Petticoat Rule

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE LAST TRICK

  The noise of talk and laughter still filled the old chateau from endto end. Though the special guest of the evening had departed androyalty no longer graced the proceedings, since His Majesty had drivenaway to Versailles after having bidden adieu to the Chevalier de SaintGeorge, M. le Duc d'Aumont's less important visitors showed no signsas yet of wishing to break up this convivial night.

  The sound of dance music filled the air, and from the _salle d'armes_the merry strains of the gavotte, the tripping of innumerable feet,the incessant buzz of young voices, reached the more distant corridorlike an echo from fairyland.

  Lydie had remained quite a little while leaning against the coolmarble wall, watching with eager intentness the group of gallantEnglish and Scotch gentlemen congregated round their young Prince.Louis the Well-beloved, with that graciousness peculiar to all theBourbons, had, severally and individually bidden "good-bye" to all.Each in turn had kissed the podgy white hand of the King of France,who had been so benignant a host to them all. None understood betterthan Louis XV, the art of leaving a pleasing impression on the mind ofa departing friend. He had a smile, a jest, a word of encouragementfor each whilst Jeanne de Pompadour, with one dainty hand on theKing's shoulder, the other flirting her fan, emphasized each token ofroyal goodwill and of royal favour.

  "Ah! milor Dunkeld, a pleasing journey to you. M. le Marquis de Perth,I pray you do not, amidst the fogs of England, forget the sunshine ofFrance. Sir Andre Seafield, your absence will bring many tears to apair of blue eyes I wot of."

  She pronounced the foreign names with dainty affectation, and Louishad much ado to keep his eyes away from that bright, smiling face, andthose ever-recurring dimples. Lydie felt a strange nausea at sight ofthese noble, high-born gentlemen paying such reverential homage to thelow-born adventuress, and a deep frown appeared between her eyes whenshe saw Charles Edward Stuart bending as low before Jeanne Poisson ashe had done just now before her--Lydie, daughter of the Duc d'Aumont.

  Bah! what did it matter, after all? This world of irresponsiblebutterflies, of petty machinations and self-seeking intrigues: wouldshe not quit it to-morrow for a land of poetry and romance, wherewomen wield no sceptre save that of beauty, and where but one ruler isacknowledged and his name is Love?

  She made a strenuous attempt to detach herself mentally from hersurroundings; with a great effort of her will she succeeded in losingsight of the individuality of all these people round her. LadyEglinton still talking at random beside her, Mme. de Pompadouryielding her hand to the kiss of a Stuart Prince, that fat and pompousman, whom duty bade her call "Your Majesty," all became merepuppets--dolls that laughed and chatted and danced, hanging oninvisible strings, which the mighty hand of some grim giant wasdangling for the amusement of his kind.

  How paltry it seemed all at once! What did it matter if France wasruled by that vapid King or by that brainless, overdressed womanbeside him? What did it matter if that young man with the shifty blueeyes and the fair, curly hair succeeded in ousting another man fromthe English throne?

  What did matter was that Gaston was not faithless, that he loved her,and that she had felt the sweetness of a first kiss!

  Happily back in dreamland now, she could once more afford to play herpart amongst the marionettes. She was willing to yield the stringwhich made her dance and talk and move into the hands of the fiercelyhumorous giant up aloft. No doubt it was he who pulled her along thecorridor, made her join the group that congregated round departingroyalty.

  M. le Duc d'Aumont--the perfect courtier and gentleman--was alreadyformulating his adieux. His Majesty the King of France would, by therigid rule of etiquette, be the first to leave. Accompanied by Mme. dePompadour and followed by M. le Duc, he was commencing his progressdown the monumental staircase which led to the great entrance hallbelow.

  Lydie, still made to move no doubt by that invisible giant hand, foundit quite simple and easy to mingle with the crowd, to take the King'sarm, being his hostess, whilst M. le Duc her father and Mme. dePompadour followed close behind.

  With her spirit wandering in dreamland, she was naturally somewhatdistraite--not too much so, only sufficiently to cause Louis XV tomake comparisons betwixt his sprightly Jeanne and this animatedstatue, whose cold little hand rested so impassively on the satin ofhis coat.

