As de Richleau’s guests had been at Jvanets for close on a fortnight they had already discussed many of these matters, but they had reached no conclusions; and Syveton, acutely conscious that this was his last opportunity to approach the Duke, had been waiting impatiently for a chance to do so. At last, after half an hour or so, it came. He gave a quick glance at de Camargue, and announced with conviction:
‘Many if not all the ills that France has suffered during the past twenty years might have been spared her had she but had a King.’
De Richleau nodded. ‘I think you are right. It was a tragedy that the chance was lost in ’71. If only the Count de Chambord had not insisted that the white banner with the fleur-de-lis should again be accepted as the flag of France he could have been crowned at Rheims as Henry V.’
‘Was there ever such childish folly!’ snorted de Galliffet angrily. ‘To throw away a kingdom for such a quibble! And who in their senses could suppose that an Army that had marched to Moscow, Vienna, Naples and Madrid under the tricolor would ever give it up?’
‘There speaks the Bonapartist,’ de Camargue lisped. ‘It wath under the fleur-de-lis that France gwew up into the foremost power in Europe. But I’ll agwee that His Highness wath straining at a gnat.’
‘I am no Bonapartist,’ the General retorted. ‘I had my first commission from Louis Philippe; and although the figure of that bourgeois monarch, carrying an ill-rolled umbrella as he pottered unattended through the streets of Paris, was not one to inspire a soldier’s devotion, I served the Orleanist government faithfully. To Napoleon III, President Thiers and Marshal Mac mahon I gave an equal loyalty. By conviction I have always been a Liberal. Those, too, are the sentiments of the greater pan of the French people. Again and again the elections have shown it by the return of majorities to the Left Centre.’
‘Can that be taken as a true criterion?’ asked the old Abbé Nodier mildly. ‘As each outgoing government has either confirmed the Prefects of the Departments in their appointments, or nominated new ones, the bias must always be in favour of candidates having the same political complexion.’
‘Well said, Father! Well said!’ exclaimed Syveton. ‘The powers of Prefects to aid or hinder candidates are immense. One of their favourite tricks is to send a few rowdies to the meetings of their political opponents, then use the police to break up the meetings on the excuse they are riotous assemblies. By such methods many an election has been rigged in favour of the Left.’
The Abbé shook the silvery locks that framed his round wrinkled face. ‘Such tactics are deplorable. I recall, too, that in the election of ’85 the Minister of Public Instruction issued a circular letter to the staffs of all the National Schools. It took the form of a veiled warning that if they did not work for the Government candidate they might lose their posts. As no schoolmaster is ever appointed unless he is a declared atheist they needed little urging. But the unfair thing was that an official notification was sent to all priests at the same time, informing them that if they did not remain strictly impartial they would be expelled from their parishes.’
‘It is all the more wemarkable,’ observed de Camargue, ‘that in the election you speak of the Conservative vote wath more than doubled. But when the Chamber met the Wadicals and Socialists united to wob us of our gains. By using their majowity they succeeded in unseating no less than twenty-two of our Deputies on twumped-up charges of having committed election offences.’
The General gave a vigorous nod. ‘You are right, of course, about the use of such unscrupulous measures. But I greatly doubt if even clean elections would give the Monarchists a majority in the Chamber. It can I think be said, though, that a great part of our Liberals would rather accept a King again than continue to see themselves represented, and the nation disgraced, by such a pack of scoundrels. That, as I was about to say, is my own feeling.’
‘Mon Général, you have there the crux of the matter.’ Syveton leaned forward eagerly. ‘The only hope for our poor country lies in a new Head of State; a man whom everyone can respect and who has no axe to grind.’
‘Only a King will fill that bill,’ de Richleau remarked, ‘and although the Count de Paris is a most excellent man I do not see the French people accepting him as their monarch. Like de Chambord, he missed his chance. After their pact at Frohsdorf, Marshal Macmahon could have ensured his succession to the throne, but like only too many of the Bourbon Princes he dillydallied until it was too late. In ’86 his prospects again looked good, but he so mishandled matters that he got himself expelled from the country. Still worse, by becoming involved with that rogue Boulanger he compromised the whole Royalist party. No, no! I would sooner expect to wake up one morning wearing the crown of St. Louis myself.’
It was the very opening that Syveton had been waiting for. He said quickly: ‘There are many people, Monseigneur, who hope that you will.’
‘Eh! What’s that!’ laughed the Duke, his eyebrows shooting up and wrinkling his broad forehead. ‘You jest, Monsieur. My remark was intended only to convey the extreme unlikelihood of the Count de Paris ever becoming King of France. But His Highness is the legitimate heir and while he lives it would ill become us to discuss any other.’
‘Monseigneur, permit me to disagree. You have already admitted that as far as our cause is concerned His Highness is a broken reed. We all know him to be relieved that the call to a high destiny should have passed him by. He is now happily engaged in writing a history of the American Civil War, in which he fought so gallantly as a young man. But must France be sacrificed on that account? Surely it is our duty to ignore the claim which he no longer presses, and select some other great noble of Bourbon descent under whose banner we can throw out the “Money changers in the Temple”.’
