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.
CHAPTER XIX
"THE ABANDONED ORPHAN"
DRAMA
The usual guests who figure at stage weddings had assembled in the salon. Evidently, the audience whispered, one to another, it was a marriage contract, at least, which was about to be signed-or, perhaps, an assemblage of relatives at the bride's house ere setting forth to the church. No doubt of that, they thought, else why the love-knots at ladies' wrists and breasts-quite clean and fresh because, somehow, the poor strolling players who represented high-born dames had been provided with them by the giver of the entertainment-and why, also, had the gentlemen got on the best suits which the baggage waggon of their troupe contained?
Wherefore, after seeing all this, the actual high-born dames and men of ancient family in the audience gave many a sidelong glance at each other, while the former's eyes frequently flashed leering looks over their enamelled cheeks and from beneath their painted eyelashes and eyebrows. For all recalled that, in the real drama which had happened in Paris in the winter months-the real drama over which Baron and Destouches and Poinsinet (who should never have been an author, since he was born almost a gentleman), and other grinning devils of the pen, had made such bitter mockery in verse and prose-in that real drama, a marriage, renounced and broken, had formed the main incident. Recalling all this, they settled down well into their seats, eager and excited as to what was to come.
Enter amongst the guests, Célie. The handsome woman was made up to look a little older now. Yet, "the deuce confound me!" said the venerable Marquise de Champfleury, a lady who, fifty years before, had been renowned for her
bonnes fortunes
in the Royal circle, "the deuce confound me! she resembles Diane more than ever." Which was true, and was, perhaps, made more so by the fact that the woman was now wearing a costly dress which Diane Grignan de Poissy had herself worn more than once at Eaux St. Fer before all her friends, but which she had now bestowed upon the wandering actress. The latter was, indeed, so like Diane, that again and again the revered marquise uttered her oaths as she regarded her.
To Célie there entered next Cidalise, young, slender, pretty, yet-because sometimes the troupe were starving and had naught to eat but that which was flung to them in charity, or a supper of broken victuals given them by an innkeeper in return for a song or performance before a handful of provincial shopkeepers-thin, and out of condition. Nevertheless, she could deliver her lines well, and speak as clearly as Charlotte Lenoir had done, or as La Gautier did now-and would have become a leading actress, indeed might become one yet, if she could only get a foothold in Paris.
In short, sharp sentences, such as the French dramatists loved to intersperse with the terribly long monologues which, in other places, they put into the mouths of their characters, Célie asked her if she was resolved to carry out her contract and marry this man, this Prince, who desired her for his wife? Yes, Cidalise replied, yes. Not because she loved him, but because her origin was obscure, her present surroundings revolting. Was not her uncle a gambler! At this there was a movement amongst the audience; many exquisitely painted fans were fluttered, a rustle of silk and satin and brocade was perceptible. And, also, eyes gleamed into other eyes again, but none spoke. Even the old Marquise de Champfleury swore no more. The aged trifler had become interested, a novelty which had not occurred to her-unless in connection with herself and her food and her health-for a long time.
Yet, because when all is said, these were ladies and gentlemen, not one stole a glance in the direction of Monsieur le Duc.
Had they done so they would have seen that he sat motionless in his seat, with his eyes half closed, yet glittering, as they gazed at the two women on the stage.
Two more figures were now upon the scene. His Highness, the Prince, the bridegroom predestinate, and also the uncle of Cidalise; the first called Cléon, Prince de Fourbignac, the second, Dorante. They loved such names as these, did those old French dramatists. Yet what was there about the man who played the Prince which awoke recollections in the minds of all the audience of another man they had once seen or known who was not the Duc Desparre, but someone very like him? How-how was that likeness produced? The vagabond, the stroller who enacted the illustrious personage, was a big, hectoring fellow, with a short-clipped, jet black moustache; an individual who looked more accustomed to the guardroom than a salon, to a spadroon clanking against his thigh-perhaps sticking out half a foot through its worn-out scabbard-than to a clouded cane which he now wielded, even though in a salon. His clothes, too-they were the best that could be found in the frowsy, hair-covered trunk which carried the costumes of the "first gentleman" of the troupe-seemed more fitted to some bully or sharper than to an exquisite. So, too, did his expressions, his "Health, belle comtesse!" to one high-born (stage) lady, his "
Rasade
" to another whose glass touched his as she wished him felicity; so, too, did his vulgar heartiness to all.
