I.
The Marchioness was at her toilet. Florine and Aspasia, her two ladies'-maids, were busy powdering, as it were with hoar-frost, the bewitching widow.
She was a widow, this Marchioness, a widow of twenty-three; and wealthy, as very few persons were any longer at the court of Louis XV., her godfather.
Three-and-twenty years earlier, his Majesty had held her at the baptismal font of the chapel at Marly, and had settled upon her an income of a hundred thousand livres, by way of proving to her father, the Baron Fontevrault, who had saved his life in the battle of Fontenoy, that kings can be grateful, whatever people choose to say to the contrary.
The Marchioness then was a widow. She resided during the summer, in a charming little chateau, situated half-way up the slope overhanging the water, on the road from Bougival to Saint Germain. Madame Dubarry's estate adjoined hers; and on opening her eyes she could see, without rising, the white gableends and the white-spreading chestnut-trees of Luciennes, perched upon the heights. On this particular day—it was noon—the Marchioness, whilst her attendants dressed her hair and arranged her head-dress with the most exquisite taste, gravely employed herself in tossing up, alternately, a couple of fine oranges, which crossed each other in the air, and then dropped into the white and delicate hand that caught them in their fall.
This sleight-of-hand—which the Marchioness interrupted at times whilst she adjusted a beauty-spot on her lip, or cast an impatient glance on the crystal clock that told how time was running away with the fair widow's precious moments—had lasted for ten minutes, when the folding-doors were thrown open, and a valet, such as one sees now only on the stage announced with pompous voice—"The King!"
Apparently, the Marchioness was accustomed to such visits, for she but half rose from her seat, as she saluted with her most gracious smile the personage who entered.
It was indeed Louis XV. himself—Louis XV. at sixty-five; but robust, upright, with smiling lip and beaming eye, and jauntily clad in a close-fitting, pearl-grey hunting-suit, that became him to perfection. He carried under his arm a handsome fowling-piece, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a small pouch, intended for ammunition alone, hung over his shoulder.
The King had come from Luciennes, almost alone, that is but with a Captain of the Guard, the old Marshal de Richelieu, and a single Equerry on foot. He had been amusing himself with quail-shooting, loading his own gun, as was the fashion with his ancestors, the later Valois and the earlier Bourbons. His grandsire, Henry IV., could not have been less ceremonious.
But a shower of hail had surprised him; and his Majesty had no relish for it. He pretended that the fire of an enemy's battery was less disagreeable than those drops of water, so small and so hard, that wet him through, and reminded him of his twinges of rheumatism.
Fortunately, he was but a few steps from the gateway of the chateau, when the shower commenced. He had come therefore to take shelter with his god-daughter, having dismissed his suite, and only keeping with him a magnificent pointer, whose genealogy was fully established by the Duc de Richelieu, and traced back, with a few slips in orthography, directly to Nisus, that celebrated greyhound, given by Charles IX. to his friend Ronsard, the poet.
"Good morning, Marchioness," said the King, as he entered, putting down his fowling-piece in a corner. "I have come to ask your hospitality. We were caught in a shower at your gate—Richelieu and I. I have packed off Richelieu."
"Ah, Sire, that wasn't very kind of you."
"Hush!" replied the King, in a good-humored tone. "It's only mid-day; and if the Marshal had forced his way in here at so early an hour, he would have bragged of it every where, this very evening. He is very apt to compromise one, and he is a great coxcomb too, the old Duke. But don't put yourself out of the way, Marchioness. Let Aspasia finish this becoming pile of your head-dress, and Florine spread out with her silver knife the scented powder that blends so well with the lilies and the roses of your bewitching face.... Why, Marchioness, you are so pretty, one could eat you up!"
"You think me so, Sire?"
"I tell you so every day. Oh, what fine oranges!"
And the King seated himself upon the roomy sofa, by the side of the Marchioness, whose rosy finger-tips he kissed with an infinity of grace. Then taking up one of the oranges that he had admired, he proceeded leisurely to examine it.
"But," said he at length, "what are oranges doing by the side of your Chinese powder-box and your scent bottles? Is there any connection between this fruit and the maintenance—easy as it is, Marchioness—of your charms?"
"These oranges," replied the lady, gravely, "fulfilled just now, Sire, the functions of destiny."
The King opened wide his eyes, and stroked the long ears of his dog, by way of giving the Marchioness time to explain her meaning.
"It was the Countess who gave them to me," she continued.
"Madame Dubarry?"
"Exactly so, Sire."
"A trumpery gift, it seems to me, Marchioness."
"I hold it, on the contrary, to be an important one; since I repeat to your Majesty, that these oranges decide my fate."
"I give it up," said the King.
"Imagine, Sire; yesterday I found the Countess occupied in tossing her oranges up and down, in this way." And the Marchioness recommenced her game with a skill that cannot be described.
"I see," said the King; "she accompanied this singular amusement with the words, 'Up, Choiseul! up, Praslin!' and, on my word, I can fancy how the pair jumped."
"Precisely so, Sire."
"And do you dabble in politics, Marchioness? Have you a fancy for uniting with the Countess, just to mortify my poor ministers?"
"By no means, Sire; for, in place of Monsieur de Choiseul and the Duc de Praslin, I was saying to myself, just now, 'Up, Menneval! up, Beaugency!'"
"Ay, ay," returned the King; "and why the deuce would you have them jumping, those two good-looking gentlemen—Monsieur de Menneval, who is a Croesus, and Monsieur de Beaugency, who is a statesman, and dances the minuet to perfection?"
