CHAPTER II
THE TOILET OF THE CHEVALIER DU CEVENNES
The Chevalier du Cevennes occupied the apartment on the first floor ofthe Hotel of the Silver Candlestick, in the Rue Guenegaud. Theapartment consisted of three rooms. In all Paris there was not to befound the like of them. They were not only elegant, they were simple;for true elegance is always closely allied to simplicity. Persian rugscovered the floors, rugs upon which many a true believer had knelt inevening prayer; Moorish tapestries hung from the walls, making a fineand mellow background for the various pieces of ancient and modernarmor; here and there were Greek marbles and Italian vases; and severalspirited paintings filled the gaps left between one tapestry andanother. Sometimes the Chevalier entertained his noble friends, youngand old, in these rooms; and the famous kitchens of Madame Boisjoli,the landlady of the Candlestick, supplied the delicacies of his tables.Ordinarily the Chevalier dined in the cheery assembly-room below; for,like all true gourmands of refinement, he believed that there is asmuch appetite in a man's ears and eyes as in his stomach, and to feedthe latter properly there must be light, a coming and going of old andnew faces, the rumor of voices, the jest, and the snatch of song.
At this moment the Chevalier was taking a bath, and was splashing aboutin the warm water, laughing with the joyous heart of a boy. With themild steam rose the vague perfume of violets. Brave as a Crillonthough he was, fearless as a Bussy, the Chevalier was something of afop; not the mincing, lisping fop, but one who loved physicalcleanliness, who took pride in the whiteness of his skin, the clarityof his eyes. There had been summer nights in the brilliant gardens ofLa Place Royale when he had been pointed out as one of the handsomestyouths in Paris. Ah, those summer nights, the cymbals and trumpets of_les beaux mousquetaires_, the display of feathers and lace, unwroughtpearls and ropes of precious stones, the lisping and murmuring ofsilks, the variety of colors, the fair dames with their hoods, theirmasks, their elaborate coiffures, the crowds in the balconies! All thecelebrities of court might be seen promenading the Place; and to beidentified as one above many was a plume such as all Mazarin's goldcould not buy.
"My faith! but this has been a day," he murmured, gazing wistfully athis ragged nails. "Till I entered this tub there was nothing but leadin my veins, nothing but marble on my bones. Look at those boots,Breton, lad; a spur gone, the soles loose, the heels cracked. And thatcloak! The mud on the skirts is a week old. And that scabbard was newwhen I left Paris. When I came up I looked like a swashbuckler in oneof Scudery's plays. I let no one see me. Indeed, I doubt if any wouldhave recognized me. But a man can not ride from Rome to Paris, afterhaving ridden from Paris to Rome, changing neither his clothes nor hishorse, without losing some particle of his fastidiousness, and, body ofBacchus! I have lost no small particle of mine."
"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing inthe closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"
"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringinghis mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ridefalls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.
What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills andmountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow streams,sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or the stars,sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight storms, alwaysand ever toward Paris. He had been harried by straggling Spaniards; hehad drawn his sword three times in unavoidable tavern brawls; he hadbeen robbed of his purse; he had even pawned his signet-ring for anight's lodging: all because Mazarin had asked a question which onlythe pope could answer.
Paris at last!--Paris the fanciful, the illogical, the changeable, thewholly delightful Paris! He knew his Paris well, did the Chevalier.He had been absent thirty days, and on the way in from Fontainebleau,where he had spent the preceding night at the expense of hissignet-ring, he had wondered what changes had taken place among theexiles and favorites during this time. What if the Grande Mademoiselleagain headed that comic revolution, the Fronde, as in the old days whenshe climbed the walls at Orleans and assumed command against the forcesof the king? What if Monsieur de Retz issued orders from the PalaisRoyal, using the same-pen with which Mazarin had demanded hisresignation as Archbishop of Paris? In fact, what if Madame deLongueville, aided by the middle class, had once more taken up quartersin the Hotel de Ville? Oh! so many things happened in Paris in thirtydays that the Chevalier would not have been surprised to learn that theboy Louis had declared to govern his kingdom without the assistance ofministers, priests, and old women. Ah, that Fronde! Those had beengallant days, laughable, it is true; but every one seemed to be able topluck a feather from the golden goose of fortune. He was eighteenthen, and had followed the royal exodus to Germain.
The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of thewater. The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that theGrande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoonsagainst the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz wasbiting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetterswhich banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longuevillewas conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had toborrow or beg his pocket-money. Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier,Paris was unchanged.
