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PETTICOAT RULE
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
AUTHOR OF "THE ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL," "I WILL REPAY," "THE SCARLETPIMPERNEL," ETC.
HODDER & STOUGHTONNEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
_Copyright, 1909,_By Baroness Orczy
_Copyright, 1910,_By George H. Doran Company
TO
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON
THE KIND FRIEND WHOSE APPRECIATION HAS CHEERED ME, THEIDEALIST WHOSE WORK HAS GUIDED ME, THE BRILLIANTINTELLECT WHOSE PRAISE HAS ENCOURAGED ME
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
IN TOKEN OF ADMIRATION, REGARD, AND FRIENDSHIP
EMMUSKA ORCZY
CONTENTS
PART I
THE GIRL
CHAPTER PAGE I.--A FAREWELL BANQUET 3 II.--THE RULERS OF FRANCE 10 III.--POMPADOUR'S CHOICE 23 IV.--A WOMAN'S SURRENDER 32 V.--THE FIRST TRICK 45 VI.--A FALSE POSITION 51 VII.--THE YOUNG PRETENDER 58 VIII.--THE LAST TRICK 72 IX.--THE WINNING HAND 82
PART II
THE STATESMAN
X.--THE BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 95 XI.--LA BELLE IRENE 103 XII.--THE PROMISES OF FRANCE 112 XIII.--THE WEIGHT OF ETIQUETTE 127 XIV.--ROYAL FAVOURS 136 XV.--DIPLOMACY 148 XVI.--STRANGERS 160
PART III
THE WOMAN
XVII.--SPLENDID ISOLATION 179 XVIII.--CLEVER TACTICS 185 XIX.--A CRISIS 201 XX.--A FAREWELL 212 XXI.--ROYAL THANKS 215 XXII.--PATERNAL ANXIETY 221 XXIII.--THE QUEEN'S SOIREE 228 XXIV.--GOSSIP 233 XXV.--THE FIRST DOUBT 238 XXVI.--THE AWFUL CERTITUDE 245 XXVII.--A FALL 267 XXVIII.--HUSBAND AND WIFE 276 XXIX.--THE FATE OF THE STUART PRINCE 294 XXX.--M. DE STAINVILLE'S SECONDS 308 XXXI.--THE FINAL DISAPPOINTMENT 321 XXXII.--THE DAWN 328 XXXIII.--THE RIDE 333 XXXIV.--"LE MONARQUE" 338 XXXV.--THE STRANGER 349 XXXVI.--REVENGE 359 XXXVII.--THE LETTER 370XXXVIII.--THE HOME IN ENGLAND 375
PART I
THE GIRL
PETTICOAT RULE
CHAPTER I
A FAREWELL BANQUET
"D'Aumont!"
"Eh? d'Aumont!"
The voice, that of a man still in the prime of life, but alreadyraucous in its tone, thickened through constant mirthless laughter,rendered querulous too from long vigils kept at the shrine ofpleasure, rose above the incessant babel of women's chatter, the dinof silver, china and glasses passing to and fro.
"Your commands, sire?"
M. le Duc d'Aumont, Marshal of France, prime and sole responsibleMinister of Louis the Well-beloved, leant slightly forward, withelbows resting on the table, and delicate hands, with fingersinterlaced, white and carefully tended as those of a pretty woman,supporting his round and somewhat fleshy chin.
A handsome man M. le Duc, still on the right side of fifty, courtlyand pleasant-mannered to all. Has not Boucher immortalized thegood-natured, rather weak face, with that perpetual smile of unruffledamiability forever lurking round the corners of the full-lipped mouth?
"Your commands, sire?"
His eyes--gray and prominent--roamed with a rapid movement of enquiryfrom the face of the king to that of a young man with fair, curlyhair, worn free from powder, and eyes restless and blue, which staredmoodily into a goblet full of wine.
There was a momentary silence in the vast and magnificent dining hall,that sudden hush which--so the superstitious aver--descends threetimes on every assembly, however gay, however brilliant orthoughtless: the hush which to the imaginative mind suggests theflutter of unseen wings.
Then the silence was broken by loud laughter from the King.
"They are mad, these English, my friend! What?" said Louis theWell-beloved with a knowing wink directed at the fair-haired young manwho sat not far from him.
"Mad, indeed, sire?" replied the Duke. "But surely not moreconspicuously so to-night than at any other time?"
"Of a truth, a hundred thousand times more so," here interposed asomewhat shrill feminine voice--"and that by the most rigid rules ofbrain-splitting arithmetic!"
Everyone listened. Conversations were interrupted; glasses were putdown; eager, attentive faces turned toward the speaker; this was noless a personage than Jeanne Poisson now Marquise de Pompadour; andwhen she opened her pretty mouth Louis the Well-beloved, descendant ofSaint Louis, King of France and of all her dominions beyond the seas,hung breathless upon those well-rouged lips, whilst France sat silentand listened, eager for a share of that smile which enslaved a Kingand ruined a nation.
"Let us have that rigid rule of arithmetic, fair one," said Louisgaily, "by which you can demonstrate to us that M. le Chevalier hereis a hundred thousand times more mad than any of his accursedcountrymen."
"Nay, sire, 'tis simple enough," rejoined the lady. "M. le Chevalierhath need of a hundred thousand others in order to make his insanitycomplete, a hundred thousand Englishmen as mad as April fishes, tohelp him conquer a kingdom of rain and fogs. Therefore I say he is ahundred thousand times more mad than most!"