"A Prince!" the real aristocrats in front muttered to themselves and each other, yet remembered that the words he uttered must for sure have been put into his mouth either by the authoress, or her collaborateur, De Crébillon. Only, why and wherefore? And still they were puzzled, since many of them could recall in far back days some fellow very much like the creature who was now strutting about the stage and kicking a footman here and there, slapping the bare shoulders of female guests, and giving low winks to his male friends.
There was some art in this, they muttered; some recollection which it was intended to evoke. Whom had they ever known like this? What fellow who, for some particular reason, had been admitted to their august society-a society in which, to do them justice, they behaved admirably and with exquisite grace so long as their actions were public, no matter how much they atoned for that behaviour by extremely questionable conduct in private?
Then they remembered all, memory being aroused by none other than the respected Marquise de Champfleury.
"
Me damne!
" she whispered, changing her form of exclamation somewhat-probably for fear of being monotonous. "
Me damne!
does no one recall our friend when a beggarly captain on the frontier?
Hein!
he was the second, heir then, wherefore we permitted his presence sometimes. Yet, only sometimes, God be praised! Had he not been an heir, our lackeys should have kicked him down the street. You remember; you, Fifine, and you, Finette? Heaven knows you are both old enough to do so!"
After which the amiable aristocrat ceased her pleasing prattle, and attended to the development of the drama before them.
They were all doing that now, eagerly, absorbingly, and even more especially so since the fine memory of the old Marquise had recalled to them, or most of them, the time when Desparre stamped about their salons roughly, and, because he was the second heir to the dukedom and almost sure to succeed to it some day, treated them all to a great deal of what they termed privately in disgust, "his guardroom manners." And, in remembering, they thought what good fortune it was for Diane (if it was not the outcome of astute selection) to have secured this rough fellow to personate the man she was undoubtedly bent on exposing-the man who now sat staring at the stage with his face as set as a mask, and as expressionless.
Meanwhile, the play went on. The signing of the contract which, all recognised now, was the ceremony to be performed, was at hand. First came the bridegroom, who-having ceased his tavern buffooneries-so becoming to a Prince! and in the distribution of which he had included Cidalise, who, with well-acted horror, shrank from him every time he approached her-drew near the table at which the notary and his clerk sat, and, having slapped the former on the back, affixed his signature with a great deal of gesticulation, and then handed the quill with ostentatious politeness to his future Princess.
"Sign, dear idol," he whispered in a stage whisper, "sign. I await with eagerness the right to call thee mine." Only he marred somewhat these affecting words by winking at another girl who stood by Cidalise.
On either side of that Iphigenia were grouped now Célie and Dorante-an old grisly actor this, round shouldered and ill-favoured, who had forgotten to shave himself that morning, or who, perhaps, imagined that, as he represented a Parisian gambler, it was a touch of nature to go thus unclean-Cléon being of course next to Cidalise. And to her, Célie spoke clearly, so clearly that her voice was heard by everyone of the audience present in the salon of The Garland as she said "Sign, Cidalise." Then she stood with her large blue eyes fixed full on Cléon, while the expression in them told the spectators as plainly as words could have done that the great moment was at hand, that the dénouement was coming.
"Sign," she said again.
Taking the pen, the girl signed, repeating in stage fashion the letters of the name "Cidalise," so that the audience, who could not see the characters, should understand that they were being written down.
"So," exclaimed Célie, her eyes still on Cléon, "So, Cidalise. Continue."
"D. O. R.," murmured the bride as she pretended to write again, when, suddenly, breaking in upon hers was heard the voice of the leading actress. "No! Not that. If you sign further you must use another name." Then, turning to Cléon she hissed rapidly:
"
Lâche!
You abandoned one woman and deserted another. My time has come."