  At the foot of the perron the King's Flemish horses, as round of bodyand heavy of gait as himself, were impatiently pawing the ground. Theopening of the great gates sent a wave of sweet-scented air into theoverheated chateau. Lydie was glad that her duty demanded that sheshould accompany the King down the steps to the door of his coach. Thecool night breeze fanned her cheeks most pleasingly, the scent of Juneroses and of clove carnations filled the air, and from below theterraced gardens there came the softly-murmuring ripple of the Seine,winding her graceful curves toward the mighty city of Paris beyond.

  Far away to the east, beyond the grim outline of cedar and poplartrees, a fair crescent moon appeared, chaste and cold.

  "An emblem of our fair hostess to-night," said Louis with clumsygallantry and pointing up to the sky, as Lydie bent her tall figureand kissed the royal hand.

  Then she stood aside, having made a cold bow to Mme. de Pompadour; thefair Marquise was accompanying His Majesty to Versailles; she steppedinto the coach beside him, surrounded by murmurs of flattery andadulation. Even Charles Edward made her a final speech of somewhatforced gallantry; he was the last to kiss her hand, and Lydie couldalmost hear the softly whispered words of entreaty with which he badeher not to forget.

  And Jeanne Poisson--daughter of a kitchen wench--was condescendinglygracious to a Stuart Prince; then she calmly waved him aside, whilstthe King apparently was content to wait, and called Lady Eglinton tothe door of the coach.

  "You are wasting too much time," she whispered quickly; "an you don'thurry now, you will be too late."

  At last the departure was effected; the crowd, with backbone bent andtricornes sweeping the ground, waited in that uncomfortable positionuntil the gilded coach and the men in gorgeous blue and gold liverieswere swallowed in the gloom of the chestnut avenue; then it broke upinto isolated groups. Lydie had done her duty as hostess; she hadtaken such leave as etiquette demanded from Charles Edward Stuart andhis friends. Coaches and chairs came up to the perron in quicksuccession now, bearing the adventurers away on this, the first stageof their hazardous expedition. When would they sup again in suchluxury? when would the frou-frou of silk, the flutter of fans, thesound of dance music once more pleasantly tickle their ears?To-morrow, and for many a long day to come it would be hurried mealsin out-of-the-way places, the call to horse, the clink of arms.

  Puppets! puppets all! for what did it matter?

  Lydie would have loved to have lingered out on the terrace awhilelonger. The oak-leaved geraniums down at the foot of the terrace stepsthrew an intoxicating lemon-scented fragrance in the air, the row ofstunted orange trees still bore a few tardy blossoms, and in the copseyonder, away from the din and the bustle made by the marionettes, itmust be delicious to wander on the carpet of moss and perchance tohear the melancholy note of a nightingale.

  "Do you think not, Mademoiselle, that this night air is treacherous?"said Lord Eglinton, with his accustomed diffidence. "You seem to beshivering; will you allow me the honour of bringing your cloak?"

  She thanked him quite kindly. Somehow his gentle voice did not jar onher mood. Since Gaston was not there, she felt that she would soonerhave this unobtrusive, pleasant man beside her than any one else. Heseemed to have something womanish and tender in his feeble naturewhich his mother lacked. Perhaps milady had divested herself of hernatural attributes in order to grace her son with them, since she hadbeen unable to instil more manly qualities into him.

  But Lydie's heart ached for a sight of Gaston. The clock in the towerof the old chateau chimed the hour before midnight. It was but half anhour since she had parted from him on the steps of the alcove; sheremembered quite d
istinctly hearing the bracket clock close by strikehalf-past ten, at the same moment as Pompadour's shrill laugh brokeupon her ear.

  Half an hour? Why, it seemed a lifetime since then; and while she hadmade her bow to the Stuart Prince and then to King Louis, while shehad allowed the unseen giant to move her from place to place on astring, perhaps Gaston had been seeking for her, perhaps his heart hadlonged for her too, and a sting of jealousy of her multifarious socialduties was even now marring the glory of happy memories.

  Without another moment's hesitation she turned her back on thepeaceful gloom of the night, on the silver crescent moon, thefragrance of carnations and orange-blossoms, and walked quickly up theperron steps with a hasty: "You are right, milor, the night air issomewhat chilling and my guests will be awaiting me," thrown over hershoulder at her bashful cavalier.

  Beyond the noble entrance doors the vast hall was now practicallydeserted, save for a group of flunkeys, gorgeous and solemn, who stoodawaiting the departure of their respective masters. At the farther endwhich led to the main corridor, Lydie, to her chagrin, caught sight ofLady Eglinton's brobdingnagian back.