Loud laughter greeted this sally. Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour, solittle while ago simply Jeanne Poisson or Mme. d'Etioles, was not yet_blasee_ to so much adulation and such fulsome flattery; she looked averitable heaven of angelic smiles; her eyes blue--so her dithyrambicchroniclers aver--as the dark-toned myosotis, wandered from face toface along the length of that gorgeously spread supper table, roundwhich was congregated the flower of the old aristocracy of France.
She gleaned an admiring glance here, an unspoken murmur of flatterythere, even the women--and there were many--tried to look approvinglyat her who ruled the King and France. One face alone remainedinscrutable and almost severe, the face of a woman--a mere girl--withstraight brow and low, square forehead, crowned with a wealth of softbrown hair, the rich tones of which peeped daringly through theconventional mist of powder.
Mme. de Pompadour's sunny smile disappeared momentarily when her eyesrested on this girl's face; a frown--oh! hardly that; but a shadow,shall we say?--marred the perfect purity of her brow. The next momentshe had yielded her much-beringed hand to her royal worshipper'seager grasp and he was pressing a kiss on each rose-tipped finger,whilst she shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"Brrr!" she said, with a mock shiver, "here is Mlle. d'Aumont frowningstern disapproval at me. Surely, Chevalier," she asked, turning to theyoung man beside her, "a comfortable armchair in your beautiful palaceof St. Germain is worth a throne in mist-bound London?"
"Not when that throne is his by right," here interposed Mlle. d'Aumontquietly. "The palace of St. Germain is but a gift to the King ofEngland, for which he owes gratitude to the King of France."
A quick blush now suffused the cheeks of the young man, who up to nowhad seemed quite unconscious of Mme. de Pompadour's sallies or of thehilarity directed against himself. He gave a rapid glance at Mlle.d'Aumont's haughty, somewhat imperious face and at the delicate mouth,round which an almost imperceptible curl of contempt seemed still tolinger.
"La! Mademoiselle," rejoined the Marquise, with some acerbity, "do wenot all hold gif
ts at the hands of the King of France?"
"We have no sovereignty of our own, Madame," replied the young girldrily.
"As for me," quoth King Louis, hastily interposing in this femininepassage of arms, "I drink to our gallant Chevalier de St. George, HisMajesty King Charles Edward Stuart of England, Scotland, Wales, and ofthe whole of that fog-ridden kingdom. Success to your cause,Chevalier," he added, settling his fat body complacently in thecushions of his chair; and raising his glass, he nodded benignlytoward the young Pretender.
"To King Charles Edward of England!" rejoined Mme. de Pompadour gaily.
And "To King Charles Edward of England!" went echoing all around thevast banqueting-hall.
"I thank you all," said the young man, whose sullen mood seemed in noway dissipated at these expressions of graciousness and friendship."Success to my cause is assured if France will lend me the aid shepromised."
"What right have you to doubt the word of France, Monseigneur?"retorted Mlle. d'Aumont earnestly.
"A truce! a truce! I entreat," here broke in King Louis with mockconcern. "_Par Dieu_, this is a banquet and not a Council Chamber! Joyof my life," he added, turning eyes replete with admiration on thebeautiful woman beside him, "do not allow politics to mar thispleasant entertainment. M. le Duc, you are our host, I pray you directconversation into more pleasing channels."
Nothing loth, the brilliant company there present quickly resumed theirresponsible chatter which was far more to its liking than talk ofthrones and doubtful causes. The flunkeys in gorgeous liveries madethe round of the table, filling the crystal glasses with wine. Theatmosphere was heavy with the fumes of past good cheer, and the scentof a thousand roses fading beneath the glare of innumerablewax-candles. An odour of perfume, of powder and cosmetics hovered inthe air; the men's faces looked red and heated; on one or two headsthe wig stood awry, whilst trembling fingers began fidgeting with thelace-cravats at the throat.
Charles Edward's restless blue eyes searched keenly and feverishly thefaces around him; morose, gloomy, he was still reckoning in his mindhow far he could trust these irresponsible pleasure-lovers, thatdescendant of the great Louis over there, fat of body and heavy ofmind, lost to all sense of kingly dignity whilst squandering thenation's money on the whims and caprices of the ex-wife of a Parisianvictualler, whom he had created Marquise de Pompadour.
These men who lived only for good cheer, for heady wines, games ofdice and hazard, nights of debauch and illicit pleasures, what helpwould they be to him in the hour of need? What support in case offailure?
"What right have you to doubt the word of France?" was asked of him byone pair of proud lips--a woman's, only a girl's.
Charles Edward looked across the table at Mlle. d'Aumont. Likehimself, she sat silent in the midst of the noisy throng, obviouslylending a very inattentive ear to the whisperings of the handsomecavalier beside her.
Ah! if they were all like her, if she were a representative of thewhole nation of France, the young adventurer would have gone to hishazardous expedition with a stauncher and a lighter heart. But, asmatters stood, what could he expect? What had he got as a seriousasset in this gamble for life and a throne? A few vague promises fromthat flabby, weak-kneed creature over there on whom the crown of SaintLouis sat so strangely and so ill; a few smiles from that frivolousand vain woman, who drained the very heart's blood of an impoverishednation to its last drop, in order to satisfy her costly whims or chaseaway the frowns of ennui from the brow of an effete monarch.
And what besides?
A farewell supper, ringing toasts, good wine, expensive food offeredby M. le Duc d'Aumont, the Prime Minister of France--a thousand roses,now fading, which had cost a small fortune to coax into bloom; ahandshake from his friends in France; a "God-speed" and "_Dieu vousgarde_, Chevalier!" and a few words of stern encouragement from agirl.
With all that in hand, Chevalier St. George, go and conquer yourkingdom beyond the sea!
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