At Odds with the Regent: A Story of the Cellamare Conspiracy

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

I awoke with its uproar in my ears, and gazed with interest from my window at the hurrying torrent of carriages and vehicles of every kind which filled the street from side to side and constantly threatened to engulf and overwhelm the foot passengers, hurled hither and thither by the ceaseless crush. I watched with apprehension the attempts of a pretty woman to cross the crowded roadway, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her safely over. A tap at the door brought me from the window, and I opened it to find Jacques bowing on the threshold.

“Good-morning, monsieur,” he said. “Is there anything you wish?”

“Nothing but breakfast, my dear Jacques,” I answered, heartily, for I had taken a liking to his pleasant face and admired the unquestioning way in which he carried out his master’s orders. “It will be served soon, I trust.”

“It is awaiting monsieur,” he said, and he led the way to the lower floor.

“Have you heard anything further from Richelieu?” I asked, when I had seated myself at the table and he was stationed behind my chair.

“Only a message from him this morning, asking if monsieur had arrived home safely, and stating that he himself had reached Limours without misadventure and would be at Blois to-night, where he would consider his future course.”

“Pray heaven that it take him on to Bayonne!” I said, fervently. “He is better away from Paris for a time.” But I had little hope that he would think of caution. “If you send a message to him,” I added, “tell him that I am quite safe and that he need have no concern on my account.” Yet I knew very well that it was not I but Mlle. de Valois who would bring him back to Paris.

The day was bright and warm and I left the house with a light heart. I reflected that I could do nothing better than call at the salon of Madame du Maine and renew my offer of service, but the day was not yet far advanced, and I lingered upon the quays, where a thousand noises mingled in one indescribable uproar which fascinated me. Boats were discharging their cargoes at the landing-places, a row of boys sat upon the piers fishing, the crowd eddied ceaselessly back and forth, and above all the din arose the cries of the street venders of vegetables, fruit, fish, milk, and I know not what, for their incomprehensible jargon, which I vainly endeavored to understand, gave me no clue to the wares they were selling. At every step there was a beggar, a blind man, or a street musician. The water-carriers, of whom I was told there were not less than twenty thousand in Paris, carried bells, which they rang with an ardor nothing seemed to diminish. Here was a woman selling oysters, which she carried in a huge hamper on her back; another was bent almost double under a great bundle of brooms; a third was selling flowers, which were displayed on a broad shallow basket strapped to her hips. Men were crying the most impossible things,—toy windmills, boot-laces, buckets, bellows, prints, and even rat-traps. Here was a tinker, carrying with him his fire of charcoal, his anvil, and all his tools; there a cobbler, who was sitting against the wall, in a corner out of harm’s way, mending a shoe. One fellow with a loud voice and a very red face endeavored to sell me a ticket in some lottery, and another offered me a bottle of magic ink, which would fade after a certain time and leave no trace behind it. He told me it was of especial value and in great demand for love-letters, since, after the second day, the writing would entirely disappear and so compromise no one. I laughed at him, and told him I had no use for his ink, since I had never in my life written a love-letter, whereat he showed me, with a great air of mystery, a wizard’s ring, which he was willing to part with for a pistole, and which he assured me would win me the love of any woman whose hand I might touch while I wore it. I inquired why it was that he was willing to sell so great a treasure, and he answered that it had made his life a burden to him, so closely and constantly was he pursued by the women who had fallen victims to the talisman. A crowd had gathered around us as we talked, and when I turned away, still laughing, he appealed to other of the listeners, and I doubt not managed to strike a bargain with one of them. I did not wait to see the conclusion of the matter, but struggled through the crowd, and with considerable effort gained the other side of the river, where I finally paused to take breath in the Rue des Poulies.

Nothing had astonished me so much in Paris as the height of the buildings, and I looked with interest at those about me. They straggled into the air six, seven, or eight stories, as though each successive generation, prohibited by the royal edict from building without the walls, had at last found a home by adding an extra story to the ancestral domiciles. The flood of houses, which had long before overwhelmed the walls of the old city, was fast piling up within the new walls as within a great reservoir, and another inundation of the surrounding country could not be far distant. Each house had its sign, projecting far into the street, and from every story protruded a spout, which, in rainy weather, precipitated torrents of dirty water upon the passers-by. The fronts of the houses were for the most part of wood and plaster and, where not concealed by bills, indescribably dirty. Many of them seemed on the point of falling down, and were saved from that fate only by leaning against their more fortunate neighbors. Bills and flaring posters were everywhere, bearing some piece of political satire or morsel of scandalous gossip.

I turned into the Rue St. Honoré, and was soon again in the midst of a tumult as great as that upon the quays, only here the crowd was more fashionable, and there were in consequence more beggars. I knew no one in it, so, unconsciously catching the spirit of the place, I hurried on past the Palais Royal, at which I cast a lingering glance, wondering if it would ever be my good fortune to join the throng of gayly dressed courtiers and enter boldly with them. Turning down the Rue St. Louis, I soon gained the Tuileries. The entrance to that portion of the palace, the Pavilion Marsan, occupied by Madame du Maine was almost deserted, but a lacquey who was lounging in the vestibule took in my name, and, returning in a moment, informed me that I was to enter. He led me to a small room at the left, where I found the duchess and Mlle. de Launay together, busily occupied in examining a vast number of formidable-looking papers.