CHAPTER XVIII

"THE ABANDONED ORPHAN" PROLOGUE

The company had assembled in the saloon of the Garland and formed as fashionable a collection of the upper aristocracy as any which could perhaps be brought together outside Paris. Not even Vichy, the great rival of Eaux St. Fer, could have drawn a larger number of persons bearing the most high-sounding and aristocratic names of France. For Eaux St. Fer was this year _la mode_, principally because of that one extra degree of heat which the waters were reported to have assumed, and, next, because of the rumour, now accepted as absolute truth, that the Regent had casks and barrels of those waters sent with unfailing regularity to Paris daily. And, still, for one other reason, namely, that here the life of Paris might be resumed; the intrigues, the flirtations, and the scandals of the _Maîtresse Vile_--or of that portion of it which the highest aristocracy of the land condescended to consider as Paris, namely, St. Germain, the Palais Royal and Versailles--might be renewed; everything might be indulged in, here as there, except the late hours of going to bed and the equally late ones of rising, the overeating and overdrinking, and the general wear and tear of already enfeebled constitutions. Everything might be the same except these delights against which the fashionable physicians so sternly set their faces.

"Do what you will," said those aristocratic tyrants, who (after having preached up the place as one from which almost the elixir of a new life might be drawn) had now followed their patients to the spot thereby to guard over and protect them, and, also, to continue to increase their bills. "Do all that you desire, save--a few things. No late hours, no rich dishes, no potent wines, no heated rooms. Instead, fresh air all day long in the valleys, or, above, on the hills; the plain living of the country and long nights of rest; for drink, the pure draughts of the springs and of milk. Thereby shall you all return to Paris renovated and restored."

Yet they were careful not to add, "And ready to commence a fresh career of dissipation which shall place you in our hands again and, eventually, in the tombs of your aristocratic families."

Since, however, the visitors followed with more or less regularity the prescribed regimen, the wholesomeness of the life was soon apparent in renewed appetites, in cheeks which bloomed--almost, though not quite--without the adventitious aid of paint and cosmetiques; in nerves which ceased to quiver at every noise; in nights which were passed in easy slumbers instead of being racked by the pangs of indigestion. Wholesome enough indeed, revivifying and strengthening; a life that recuperated wasted vitality and prepared its possessors for a new season of dissipation and debauchery at the Regent's court. Yet, withal, a deadly dull one! Wherefore, when it was whispered that they were invited to "a representation of a play" by "a lady of rank," which play was, as they termed it themselves, "_Un secret de la Comédie_," since everyone in Eaux St. Fer knew who the lady of rank was, they flocked to the saloon of The Garland, and did so a little more eagerly than they might otherwise have done, since there was also in the air a whisper that, in the "representation," was something more than the mere attempts of a would-be bluestocking to exhibit her talents for dramatic construction.

De Crébillon possessed another talent besides an inventive genius and a power of writing tragedies; he had a tongue which could whisper smoothly but effectively, a glance which could suggest, and an altogether admirable manner of exciting curiosity by a look alone.

So they were all gathered together now, two hours after their early and salutary, but scarcely appetising, dinners had been eaten; and they formed a mass of gorgeously-dressed, highbred men and women, everyone of whom were known to the others, and everyone of whose secrets were, in almost every case, also known to each other. Yet, since each and all had a history, none being free from one skeleton of the past (or present) at least, this was not a matter of very much importance.

In costumes suited for the watering-places--yet made by the astute hands of the workwomen of Mesdames Germeuil or Carvel, Versac or Grandchamp, and produced under the equally astute eyes of those authorities in dress--the ladies entered the room where the representation was to take place, their pointed corsages and bouffante sleeves, with their deep ruffles at the elbows, setting off well their diamond-adorned head-dresses and their flowered robes. As for the men, their dress was the dress of the most costly period in France, not even excepting the days of the Great Monarch; their court-swords gold-hilted; their lace at sleeve and breast and knee worth a small fortune; their wigs works of art and of great cost.

"Mon ami," said the Marquise Grignan de Poissy to a youth who approached her as she made her way through the press of her friends, the young man being none other than her nephew, the present bearer of the title of the de Poissys, "you are charming; your costume is ravishing."

"Yet," she continued, "that is but a poor weapon to hang upon a man's thigh," and she touched lightly with her finger the ivory and gold hilt of the court-sword he carried by his side. "There is no fighting quality in that."

