CHAPTER XVII

A QUIET SUPPER

In less than an hour, how changed the scene for two of the actors in that mysterious drama—of which Bartoletti was chief manager and Malletort sat in the prompter’s box! The Captain of Musketeers had been invited to sup with the Regent, and found in his prince’s private apartments a little party collected, whose mirth and high spirits were well calculated to drive away any remains of superstitious gloom left by the incantations of the cavern and their result.

The select suppers of the Duke of Orleans were conducted with an absence of ceremony or restraint that indeed degenerated on occasion into the grossest license; but even under the Regency men did not necessarily conclude every night in the week with an orgy, and the mirth of the _roués_ themselves was not always degraded into drunkenness, nor their wit pushed to profanity and shameless indecency of speech.

Captain George found himself seated at a round table in an oval room, of which the only other occupants, besides his royal host, were Madame de Parabére, Madame de Sabran, Malletort, and Count Point d’Appui. The latter, be it observed, excelled (for no one was admitted to these reunions who had not some marked speciality) in the grace with which he danced a minuet and the gravity with which he propounded the emptiest and silliest remarks. Some of the courtiers affected to think this simplicity only masked an intriguing disposition, and that Point d’Appui was, after all “not quite such a fool as he looked.” A charitable suggestion, endorsed by Madame de Sabran, with the observation, “The saints forbid he should be!”

Altogether it was generally admitted that the Count’s strong point must be sought rather in his heels than his head. He sat directly opposite the Musketeer, and next to Abbé Malletort, who was between him and Madame de Sabran. The latter was thus placed opposite the Regent, at whose right hand Madame de Parabére had taken up her usual post. Captain George found himself accordingly with a lady on either side, and as he was distinguished, manly, quiet in manner, and above all, supposed to be impenetrable of heart, he became an object of interest to both.

These hated each other, of course, but in a treacherous, well-bred manner, and not so rancorously as to spoil their appreciation of an excellent repast, served in pleasant company, under all the most promising conditions for success. They were therefore, outwardly, wondrous affectionate, and under protest as it were, with the buttons on their foils, could be good companions enough.

The Duke prided himself on his suppers. Working at state affairs during the day, and with a digestion considerably impaired by habitual excess, dinner was a mere matter of form, often restricted indeed to a morsel of bread and a cup of chocolate, served in the cabinet where he wrote. But when the hours of business were past, and his system, too much gorged over-night, had recovered from the fumes of wine and the torpor of repletion, it was his delight to rush once more into those excesses of appetite which unfitted his mornings for exertion, which robbed him of half his existence while he lived, and killed him in the prime of manhood at last.

But he understood well how the sacrifice should be offered. The supper-room, we have said, was oval, panelled in a light cheerful wood, highly-varnished, and decorated only by short pithy sentences, inlaid in gaudy colours, of which the purport was to crop the flower while it bloomed, to empty the cup while it sparkled, practically, to eat the cutlet while it was hot, and consume as eagerly as possible the good things provided for the senses. No pictures, no vases, no works of art were suffered upon the walls to distract the attention of the guests from their main object. The intellect, as seated at the farthest distance from the stomach, might indeed be gently stimulated with wit, but the imagination, the feelings, above all, the emotions that affect the heart, were on no account to be disturbed during the ecstacies of the palate or the pleasing languor and subsequent comfort of digestion. Not a lackey nor servant of any kind entered the room. When one course had been consumed, deliberately, methodically, and with much practical comment on its merits, the table sank slowly through the floor, to be replaced by another, bearing fresh dishes, fresh flowers, fresh napkins, everything fresh prepared, to the very bills of fare, beautifully emblazoned, that lay beside the cover of each guest. A strong light from above was shaded to throw its rays directly on the board; but as plenty of this enlivener is conducive to festivity, numerous lamps with bright reflectors flashed at short distances from the walls. No pealing band deafened the ears of the sitters, or drowned their conversation in its overpowering strains; only ever and anon a faint long-drawn note, like the tone of a far-distant organ, rose and fell and wavered, ere it died sweetly and calmly away.

On these occasions, Point d’Appui never failed to pause, even with a tempting morsel on his fork, and intimate to his neighbours that “he was passionately given to music, and it reminded him of heaven!”

The Regent seemed much impressed with the visit he had made to the cavern before supper, and it was not till he had emptied several goblets of champagne that he regained his usual spirits. With the influence of wine, however, his nerves recovered their tone, his eye brightened, his hand steadied, and he joined in conversation as heretofore.

By this time a favourite dish had made its appearance, which went by the name of the _pâté d’Orleans_. It consisted of the wings of pheasants and other white game, boned, stuffed, and so manipulated as to resemble the limbs of children; a similarity that gave rise to the most hideous rumours amongst the lower classes. Many a worthy gossip in Paris believed firmly that two or three infants were consumed nightly at the Regent’s table, and none seemed to relish the report more than himself. He ate vigorously of the _pâté_, emptied another goblet, and began to talk. Madame de Parabére watched him closely. Something was going on she had not fathomed, but she resolved to be at the bottom of it.

