"Ma foi! my worthy Coigni, "tis all the same to me if you are a marechal or a simple lieutenant. As for me, young man," he added, with dignified severity, "remember in future that I serve no one. I a.s.sist M. le Controleur-General des Finances to--to----"--he paused a second, waving his hand and turning the phrase over in his mouth, whilst seeking for its most appropriate conclusion--"to, in fact, make a worthy selection amidst the hundreds and thousands of pet.i.tions which are presented to him."
And with a vague gesture he indicated the papers which lay in a disordered heap on his secretaire.
"For the rest, my good Coigni," he added, with the same impressive dignity, "let me a.s.sure you once again that M. le Marquis"s bedchamber is overcrowded, that he is busily engaged at the present moment, and is likely to be so for some considerable time to come. What is it your marechal wants?"
"His pension," replied Hypolite curtly, "and the vacant post in the Ministry of War."
"Impossible! We have fourteen likely applicants already."
"M. le Marechal is sure that if he could speak with M. le Controleur----"
"M. le Controleur is busy."
"To-morrow, then----"
"To-morrow he will be even more busy than to-day."
"M. Durand!" pleaded Hypolite.
"Impossible! You are wasting my time, my good Coigni; I have hundreds to see to-day."
"Not for your daughter"s sake?"
"My daughter?"
"Yes; didn"t you know? You remember Henriette, her great friend?"
"Yes, yes--little Henriette Dessy, the milliner," a.s.sented M. Durand with vast condescension. "A pretty wench; she was at the Ursulines convent school with my daughter; they have remained great friends ever since. What about little Henriette?"
"Mlle. Henriette is my _fiancee_," quoth the other eagerly, "and I thought----"
"Your _fiancee_? Little Henriette Dessy?" said M. Durand gaily.
"Pardieu my good Coigni, why did you not tell me so before? My daughter is very fond of Henriette--a pretty minx, par ma foi! He!
he!"
"You are very kind, M. Durand."
"Mais non, mais non," said the great man, with much affability; "one is always ready to oblige a friend. He, now! give me your hand, friend Coigni. Shoot your rubbish along--quoi!--your Marechal; he may pa.s.s this way. Anything one can do to oblige a friend."
With the affairs of M. le Marechal de Coigni the present chronicle hath no further concern; but we know that some ten minutes later on this same August 13, 1746, he succeeded in being present at the _pet.i.t lever_ of M. le Controleur-General des Finances. Once within the secret precincts of the bedchamber he, like so many other pet.i.tioners and courtiers, was duly confronted by the stony stare of M. Achille, and found himself face to face with an enormous bedstead of delicately painted satinwood and ormulu mounts, draped with heavy azure silk curtains which hung down from a gilded baldachin, the whole a masterpiece of the furniture-maker"s art.
The scent of chocolate filled his nostrils, and he vaguely saw a good-looking young man reclining under a coverlet of magnificent Venetian lace, and listening placidly to what was obviously a very amusing tale related to him by well-rouged lips. From the billowy satins and laces of the couch a delicate hand was waved toward him as he attempted to pay his respects to the most powerful man in France; the next moment the same stony-faced gorgon clad in scarlet and gold beckoned to him to follow, and he found himself being led through the brilliantly dressed crowd toward a compact group of backs, which formed a sort of living wall, painted in delicate colours of green and mauve and gray, and duly filled up the approach to the main window embrasure.
It is interesting to note from the memoirs of M. le Comte d"Argenson that the Marechal de Coigni duly filled the post of State Secretary to the Minister of War from the year 1746 onward. We may, therefore, presume that he succeeded in piercing that wall of respectful backs and in reaching sufficiently far within the charmed circle to attract the personal attention of Mme. la Marquise Lydie d"Eglinton _nee_ d"Aumont.
He had, therefore, cause to bless the day when his valet-de-chambre became the _fiance_ of Mlle. Henriette Dessy, the intimate friend of M. Baptiste Durand"s dearly beloved daughter.
CHAPTER XI
LA BELLE IReNE
Monsieur Durand had indeed not exaggerated when he spoke of M. le Controleur"s bedchamber being overcrowded this same eventful morning.
All that France possessed of n.o.bility, of wit and of valour, seemed to have found its way on this beautiful day in August past the magic portal guarded by Baptiste, the dragon, to the privileged enclosure beyond, where milor in elegant _robe de chambre_ reclined upon his gorgeous couch, whilst Madame, clad in hooped skirt and panniers of dove-gray silk, directed the affairs of France from the embrasure of a window.
"Achille, my shoes!"
We must surmise that his lordship had been eagerly awaiting the striking of the bracket clock which immediately faced the bed, for the moment the musical chimes had ceased to echo in the crowded room he had thrown aside the lace coverlet which had lain across his legs and called peremptorily for his valet.
"Only half-past ten, milor!" came in reproachful accents from a pair of rosy lips.
"Ma foi, so it is!" exclaimed Lord Eglinton, with well-feigned surprise, as he once more glanced up at the clock.
"Were you then so bored in my company," rejoined the lady, with a pout, "that you thought the hour later?"
"Bored!" he exclaimed. "Bored, did you say, Madame? Perish the very thought of boredom in the presence of Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville!"
But in spite of this gallant a.s.sertion, M. le Controleur seemed in a vast hurry to quit the luxuriance of his azure-hung throne. M.
Achille--that paragon among flunkeys--looked solemnly reproachful.
Surely milor should have known by now that etiquette demanded that he should stay in bed until he had received every person of high rank who desired an intimate audience.
