Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

by Charles James Lever

Long after the events which heralded the great Revolution in France had assumed proportions of ominous magnitude, after even great reverses to the cause of monarchy, the nobles, whether from motives of hardihood or from downright ignorance of the peril, continued to display in their equipages, their mode of living, and their costly retinues, an amount of splendour terribly in contrast with the privations of the people.

Many of the old families deemed it a point of honour to abate nothing of the haughty pretensions they had exhibited for centuries; and treating the widespread discontent as a mere passing irritation, they scoffed at the fears of those who would regard it as of any moment. Indeed, to their eyes, the only danger lay in the weak, submissive policy of the court—a line of action based on the gentle and tender qualities of the king’s own nature, which made him prefer an injury to his own influence, to even the slightest attack on those who assailed him. Truthfully or not, it is somewhat hard to say, a certain section of the nobles asserted that the Queen was very differently minded; that she not only took a just measure of the difficulty, but saw how it was to be met and combated. Far from any paltering with the men of the movement, it was alleged that she would at once have counselled force, and, throwing the weight of the royal cause upon the loyalty of the army, have risked the issue without a fear. Around Marie Antoinette were, therefore, grouped those who took the highest ground in the cause of monarchy, and who resisted almost the bare thought of what savoured of compromise or concession.

Among those who were conspicuous for adherence to these opinions, was the Marquise de Bauffremont. To high rank, a large fortune, no inconsiderable share of court favour, she added a passion for everything like political intrigue. She was one of a school—of which some disciples have been seen in our own day—who deem that there are questions of statecraft too fine and too delicate for the rough handling of men, and where the finer touch of woman is essentially needed. So far as matters of policy are moulded by the tempers of those who treat them, and so far as it is of moment to appreciate finer traits of character—to trace their origin, their leanings and their sympathies—there is no doubt that the quicker and more subtle instincts of a woman have an immense advantage over the less painstaking and less minute habits of a manly mind. If the Marquise did not inaugurate this school, she gave a great development to its principles, and, assuredly, she practised her art at a period when its resources were to be submitted to the severest of all tests. Her spacious ‘hotel’ in the Place Louis Quinze was the centre of all those who assumed to be the last bulwark of the monarchy, and there might be found the Rochejaquelins, the Noailles, the Tavannes, the Valmys, and a host of others not less distinguished, while the ministers and envoys of various foreign courts resorted to these salons as the most authentic source of news to be transmitted to their governments. Partly from predilection, partly from that policy which affected to despise popular dictation, these receptions were conducted with considerable display and ostentation, and all that costly luxury and expense could impart lent its aid to give them an air of almost princely state. For a while there was a pretence of treating the passing events as incidents too slight and too vulgar for notice, but after a time this affectation gave way to another scarcely less absurd: of alluding to them in a tone of scoff and derision, ridiculing those who were their chief actors, and actually making them subjects of witty pasquinade and caricature. As each new actor on the popular scene appeared, he was certain to be the mark of their insulting comments; and traits of low origin, and vulgarity of manner, were dwelt on with a significance that showed how contemptuously they regarded all whose condition was beneath their own. How little did they suspect, as they mocked Rabaut St. Etienne, Petion, and Robespierre, that this ‘ill-dressed and ill-mannered crew’—these ‘noisy screamers of vapid nonsense’—these ‘men of sinister aspect and ignoble look,’ would one day become the scourge of their order, and the masters of France! So far was this thought from all their speculation, that their indignation knew no bounds in discussing those who admitted this canaille to anything like consideration; and thus the Bishop of Autun and Lafayette were the constant subjects of sarcasm and attack.

‘What do they want, Madame la Marquise!’ exclaimed the old Marquis de Ribaupierre, as he stood, one evening, the centre of a group eagerly discussing the views and objects of these innovators. ‘I ask, what do they want? It cannot be the destruction of the noblesse, for they are noble. It cannot be the extinction of property, for they are rich. It cannot be—surely it cannot be—that they believe the monarchy would be more faithfully guarded by a rabble than by the best chivalry of France. If Monseigneur Maurice Talleyrand were here now, I would simply ask him——’

The door opened as he uttered these words, and a servant, in a loud voice, announced, ‘Monseigneur the Bishop of Autun.’

Small of stature and lame, there was yet in the massive head, the broad full brow, and the large orbits of the eyes, a certain command and dignity that marked him for no ordinary man; and, though the suddenness of his entrance at this moment had created a sensation, half painful, half ludicrous, there was a calm self-possession in his manner, as he advanced to kiss the hand of the Marquise, that quickly changed the feeling for one of deference and respect.

‘I was fortunate enough to be the subject of discussion as I came into the room—will my esteemed friend the Marquis de Ribaupierre inform me to what I owe this honour?’

‘Rather let me become the interpreter,’ broke in the Marquise, who saw the speechless misery that now covered the old Marquis’s countenance. ‘Distressed at the length of time that had elapsed since we saw you among us here—grieved at what we could not but imagine a desertion of us—pained, above all, Monseigneur, by indications that you had sought and found friends in other ranks than those of your own high station——’

‘A bishop, Madame la Marquise—forgive my interruption—a bishop only knows mankind as his brethren.’ There was a malignant twinkle in his eye as he spoke, that deprived the sentiment of all its charitable meaning.

‘Fortune has been very unkind to you in certain members of your family, Monseigneur,’ said the Count de Noailles tartly.