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Marie Antoinette Romances, Vol 2: The Mesmerist's Victim

<h2>CHAPTER XX. THE DIAMOND COLLAR.</h2> ROUSSEAU had been cheated into going to take breakfast with the royal favorite: he was formally invited by the Dauphiness to come to Trianon to conduct in person one of his operas in which she and her ladies and titled amateurs generally were to take the parts even to the supernumeraries. He had not attired himself specially and he had stuffed his head with a lot of disagreeable plain truths to speak to the King, if he had a chance. To the courtiers, however, it was the same to see him as any other author or composer, curiosities all, whom the grandees hire to perform in their parlors or on their lawns. The King received him coldly on account of his costume, dusty with the journey in the omnibus, but he addressed him with the limpid clearness of the monarch which drove from Rousseau’s head all the platitudes he had rehearsed. But as soon as the rehearsal was begun, the attention was drawn to the piece and the composer was forgotten. But he was remarking everything; the noblemen in the dress of peasants sang as far out of tune as the King himself; the ladies in the attire of court shepherdesses flirted. The Dauphiness sang correctly, but she was a poor actress; besides, she had so little voice that she could hardly be heard. The Dauphin spoke his lines. In short, the opera scarcely got on in the least. Only one consolation came to Rousseau. He caught sight of one delightful face among the chorus-ladies and it was her voice which sounded the best of all. “Eh,” said the Dauphiness, following his look, “has Mdlle. de Taverney made a fault?” Andrea blushed as she saw all eyes turn upon her. “No, no!” the author hastened to say, “that young lady sings like an angel.” Lady Dubarry darted a glance on him sharper than a javelin. On the other hand Baron Taverney felt his heart melt with joy and he smiled his warmest on the composer. “Do you think that child sings well?” questioned Lady Dubarry of the King, whom Rousseau’s words had visibly struck. “I could not tell,” he said: “while they are all singing together. One would have to be a regular musician to discover that.” Rousseau still kept his eyes on Andrea who looked handsomer than ever with a high color. The rehearsal went on and Lady Dubarry became atrociously out of temper: twice she caught Louis XV. absent-minded when she was saying cutting things about the play. Though the incident had also made the Dauphiness jealous, she complimented everybody and showed charming gaiety. The Duke of Richelieu hovered round her with the agility of a youth, and gathered a band of merrymakers at the back of the stage with the Dauphiness as the centre: this furiously disquieted the Dubarry clique. “It appears that Mdlle. de Taverney is blessed with a pretty voice,” he said in a loud voice. “Delightful,” said the princess; “if I were not so selfish, I would have her play Colette. But I took the part to have some amusement and I am not going to let another play it.” “Nay, Mdlle. de Taverney would not sing it better than your Royal Highness,” protested Richelieu, “and—— ” “She is an excellent musician,” said Rousseau, who was penetrated with Andrea’s value in his line. “Excellent,” said the Dauphiness; “I am going to tell the truth, that she taught me my part; and then she dances ravishingly, and I do not dance a bit.” You may judge of the effect of all this on the King, his favorite, and all this gathering of the envious, curious, intriguers, and news-mongers. Each received a gain or a sting, with pain or shame. There were none indifferent except Andrea herself. Spurred on by Richelieu, the Dauphiness induced Andrea to sing the ballad: <div class="poem"> “I have lost my only joy— Colin leaves me all alone.” </div> The King was seen to mark time with a nodding of the head, in such keen pleasure that the rouge scaled off Lady Dubarry’s face in flakes like a painting in the damp. More spiteful than any woman, Richelieu enjoyed the revenge he was having on Dubarry. Sidling round to old Taverney, the pair resembled a group of Hypocrisy and Corruption signing a treaty of union. Their joy brightened all the more as the cloud darkened on Dubarry’s brow. She finished by springing up in a pet, which was contrary to all etiquet, for the King was still in his seat. Foreseeing the storm like ants, the courtiers looked for shelter. So the Dauphiness and La Dubarry were both clustered round by their friends. The interest in the rehearsal gradually deviated from its natural line and entered into a fresh order of things. Colin and Colette, the lovers in the piece, were no longer thought of, but whether Madame Dubarry might not have to sing: <div class="poem"> “I have lost my only joy— Colin leaves me all alone.” </div> “Do you see the stunning success of that girl of yours?” asked Richelieu of Taverney. He dashed open a glazed door to lead him into the lobby, when the act made a knave who was standing on the knob to peer into the hall, drop to the ground. “Plague on the rogue,” said the duke; brushing his sleeve, for the shock of the drop had dusted him. He saw that the spy was clad like one of