CHAPTER II
THE COUNT DE BELLEGARDE
The gayest and handsomest of the gallants in attendance upon the Duchess of Orleans was Count Achille de Bellegarde. This was not the count’s first visit to England. About three years previously, he was banished from the French court for a scandalous intrigue, followed by a duel, in which the injured husband was killed; and he thereupon sought refuge at the English court, where, notwithstanding his reputation, he was extremely well received. His agreeable manners and dissipated habits recommended him to the Duke of Buckingham, with whom, for some time, he was on the most intimate terms. But a quarrel occurred between them, of which the Duchess of Cleveland was the cause, and they met in Hyde Park, where the count was wounded, though not dangerously.
Bellegarde’s successes among the court dames were almost as great as those of the irresistible Jermyn; and he had the credit of making both the king and the Duke of York jealous. But he was volatile as enterprising, and the loveliest woman could not retain him long in her fetters. His addiction to pleasure led him into great extravagances; and play being his sole resource, he was sometimes reduced to rather desperate straits. When driven to extremity, he resorted to the gaming-houses, and, associating himself with the rooks and sharpers, who seemed to regard him as one of their fraternity, soon managed to refill his purse. But these practices rather sullied his character, and made men of honor shy of playing with him. Luckily for himself, however, he was never detected in any trickery, though more than once charged by the exasperated losers with carrying loaded dice. But the rooks always sided with him — probably because they shared in his spoils. Bellegarde’s admirable manners and address sustained him at many a critical juncture. No man had greater self-possession; no man had greater powers of fascination. The Duchess of Cleveland openly avowed her partiality for him, and would have pensioned him but for his inconstancy.
During his visits to the gaming-houses and the cock-pit, at Westminster, Bellegarde made acquaintance with the noted Colonel Blood, of Sarney, in the county of Meath — a desperado who had been exiled by the Duke of Ormond from Ireland for a rebellious attempt to surprise the Castle of Dublin. Several of the conspirators were hanged by Ormond, and their fierce leader vowed to avenge them by hanging the duke at Tyburn. Hitherto, he had not found an opportunity of executing his threat. A man of great resolution, crafty as audacious, Blood not only possessed extraordinary effrontery, but great powers of persuasion, when he chose to exercise them. All his Irish property being confiscated, he was driven to the gaming-tables, where he encountered Bellegarde, to whom he took an amazing fancy; and having saved the count’s life, when the latter was set upon in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a strong friendship was cemented between them.
Colonel Blood was a widower, but he had a daughter, Sabine, who was then seventeen. After the adventure just referred to, he took the count to his lodgings in a small street near Covent Garden, and the gay Frenchman, then, for the first time, beheld the charming Irish girl. She was a sweet, unsophisticated creature, and being quite unaccustomed to compliments, blushed deeply at those paid her by the count. Clearly he was smitten; for he called next day, and again saw Sabine.
Blood did not discourage his visits — though he had hitherto kept a careful watch over his daughter, and had suffered no gallants to approach her; — for he had secretly resolved that she should become Countess de Bellegarde. At length, thinking the affair had gone quite far enough, perceiving that the fascinating Frenchman had gained her heart, he put on his most determined air, and told the count that he expected him to marry his daughter. Bellegarde laughed, and replied that he had no idea of marriage. Blood looked as if he would have stabbed him on the spot; but said that if he did not make up his mind within three days to marry Sabine, he was a dead man.
Bellegarde easily extricated himself from this dilemma. When Blood called for his decision, he found he had gone to Paris. Luckily for the volatile Frenchman, his cousin, Louise de Quéroualle, had obtained his pardon from Louis XIV.; and being now at liberty to return to the Court of Versailles, he took leave of his friends at Whitehall, kissed the king’s hand, and departed for Paris. He did not trouble himself much about Blood, but he could not banish Sabine’s image. Now that he had lost her, he discovered that the fair Irish girl had a hold upon his heart that no other had ever obtained. However, his regrets, though bitter, did not prevent him from engaging in fresh affairs of gallantry, and he continued to play as deeply as ever; hoping, perhaps, to purchase forgetfulness by constant dissipation. In this he was mistaken, for Sabine’s image never ceased to haunt him.
Two years passed by, when an opportunity of revisiting the scene of his former conquests and gaieties presented itself, and he eagerly embraced it. He hoped to see Sabine again, and felt sure she had remained constant to him. His cousin, Louise de Quéroualle, who was in great favor both with Louis XIV. and the Duchess of Orleans, had procured him the post of gentleman-usher at the Palace of Saint Cloud; and when the duchess was sent by the French king on the secret mission to Charles, Bellegarde accompanied her.
On the journey, he thought of nothing but Sabine, and pictured the raptures of a meeting with her; but sometimes a painful idea would intrude. What if she had died of grief at his desertion? On his arrival at Whitehall, his misgivings, if any remained, were quickly dispelled. In the courtyard, to his infinite surprise, he perceived Colonel Blood, apparently waiting for him. Mustering up all his assurance, he hurried up to the colonel, who greeted him as if nothing untoward had happened. Blood looked in better case than formerly, and accounted for the improvement by saying he had lately gained a prize in the Royal Oak Lottery. Bellegarde congratulated him heartily, and then ventured to inquire after Sabine.