Aroused thoroughly, the audience bent forward in their chairs. The Marquise de Champfleury drew a quick breath, but cursed no more. Agénor Grignan de Poissy felt his aunt's hand tighten convulsively on his. Now, not one of the painted patricians glanced at the other; all eyes were on the stage, except one pair-those of Diane-and they were fixed on Desparre!
"What must I sign?" whispered Cidalise, trembling, and playing her part as the audience said afterwards,
à ravir
. "What? What?"
"Demand of thy uncle-uncle, mon Dieu! Demand of Dorante. Speak, Dorante."
"Thy real name," replied Dorante slowly, effectively, "is De Fourbignac."
"Thou canst not marry him," and now the woman who represented Célie was superb, as, with finger extended and eyes ablaze, she pointed at Cléon, (she got to Paris at last and became the leading lady at the Odéon!). "He is thy father. Even as he deserted me, so, too, he deserted thy mother, leaving her to die of starvation. Villain!
maraud!
" she exclaimed, turning on Cléon. "What did I promise thee? Thus I fulfil my vow."
"And thus I avenge myself," cried Cléon, tugging at his rapier. "Thus, traitress-"
But the actor did not finish his speech. From outside the wall of the salon was heard ringing the great bell of The Garland; the bell which was a signal to all who resided at the inn that now was the time when the noblesse, in contradistinction to those of the commercial world, repaired to the wells of Eaux St. Fer, there to take their glass of those unutterably filthy, but health-giving waters. Perhaps it was an arranged thing; arranged by the vengeful Diane, or the spiteful De Crébillon. Perhaps, too, it was arranged that, as the bell ceased to ring, the old Comte de la Ruffardière, a man who was of the very highest position even among so fashionable an audience as that assembled there, should rise from his chair and say, in a voice exquisitely sweet and silvery:
"Mesdames et Messieurs, – you hear that bell. Alas, that it should-although we are desolated in obeying it-that it should be able to call us away from this most ravishing drama. Yet, my dear friends, we have our healths, our most precious healths, to consult. If we miss our revivifying glass what shall become of us? Madame," addressing the representative of Célie, "Monsieur," to Cléon, "Mademoiselle," to Cidalise-his manners were of a truth perfect-not for nothing had he handed the Grand Monarch his shirt for forty-two nights in every year (by royal appointment), and watched his august master's deportment both in public and private-"we are penetrated, we are in despair, at having to depart ere this most exciting play is at an end. A play, my faith! it is a tragedy of the first order. Yet, yet, it must be so. We are all invalids-sufferers. Alas! the waters the waters! We must partake of the waters!"
Then he bowed again, solemnly to each actress, in a friendly way to the representatives of Cléon and Dorante, comprehensively to all. And, strange to say, not one of those gifted Thespians seemed at all surprised, nor in the least offended, at the departure of the audience, which was now taking place rapidly. On the contrary, the shrinking, persecuted Cidalise, that distinguished heroine and once-about-to-be sacrificed one, tapped him lightly on his aged cheek with her bridal fan as he stepped on to the foot-high stage, and whispered, "be still,
vieux farceur
," while Célie regarded him with a mocking smile in her blue eyes. Nor did Cléon refuse a fat purse which, surreptitiously, the old courtier dropped into his hand, but, instead, murmured his thanks again and again.
The audience had indeed departed now amidst rustlings of silks and satins, the click-clack of light dress swords upon the parquet floor, and the sharp tap of high heels. Diane, with her nephew, had slipped out even as De la Ruffardière commenced his oration; scarcely any were left when he had concluded it and his withered old cheek had received the accolade of Cidalise. And, it was strange! but not one had looked at-in solemn truth, all had avoided looking at-the only person who seemed to make no attempt to move. Desparre!
Desparre, who sat on and on in his seat, motionless as ever, and always stone, marble white; his eyes glaring through their drooping lids at the little stage on which the battered old courtier was whispering his compliments.
Presently however, the latter turned and descended the foot-high platform, casting his eyes, – for him, timidly and, undoubtedly, furtively-at the silent, motionless figure sitting there. Then he turned round to the actors and actresses who, themselves, had observed Desparre, while, in a totally different tone from that in which he had previously addressed them, he said:
"Begone. Quit the stage. Your parts are played. And," he muttered to himself, "played with sufficient effect."