"My dear aunt," exclaimed the young marquis, glancing at her admiringly, for, even to him, the beauty of his late uncle's widow was more or less alluring, "my dear aunt, it professes to have no fighting qualities. It is only an ornament such as that," and he, too, put out a finger and touched the baton, or cane, which she carried in her hand in common with other ladies.

"Yet this," she said, "would strike a blow on any who molested me, even though it broke in the attempt, being so poor a thing," and her deep blue eyes gazed into his while sparkling like sapphires as they did so.

"And," he replied, not understanding why those eyes so transfixed him, or why, at the same time, he vibrated under their glance, "this would run a man through who molested you, even though it broke in the attempt, being so poor a thing," and he gave a little self-satisfied laugh.

"Would it? You mean that?"

"Without doubt, I mean it," he replied, his voice gradually becoming grave, while he stared fixedly at her, as though not comprehending. "Without doubt, I mean it." Then he said, a moment later--speaking as though he had penetrated the meaning she would convey: "My dear aunt Diane, is there by chance anyone whom you wish run through? If so name him. It shall be done, to-night, to-morrow, at dawn, for--for--the honour of our house and--your bright eyes."

"No! No! No! No! I do but jest. Yet, come, sit by me, I--I am nervous for the success of this play. I know the writer thereof----"

"So do I!" he interjected.

"And, see, all are in their places. De Crébillon comes on the platform to speak the argument. Sit. Sit here, Agénor. Close by my side." Then she muttered to herself so low that he could not hear her words. "Almost I fear for that which I have done. Yet--Vengeance confound him!--he merits it. And worse!"

An instant later the easy tones of de Crébillon were heard announcing--as briefly and succinctly as though he were addressing the players at the Français ere reading to them the plot of some new drama by himself--what was to be offered to the audience.

Having opened his address with many compliments to those assembled there and to their exalted rank, equalled only by their capacity of judgment and their power to make or mar for ever that which would now be submitted to them as the work of an illustrious unknown, he went on--

"The scene is in two acts. The title is 'The Abandoned Orphan.' The leading characters are Cidalise, who is the orphan, and Célie, who has protected her. The first act exhibits the child's abandonment, the second--but, no! Mesdames et Messieurs--that must be left for representation, must be unrolled before you in the passage of the play. Suffice it, therefore, if I say now that the work has been hurriedly written so as to be presented before you for your delectation; that the actors and actresses are the best obtainable from a troupe now happily roaming in Provence; that, in effect, your indulgence is begged by all. Mesdames et Messieurs, the play will now begin."

Amidst such applause as so fashionable an audience as this felt called upon to give, de Crébillon withdrew from the hastily-constructed platform which had been erected in the great saloon--which was not, in truth, very great--the blue curtain that was stretched across from one side of the room to the other was withdrawn, and the play began. Yet not before more than one person in the audience had whispered to himself, or herself, "At whom does she aim?" Not before, too, more than one had turned their eyes inwardly with much introspection. And one who heard de Crébillon's words gave a sigh, almost a gasp of relief. That one was Monsieur le Duc Desparre. To his knowledge he had never abandoned any infant.

There was, naturally, no scenery; yet, all the same, some attempts had been made to aid dramatic illusion. The landlord had lent some bits of tapestry to decorate the walls, and some chairs and tables. In this case only the commoner sort were required, since la scene depicted a room not much better than a garret. And in this garret, as the curtain was pulled aside, was depicted Célie having in her arms a bundle supposed to be the child, Cidalise, while on the bed lay stretched the unhappy mother, dead.

With that interminable monologue, so much used by the French dramatists of the period, and so tolerated by the audience of the period, Célie delivered in blank verse a long recitation of what had led to this painful scene. Fortunately, the actress who played this part was (as happened often enough in those days, when the wandering troupes were quite as good as those which trod the boards of the Parisian stages, though, through want of patronage or opportunity, they very often never even so much as entered the capital) quite equal to its rendition, she having a clear distinct diction which she knew thoroughly well how to accompany with suitable gesture. Also, which caused some remark even amongst this unemotional audience, she bore a striking likeness to the highbred dame who was the authoress of the drama. The woman was tall and exquisitely shaped; her primrose-coloured hair--coloured thus, either by art and design, or nature--curled in crisp curls about her head; her eyes were blue as corn-flowers. Wherefore, as they gazed on her, there ran a suppressed titter through that audience, a whispered word or so passed, more than one head turned, and more than one pair of eyes rested inquiringly on Diane Grignan de Poissy sitting some row or so of chairs back from the platform. And there were some whose eyes sought the countenance of le Duc Desparre and observed that his face, although blank as a mask, showed signs of aroused interest; that his eyes were fixed eagerly on the wandering mummer who enacted Célie.