“She is looking better than ever,” replied Blood.
“That I can easily believe,” replied the count. “But I trust she has not forgotten me?”
“Do you think my daughter would break an engagement?” rejoined Blood. “No. But you have taken two years, instead of three days, for consideration. Have you made up your mind?”
“I have come back expressly to marry her,” replied Bellegarde.
It would take up too much time just now to describe the rapturous meeting between the gay fugitive and the deserted damsel. Suffice it, then, to say, that grief had not impaired Sabine’s beauty. On the contrary, her charms had ripened during her lover’s long absence.
Transported with delight, the count threw himself at her feet, and after a few tears and gentle reproaches, was forgiven.
At the end of a week, the Duchess of Orleans was completely wearied with the pleasures and diversions offered her at Whitehall; but not having accomplished the object of her mission, even with the aid of her confidante, Louise de Quéroualle, she could not return to St. Cloud, and so proposed a visit to Tunbridge Wells, of which she had heard such enchanting descriptions; and her wishes being seconded by Louise, Charles readily assented, and, on the very next day, the whole court proceeded to the Wells.
The Duchess of Orleans and Mademoiselle de Quéroualle were lodged at Somerhill. Lady Muskerry had not much time to prepare for her distinguished guests; but she exerted herself to the utmost to give them a suitable reception. Magnificent rooms were assigned them, and accommodation was found in the large mansion for all the duchess’s ladies. The king was charmed with an arrangement that suited him exactly, and thanked her ladyship most heartily for her attentions to his sister.
CHAPTER III
THE COURT BALL AT SOMERHILL
On the evening after the duchess’s arrival at Somerhill, a grand ball took place, at which Charles and the whole court assisted. Mademoiselle de Quéroualle had never appeared so charming as at this entertainment; but though she dazzled all eyes by her sparkling attractions, there was one fair nymph who surpassed her in grace and beauty. Need we say that this was Dorinda Neville?
A court ball in the days of the Merry Monarch was a splendid and picturesque sight. We will not institute in
vidious comparisons; we will not say that lords and ladies danced better then than now — but they did dance, with spirit as well as with grace. Their souls were in the performance; languor and listlessness were unknown, and there was no such thing as walking through a figure.
A prettier picture than that presented by the ball at Somerhill cannot be conceived. Dancing took place in a large old-fashioned room — old-fashioned even then. The costumes of the company, all of which were distinguished for richness as well as variety of color, materially added to the effect. Velvets and silks of all hues were blended together, and formed one harmonious whole. Never, sure, were descried costumes more becoming, either for man or woman. Never was seen such a galaxy of beauty. To say nothing of the charming Dorinda Neville — of the bewitching Louise de Quéroualle — of the sprightly, dark-eyed, dark-complexioned Duchess of Orleans, — there was the superb Duchess of Cleveland — the lovely Duchess of Richmond, who had proved so obdurate to Charles — Lady Bellasyse, Lady Denham, and fifty other beauties. The neglected queen cannot be placed on this list — for, alas! she had few personal attractions; but she chatted good-humoredly with the lively Duchess of Orleans, and manifested no jealousy of the king’s new favorite. In this self-command, her majesty offered a marked contrast to the Duchess of Cleveland, who could not hide her rage, but glanced daggers at her rival.
Among the crowd of gallants congregated at the ball, the most conspicuous was the Duke of Buckingham. As usual, the duke, who was the finest gentleman at court, was distinguished by the magnificence of his apparel. His noble figure could be everywhere discerned, for he was taller almost by the head than anyone in the room; and though he did not dance, he was perpetually moving about; now talking in a strain of refined gallantry to the Duchess of Orleans, anon inflaming the angry Cleveland’s jealousy; now jesting with Rochester, Sedley, and Etherege, not even sparing Old Rowley himself in his sarcasms; then infuriating Sir John Denham by making love to his wife; now narrating some piquant court scandal to the Earl of Falmouth, and Killegrew, who acted as master of the revels; now discussing a point of etiquette with Lords Brounker and Bath, and lastly addressing himself in the courtliest and most friendly manner to the Duke of Ormond, whom he hated, and whose removal from the government of Ireland he had caused by his intrigues.
Devoting himself exclusively to Louise de Quéroualle, the king had eyes for no other beauty. He danced the bransle with her. His good-humored majesty had a real enjoyment in a brisk and animated dance; and though he went through a minuet and a couranto with inimitable grace, he greatly preferred the bransle, the paspey, or a country-dance. So nimbly did he foot it on the present occasion, and so long did the bransle last — for Killegrew ordered the musicians to go on — that he fairly tired out his charming partner.
