“He has plenty to choose from, at any rate,” observed the Marquise; “and I must say I cannot compliment him on the taste he has displayed in these valuables,” she added, with a mischievous laugh.
“He would throw them all willingly into the Seine to-morrow,” continued Malletort, “might he but possess the gem he covets, and set it in the Crown-royal of France. Yes, madame, the Crown-royal, I repeat it. Where are the obstacles? Louis XV. may not, will not, nay, perhaps, shall not live to be a man. Madame d’Orleans inherits the feeble constitution, without the beauty of her mother, Madame de Montespan. Fagon himself will tell you her life is not worth nine months’ purchase, and since she has quarrelled with her daughter she has less interest with the Regent than one of the pages. Her party is no longer in power, the Comte de Toulouse is in disgrace, the Duc du Maine is in disgrace. Illegitimacy is at a discount, though, parbleu, it has no want of propagators in our day. To speak frankly, my cousin, a clever woman who could influence the Regent might sway the destinies of the whole nation in six weeks,—might be Queen of France in six months from this time.”
The Marquise listened, as Eve may have listened to the serpent when he pressed her to taste the apple. For different palates, the fruit, tempting, because forbidden, assumes different forms. Sometimes it represents power, sometimes pique, sometimes lucre, and sometimes love. According to their various natures, the tempted nibble at it with their pretty teeth, suck it eagerly with clinging lips, or swallow it whole, like a bolus, at a gulp. The Marquise was only nibbling, but her cheek glowed, her eyes shone, and she whispered below her breath, “The Queen of France;” as if there was music in the very syllables.
The Abbé paused to let the charm work, ere he resumed, in his half-jesting way—
“The Queen, madame! Despite the injustice on our Salic law, you may say the King! Such a woman, and I know well of whom I speak, would little by little obtain all the real power of the crown. She might sway the council—she might rule the parliament—she might control the finances. In and out of the palace she would become the dispenser of rank, the fountain of honour. Nay,” he added, with a laugh, “she might usurp the last privileges of royalty, and command the very Musketeers of the Guard themselves!”
Did he know that he had touched a string to vibrate through his listener’s whole being? She rose and walked to the window, where the flowers were, while at the same moment he prepared to recall her hastily. It was needless, for she started, turning very pale, and came quietly back to her seat. The Abbé’s quick ear detected the tramp of a boot crunching the gravel walk outside, but it was impossible to gather from his countenance whether he suspected the passer-by to be of more importance than one of the gardeners. The Marquise, however, had caught a glimpse of a figure she was beginning to know by heart too well. Captain George had of late, indeed ever since Cerise came home, contracted a habit of traversing the gardens of the Hôtel Montmirail to visit a post of his musketeers in the neighbourhood. These guards were permitted to enter everywhere, and Madame de Montmirail was the last person to interfere, in this instance, with their privileges. So little annoyance, indeed, did she seem to experience from the intrusion, that the windows of her boudoir were generally wide open at this hour of the day. Though to visit this post might be a necessary military precaution, it was obviously a duty requiring promptitude less than consideration. Captain George usually walked slowly through the garden, and returned in a very short time at the same deliberate pace. The Marquise knew perfectly well that it took him exactly ten minutes by the clock in her boudoir. When she sat down again, Malletort, without noticing her movement or her confusion, proceeded in a sincere and affectionate tone—
“I need not explain more clearly, madame; I need not urge my motives nor dwell upon my own self-sacrifice. It is sufficient for the Abbé to see his peerless cousin set out on her journey to fame, and to feel that he has indicated the shortest path. There are obstacles, no doubt; but for what purpose do obstacles exist save to be surmounted or swept away? Let us take them as they come. I can count them all on the fingers of my hand.” The Abbé began systematically at his thumb. “The young King and Madame d’Orleans are already disposed of, or, at worst, soon will be, in the common course of events. Remain—the roués—Madame de Sabran, and Madame Parabére. Of these, I can manage the first without assistance. I have influence with the whole gang. Some may be persuaded, others intimidated, all can be bribed. I anticipate no opposition worth speaking of from the male element, fond of pleasure, fond of wine, and embarrassed as they are good for nothing. With the last two it is different. Madame de Sabran is witty, handsome, and well-bred; but she spares no person, however exalted, in her sarcasm, and the Regent fears her tongue while he is oppressed with her society. One or two more of her cutting sayings, and she will sever the cord, already frayed very thin, by which she holds on to fortune. Then she becomes but yesterday’s bouquet, and we need trouble ourselves no more with her! Exit Madame de Sabran. Enter—whom shall we name, my beautiful cousin? Whoever it is will have it in her power to become Queen of France. Now there is only Madame de Parabére left; but alas! she is the most dangerous and the most powerful of all. It is against her that I must ask you, madame, to lend me your assistance.”
“Mine!” repeated the Marquise, half surprised and half unwilling, though with no especial liking for the lady in question. “Mine! what can I do?”
“Much,” replied Malletort, earnestly. “Indeed, everything! Yet, it is very little I will ask you to undertake, though it must eventually lead to the greatest results. Listen. The Regent, while he has confessed to me over and over again that he grows weary of Madame de Parabére, is yet fascinated by her beauty—the beauty, after all, of a baby-face with a skin like cream. Such beauty as even the devil must have possessed when he was young. She has neither wit, nor grace, nor intellect, nor form, nor even features. But she has her skin, and that I must admit is wonderfully clear and soft. This attraction possesses some incredible fascination for the Duke. If she went out in the sun to-morrow and came home tanned, adieu to her power for ever! I cannot make her go out in the sun, but I think if you will help me I can arrange that she shall become tanned—aye, worse than tanned, speckled all over like a toad. Do you remember once when they praised your beauty at the late King’s dinner, she said, ‘Yes, you were very well for a mulatto?’”
“I have not forgotten it!” replied the Marquise, and her flashing eye showed that neither had she forgiven the offence.