"I'll tell you," said the dame. "You know, Sire, that Monsieur de Menneval is an accomplished gentleman, a handsome man, a gallant cavalier, an indefatigable dancer, witty as Monsieur Arouet, and longing for nothing so much as to live in the country, on his estate in Touraine, on the banks of the Loire, with the woman whom he loves or will love, far from the court, from grandeur, and from turmoil."
"And, on my life, he's in the right of it," quoth the King. "One does become so wearied at court."
"Aye, and no," rejoined the widow as she put on her last beauty-spot.... "Nor are you unaware, Sire, that Monsieur de Beaugency is one of the most brilliant courtiers of Marly and Versailles; ambitious, burning with zeal for the service of your Majesty; as brave as Monsieur de Menneval, and capable of going to the end of the earth ... with the title of Ambassador of the King of France."
"I know that," chimed in Louis XV., with a laugh. "But, alas, I have more ambassadors than embassies. My ante-chambers overflow every morning."
"Now," continued the Marchioness, "I have been a widow ... these two years past."
"A long time, there's no denying."
"Ah," sighed she, "there's no need to tell me so, Sire. But Monsieur de Menneval loves me ... at least he says so, and I am easily persuaded."
"Very well; then marry Monsieur de Menneval."
"I have thought of it, Sire; and, in truth, I might do much worse. I should like well enough to live in the country, under the willow-trees, on the borders of the river, with a husband, fond, yielding, loving, who would detest the philosophers and set some little value on the poets. When no external noises disturb the honey-moon, that month, Sire, may be indefinitely prolonged. In the country, you know, one never hears a noise."
"Unless it be the north-wind moaning in the corridor, and the rain pattering on the window-panes." And the King shivered slightly on his sofa.
"But," added the dame, "Monsieur de Beaugency loves me equally well."
"Ah, ah! the ambitious man!"
"Ambition does not shut out love, Sire. Monsieur de Beaugency is a Marquis; he is twenty-five; he is ambitious—I should like a husband vastly who was longing to reach high offices of state. Greatness has its own particular merit."
"Then marry Monsieur de Beaugency."
"I have thought of that, also; but this poor Monsieur de Menneval."...
"Very good," exclaimed the King, laughing: "now I see to what purpose the oranges are destined. Monsieur de Menneval pleases you; Monsieur de Beaugency would suit you just as well; and since one can't have more than one husband, you make them each jump in turn."
"Just so, Sire. But observe what happens."
"Ah, what does happen?"
"That, unwilling and unable to play unfairly, I take equal pains to catch the two oranges as they come down; and that I catch them both, each time."
"Well, are you willing that I should take part in your game?"
"You, Sire? Ah, what a joke that would be!"
"I am very clumsy, Marchioness. To a certainty, in less than three minutes Beaugency and Menneval, will be rolling on the floor."
"Ah!" exclaimed the lady; "and if you have any preference for one or the other?"
"No; we'll do better. Look, I take the two oranges ... you mark them carefully—or, better still, you stick into one of them one of these toilet pins, making up your own mind which of the two is to represent Monsieur de Beaugency, and leaving me, on that point, entirely in the dark. If Monsieur de Beaugency touches the floor, you shall marry his rival; if it happen just otherwise, you shall resign yourself to become an ambassadress."
"Excellent! Now, Sire, let's see the result."
The King took the two oranges and plied shuttle with them above his head. But at the third pass, the two rolled down upon the embroidered carpet, and the Marchioness broke out into a merry fit of laughter.
"I foresaw as much," exclaimed his Majesty. "What a clumsy fellow I am!"
"And we more puzzled than ever, Sire?"
"So we are, Marchioness; but the best thing we can do, is to slice the oranges, sugar them well, and season them with a dash of West India rum. Then you can beg me to taste them, and offer me some of those preserved cherries and peaches that you put up just as nicely as my daughter Adelaide."
"And Monsieur de Menneval? and Monsieur de Beaugency?" said the Marchioness, in piteous accents. "How is the question to be settled?"
Louis XV. began to cogitate.
"Are you quite sure," said he, "that both of them are in love with you?"
"Probably so," returned she, with a little coquettish smile, sent back to her from the mirror opposite.
"And their love is equally strong?"
"I trust so, Sire."
"And I don't believe a word of it."
"Ah!" said the Marchioness, "but that is, in truth, a most terrible supposition. Besides, Sire, they are on their way hither."
"Both of them?"
"One after the other: the Marquis at one o'clock precisely; the Baron at two. I promised them my decision to-morrow, on condition that they would pay me a final visit to-day."
As the Marchioness finished, the valet, who had announced the King, came to inform his mistress, that Monsieur de Beaugency was in the drawing-room, and solicited the favour of admission to pay his respects.
"Capital!" said Louis XV., smiling as though he were eighteen; "show Monsieur de Beaugency in. Marchioness, you will receive him, and tell him the price that you set upon your hand."
"And what is the price, Sire?"
"You must give him the choice—either to renounce you, or to consent to send in to me his resignation of his appointments, in order that he may go and bury himself with his wife on his estate of Courlac, in Poitou, there to live the life of a country gentleman."
"And then, Sire?"
"You will allow him a couple of hours for reflection, and so dismiss him."
"And in the end?"
"The rest is my concern." And the King got up, taking his dog and his gun, and concealed himself behind a screen, drawing also a curtain, that he might be completely hidden.
"What is your intention, Sire?" asked the Marchioness.
"I conceal myself like the kings of Persia, from the eyes of my subjects," replied Louis XV. "Hush, Marchioness."
A few moments later, and Monsieur de Beaugency entered the room.