But what warmed the Chevalier's heart, even as the water warmed hisbody, was the thought of that adorable mystery, that tantalizing,haunting mystery, the woman unknown. This very room was made preciousby the fact that its air had once embraced her with a familiarity suchas he had never dared assume. What a night that had been! She hadcome, masked; she had dined; at his protestations of love she hadlaughed, as one laughs who hears a droll story; and in the attempt toput his arm around her waist, the cold light flashing from herhalf-hidden eyes had stilled and abashed him. Why did she hold him,yet repel? What was her object? Was she some princess who had beenhidden away during her girlhood, to appear only when the bud openedinto womanhood, rich, glorious, and warm? Like a sunbeam, like ashadow, she flitted through the corridors and galleries of the Louvreand the Palais Royal, and whenever he had sought to point her out tosome one, to discover her name, lo, she was gone! Tormenting mystery!Ah, that soft lisp of hers, those enchanting caprices, those amazingextravagances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of whitechambertin! He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as aboy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays. And for allthese meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what hadbeen his reward? To kiss her hand when she came, to kiss her hand whenshe went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy andher eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert. True, he hadoften kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what wasthat? Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?Love. Man never uses force where he loves. When would the day comewhen the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled? "Love you,Monsieur?" she had said. "Ah, well, in a way!"
The Chevalier smiled. Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and inlove. He recalled their first meeting. He had been placed on guard atthe entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarinwas giving a mask. Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of agrey musketeer approached.
"Your name, Monsieur, if you please," he said, scanning the list ofinvited guests.
"I am one of those who pass without the interrogatory." The voice washoarse, affectedly so; and this roused the Chevalier's suspicions.
"I can not believe that," he laughed, "since Monsieur le Duc, hisMajesty's brother, was good enough to permit me to question him." Heleaned against the wall, smiling and twisting his mustache. What acharming musketeer!
"What!" haughtily, "you parley with me?" A gauntleted hand flew to ajeweled hilt.
"Monsieur will not be so rude?" mockingly.
"Monsieur!" with a stamp of the foot--a charming foot.
"Monsieur
!" he mimicked, also stamping a foot which, though shapely,was scarce charming.
Then through the curtain of the mask there came a low, rollickinglaugh. The hand fell away from the sword-hilt, and a grey gauntletslipped to the floor, discovering a hand as dazzling white and begemmedas that on which Anne of Austria prided herself.
"Death of my life!" said a voice as soft and musical as the vibrationof a bell, "you make an admirable Cerberus. My gauntlet." The sweepof the hand fascinated him. "Are your ears like the sailors' ofUlysses, filled with wax? I am asking you to pick up my gauntlet."
As he stooped to obey the command, a laugh sounded behind him, and heknew that he had been tricked. The little musketeer had vanished. Fora moment he was disturbed. In vain he searched the gauntlet for somedistinguishing sign. But as reason told him that no harm couldpossibly come from the prank, his fears subsided, and he laughed. Onbeing relieved from duty, later, he sought her, to return the gauntlet.She was talking to Mademoiselle de Longueville. As she saw theChevalier, she moved away. The Chevalier, determined on seeing theadventure to its end, followed her deliberately. She sat in awindow-seat. Without ceremony he sat down beside her.
"Monsieur," he said, smiling, and he was very handsome when he smiled,"permit me to return this gauntlet."
She folded her arms, and this movement of her shoulders told him thatshe was laughing silently.
"Are you madame or mademoiselle?" he asked, eagerly.
She raised her mask for an instant, and his subjugation was complete.The conversation which ensued was so piquant and charming thatthereafter whatever warmth the gauntlet knew was gathered not from herhand but from the Chevalier's heart.
The growing chill in the water brought the Chevalier out of hisreverie. He leaped from the tub and shone rosily in the firelight, aselegantly proportioned a youth as ever was that fabulous Leander of theHellespont.
"Bring me those towels I purchased from the wandering Persian. Iregret that I did not have them blessed by his Holiness. For who knowswhat spell the heretic Saracen may have cast over them?"
"Monsieur knows," said Breton piously, "that I have had them sprinkledwith the blessed water."
