I gazed with unfeigned interest after this remarkable woman as she walked away, for that remarkable she was I very well knew. A granddaughter of the Great Condé, she had been compelled by Louis XIV. to marry the Duke du Maine, his eldest son by Madame de Montespan, an alliance which the house of Condé had regarded as a disgrace, but which it was powerless to prevent. This disgrace had been somewhat mitigated in 1714, when the king had issued a decree legitimating the duke and declaring him competent to succeed to the throne in the failure of the legitimate line, a decree which had awakened lively dissatisfaction among the other noble houses, who were jealous of their precedence, and which had been the subject of no little comment even at Poitiers. Madame du Maine had at once taken a position commensurate with this new honor, and her salons at Sceaux and at the Tuileries were known by reputation from the Pyrenees to the Meuse.
I had seen at a glance that she was not beautiful. Her figure was almost infantile in its proportions, and a slightly deformed shoulder destroyed its symmetry. Her mouth was large and her other features irregular, but this was more than counter-balanced by the beauty and brilliancy of her eyes. I, who had seen them blaze under the magic of Richelieu’s words, would certainly never forget them. It was Richelieu’s voice which aroused me from my thoughts.
“I see the people interest you, de Brancas,” he said, “and well they may, for it is seldom indeed that one room contains so many worth attention. That gentleman whom the duchess has just sent on an errand to Mlle. de Launay is Lagrange Chancel, whose philippics have driven so many thorns into the side of the regent. For myself, I confess I deem the sword a better weapon of warfare than the pen, but each has its uses. That man over there in black and with the air of a bourgeois is de Mesmes, president of parliament, through whom we hope to be able to do great things.”
“Great things?” I asked. “I do not understand, monsieur.”
“You will in time,” he answered, smiling. “Till then have patience. Yonder handsome churchman is the Cardinal de Polignac, who affects to be absorbed in a new Latin poem, but who is really interested only in politics, and in whom I have little faith. There is Malesieu, madame’s tutor, who was wont to bore us nearly to death reading the tragedies of Sophocles when the Honey Bees met at Sceaux. There is the Abbé Chaulieu, whose age cannot dim the brightness of his wit nor lessen the lightness of his heart. And there is Saint Aulaire, whose eighty years do not prevent him entertaining a hopeless passion for the duchess, but who knows nothing of politics and cares less, and who, consequently, is no longer in favor.”
“But, monsieur,” I protested, “even I can see that this is no ordinary salon. These are not wits nor poets. They are not disputing. They are not even gossiping. They are talking in undertones. They have an air of I know not what,—of plotting, of intrigue,—some of them even of fear.”
“You have come dangerously near the truth, my friend,” and Richelieu glanced about to see that no one heard. “They do intrigue, they are plotting, and some of them do fear.”
“But what are they plotting? Whom do they fear?” I questioned, determined to get to the bottom of this riddle if I could.
Again Richelieu glanced about him, and at that moment Polignac touched him on the arm.
“May I have a word with you, M. le Duc?” he asked.