Of course the Count de Bellegarde was present at the ball, though we have not hitherto mentioned him. Even in that brilliant assemblage, he was noticeable. His light and graceful figure was displayed to the greatest advantage by rich habiliments of the latest French mode. Until this evening, he had not seen the new maid of honor, and he wondered how so charming a creature could have escaped his observation. He begged Lady Muskerry to present him to her charming niece, and he was presented accordingly. To his great mortification, Dorinda received him very haughtily, and declined to give him her hand for the bransle. The thing might have passed off, for the count could have easily concealed his chagrin; but Lady Muskerry made matters worse by sharply reprimanding her niece, in tones loud enough to be heard by all around, telling her she ought to esteem it an honor to be selected as a partner by the Count de Bellegarde, the best dancer in Europe. To make him amends for the affront, she offered him her own hand, and the count, amidst the titters of the bystanders, was forced to accept it.
Scarcely were they gone, when the handsome Talbot Harland, who was dying with love for Dorinda, though he had not ventured to breathe a word of his passion to her, came up and said, “I am very glad you refused to dance with that vain French coxcomb, Miss Neville; but may I ask your reason? No one else in the ball-room, I believe, would have refused him.”
“Since you ask me, I will tell you,” replied Dorinda, smiling. “I have conceived a positive aversion to him. He seems to think himself irresistible, and I was determined to mortify him.”
“You have succeeded,” said Talbot, laughing. “But mortify him still further by dancing with me.”
“That may cause a quarrel,” she objected.
“Never mind. I will cure his presumption.”
Dorinda hesitated; but she gave him her hand, and they joined the couples that were whisking round the room.
Already sufficiently annoyed by being made ridiculous by Lady Muskerry, Bellegarde was enraged beyond measure by Talbot’s mocking glances as he swept past with Dorinda. But the count promised himself speedy revenge.
Mademoiselle de Quéroualle had noticed the little incident just related, and she also saw the glances exchanged between her cousin and Talbot; and fearing a quarrel might ensue, she begged the king to interfere.
When the brawl was over, Charles called the count to him, and, in a significant tone, forbade him to leave the ballroom. Bellegarde bowed profoundly, and retired from the presence.
Charles was still conversing with Louise when the Duchess of Orleans approached them. As she drew near, all the surrounding company moved away to a respectful distance, except Louise, who was detained by the king. The discourse that ensued was conducted in French.
“I have news for your majesty,” observed the duchess. “A courier has arrived this evening from St. Cloud.”
“I hope the duke, your husband, is in good health,” remarked Charles, with a smile.
“The letter I have received is not from the duke, but from his most Christian majesty,” replied the duchess. “He peremptorily enjoins my immediate return, unless you consent to sign the treaty.”
“We will talk about that to-morrow,” replied the king, carelessly.
“To-morrow will be too late. The courier must depart at midnight. Instead of three millions of livres, Louis now offers you five millions a year, if you will join him in the war he is about to declare against the Dutch States.”
“Surely, your majesty will not hesitate?” observed Louise.
“If that was the only article in the treaty, I should not hesitate for a moment,” replied Charles. “But there are other conditions, that would render me little better than a vassal of France. I might as well sell myself to the Prince of darkness.”
“His most Christian majesty would feel highly flattered, if he knew that you compared him to the Prince of Darkness,” said the duchess. “You do him wrong. He only desires a cordial alliance with England and to unite inseparably the interests of the two crowns. Knowing that Parliament will not grant you fresh subsidies, he is disposed to make an immense sacrifice to help you.”
“Would you have me become a pensioner of France?” cried Charles, impatiently.
“I would have you independent of Parliament,” replied the duchess.— “Recollect this is a secret treaty.”
“Oddsfish! the secret will come out, when I cease to ask for money,” laughed the king.
“Then I am to understand that you decline?” said the duchess. “Louise, you will prepare for departure to-morrow.”
“I cannot allow you to take her with you,” said Charles.
“Pardon me, your majesty,” said Louise; “I must return with her highness.”
“Rather than lose you, I will sign twenty treaties!” exclaimed Charles, passionately.
The duchess glanced at her favorite, as much as to say, “Our point is gained.” And she added, to the king, “I now know what to write to Louis.”
The duchess then inquired for the Count de Bellegarde, and Louise looked around for him. He was nowhere to be seen, and Talbot Harland had likewise disappeared. She mentioned the circumstance to the king, and his majesty immediately signed to the Earl of Feversham, Captain of the Guard, and
the Duke of Buckingham, who formed part of the circle around, and bade them go in search of the truants, and prevent mischief.
The duchess then quitted the king, with the intention of sending off her despatch; and Charles proceeded with Louise to an adjoining room, where tables were set for ombre and basset.
Here a large company was assembled. The Duchess of Cleveland, who was immoderately fond of play, was seated at the basset-table, and the presence of her rival seemed to bring her ill-luck, for she lost a large sum of money. Charles counseled her to stop, but she persisted.
At last, her grace got up in a rage, and asked the king to lend her two thousand pistoles. Charles shook his head, and the duchess flung away from him with a look of disdain, and addressed herself to Lady Muskerry, who chanced to come into the card-room at the moment, accompanied by Dorinda.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 589