The Chevalier laughed. He was rather a godless youth, and whateverreligion he possessed was merely observance of forms. "Donkey, if thedevil himself had offered them for sale, I should have taken them, forthey pleased me; and besides, they have created a fashion. I shallwear my new baldric--the red one. I report at the Palais Royal ateight, and I've an empty stomach to attend to. Be lively, lad. Duty,duty, always duty," snatching the towels. "I have been in the saddlesince morning; I am still dead with stiffness; yet duty calls. Bah! Ihad rather be fighting the Spaniard with Turenne than idle away at theLouvre. Never any fighting save in pothouses; nothing but ride, ride,ride, here, there, everywhere, bearing despatches not worth the paperwritten on, but worth a man's head if he lose them. And what about?Is this person ill? Condolences. Is this person a father?Congratulations. Monsieur, the king's uncle, is ailing; I romp toBlois. A cabal is being formed in Brussels; I gallop away. HisEminence hears of a new rouge; off I go. And here I have been to Romeand back with a message which made the pope laugh; is it true that heis about to appoint a successor? Mazarin, tiring of being aleft-handed king, aspires to the mantle of Saint Peter. Mazarin alwaysselects me for petty service. Why? Oh, Monsieur le Chevalier, havingan income, need not be paid moneys; because Monsieur le Chevalier wasborn in the saddle, his father is an eagle, his grandsire was acentaur. And don't forget the grey cloak, lad, the apple of my eye,the admiration of the ladies, and the confusion of mine enemies; my ownparticular grey cloak." By this time the Chevalier was getting intohis clothes; fine cambrics, silk hose, velvet pantaloons, grey doublet,and shoes with buckles and red heels.
"But the grey cloak, Monsieur Paul . . ." began the lackey.
"What! you have dared to soil it?"
"No, Monsieur; but you have forgotten that you loaned it to Monsieur deSaumaise, prior to your departure to Italy. He has not returned it."
"That's not like Victor. And I had dreamed of wearing that cloak.Mademoiselle complimented me on it, and that fop De Montausier asked mehow many pistoles I paid for it."
"The purple cloak is new, Monsieur. It is fully as handsome as thegrey one. All it lacks is the square collar you invented."
"Ah well, since there is no grey cloak. Now the gossip. First of all,my debts and debtors."
"Monsieur de Saumaise," said Breton, "has remitted the ten louis helost to you at tennis."
"There's a friend; ruined himself to do it. Poetry and improvidence;how they cling together!"
"Brisemont, the jeweler, says that the garters you ordered will come toone hundred and ten pistoles. But he wants to know what the centralgem shall be, rubies or sapphires surrounding."
"Topaz for the central gem, rubies and diamonds for the rest. Theclasps must match topaz eyes. And they must be done by Monday."
"Monsieur's eyes are grey," the lackey observed slyly.
"Rascal, you are asking a question!"
"No, Monsieur, I was simply stating a fact. Plutarch says . . ."
"Plutarch? What next?" in astonishment.
"I have just bought a copy of Amyot's translation with the money yougave me. Plutarch is fine, Monsieur."
"What shall a gentleman do when his lackey starts to quote Plutarch?"with mock helplessness. "Well, lad, read Plutarch and profit. Butkeep your grimy hands off my Rabelais, or I'll trounce you."
Breton flushed guiltily. If there was one thing he enjoyed more thananother it was the adventures of the worthy Pantagruel and hisresourceful esquire; but he had never been able to complete this recordof extravagant exploits, partly because he could not read fast enoughand partly because his master kept finding new hiding places for it.
"A messenger from De Guitaut," he said, "called this morning for you."
"For me? That is strange. The captain knew that I could not arrivebefore to-night, which is the twentieth."
"I told the officer that. He laughed curiously and said that heexpected to find you absent."
"What the devil did he call for, then?"
Breton made a grimace which explained his inability to answer thisquestion.
The Chevalier stood still and twisted his mustache till the ends werelike needle-points. "Horns of Panurge! as Victor would say; is itpossible for any man save Homer to be in two places at once? PossiblyI am to race for some other end of France. I like it not. Mazarinthinks because I am in her Majesty's Guards that I belong to him.Plague take him, I say."
He snapped the buckles on his shoes, while Breton drew from its wornscabbard the Chevalier's campaign rapier, long and flexile, dreaded bymany and respected by all, and thrust it into the new scabbard,
"Ah, Monsieur," said Breton, stirred by that philosophy which, onegathers from a first reading of Plutarch, "a man is a deal like asword. If he be good and true, it matters not into what kind ofscabbard he is thrust."
"Aye, lad; but how much more confidence a handsome scabbard gives aman! Even a sword, dressed well, attracts the eye; and, heart of mine,what other aim have we poor mortals than to attract?"
"Madame Boisjoli makes out her charges at twelve louis, including thekeep of the horses."
"That is reasonable, considering my absence. Mignon is an excellentwoman."
"The Vicomte d'Halluys did not come as he promised with the eighthundred pistoles he lost to you at _vingt-et-un_."