There were still some high-born, exalted, and much beribboned gentlemen who had not succeeded in reaching the inner precincts of that temple and fount of honours and riches--the bedside of M. le Controleur. But Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai was there--he in whose veins flowed royal blood, and who spent a strenuous life in endeavouring to make France recognize this obvious fact. He sat in an arm-chair at the foot of the bed, discussing the unfortunate events of June 16th at Piacenza and young Comte de Maillebois"s subsequent masterly retreat on Tortone, with Christian Louis de Montmorenci, Duc de Luxembourg, the worthy son of an able father and newly created Marshal of France.
Close to them, Monsieur le Comte de Vermandois, Grand Admiral of France, was intent on explaining to M. le Chancelier d"Aguesseau why England just now was supreme mistress of the seas. M. d"Isenghien talked poetry to Jolyot Crebillon, and M. le Duc d"Harcourt discussed Voltaire"s latest play with ex-comedian and ex-amba.s.sador Nericault-Destouche, whilst Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, still called "la belle brune de Bordeaux" by her many admirers, had been endeavouring to divert M. le Controleur"s attention from this multiplicity of abstruse subjects.
Outside this magic circle there was a gap, a barrier of parquet flooring which no one would dare to traverse without a distinct look of encouragement from M. Achille. His Majesty had not yet arrived, and tongues wagged freely in the vast and gorgeous room, with its row of tall windows which gave on the great slopes of the Park of Versailles.
Through them came the pleasing sound of the perpetual drip from the monumental fountains, the twitter of sparrows, the scent of lingering roses and of belated lilies. No other sound from that outside world, no other life save the occasional footstep of a gardener along the sanded walks. But within all was chatter and bustle; women talked, men laughed and argued, society scandals were commented upon and the newest fashions in coiffures discussed. The men wore cloth coats of sober hues, but the women had donned light-coloured dresses, for the summer was at its height and this August morning was aglow with sunshine.
Mme. de Stainville"s rose-coloured gown was the one vivid patch of colour in the picture of delicate hues. She stood close to M. le Controleur"s bedside and unceremoniously turned her back on the rest of the company; we must presume that she was a very privileged visitor, for no one--not even Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai--ventured to approach within earshot. It was understood that in milor"s immediate entourage la belle Irene alone was allowed to be frivolous, and we are told that she took full advantage of this permission.
All chroniclers of the period distinctly aver that the lady was vastly entertaining; even M. de Voltaire mentions her as one of the sprightliest women of that light-hearted and vivacious Court.
Beautiful, too, beyond cavil, her position as the wife of one of the most brilliant cavaliers that e"er graced the entourage of Mme. de Pompadour gave her a certain dignity of bearing, a self-conscious gait and proud carriage of the head which had considerably added to the charms which she already possessed. The stiff, ungainly mode of the period suited her somewhat full figure to perfection; the tight corslet bodice, the wide panniers, the ridiculous hooped skirt--all seemed to have been specially designed to suit the voluptuous beauty of Irene de Stainville.
M. d"Argenson when speaking of her has described her very fully. He speaks of her abnormally small waist, which seemed to challenge the support of a masculine arm, and of her creamy skin which she knew so well how to veil in transparent folds of filmy lace. She made of dress a special study, and her taste, though daring, was always sure. Even during these early morning receptions, when soft-toned mauves, tender drabs or grays were mostly in evidence, Irene de Stainville usually appeared in brocade of brilliant rosy-red, turquoise blue, or emerald green; she knew that these somewhat garish tones, mellowed only through the richness of the material, set off to perfection the matt ivory tint of her complexion, and detached her entire person from the rest of the picture.
Yet even her most ardent admirers tell us that Irene de Stainville"s vanity went almost beyond the bounds of reason in its avidity for fulsome adulation. Consciousness of her own beauty was not sufficient; she desired its acknowledgment from others. She seemed to feed on flattery, breathing it in with every pore of her delicate skin, drooping like a parched flower when full measure was denied to her.
Many aver that she marred her undoubted gifts of wit through this insatiable desire for one sole topic of conversation--her own beauty and its due meed of praise. At the same time her love of direct and obsequious compliments was so ingenuous, and she herself so undeniably fascinating, that, in the hey-day of her youth and attractions, she had no difficulty in obtaining ready response to her wishes from the highly susceptible masculine element at the Court of Louis XV.
M. le Controleur-General--whom she specially honoured with her smiles--had certainly no intention of shirking the pleasing duty attached to this distinction, and, though he was never counted a brilliant conversationalist, he never seemed at a loss for the exact word of praise which would tickle la belle Irene"s ears most pleasantly.
And truly no man"s heart could be sufficiently adamant to deny to that brilliantly-plumaged bird the t.i.t-bits which it loved the best. Milor himself had all the sensitiveness of his race where charms--such as Irene freely displayed before him--were concerned, and when her smiling lips demanded acknowledgment of her beauty from him he was ready enough to give it.
"Let them settle the grave affairs of State over there," she had said to him this morning, when first she made her curtsey before him. And with a provocative smile she pointed to the serious-looking group of grave gentlemen that surrounded his bedside, and also to the compact row of backs which stood in serried ranks round Mme. la Marquise d"Eglinton in the embrasure of the central window. "Life is too short for such insignificant trifles."
"We only seem to last long enough to make love thoroughly to half a dozen pretty women in a lifetime," replied M. le Controleur, as he gallantly raised her fingers to his lips.