“Abbé!” shouted the Duke, “what are you about? Do you think I would suffer little heathens on my table, that you baptize them with water? They are the best of Christians, I tell you, my friend, and should be well soused, like all good Christians, in wine.” Malletort, who had been pouring stealthily out of a carafe at his elbow, accepted his host’s challenge, and filled up from a flask.

“To your health, Highness! and confusion to your enemies—White and Red,” said he, pointing to two measures of those Burgundies that happened to stand before the ladies.

The Duke started. Malletort’s observation, simple as it seemed, brought the diabolical prophecy to his mind, and again he sought courage from his glass.

“Do you mean that for _us_, monsieur?” asked Madame de Sabran; “since his Highness loves the Burgundy too well to count it a foe, though it has put him on his back, I doubt not, often enough.

“Nay, madame,” answered the Abbé, bowing politely; “such as you can never be foes, since you are born to be conquerors. If it did come to a fight, I presume you would grant no quarter.”

“None,” said she, laughing. “Church and laymen, we should put you all to the sword.”

“But the Church are non-combatants,” interposed Count Point d’Appui, with perfect sincerity. “You would be excommunicated by our Father the Pope. It is a different species, madame, altogether—a separate race.”

“Not a bit of it!” answered the lady. “Men to the tips of their fingers, every one of them! Are you not, Abbé? No! When all is said and done, there are but two distinct creations, and I never can believe they have a common origin. Men and women I put in the one, princes and lackeys in the other. What say _you_, madame?”

But Madame de Parabére said nothing. She sat in silence, pouting, because it suited the shape of her mouth, and listening, for other reasons of her own.

The Regent, who had now drunk wine enough to be both easily offended and appeased, felt that the shaft aimed at him was not entirely undeserved. So he asked, in anger, “How mean you, madame? I see not the drift of your jest. In what are princes and lackeys so alike, and so different from the rest of mankind?”

“Other bipeds” answered the lady, bitterly, “lie from habit, with intention, or on occasion; but this variety never speaks the truth at all, even by accident.”

The Duke’s face turned purple. Captain George, hoping to divert an explosion, and feeling that he had been invited rather as a compliment than for the sake of his society, rose and took his leave, on the score of military duty; receiving, as he went out, a glance from Madame de Parabére’s beautiful eyes, that assured him of her gratitude, her interest, and her good-will.

His departure changed the subject of conversation. In two minutes the Regent forgot he had been offended, and Madame de Sabran was busied in the unworthy task of mystifying Count Point d’Appui, an employment which her rival contemplated with a drowsy, languid air, as if she could hardly keep herself awake.

The Abbé had watched her for some time with increasing interest and considerable misgivings; the poison, he thought, should long ere this have taken effect, and he expected every moment to observe a disturbance of the placid features, a discolouration of the beautiful skin. Before supper was over, he concluded that, as far as the flowers were concerned, his plot had failed; but Malletort did not now need to learn the archer’s want of another arrow in the quiver, a spare string for the bow: it behoved him only to make the more use of such implements as he had kept in reserve.

All his energy and all his cunning had been brought into play during the night. Without his assistance, he felt sure the mummery of the cavern must have failed, for he could trust neither the shaking nerves of the Italian nor the superstitious self-deception of the quadroon. It was no easy task to return to Paris so swiftly as to change his dress, show himself at a reception in the Faubourg St. Germain, and thence proceed leisurely to sup with the Regent. Well-bred horses, however, and a well-broke valet, had accomplished this part of the undertaking, with a few seconds to spare. It now remained to play the last and most difficult strokes of the game. He felt equal to the occasion.

Moving round the table with his glass, in unceremonious fashion, he took advantage of George’s departure to place himself between Madame de Parabére and her host, whispering in that lady’s ear, “I have a favour to ask of the Regent, in which you, too, are interested!” She made room for him carelessly, listlessly, and her face looked so innocent and unsuspicious as to delude even his acuteness into the belief that the few faculties she could command were engrossed by Point d’Appui and his tormentor.

These were in full swing at a game called, in England, Flirtation. It is an elastic process, embracing an extensive area in the field of gallantry, and so far resembling the tournaments of the Middle Ages, that while its encounters are presumed to be waged with weapons of courtesy, blunted for bloodless use, such fictitious conflicts very frequently bring on the real combat _à l’outrance_ with sharp weapons, and then, as in other death-struggles, _væ victis_! If girth breaks, or foot slips, the fallen fighter must expect no mercy.

Pitted against Point d’Appui, Madame de Sabran might be likened to an accomplished swordsman practising cut and thrust on a wooden trunk. But the block was good-natured and good-looking. When such is the case, I have observed that a witty woman takes no small delight in the exercise of her talent. There is a generosity about the sex not sufficiently appreciated, and if a man will only keep quiet, silent, receptive, and immoveable, it will pour its treasures at his feet in a stream of lavish and inexhaustible profusion.

Point d’Appui contented himself with looking very handsome and drinking a great deal of Burgundy. His neighbour hacked and hewed him without intermission, and Madame de Parabére’s attention seemed entirely engrossed by the pair.

Malletort, in possession of the Regent’s ear, proceeded diligently with the edifice for which he had so artfully laid the foundations.

