CHAPTER VIII

THE PRESENTATION

The Versailles of to-day stands alone in desolation among all the other buildings left to us by the past. That vast courtyard through whose gates the dusty and travel-stained _berlines_ of the ambassadors used to pass; those thousand windows, vacant and cleaned by the municipality; those fountains and terraces, and statues and vistas—across all these lies written the word which is at once their motto and explanation: _Fuimus_—we have been.

It is the palace of echoes.

But it is more than this. It is France herself. Not the France of to-day—banker and bourgeois-ridden; nor the France of the Second Empire—vulgar and painted; nor the Napoleonic France—half a brothel, half a barrack. Across all these and the fumes of the Revolution, Versailles calls to us: “I am France. Before I was built I was born in the dreams of the Gallic people. I am the concretion in stone of all the opulence and splendour and licence of mind which found a focus in the reign of Le Roi Soleil; the Hôtel St. Pol and the Logis d’Angoulême foreshadowed me, and Chambord and all those châteaux that mirror themselves in the Loire. I am the wealth of Jacques Cœur, the bravery of Richelieu and Turenne, the laughter of Rabelais, the songs of Villon, the beauty of Marion de l’Orme, the licentiousness of Montpensier, the arrogance of Fouquet. Of all that splendour I remain, an echo and a dream.”

But to-night, in the year of our Lord 1770, Versailles, living and splendid, a galaxy of lights that might have been seen from leagues away, the huge park filled with the sound of the wind in the trees and the waters of the fountains, the great courtyard ablaze with lamps and torches, and coloured with the uniforms of the Guards and the Swiss—to-night Versailles was drawing towards herself the whole world in the form of the ambassadors of Europe, the whole Court of France, and a majority of the population of Paris.

The Place d’Armes was thronged, and the Paris road, a league from the gates; bourgeois and beggar, the hungry and well-fed, the maimed, the halt and the blind, apprentice and shop-girl—all were there, a seething mass attracted to the festivity as moths are attracted by a lamp, and all filled with one idea: the Dubarry.

The news of the friction at Court had gone amongst the people. It was said that the Dubarry had been forbidden at the last moment to attend; that the presentation had been cancelled, that she was ill, that the Vicomte Jean had insulted M. le Duc de Choiseul, that the arrival of the Dauphiness had been hurried, and that she was already at Versailles, and that she had refused to see the favourite. All of which statements, and a hundred others more wild and improbable, were bandied about during the glorious excitement to be got by watching the blazing windows of the palace, the uniformed figures of the Guards, and the steady stream of carriages coming from the direction of Paris.

Rochefort arrived at nine o’clock—that is to say, an hour before the time of the ceremony; his carriage immediately followed that of the Duc de Richelieu. The entrance-hall was crowded, and the Escalier des Ambassadeurs thronged. This great staircase, now removed, led by a broad, unbalustraded flight of eleven marble steps to a landing where, beneath the bust of Louis XV., a fountain played, gushing its waters into a broad basin supported by tritons, dolphins and sea-nymphs; from here a balustraded staircase swept up to right and left, and here, just by the fountain, Rochefort found himself cheek by jowl with de Sartines, who had arrived just before M. de Richelieu.

“Ah!” said de Sartines, recognizing the other, “and when did you arrive?”

“Why, it seems to me an hour ago,” replied the other, “judging by the time I have been getting thus far; to be more precise, I came immediately after M. de Richelieu. And how are your dear thieves and people getting on? I should imagine they are mostly at Versailles to-night, to judge by the crowds on the Paris road.”

“Oh,” replied de Sartines, “I daresay there are enough of them left in Paris to keep my agents busy. And how did you like Lavenne?”

“He was charming. If all your thief-catchers were such perfect gentlemen, I would pray God to turn a few of our gentlemen into thief-catchers. But he was not so charming as your dramatist, Monsieur Ferminard, the gentleman who writes plays with his feet, it seems to me.”

Sartines nudged him to keep silence. They had reached the corridor leading to the Hall of Mirrors, and here the Minister of Police drew his companion into an alcove.

“Do not mention the name Ferminard here; the walls have ears and the statues have tongues. Forget it, my dear Rochefort. Remember M. d’Ombreval’s maxim: ‘Forget so that you may not be forgotten.’”

“In other words, that you may not be put in the Bastille?”