"Ah!" The Chevalier studied the pattern in the rug. "Eh, well, sinceI had no pistoles, I have lost none. I was deep in wine, and so washe; doubtless he has forgotten. The sight of me will recall hisdelinquency."
"That is all of the debts and credits, Monsieur."
"The gossip, then, while I trim my nails. Paris can not have stoodstill like the sun of Joshua's time, simply because I was not here."
"Beaufort has made up with Madame de Montbazon."
"Even ol
d loves can become new loves. Go on."
Breton recounted the other important court news, while the Chevaliernodded, or frowned, as the news affected him.
"Mademoiselle Catharine . . ."
"Has that woman been here again?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"You attended her down the stairs?"
"I did, but she behaved coarsely and threatened not to cease cominguntil you had established her in the millinery."
The Chevalier roared with laughter. "And all I did was to kiss thelass and compliment her cheeks. There's a warning for you, lad."
Breton looked aggrieved. His master's gallantries never ceased tocause him secret unrest.
"Yesterday your quarterly remittance from Monsieur le Marquis, yourfather, arrived."
"Was there a letter?" with subdued eagerness.
"There was nothing but the gold, Monsieur," answered Breton, his eyeslowered. How many times during the past four years had his masterasked this question, always to receive the same answer?
The Chevalier's shoulders drooped. "Who brought it?"
"Jehan," said the lackey.
"Had he anything to say?"
"Very little. Monsieur le Marquis has closed the chateau in Perignyand is living at the hotel in Rochelle."
"He mentions my name?"
"No, Monsieur."
The Chevalier crossed the room and stood by one of the windows. It wassnowing ever so lightly. The snow-clouds, separating at times as theyrushed over the night, discovered the starry bowl of heaven. Somenoble lady's carriage passed surrounded by flaring torches. But theyoung man saw none of these things. A sense of incompleteness hadtaken hold of him. The heir to a marquisate, the possessor of anincome of forty thousand livres the year, endowed with health andphysical beauty, and yet there was a flaw which marred the whole. Itwas true that he was light-hearted, always and ever ready for a rout,whether with women or with men, whether with wine or with dice; butunder all this brave show there was a canker which ate with subtileslowness, but surely. To be disillusioned at the age of sixteen byone's own father! To be given gold and duplicate keys to thewine-cellars! To be eye-witness of Roman knights over which thisfather had presided like a Tiberius!
The Duchesse de Montbazon had been in her youth a fancy of the marquis,his father. Was it not a fine stroke of irony to decide that this sonof his should marry the obscure daughter of madame?--the daughter aboutwhom very few had ever heard? Without the Chevalier's sanction,miniatures had been exchanged. When the marquis presented him withthat of Mademoiselle de Montbazon, together with his desires, he hadground the one under foot without glancing at it, and had laughed atthe other as preposterous. Since that night the marquis had ceased torecall his name. The Chevalier's mother had died at his birth; thus,he knew neither maternal nor paternal love; and a man must lovesomething which is common with his blood. Even now he would have gonehalf-way, had his father's love come to meet him. But no; Monsieur leMarquis loved only his famous wines, his stories, and his souvenirs.Bah! this daughter had been easily consoled. The Comte de Brissac wasfully sixty. The Chevalier squared his shoulders and shifted hisbaldric.
With forced gaiety he turned to his lackey. "Lad, let us love onlyourselves. Self-love is always true to us. We will spend our gold andplay the butterfly while the summer lasts. It will be cold soon, andthen . . . pouf! To-morrow you will take the gold and balance myaccounts."
"Yes, Monsieur. Will Monsieur permit a familiarity by recalling aforbidden subject?"
"Well?"
"Monsieur le Comte de Brissac died last night," solemnly.
"What! of old age?" ironically.
"Of steel. A gallant was entering by a window, presumably to entertainmadame, who is said to be young and as beautiful as her mother was.Monsieur le Comte appeared upon the scene; but his guard was weak. Hewas run through the neck. The gallant wore a mask. That is all I knowof the scandal."
"Happy the star which guided me from the pitfall of wedded life! Whatan escape! I must inform Monsieur le Marquis. He will certainlyrelish this bit of scandal which all but happened at his own fireside.Certainly I shall inform him. It will be like caviar to the appetite.I shall dine before the effect wears off." The Chevalier put on hishat and cloak, and took a final look in the Venetian mirror. "Don'twait for me, lad; I shall be late. Perhaps to-night I shall learn hername."
Breton smiled discreetly as his master left the room. Between aCatharine of the millinery and a mysterious lady of fashion there wasno inconsiderable difference.
The Grey Cloak Page 2