As they obeyed his orders-he watching them depart from the scene of what was undoubtedly their triumph (never before had those wandering comedians achieved such a success-in more ways than one), he went over slowly to where the Duke sat and touched him gently on the shoulder. The withered, battered old roué, who had known the secrets and intrigues of the most intriguing court that ever existed in Europe, had still something left that did duty for a heart.
"Come, Desparre. Come," he said. "The company has broken up. It is time to-to-to take the waters."
But Monsieur le Duc, sitting there, his eyes still fixed on the stage, made him no answer, though his lips moved once, and once he turned those eyes and gazed at the old Chevalier by his side.
"Come, Desparre," the other repeated. "If not the waters, at least to your apartments. Come."
Then, old and feeble though he was, he placed his hands under Desparre's shoulders and endeavoured to assist him to rise.
CHAPTER XX
"THE WAY TO DUSTY DEATH"
"If," said Lolive, the Duke's valet, to himself later that day, "he would speak, would say something-not sit there like one dead, I could endure it very well. But, mon Dieu! he makes me shudder!"
It was not strange that the shivering servant should feel afraid, though he scarce knew of what. One feels not afraid of the actual dead-they can harm us no more, even if they have been able to do so in life! – unless one is a coward as this valet was; yet, still, the brave are sometimes appalled at the resemblance of death which, on occasions, those who are yet alive are forced to assume, owing to some strange stroke that has attacked either heart or nerve or brain. And such a stroke as this, subtle and intangible, was the one which had fallen upon Desparre.
He was alive, Lolive knew; he could move, he felt sure; almost, too, was he confident that his master could speak if he chose. Yet neither did he move nor speak. Instead, he did nothing but sit there immobile, before the great cheval glass, staring into it, his hands lying listless in his lap, his face colourless and his lips almost as much so.
Once, the valet had made as though he was about to commence undressing Desparre after having previously turned down the bed and prepared it for his reception, but, although the latter had not spoken, he had done what was to the menial's mind more terrifying. He had snarled at him as an ill-conditioned cur snarls at those who go near him, while showing, too, like a dog, his discoloured teeth with, over them, the lips drawn back and, thereby, exhibiting his almost white gums. And with, too, his eyes glistening horribly.
Then the man had withdrawn from close vicinity to that master and had busied himself about the room, while doing anything rather than again approach the chair in which the stricken form was seated. Also, he lit the wax candles in all the branches about the room; on the dressing table, over the bed, and in girandoles placed at even distances on the walls, while receiving, as it seemed to him some comfort from the light and brightness he had now produced. For some reason, which, as with his other fears, he could not have explained, he feared to be alone in the gathering darkness with that living statue.
Summoning up again, however, his courage, he approached once more his master and pointed to the latter's feet and to the diamond-buckled shoes upon them, then whispered timorously that it would be well if Monsieur would at least allow those shoes to be removed. "Doubtless Monsieur was tired," he said; "doubtless also it would relieve Monsieur."
But again he drew back trembling. Once more that hateful snarl came on Desparre's face, and once more there was the drawn-back lip. "What," the fellow asked himself, "what was he to do?" Then, suddenly he bethought him of the fashionable doctors from Paris of whom Eaux St. Fer was full; he would go and fetch one, if not two of them. Thereby, at least, he would be acquitted of failing in his duty if the Duke died to-night, which, judging by his present state, seemed more than likely.
Thinking thus, he let his eyes wander round the room, while meditating as he did so. Near to the bedside was a locked cupboard in which he had placed, on their arrival, a large sum of money, a sum doubly sufficient to pay any expenses Desparre might incur during his course of waters; in a valise, bestowed in the same cupboard, was a small coffer full of jewellery of considerable value. And, upon the walls of the lodging, was the costly tapestry which, in accordance with most noblemen and all wealthy persons in those days, Desparre had brought with him, so that the often enough bare and scanty lodgings to be found at such resorts as Eaux St. Fer might be rendered pleasant and agreeable to the eyes. This he too regarded, remembering as well the costly suits his master had with him; the wigs, each costing over a thousand livres, the lace for sleeves and breast and for the steinkirks and other cravats, and the ivory-hilted Court sword in which was a great diamond. He recalled all the costly things the room contained.