“Precisely.”

“Then I will forget the name Ferminard. But, before Heaven, I will never be able to forget the person. He amused me vastly. And now, my dear Sartines, without mentioning names, how are things going?”

“What things?”

“Why, the presentation.”

“Admirably.”

“Then the lady with the scalded leg——”

“Hush!”

“There is no one near, and, besides, I was only inquiring after her health.”

“Well, her health is still bad.”

“Will she be here to-night?”

“You will see. Ask me no more about her. Besides, I have something else to talk of. Your man, whom you put out of action the night before last, has been found.”

“The man I killed?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I don’t envy the finder—that is to say, if he has any sense of beauty.”

“Rochefort,” said de Sartines, “it would not trouble me a _dernier_ were forty like him found every morning in the streets of Paris; but, in this case, you have to be on your guard, for he was found, not by one of my agents, but by one of Choiseul’s. The news came to me through Choiseul.”

“Ah!” said Rochefort, becoming serious. “Is that so?”

“With a request that I should investigate the matter. If that were all it would be nothing; the danger to you is that Choiseul, no doubt, has started investigating the matter for himself.”

Sartines, having delivered himself of this warning, turned to the Comte d’Egmont, who was passing, and walked off with him, leaving Rochefort to digest his words.

Rochefort for a moment was depressed; he did not like the idea of this dead man turning up, arm-in-arm, so to speak, with Choiseul. He had no remorse at all about the ruffian, but he had a lively feeling that, should Choiseul discover the truth, he would avenge the death of this villain, deserved even though it was. Then he put the matter from his mind, and passed with the throng through the Hall of Mirrors towards the _salon_, where the presentations took place.

On the way he passed Camus, who, with his wife, was speaking to the Comte d’Harcourt. Madame Camus was rather plain, older than her husband, and afflicted with a slight limp—an impediment in her walk, to quote M. de Richelieu. Camus’ marriage with this woman was a mystery. She was the third daughter of the Comte de Grigny, who owned a château in Touraine, and little else, if we except numerous debts. She was plain, without dowry, and had a limp. It may have been the comment of Froissart on women so affected, or that her plainness appealed to him in some curious way; the fact remained that Camus had married her, and—so people said—was heartily sick of his bargain.

The Hall of Mirrors gave one eyes at the back of one’s head; and Camus, though his back was half-turned to Rochefort, saw his mirrored reflection approach and pass; but he did not take the slightest notice of his enemy, continuing his conversation, whilst Rochefort passed on towards the wide-open door of the Salon of Presentations.

Rochefort was one of those implacable men who never apologize, even if they are in the wrong. Camus had been his friend, or, at least, a very close acquaintance, and he had struck Camus in the face. If Camus did not choose to wipe out the insult it was no affair of Rochefort’s. He was ready to fight. He was not angry now with Camus; his attitude of mind was entirely one of contempt, and he passed on haughtily to the Hall of Presentations, where he soon found enough to distract his attention from personal matters.

The Hall of Presentations—vast, lit by a thousand lights—gave to the eye a picture of magnificence and splendour sufficient to quell even the most daring imagination. The Escalier des Ambassadeurs had been thronged, the corridors and the Hall of Mirrors crowded; but here, so wide was the floor, so lofty the painted ceiling, that the idea “crowd” vanished, or at least became subordinated to the idea of magnificence. One would not dream of associating the word “solemnity” with the word “butterfly”; yet, could one see the congregation of a million butterflies, variegated and gorgeous, drawn from all quarters of the earth towards one great festival, the word “solemnity” on the lips of the gazer might not be out of place.

So, to-night, at Versailles, all these butterflies of the social world of France—coloured, jewelled, beautiful—filling the vast Salon of Presentations with a moving picture, brilliant as a painting by Diaz, all these men and women, individually insignificant, produced by their setting and congregation that effect of solemnity which Versailles alone could produce from the frivolous.

That was, in fact, the calculated effect of Versailles; to give the _fainéant_ the value of the strenuous, the trivial the virtue of the vital; to give great echoes to the sound of a name, to raise the usher on the shoulders of the Suisse, the grand master of the ceremonies on the shoulders of the usher, the noble on the shoulders of the grand master of the ceremonies, and the King on the shoulders of the noble. A towering structure, as absurd, when viewed philosophically, as a pyramid of satin-breeched monkeys, but beautiful, gorgeous, solemn under the alchemy of Versailles.

