‘Poor lady!’ continued Maître Picard aloud, for the crowd to hear him. ‘I know her well: she is separated from her husband on account of his debaucheries.—Ah! Mademoiselle Marotte Dupré!—permit me to free your dress from the step.’
The beautiful actress passed on smiling, but without noticing the fussy little bourgeois, who perceiving that the next inmate of the carriage, although equally handsome, was but an attendant, fell back amongst the crowd.
It was indeed a strange quartette that left the carriage, although no one of them knew the position in which she stood towards another. Marie had returned to Paris, in consequence, as it was asserted, of the sudden and fearful indisposition of M. d’Aubray; who had, however, insisted on his daughter accepting the invitation to Versailles, were it only to establish her entree into society. In such a position it was not desirous that she should go alone; and Madame Scarron, who was daily finding fresh favour in the eyes of the King, was selected as a species of chaperone. Marotte Dupré, who was to appear in the mask, and for whom Scarron had written some of his best roles, was offered a seat in the voiture. And the fourth was madame’s companion, who had lived with her for more than the twelvemonth—the gentle Louise Gauthier.
The carriages and caleches of every kind kept bringing up the company. Many were masked—many came on foot, but nearly all were accompanied by torch-bearers; and when the Cour Royale became filled with these last, the effect was most beautiful. And as dusk came on, thousands of lights burst forth in every direction. Every window was illuminated as well as the gallery which connected the wings; and in the gardens long rows of lamps surrounded the basins and fountains, or quivered, by reflection, in the water of the canal, then lately finished by Le Notre. Despite the advanced season, the grounds were thronged with the guests; temporary pavilions for jousting and dancing had been built up in the various alleys, and more especially in the Allée du Roi, where a large theatre had been erected; and in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, over which a vast tarpaulin had been stretched at a great height, enclosing even the trees—which, from their sheltered position, still retained a great deal of their autumnal foliage—columns of spouting water rose like crystal pillars round the amphitheatre, with brilliant lights so artfully contrived, that they appeared to be burning in the middle of the fountains; and others, in coloured shades, sparkled amongst the foliage as if they had been the enchanted fruit of Aladdin’s garden, or twinkled upon the turf like glow-worms, until they were lost in the distance of the avenues. The very climate appeared to be subservient to the will of the luxurious monarch, for, although without the autumn was fast falling, yet in the park and gardens traces of the summer still lingered.
Maître Picard was everywhere, elbowing amongst the throng, followed by Jean Blacquart, who assumed the airs of a person high in command, and gave orders in a loud tone, whenever he fancied any of the ladies were looking at him. Of course they were never obeyed; but he conceived the effect was the same. At length, finding the company turning towards the theatre, the bourgeois took his post near one of the entrances, and Jean stationed himself where he thought he might best attract attention.
The King and his suite had not arrived; and those who had already assembled were talking loudly, in which conversation Maître Picard also joined.
‘L’Impromptu de Versailles, and La Princesse d’Elide. Ah! I know them well,’ he exclaimed, as some of the audience by him mentioned the names of the pieces to be represented that evening. ‘But they are nothing to those which have gone by. Think of Peleus and Thetis.’
‘You saw Peleus and Thetis?’ asked Jean loudly, in the manner of people anxious to draw out an acquaintance before company.
‘Did I see Peleus and Thetis?’ replied the chapelier. ‘Mass! I supplied the hats. They were shown at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon. Think of the figures being arranged by Bouty—the rhyme by Benserade, the scenes by Torelli, and the hats by me, Maître Picard, of the Rue des Mathurins!’
‘It is twelve years back, bourgeois,’ said a bystander. ‘The King was a mere boy.’