"'Tis thee," whispered Agénor to his aunt. "'Tis thee!"

"Yes. It is I," she whispered back. In solemn diction, the woman unfolded her story. The story of an innocent girl betrayed into a mock marriage, a fictitious priest, desertion followed by death, and her own determination to secure the child and to rear it, and, some day, to use that child as a means whereby to wreak vengeance on the betrayer because he was such in a double capacity. He had sworn his love to Célie, to herself, as well as to the unfortunate woman now lying dead; he had deceived them both. Only the dead woman was poor; she was rich. Rich enough, at least, to provide in some way for that child, to keep it alive until the time came for producing it. "As I swear to do," Célie cried in rhyme, this being the last speech, or tag, of the prologue, "even though I wait for years. For years." Then she called on Ph[oe]bus and many other heathen divinities so dear to the hearts of the French dramatists, to hear her register her vow. And, thus, the prologue ended amidst a buzz from the audience, loud calls for Célie, for de Crébillon, for the author. Expectancy had been aroused, the most useful thing of all others, perhaps, to which a prologue could be put. De Crébillon led on the blue-eyed, golden-haired actress, and she, standing before the most exalted audience which had ever witnessed her efforts, considered that her fortune was as good as made. Henceforth, farewell, she hoped, to acting in barns and hastily-erected booths in provincial towns and villages, to the homage of country boors and simple country gentlemen. She saw before her . . . what matters what she saw! In all that audience none, except a few of the younger and most impressionable of the men, thought of the handsome stroller; all desired to know what the drama itself would bring forth.

For none doubted now (since they knew full well from de Crébillon's whispered hints and suggestive glances who the author was) that Desparre was the man pointed at as the betrayer of the woman who had been seen stretched in the garret. All remembered that, for years, even during the life of the old king, his name had been coupled with that of the Marquise. And they remembered that she, who was once looked upon as the certain Duchesse Desparre of the future, had never become his wife; that instead, he had meant to wed with a woman who had emerged none knew whence except that it was from the gutters of the streets--from beneath a gambler's roof; and that even such a one as this had jilted him! Jilted him who sat there now, still as a statue, white as one, too. Looking like death itself!

What were they about to see? A denunciation of this man by his abandoned child to that intended bride born of the gutter, a denunciation so fierce and terrible that even she, that creature of nothingness, shrank from him as something so base--so _scabreux_, as they termed it in their whispers--that she dared not share his illustrious name! Was that what was now to be depicted before them? Was that the true reason for the scandal with which all Paris had rung since the cruel months of winter; of which people still spoke apart and in subdued murmurs? Was the abandoned orphan, or rather her representative, to speak her denunciation on that platform? Was that woman of the people to fly from him before their eyes? Was the Duc Desparre to be held up before them here, on this summer day, in the true colours which all knew him to possess, but which all, because he was of their own patrician order, endeavoured to forget that he thus possessed?

If so, then Diane Grignan de Poissy's vengeance was, indeed, an awful one! If so, then God shield them from having their own secrets fall into her possession, from having her vengeance aroused against them, too!

As had been ever since the days of Hardy, of Corneille, of Moliere, their attention was now drawn to the fact that the actual play was about to commence by three thumps upon the stage from a club, and, once more, they settled down to the enjoyment of the spectacle; the buzz amongst them ceasing as again the curtain was drawn back. They prepared for the denunciation! Yet, still, in their last whispers to each other ere silence set in, they asked how that denunciation was to take effect? There were but two female characters, Célie, the protectress, Cidalise, the orphan. Where then was the character of the woman to whom the man was to be denounced; the woman who should represent before them that creature of the lower orders who, in actual fact and life, had last winter fled from Desparre--the blanched figure sitting before them--sooner than become his wife and a duchess?

Perhaps, after all, they thought and said, they had been mistaken--perhaps, after all, it was not a true representation of Desparre's degradation which was about to be offered to them! Perhaps they had misjudged, overrated, the vengeance of Diane!

Well! they would soon see now. The curtain was withdrawn, the scene was exposed, and it represented a pretty _salon_ adorned for a festivity--a betrothal.

The play began.