The great clock of the Hall of Presentations pointed to ten minutes to ten. The King had not appeared yet, nor would he do so till the stroke of the hour.

The presentation was fixed for ten. Rochefort knew everybody, and the man who knows everybody knows nobody. That was Rochefort’s position at the Court of Versailles; he belonged to no faction, and so had no especial enemies—or friends. He did not fear enemies, nor did he want friends. Outside the Court, in Paris, he had several trusty ones who would have let themselves be cut in pieces for him; they were sufficient for him, for it was a maxim of his life that out of all the people a man knows, he will be lucky if he numbers two who are disinterested. He did not invent this maxim. Experience had taught it to him.

He passed now from group to group, nodding to this person and talking to that; and everywhere he found an air of inattention, an atmosphere of restlessness, such as may be noticed among people who are awaiting some momentous decision.

They were, in fact, awaiting the decision of Fate as to the presentation of the Dubarry. Among the majority of the courtiers nothing was definitely known, but a great deal was suspected. Rumours had gone about that it was now absolutely certain that the presentation would not take place, and all these rumours had come, funnily enough, not from the Choiseuls, but from the Vicomte Jean. The Choiseul faction, or rather the head centre of it, said nothing; for them the thing was assured. They had robbed the Comtesse, not only of her dress, her coiffeur and her carriage, but of her sponsor.

Camus, who had stolen the carriage, had followed Rochefort into the Hall of Presentations, and was now speaking to Coigny, Choiseul’s right-hand man. Coigny, who when he saw Camus had experienced a shock of surprise at seeing him so early, interrupted him.

“The carriage?”

“It is quite safe,” replied Camus. “The deed is accomplished.”

“But how are you here so soon?”

“Oh, _ma foi_!” said Camus, “am I a tortoise? Having placed the thing in the coach-house of a well-trusted friend, I went home, dressed, and came on here.”

“Ah, but suppose this well-trusted friend of yours were to betray you at the last moment, harness his horses to the precious carriage, and drive it to the Rue de Valois?”

Camus laughed. “Can you drive a carriage without wheels? It took seventeen minutes only to remove the wheels and make firewood of them with a sharp axe, to knock the windows to pieces, strip out the linings, and rip to pieces the cushions. If the Dubarry drives to Versailles in that carriage—well, my friend, all I can say is, the vehicle will match her reputation.”

“Thanks!” said Coigny. “You have worked well, and you have Choiseul’s thanks.” He moved away, drawn by the sight of another of his confederates who had just appeared.

It was the Marquis Monpavon, twenty years of age, cool, insolent, a bully and scamp of the first water, with a smooth, puerile, egg-shaped face that made respectable fingers itch to smack it.

“The dressmaker?” said Coigny.

“She was charming,” replied Monpavon. “I have quite lost my heart to her. I have made an arrangement to meet her to-morrow evening at the corner of the Rue Picpus.”

“But the dress?”

“What dress?”

“The Dubarry’s! Good God! You did not forget about the dress?”

“No,” replied Monpavon. “I did not forget about the dress. The next time you see that dress will be on a mermaid in the Morgue. It is now in the Seine. What’s more, it is in a sack, which also encloses a few stones.”

“Thanks, Monpavon. I will tell Choiseul.” He hurried away, attracted by another new-comer. This time it was Monsieur d’Estouteville, an exquisite, who seemed to have no bones, so indolently did he carry himself.

“The coiffeur?” asked Coigny, in a low voice, as he ranged alongside of this person. “What have you done with him?”

“He is safe,” replied d’Estouteville.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“But, heavens! Did you not undertake to have him guarded? Yet you do not know where he is?”

“I only know that he is in Paris somewhere. My dear Coigny, I could have given him no better guardian than the guardian he has chosen for himself—drink.”

“Oh, you made him drunk!”

“Oh, no. It was a happy accident. It was this way. I had him brought to my house on an urgent summons. He was shown into a room where some wine was set out, quite by accident, and when I came to interview him with a purse full of gold for his seduction, I found he had been at the wine. He was talkative and flushed. Now, said I to myself, why should I pay five thousand francs for what I can obtain for a bottle of wine or two? So I ordered up some Rousillon, and made him drunk.”

“Ah!”