“I must ask permission to take my leave early to-night, Highness,” observed the churchman. “Like our friend the Musketeer, who has served his purpose, by the way, as I learn, so may I be rubbed out of the calculation; and I must drink no more of this excellent Burgundy, for I have promised to present myself in a lady’s drawing-room, late as it is, before I go to bed.”

Though somewhat confused by wine, the Regent understood his confidant’s meaning perfectly well, and his eye kindled as he gathered its purport. “I will accompany you, little Abbé,” he whispered with a hiccough, and a furtive glance at the ladies, lest they should overhear.

“Too late, my Prince,” answered the other, “and useless besides, even for you, since I have not yet obtained permission. Oh! trust me. The fortress is well guarded, and has scarce ever been summoned; much less has it offered a parley.”

The Duke looked disappointed, but emptied another bumper. He was rapidly arriving at the state Malletort desired, when a well-turned compliment would have induced him to sign away the crown of France.

“To-morrow then,” he grunted, with his hands on the Abbé’s shoulder. “The great Henry used to say—what used he to say? Something about waiting; you remember, Abbé. _Basta!_ Reach me the Burgundy.”

“To-morrow, Highness,” answered Malletort, more and more respectfully, as his patron became less able to enforce respect. “At the hour agreed on, I will be at your orders with everything requisite. There is but one more detail, and though indispensable, I fear to press it with your Highness now, for it trenches on business, and your brain, like mine, must be somewhat heated with the Burgundy.”

Probably no other consideration on earth would have induced the Duke to look at a paper after supper, but this remark about the Burgundy touched him nearly.

He took pride in his convivial powers, and remembering that Henri Quatre was said to have drunk a glass of red wine before his infant lips had tasted mother’s milk, always vowed that he inherited from that ancestor a constitution with which the juice of the grape assimilated itself harmlessly as food.

“Burgundy, little Abbé!” he repeated, staring vacantly at Malletort, who had produced a small packet and an ink-horn from his pockets. “Burgundy, Beaune, brandy—these do but serve to _clear_ the brains of a Bourbon! Give me the paper!”

“It is only your signature, Highness,” said Malletort, sitting completely round, so as to interpose his person between Madame de Parabére and the sheet under his hand. “I can fill it up afterwards, to save you further trouble.”

But a drunkard’s cunning is the last faculty that forsakes him. Though the paper danced and wavered beneath his gaze, he detected at once that it was a _Lettre de cachet_, formidable, henceforth, from the edict issued that day in Council.

Without troubling himself to inquire how the document came into Malletort’s possession, who had indeed free access to his _bureau_, he wagged his head gravely, exclaiming, with the good-humoured persistency of inebriety—

“No! no! little Abbé. A thousand times no! I fill in the names myself. Oh! I am Regent of France. I know what I am doing. Here, give me the pen.”

He scrawled his signature on the page, and waited for Malletort to speak.

The latter glanced furtively round—Madame de Sabran was laughing, the Count listening, Madame de Parabére yawning. No one seemed to pay attention. Nevertheless he was still cautious. Mentioning no names, he looked expressively at the Musketeer’s vacant place, while he whispered—“We have done with him. He has fulfilled his task. Let him be well taken care of. He deserves it, and it is indispensable.”

“What is indispensable, must be!” answered the Duke carelessly, and filled in the name of the victim on the blank space left for it.

Then he sprinkled some blue sand from the Abbé’s portable writing-case over the characters; and because they did not dry fast enough, turned the sheet face downwards on the white table-cloth, and passed his wrist once or twice across the back.

When he lifted it, the ink had marked the damask, which was of the finest texture and rarest pattern in Europe.

Malletort never neglected a precaution. Reaching his hand to a flask of white Hermitage, and exclaiming, “We chemists are never without resource,” he was about to pour from it on the table, when a soft voice murmured languidly, “Give me a few drops, monsieur, I am thirsty,” and Madame de Parabére, half turning round, held her glass out to be helped.

He was forced to comply, but in another second had flooded the ink-marks with Hermitage, and blurred the stains on the cloth into one faded shapeless blot.

Madame de Parabére’s face remained immoveable, and her fine eyes looked sleepy as ever, yet in that second she had read a capital _G_, with a small _r_, reversed, and had drawn her own conclusions.

There is but one sentiment in a woman’s mind stronger than gratitude—its name is Love. Nevertheless, her love for the Regent was not so overpowering as to shake her determination that she would save the Captain of Musketeers at any sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the object of her solicitude returned to his quarters by way of the Hôtel Montmirail, coasting the dead wall surrounding that mansion very slowly, and absorbed in his own reflections. To reach it he diverged considerably from his direct road, although the guard posted in its vicinity consisted that night of Black Musketeers, who were not to be relieved till the next afternoon by their comrades of the Grey Company. To prove their vigilance seemed, however, the aim of Captain George’s walk, for after a brief reconnoitre, he retired quietly to rest about the time that his royal host, with the assistance of two valets, staggered from banqueting-room to bed-chamber.

And no wonder, for notwithstanding a liberal consumption of champagne, the flasks of red and white Burgundy stood empty on the supper-table.