the working people about the Palace. It was a gardener’s help, in fact, for he had a basket of flowers on his arm. He had saved himself from falling but spilt the flowers. “Why, I know the rogue,” said Taverney, “he was born on my estate. What are you doing here, rascal?” “You see, I am looking on,” replied Gilbert proudly. “Better finish your work.” “My work is done,” replied the young man humbly to the duke, without deigning to reply to the baron. “I run up against this idle vagabond everywhere,” grumbled the latter. “Here, here, my lord,” gently interrupted a voice; “my little Gilbert is a good workman and a most earnest botanist.” Taverney turned and saw Dr. Jussieu stroking the cheek of his ex-dependent. He turned red with rage and went off. “The lackeys poking their noses in here!” he growled. “And the maids, too—look at your Nicole, at the corner of the door there. The sly puss, she does not let a wink escape her.” Among twenty other servants, Nicole was holding her pretty head over theirs from behind and her eyes, dilated by surprise and admiration, seemed to see double. Perceiving her, Gilbert turned aloof. “Come,” said the duke to Taverney, “it is my belief that the King wants to speak to you. He is looking round for somebody.” The two friends made their way to the royal box. Lady Dubarry and Aiguillon, both on their feet, were chatting. Rousseau was alone in the admiration of Andrea; he was busy falling into love with her. The illustrious actors were changing their dresses in their retiring rooms, where Gilbert had renewed the floral decorations. Taverney, left by himself in the corridor while Richelieu went to the King, felt his heart alternately frozen and seared by the expectation. Finally his envoy returned and laid a finger on his lips. His friend turned pale with joy, and was drawn under the royal box, where they heard what had few auditors. Lady Dubarry was saying: “Am I to expect your Majesty to supper this evening?” and the reply was “I am afraid I am too tired and should like to be excused.” At this juncture the Dauphin dropped into the box and said, almost stepping on the countess’s toes without appearing to see her: “Sire, is your Majesty going to do us the honor of taking supper at the Trianon?” “No, my son; I was just saying to the countess that I am too tired for anything. All your youthful liveliness bewilders me; I shall take supper alone.” The prince bowed and retired. Lady Dubarry courtseyed very low and went her way, quivering with ire. The King then beckoned to Richelieu. “Duke, I have some business to talk to you upon; I have not been pleased with the way matters go on. I want an explanation, and you may as well make it while we have supper. I think I know this gentleman, duke?” he continued, eyeing Taverney. “Certainly—it is Taverney.” “Oh, the father of this delightful songstress?” “Yes, Sire.” The King whispered in the duke’s ear while the baron dug his nails into his flesh to hide his emotion. A moment after, Richelieu said to his friend: “Follow me, without seeming to do so.” “Where?” “Never mind—come, all the same.” The duke set off and Taverney followed within twenty paces to a room where the following gentleman stopped in the anteroom. He had not long to wait there. Richelieu, having asked the royal valet for what his master had left on the toilet table, came forth immediately with an article which the baron could not distinguish in its silken wrapper. But the marshal soon drew him out of his disquiet when he led him to the side of the gallery. “Baron, you have sometimes doubted my friendship for you,” observed the duke when they were alone, “and then you doubted the good fortune of yourself and children. You were wrong, for it has come about for you all with dazzling rapidity.” “You don’t say that?” said the old cynic, catching a glimpse of part of the truth; he was not yet sundered from good and hence not entirely enlisted by the devil. “How is this?” “Well, we have Master Philip made a captain with a company of soldiers furnished by the King. And Mdlle. de Taverney is nigh to being a marchioness.” “Go to! my daughter a—— ” “Listen to me, Taverney: the King is full of good taste. When talent accompanies grace, beauty and virtue, it enchants him. Now, your girl unites all these gifts in an eminent degree so that he is delighted by her.” “I wish you would make the word ‘delighted’ clearer, duke,” said the other, putting on an air of dignity more grotesque than the speaker’s, which the latter thought grotesque as he did not like pretences. “Baron,” he drily replied, “I am not strong on language and not even good at spelling. For me, delighted signifies pleased beyond measure. If you would not be delighted beyond measure to see your sovereign content with the grace, beauty and virtue of your offspring, say so. I will go back to his Majesty,” and he spun round on his red heels with quite youthful sprightliness. “Duke, you don’t understand me—hang it! how sudden you are,” grumbled Taverney, stopping him. “Why do you say you are not pleased?” “I never said so.” “You ask comments on the King’s good pleasure—plague on the dunce who questions it!” “Again, I tell you, I never opened my mouth on that subject. It is certain