“He quite forgot that he was a hairdresser at the end of the first bottle; before he had finished the second, he grew quarrelsome, and would have drawn his sword.[A] Then he fell asleep, and my servants took him and laid him out by the wall that borders the Cemetery of the Innocents. It was then half-past six o’clock. No man, not even his Majesty’s physician, could turn him into a hairdresser again before to-morrow morning. So, you see, by a stroke of luck I saved five thousand francs, and avoided the implication in this affair that a bribe given to a barber might have occasioned all of us.”

“Good!” said Coigny. He knew quite well that the apparently boneless d’Estouteville was one of the elect of chicanery, was as good a swordsman almost as Beauregard, and could outslang a fish-fag on the Petit Pont were he called to the test; but he had not expected such a brilliant piece of work as this. “Good. I will tell Choiseul that story. By the way, you are expected in his private apartments after this affair is over. You will not find him ungenerous, I think. Tell Monpavon and the others that they are expected also.”

He walked away to where the Duc de Choiseul was standing, talking to some gentleman. It was now after ten, and the King had not yet appeared, though the hour for the presentation had arrived. He drew the Minister aside, and informed him of the reports he had just received from d’Estouteville, Monpavon and Camus; and Choiseul was in the act of congratulating him when the whole brilliant assemblage turned as if touched by a magician’s wand; conversation died away, and silence fell upon the Chamber of Presentations.

The King had entered by the door leading from his apartments. He wore the Order of the Golden Fleece. Glancing from right to left, he advanced, followed by his suite, till, seeing Choiseul, he paused whilst the Minister advanced, bowing before him.

Choiseul saw that his Majesty was in a temper. He knew quite well that the King had made his appearance thus late, not because of laziness or indifference, but simply because he had been waiting the arrival of Madame Dubarry. The King, in fact, had been kept informed of all the guests who had arrived. Ten o’clock was the hour for the presentation, and now at a quarter past ten, his Majesty, never patient of delay, had left his apartments to seek the truth for himself.

“The Comtesse is late, Choiseul,” said the King.

“The journey from Paris is a long one, Sire,” replied the Minister, “and some delay might have occurred on the way.”

“Or some accident,” said the King. “Well, Choiseul, should some accident have happened to the poor Comtesse upon the road, we shall inquire into the cause of it, and I shall place the matter in your hands to find out and to punish, if necessary. But should the accident have happened in Paris, our Minister of Police will take the matter in his hands. Ah, there is de Sartines. Sartines, it seems that the Comtesse is late.”

“Yes, Sire,” replied the Minister of Police. “The carriage may have been delayed by the crowds that throng the Paris roads. But she will arrive in safety, if I am not much mistaken, before the half-hour has struck.”

Choiseul smiled inwardly, and those members of the Choiseul faction who were within earshot of this conversation glanced at one another. The half-hour struck, and Choiseul, freed from his Majesty, who had passed on, turned to de Sartines.

“Well, monsieur,” said Choiseul, “it seems that the clock has declared you a false prophet.”

“Monsieur,” replied de Sartines, looking at his watch, “the clock of the Chamber of Presentations, as you ought very well to know, is always kept five minutes in advance of the hour, by an order given by his late Majesty to Noirmont, the keeper of the clocks of the Palace of Versailles. It is now twenty-four and a half minutes past ten. Ah! what is this?”

A hush had fallen on the assembly; around the door leading to the corridor of entrance the people had drawn back as the waves of the Red Sea drew back before the rod of Moses.

The usher had appeared. He stood rigid as a statue, his profile to the room, then turning and fronting the great assembly and the lake of parquet floor where his Majesty stood in sudden and splendid isolation, he grounded the butt of his wand, and announced to the grand master of the ceremonies:

“The Comtesse Dubarry. The Comtesse de Béarn.”

Never had Madame Dubarry looked more beautiful than now, as she advanced, led by this lady of the old _régime_—stiff, as though awakened from some tomb of the past; proud, as though she carried with her the memory of the Austrian; remote from the present day as the wars of the Fronde and the beauty of Madame de Chevreuse. It was the youth and age of France; and de Sartines, gazing at Madame de Béarn as one gazes at a great actor, murmured to Himself:

“What a masterpiece!”

FOOTNOTE

[A] Hairdressers alone amongst tradesmen were permitted to wear swords.