Sartines,” pursued he, “I wish to secure to him a thousand crowns yearly; and, further, you will supply him with six thousand francs ready money, which M. de la Borde will repay to your order.Now are you satisfied, Couci?” said the king, turning to me.
My only reply was to throw my arms around his neck without ceremony, spite of the presence of a witness, who might blush at my familiarity. “You are indeed,” said I, “a really good prince; it is only a pity you will not assert your right to rule alone.”
“You are a little rebel,” cried he, “to doubt my absolute power.” This tone of playful gaiety was kept up some time after the departure of the lieutenant of police.
M. de Sartines returned next day to tell me that everything had been accomplished to my desire. “M. Moireau,” said he, “has left prison, and departs for Spain to-morrow morning: his intention is to join some friends of his at Madrid. He is informed of all he owes you, and entreats your acceptance of his most grateful and respectful acknowledgments. Will you see him?”
“That would be useless,” answered I; “say to him only, that I request he will write to me upon his arrival at Madrid, and give me the history of his late adventure in its fullest details.”
Moireau did not disappoint me; and so soon as his letter reached me I hastened to copy it, merely suppressing the date of the place from which it was written, and forwarded it immediately to the comtesse d’Egmont, with the following note:—
“The many proofs of tender attachment with which the widow Rossin honored young Moireau make me believe that she will learn with pleasure of my having the good fortune to rescue the ill-fated youth from the cruelty of the comtesse d’Egmont. This interesting young man no longer groans a wretched prisoner in the gloomy abode that haughty lady had selected for him, but is at this minute safe in a neighboring kingdom, under the powerful patronage of king of France, who is in possession of every circumstance relative to the affair. I likewise know the whole of the matter, and have in my keeping the most irrefragable proofs of all that took place and should I henceforward have any reason to complain of the comtesse d’Egmont, I shall publish these documents with permission of those concerned.
“The public will then be enabled to judge of the virtue and humanity of one who affects to treat me with a ridiculous disdain. There exists no law against a fair lady having lovers and admirers, but a stern one forbids her to command or procure their destruction. I KNOW ALL; and madame d’Egmont’s future conduct will decide my silence and discretion. The affair with Moireau is not the only one, others of even a graver sin preceded it. I can publish the whole together; and, I repeat, my determination on this head depends wholly and entirely upon the manner in which madame d’Egmont shall henceforward conduct herself towards me. I beg madame de Rossin will allow me to subscribe myself, with every feeling she so well, merits,
“Her very humble and most obedient servant,
“THE COMTESSE DU BARRY”
I had communicated to no one the secret of this vengeance; I wished to keep the delight of thus exciting the rage of the princesse d’Egmont all to myself. I was certain, that whatever might henceforward be her line of conduct towards me, that whenever she found herself in my presence, she would bitterly feel the stings of an accusing conscience, and the gnawings of that worm which dieth not in the heart of hypocritical and wicked persons, more especially when compelled to meet the eye of those who could unmask them in a minute.
On the following day I received a visit from the duc de Richelieu. Spite of the many endeavors he made to appear smiling and good humored, a deep rage kept its station round his mouth, and contracted his lips even in the midst of the artificial smile with which he sought to dissimulate his wrath.
“Madame, good morning,” said he to me, “I come to offer my congratulations, you really are become quite one of us; upon my word, the most experienced courtier has nothing more to teach you.”
“I am as yet in ignorance of the cause to which I may ascribe these compliments, M. le maréchal, which I greatly fear surpass my poor merits; and which even you will be compelled to retract them when I am better known to you.”
“Fear it not, madame,” said he, “your commencement is a master-stroke; and the letter you yesterday addressed to the comtesse d’Egmont—”
“Ah, sir,” exclaimed I, with unfeigned astonishment, “in her place I certainly should not have selected you as my confidant in the affair.”
“And who could she better have selected than her father? But that is not the matter in hand. My daughter is filled with anger against you; and if I must speak the truth, I do not think your behavior towards her quite what it should have been.”
“Really, monsieur, I was not prepared for a reproach of this kind; and what can madame d’Egmont allege against me? ‘Tis she who has pursued me with the most bitter sarcasms, the most determined malice; and, I may add, the most impertinent behavior. I entreat your pardon for using such strong expressions, but her behavior allows of none milder. And what have I done in my turn? snatched from a lingering death an unfortunate young man, whose only crime consisted in having pleased this unreasonable madame d’Egmont. I procured the king’s protection for the miserable object of the princess’s affection; I obtained his safe removal to another country; and, having done all this, I communicated my knowledge of the transaction to the comtesse d’Egmont. Does this bear any comparison with her line of conduct towards me?”
“But your letter, madame; your letter—”
“Would bear alterations and amendments, sir, I am aware: I admit I did not sufficiently insist upon the atrocity of such an abuse of power.”
“You are then resolved, madame, to make us your enemies.”
“I should be very sorry, monsieur le duc, to be compelled to such extremities; but if your friendship can only be purchased at the price of my submitting to continually receive the insults of your family, I should be the first to cease to aspire to it. If Madame d’Egmont holds herself aggrieved by me, let her carry her complaint before the parliament; we shall then see what redress she will get. She has compromised the king’s name by an arbitrary act; and since you thus attack me, you must not take it amiss if I make the king acquainted with the whole business.”
The maréchal, surprised at so severe a reply, could no longer restrain the rage which filled him. “I should have thought, madame,” said he, “that my daughter, in whose veins flows royal blood, might have merited some little consideration from the comtesse du Barry.”
“It is well, then, monsieur le duc,” replied I, “to point out to you your error. I see in my enemies their works and actions alone, without any reference to their birth, be it high or low; and the conduct of madame d’Egmont has been so violent and unceasing towards me, that it leaves me without the smallest regret for that I have pursued towards her.”
I had imagined that this reply would still further irritate the angry feelings of the duc de Richelieu, but it did not: he easily guessed that nothing but the king’s support could have inspired me to express myself with so much energy; and, if paternal vanity strove in his heart, personal interests spoke there with even a louder voice. He therefore sought to lay aside his anger, and, like a skilful courtier, changing his angry look and tone for one of cheerfulness:
“Madame,” said he, “I yield; I see it will not do to enter the lists against you. I confess I came this morning but to sound your courage, and already you have driven me off the field vanquished. There is one favor I would implore of your generosity, and that is, to be silent as to all that has transpired.”
“I shall not speak of it, monsieur le duc,” replied I, much moved, “unless you or madame d’Egmont set me the example.”
“In that case the affair will for ever remain buried in oblivion; but, madame, I will not conceal from you, that my daughter has become your most bitter and irreconcilable enemy.”
“The motives which have actuated me, monsieur le maréchal, are such as to leave me very little concern upon that subject. I flatter myself this affair will not keep you away from me, who would fain reckon as firmly on your friendship as you may do on mine.”
The maréchal kissed my hand in token of amity, and from that moment the matter was never mentioned.
A similar scene had already occurred with the prince de Soubise, relative to the exile of his daughter. Was it not somewhat strange, as well as unjust, that all the noblemen of the day wished to preserve to their relations the right of offending me with impunity, without permitting me even the right of defending myself.