that I am pleased.” “Yes, you—for any man of sense would be: but your girl?” “Humph!” “My dear fellow, you have brought up the child like the savage that you are.” “My dear fellow, she has brought herself up all alone; you might guess that I did not bother myself about her. It was hard enough to keep alive in that hole at Taverney. Virtue sprang up in her of its own impulsion.” “Yet I thought that the rural swains rooted out ill weeds. In short, your girl is a nun.” “You are wrong—she is a dove.” Richelieu made a sour face. “The dove had better get another turtle to mate, for the chances to make a fortune with that blessing are pretty scarce nowadays.” Taverney looked at him uneasily. “Luckily,” went on the other, “the King is so infatuated with Dubarry that he will never seriously lean towards others.” Taverney’s disquiet became anxiety. “You and your daughter need not worry,” continued Richelieu. “I will raise the proper objections to the King and he will think no more about it.” “About what?” gasped the old noble, pale, as he shook his friend’s arm. “About making a little present to Mdlle. Andrea.” “A little present—what is it?” cried the baron full of hope and greediness. “A mere trifle,” said Richelieu, negligently, as he opened the parcel and showed a diamond collar. “A miserable little trinket costing only a few thousand livres, which his Majesty, flattered by having heard his favorite song sung well, wanted the singer to be sued to accept. It is the custom. But let us say no more since your daughter is so easily frightened.” “But you do not seem to see that a refusal would offend the King.” “Of course; but does not virtue always tread on the corn of somebody or other?” “To tell the truth, duke, the girl is not so very lost to reason. I know what she will say or do.” “The Chinese are a very happy people,” observed Richelieu. “How so?” asked Taverney, stupefied. “Because they are allowed to drown girls who are a trouble to their parents and nobody says a word.” “Come, duke, you ought to be fair,” said Taverney; “suppose you had a daughter.” “‘Sdeath! have I not a daughter, and it would be mighty unkind of anybody to slander her by saying she was ice. But I never interfere with my children after they get out of the nursery.” “But if you had a daughter and the King were to offer her a collar?” “My friend, pray, no comparisons. I have always lived in the court and you have lived latterly like a Red Indian; there is no likeness. What you call virtue I rate as stupidity. Learn for your guidance that nothing is more impolite than to put it to people what they would do in such a case. Besides, your comparison will not suit. I am not the bearer of a diamond collar to Mdlle. de Taverney, as Lebel the valet of the King is a carrier; when I have such a mission, which is honorable as the present is rich, I am moral as the next man. I do not go near the young lady, who is admirable for her virtue—I go to her father—I speak to you, Taverney, and I hand you the collar, saying: Take it or leave it.” “If the present is only a matter of custom,” observed the baron: “if legitimate and paternal—— ” “Why, you are never daring to suspect his Majesty of evil intentions,” said Richelieu, gravely. “God forbid, but what will the world say—I mean, my daughter—— ” “Yes or no, do you take it,” demanded the intermediary, shrugging his shoulders. Out darted Taverney’s fingers, as he said with a smile twin-like to the envoy’s: “Thus you are moral.” “Is it not pure morality,” returned the marshal, “to place the father, who purifies all, between the enchanted state of the monarch and the charm of your daughter? Let Jean Jacques Rousseau, who was in these precincts a while ago, be the judge: he will declare that the famous Joseph of Biblical name was impure alongside of me.” He uttered these words with a phlegm, dry nobility, and perkiness imposing silence on Taverney’s observations, and helping him to believe that he ought to dwell convinced. So he grasped his illustrious friend’s hand and as he squeezed it, he said: “Thanks to your delicacy, my daughter may accept this present.” “The source and origin of the fortune of which I was speaking to you at the commencement of our annoying discussion on virtue.” “I thank you with all my heart, duke.” “One word: most carefully keep the news of this boon from the Dubarry’s friends. She is capable of quitting the King and running away.” “Would the King be sorry for that?” “I do not know, but the countess would bear you ill-will. I would be lost, in that case; so be wary.” “Fear nothing: but bear my most humble thanks to his Majesty.” “And your daughter’s—I shall not fail. But you are not at the end of the favor. You can thank him personally, dear friend, for you are invited to sup with him. We are a family party. We—his Majesty, you, and I, will talk about your daughter’s virtue. Good bye, Taverney! I see Dubarry with Aiguillon and they must not spy us in conversation.” Light as a page, he skipped out of the gallery, leaving the old baron with the jewels, like a child waking up and finding what Santa Claus left in his sock while he slept. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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