  "What an obsession!" she sighed, and hoped that milady would fail tonotice her. Already she was planning hasty flight along a narrowpassage, when a question authoritatively put by her ladyship to amagnificent person clad in a purple livery with broad white facingsarrested her attention.

  "Is your master still in the boudoir, do you know?"

  "I do not know, Mme. la Marquise," the man replied. "I have not seenM. le Comte since half an hour."

  The purple livery with broad white facings was that of the Comte deStainville.

  "I have a message for M. le Comte from Mme. de Pompadour," said LadyEglinton carelessly. "I'll find him, I daresay."

  And she turned into the great corridor.

  Lydie no longer thought of flight; an unexplainable impulse caught herto change her mind, and to follow in Lady Eglinton's wake. She couldnot then have said if "le petit Anglais" was still near her not. Shehad for the moment forgotten his insignificant existence.

  There was an extraordinary feeling of unreality about herself and hermovements, about the voluminous person ahead clad in large-floweredazure brocade and closely followed by a stiff automaton in purple andwhite; they seemed to be leading her along some strange and unexpectedpaths, at the end of which Lydie somehow felt sure that grinning apeswould be awaiting her.

  Anon Lady Eglinton paused, with her hand on the handle of a door; shecaught sight of Mlle. d'Aumont and seemed much surprised to see herthere. She called to her by name, in that harsh voice which Lydiedetested, whilst the obsequious automaton came forward and relievedher from the trouble of turning that handle herself.

  "Allow me, milady."

  The door flew open, the flunkey at the same moment also drew a heavycurtain aside.

  Lydie had just come up quite close, in answer to Lady Eglinton's call.She was standing facing the door when Benedict threw it open,announcing with mechanical correctness of attitude:

  "Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, M. le Comte!"

  At first Lydie only saw Gaston as he turned to face the intruders. Hisface was flushed, and he muttered a quickly-suppressed oath. Butalready she had guessed, even before Lady Eglinton's strident voicehad set her every nerve a-tingling.

  "Mlle. de Saint Romans!" said milady, with a shrill laugh, "a thousandpardons! I had a message from Mme. de Pompadour for M. le Comte deStainville, and thought to find him alone. A thousand pardons, Ibeg--the intrusion was involuntary--and the message unimportant--I'lldeliver it when Monsieur is less pleasantly engaged."

  Lydie at that moment could not have stirred one limb, if her verylife had depended on a movement from her. The feeling of unreality hadgone. It was no longer that. It was a grim, hideous, awful reality.That beautiful woman there was reality, and real, too, were theglowing eyes that flashed defiance at milady, the lips parted for thatlast kiss which the flunkey's voice had interrupted, the stray blackcurls which had escaped from the trammels of the elaborate coiffureand lay matted on the damp forehead.

  And those roses, too, which had adorned her corsage, now lying brokenand trampled on the floor, the candles burning dimly in their sockets,and Gaston's look of wrath, quickly followed by one of fear--all--allthat was real!

  Real to the awful shame of it all--milady's sneer of triumph, the oathwhich had risen to Gaston's lips, the wooden figure of the lacqueystanding impassive at the door!

  Instinctively Lydie's hand flew to her lips; oh, that she could havewiped out the last, lingering memory of that kiss. She, the proud andreserved vestal, a Diana chaste and cold, with lips now for everpolluted by contact with those of a liar. A liar, a traitor, asycophant! She lashed her haughty spirit into fury, the better to feelthe utter degradation of her own abasement.

  She did not speak. What could she say! One look at Gaston's face andshe understood that her humiliation was complete; his eyes did noteven seek her pardon, they expressed neither sorrow nor shame, onlyimpotent wrath and fear of baffled ambition. Not before all thesepeople would she betray herself, before that beautiful rival, or thatvulgar _intrigante_, not before Gaston or his lacquey, and beyond thatmechanical movement of hand to lips, beyond one short flash ofunutterable pride and contempt, she remained silent and rigid, whilsther quick eyes took in a complete mental vision of that neverto-be-forgotten picture--the dimly-lighted boudoir, the defiant figureof Irene de Saint Romans, the crushed roses on the floor.

  Then with a heart-broken sigh unheard by the other actors in thismoving tableaux, and covering her face with her hands, she began towalk rapidly down the corridor.