‘Yes, yes, I see your point,’ the Duke admitted, still hardly recovered from his surprise. ‘But why should you, and it seems certain friends of yours, consider me to be worthy beyond others of this great distinction? Admittedly I have Bourbon blood on the wrong side of the blanket, but there are three others at least who are more nearly related to the royal house.’
‘That is true, Monseigneur; but if we are to abandon the principle of strict legitimacy it would be absurd to allow our choice to be governed by degrees of consanguinity. Among the few who on that count would rank before you, one has become a Protestant and another is a chronic invalid; while among those who are also of the blood, but more distantly, there are none with better qualifications for Kingship than yourself.’
De Richleau shook his head. ‘I thank you for the compliment, Monsieur, but I cannot take your suggestion seriously.’
‘I was never more serious in my life’ Syveton spread wide his powerful hands. ‘It was for this that de Camargue asked you to receive me here as a guest. I had hoped to broach the matter earlier, but I felt it essential that in a series of conversations we should first impress upon you the depths to which French politics have sunk, and that the only means of lifting the country out of this hideous morass is by another Restoration.’
‘I needed little impressing about the state of things in France,’ replied the Duke. ‘That for years past it has become common parlance among decent people to refer to the Republic as “The Slut” is evidence enough of that. In fact it was mainly from shame and disgust at the behaviour of her so-called statesmen that I decided to make my home here in voluntary exile. I think you right, too, that the best hope for those who are still compelled to live in France is to select a nobleman of good character having Bourbon blood, then attempt to place him on the throne. But I am not your man. There are others better fitted than myself to play this great role.’
‘Indeed, Monseigneur, there are not. Of that I am convinced, and I am far from being alone in my opinion. This question has been long and earnestly debated by the Monarchist Council, of which both de Camargue and myself are members. After the most thorough discussion of the personalities of all the nobles having the Blood, it was unanimously agreed that you were in every way th
e most suitable. The Council have empowered us formally to offer you the headship of the Royalist party and will pledge themselves to do their utmost to seat you on the throne of France.’
Up to a few moments earlier young Armand de Quesnoy had not been listening to his elders. His thoughts had been engaged with his chances of seducing Angela. To make the attempt he had to get away from the others while it was still comparatively early, and when guests were present it was not for the son of the house to be the first to go to bed. But he had already thought of a way over that, and had been just about to put it into execution, when exciting thoughts about her were thrust from his mind on hearing her husband express the extraordinary hope that his father would one day wear the crown of St. Louis.
From that point Armand absorbed every word that was spoken with the most eager interest, and his swift mind grasped in a moment what such an amazing development would mean for himself.
By nature he was that unusual combination; a student and a man of action. From every book he read sprang the desire to read others, but he was also a huntsman of no small prowess and his ambitions in that direction did not stop short at game. Young as he was he had already tasted the thrill of hunting women and bringing them to happy submission by a blend of audacity, gaiety and apparent devotion, of which he possessed the secret. But above all he craved to hunt men. Not as individuals, but in the mass. Soldiering was in his blood, and he had studied the campaigns of all the great Captains of the past. He knew that it must be many years before he could hope to direct a battle but in the meantime he could imagine no exultation equal to leading a cavalry charge against the massed formations of an enemy. In short, he was a young man that the gods had endowed with an inquiring mind, good brains, excellent health and all the natural instincts.
At the thought of his father as King of France, tremendous visions danced before his eyes. He would be Dauphin, the Son of France. Everything he asked of life would be his for the taking. The wonderful libraries of Versailles, Compiégne and Fontainebleau would be his in which to browse. The loveliest women in a whole nation would be flattered to receive his attentions. The Royal game preserves would be his to hunt in at will. Overnight he would be able to choose his own regiment and become its Colonel. At twenty-one he would automatically be made General of Division. Within ten years he would have routed out the not-so-goods in the High Command and remade the Army of France upon a better plan.
Yet within another few moments he knew that such dreams were moonshine. His father was a placid unambitious man, and far more interested in country pursuits than international problems. He had never, even when young, worn a uniform; and he was far too set in his routine as a grand seigneur with ample money but no responsibilities ever to abandon it for the uncertain seas of adventure.
All too soon Armand’s expectations proved correct. Having passed a hand over his curly beard, de Richleau replied to Syveton with hardly a suggestion of hesitation.
‘Monsieur, I pray you to convey to your Council my sensibility of the great honour they have done me by their proposal. I thank you too for having come so considerable a distance to convey it to me. But I cannot accept. I am a simple man and not cut out for Kingship. Even did you and your friends succeed in making me your monarch I should disappoint you. Not only the Senate and the Chamber, but every Ministry and even the High Command of France is riddled with unprincipled self-seekers. To dismiss them all would create chaos. Yet I could not tolerate them and they would not tolerate me. Within a month they would have united to send me packing, and you would have had all your trouble for nothing. For men of my mind the true France died in 1789. It is now a different nation. From afar I watch its decadence with regret; but years ago when I first settled here I decided henceforth to regard myself as an international, so I no longer think of France even as my country. There, Monsieur, you have the truth, so you will appreciate that no good purpose can be served by pursuing this discussion further.’