"If he should die to-night," he muttered inwardly-"to-night. None would know what he brought with him and what he left behind. None, but I. No other living soul knows what he possessed. He hated all his kinsmen and kinswomen. None know. I will go seek the doctors; yet, ere I do so-I will-will place these things out of sight. They must not see too much."
Then the knave began moving about the room, "arranging" things, while, even as he did so, he recalled a cabaret in Paris where heavy gambling went on as well as eating and drinking, which was for sale for two thousand crowns. If he had but that sum! And-and-Desparre might die to-night! Wherefore, his eyes stole sideways towards the spectral figure seated there-powerless, or almost so.
He might die to-night! Might die to-night! Well! Why not? Why might he not die to-night? The doctor-the leading one from Paris-should visit him. Yes, he should do that. He knew that doctor; he had seen him called in before to gouty, or paralysed, or dropsical men and women whose servant he himself had once been. And he knew the fashionable physician's formula-the cheering words, accompanied, however, by a slightly doubting phrase; the safe-guarding of his own reputation by a hint to others that-"all the same" – "nevertheless" – "it might be-he could not say. If there were any relatives they should be warned-not alarmed, oh, no! only warned," and so forth. Well! the doctor should come to see the Duke. Doubtless he would say some such thing before himself and the landlord, who, he would take care, should also be in the room. That would be sufficient. If the Duke did die to-night suddenly, as he might very well do-as he would do-why then he, Lolive, was safe. The doctor's words would have saved him.
He was sure now that Monsieur would die to-night. Quite sure. So sure that he knew nothing could save the Duke. He would die to-night; he even knew the time it would happen; between one and two of the clock, when every soul in Eaux St. Fer would be wrapped in sleep, even to the servants. Then, about that hour-perhaps nearer two than one-the Duke would die. And the cabaret, the disguised gambling hell, would be his in a month's-
"Lolive," uttered a voice from behind him. "Lolive!"
The man started; stopped in what he was doing; then dropped a dressing case with almost a crash on to the shelf of a wardrobe, in which he was placing the box and its contents, and withdrew his own head from the inside of the great bureau. He scarcely dared, however, to turn that head round to the spot whence the voice issued, since he knew that he was white to the lips; since he felt that he was trembling a little. Yet-he must do it-it had to be done-it was his master's voice.
Therefore he turned, gazing with startled eyes at Desparre who was now sitting up more firmly in his chair, and saw that some change had come to him, that he had regained speech as well as sense, that he would not die, could not by any chance be made to die, that night. The possession of the cabaret was as far off as ever now!
"Ah, Monsieur, the Virgin be praised," he exclaimed fawningly and with a smile of satisfaction, as he ran forward to where Desparre sat, still rigid, though not so rigid as before. "Monsieur is better. What happiness! Monsieur will go to bed now."
While, even as he spoke, he regained courage; confidence. Sick men had died before now in their beds, in their sleep. Such things had been often heard of: they might-would, doubtless-be heard of again.
His master spoke once more, the voice, harsh, bitter, raucous, yet distinct.
"
Malotru!
" Desparre said, while, as he did so, his eyes gleamed dully at the other, "you thought I was dead, or dying. Eh, dog? Well! it is not so. Go-descend at once. Order my travelling carriage. We depart to-night, in an hour-for-Marseilles."
"For Marseilles?"
"Ask no questions. Go. Hangdog I Go, I say. And come not back until you bring me news that the carriage is prepared. Go, beast!"
"The horses, Monsieur; the coachman! He sleeps-"
But there the valet stopped. Desparre's eyes were on him. He was afraid. Therefore he went, murmuring that Monsieur should be obeyed.
Left alone, Desparre still sat on for some moments in his chair, listless and motionless. Then, slowly, he raised himself by using his hands upon the arms of the chair as levers; he stood erect upon his feet. He tried his legs, too, and found he could walk, though heavily and with a feeling as if he had two senseless columns of lead beneath h