The young Count’s sudden interest in the conversation having almost as swiftly been dissipated, he proceeded to put into operation the stratagem he had thought up for getting away without apparent rudeness. Speaking in Russian he said in a low voice to Prince Igor:
‘I do hope that Katerina’s indisposition is nothing serious, and that she will be quite all right again by tomorrow morning.’
The Prince stared at him in surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean? When she went up to bed she said nothing to me of feeling ill.’
De Quesnoy shrugged. ‘Perhaps she did not wish to alarm you; but she told me at dinner that she had pains in her inside.’
Igor’s marriage to Katerina had been a love match and they were still in the blissful state of honeymooners. At the thought of his darling alone upstairs, and perhaps suffering, he went quite white. Armand could not help being a little amused, but he meant to relieve his cousin of his fears as soon as they were out of the room, and tell him it had been only a ruse to enable them to escape from the boring conversation of their elders.
Next moment the Prince was on his feet, and as the Duke glanced at him he said: ‘Please forgive me, Uncle, if I leave you now; but Katerina was not feeling well at dinner, and I am a little worried about her.’
‘Of course, dear boy. I trust it is nothing serious,’ de Richleau replied at once. ‘By all means leave us.’
De Quesnoy had also risen to his feet, and said. ‘I will go up with Igor, Father, just in case anything is wanted from the medicine cupboard.’
‘Do, Armand, do. Had I known I would have suggested that Igor should have gone up to her earlier.’ The Duke made a gesture towards the side table. ‘But before you go, please replenish our guests’ glasses with a little more brandy.’
Smiling at the success of his ruse, Armand carried round the decanter, giving Syveton an extra large ration. He felt certain that, as on previous nights, the party would remain talking there for at least another hour and a half, and that should be ample for the alluring project he had in mind.
The conversation was already well under way again and it was de Galliffet who said to Syveton, ‘Since our host is so definite in his refusal I believe you would do best to pin your hopes upon the Duke de Vendôme.’
Syveton replied a little doubtfully, ‘But he is still only a boy.’
‘At all events,’ de Richleau remarked, ‘he is a healthy and promising one, and his lineage is impeccable. The fact that he is descended from our greatest King, Henry IV of glorious memory, would do much to influence the people in his favour.’
‘Besides,’ added de Galliffet sagely, ‘such great undertakings need time and much skilful preparation if they are to be crowned with success. The very fact that you must wait a few years would enable you to build him up gradually in the public estimation. He is a handsome youngster and as his Bourbon blood is illegitimate the prohibition against living in France does not apply to him. Properly handled, by the turn of the century he could be the most popular young man in Paris. Far better to exercise patience and make a good bet than rush in and make a bad one.’
‘There is much in what you say,’ Syveton agreed, glancing at de Camargue. ‘On our return to Paris we must discuss the matter with the Council.’
While pouring the brandy Armand had caught the Duke de Vendôme’s name, but given little heed to it. His mind was already racing with thoughts of how he could best make his bid to induce the beautiful Angela to surrender. Yet, three-quarters of an hour before her husband surprised him in her room, there had emerged in his hearing the germ of a conspiracy which was later to involve both of them in most desperate hazards and change the whole course of his life.
4
THE TAUNT THAT RANKLED
The reason why Syveton had come up to bed much earlier than De Quesnoy expected was one of those unforseeable minor accidents against which even the most painstaking planners cannot guard. In passing the brandy decanter the Duke and General de Galliffet had fumbled it between them, with the result that the former had
received the remaining contents of the decanter in his lap. As it was then about twenty minutes to one it had been decided that it was not worth while for the Duke to go upstairs, change his trousers and come down again; so the party had broken up half an hour earlier than it would normally have done.
As Syveton entered the room he was holding his candlestick in his right hand and shielding its flame from the draught with his left. The cold air from the corridor rushing in behind him caused the flame to flicker wildly and, his gaze being riveted upon it, he did not immediately see de Quesnoy.
The Count was standing up against the far side of the bed and leaning inwards across it towards Angela. The curtains at its head hid her entirely and him partially; so in that moment of grace he might have side-stepped and slipped unseen through a door beside the bedhead which led into the dressing-room. If the dressing-room had had another door giving on to the corridor that is what he would have done; but he knew that it had not. Moreover, young as he was, he had already learned from the wild animals he had hunted that they more often succeeded in driving off the dogs when they stood and fought on chosen ground than if they allowed themselves to be run to earth.
He needed no telling that he had landed Angela and himself in a very nasty situation, but, as he had not been caught actually in bed with her, he still had a hope that he might get them out of it; so, for the moment, all he did was to take one quick step backwards, away from the bedside.
Angela was still sitting upright. At the slight noise and de Quesnoy’s swift movement her backbone stiffened with awful apprehension. In spite of Armand’s assurances, the very thing she had been dreading for the past half-hour had happened. There was now no escape from a most terrible scene. It might lead to a duel, but she doubted if her husband would challenge a man whom he must look on as hardly more than a boy. She thought it more likely that as soon as he could get his hands on a horse-whip he would set about Armand with it.
The Prisoner in the Mask Page 4
