THE NEXT MORNING, as the great clock of Versailles struck eleven, King Louis XV. issued from his apartment, and crossing the adjoining gallery, called in a loud and stern voice:
The king was pale, and seemed agitated. The more he endeavored to hide his emotion, the more evident it became from the embarrassment of his looks, and the rigid tension of his usually impassible features.
A death-like stillness pervaded the long ranks of courtiers, among whom the Duke de Richelieu and Count Jean Dubarry might be seen, both seemingly calm, and affecting indifference or ignorance as to what was going on.
The Duke de la Vrilliere approached, and took a lettre-de-cachet from the king's hand.
“Is the Duke de Choiseul at Versailles?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire. He returned from Paris yesterday, at two o'clock in the afternoon.”
“Is he in his hotel, or in the chateau?”
“Carry this order to him, duke,” said the king.
A shudder ran through the whole file of spectators, who bent down whispering, like ears of corn under the blast of a tornado.
The king, frowning, as if he wished to add terror to this scene, haughtily entered his closet, followed by the captain of the guard and the commandant of the Light Horse.
All eyes followed M. de la Vrilliere, who slowly crossed the courtyard, and entered M. de Choiseul's apartments, rather uneasy at the commission with which he was charged.
During this time, loud and eager conversations, some threatening, some timid, burst forth on all sides around the old marshal, who pretended to be even more surprised than the others, but who, thanks to his cunning smile, duped no one.
M. de Vrilliere returned, and was immediately surrounded.
“Well? It was an order of banishment.”
“Then you have read it, duke? '
And the Duke de la Vrilliere repeated the following lines which he had treasured up with the retentive memory which marks the true courtier:
“My cousin—The displeasure which your conduct causes me obliges me to exile you to Chanteloup, whither you must repair in four-and-twenty hours from this time. I should have sent you further, had it not been for the particular esteem I feel for Madame de Choiseul, whose health is exceedingly interesting to me. Take care that your conduct does not force me to proceed to ulterior measures.”
A long murmur ran through the group which surrounded M. de la Vrilliere.
“And what did he reply to you, M. de St. Florentin?” asked Richelieu, affecting not to give to the duke either his new name or his new tide.
“He replied, 'Duke, I feel convinced of the great pleasure you feel in being the bearer of this letter.'”
“That was harsh, my poor duke,” said Jean.
“What could you expect, count? A man does not receive such a tile thrown upon his head without crying out a little.”
“Do you know what he will do?” asked Richelieu.
“Here is the duke coming!” said Jean, who stood as sentinel at the window.
“Coining here?” exclaimed the Duke de la Vrilliere.
“I told you so, M. de St. Florentin.”
“He is crossing the courtyard,” continued Jean.
“Quite alone; his portfolio under his arm.”
“Oh! good heavens!” said Richelieu, “if yesterday's scene should be repeated!”
“Do not speak of it; I shudder at the thought,” replied Jean.
He had scarcely spoken, when the Duke de Choiseul appeared at the entrance of the gallery with head erect and confident look, alarming his enemies, or those who would declare themselves such on his disgrace, by his calm and piercing glance.
As no one expected this step after what had happened, no one opposed his progress.
“Are you sure you read correctly, duke?” asked Jean.
“And he returns after such a letter as you have described?”
“Upon my honor, I cannot understand it.”
“The king will, send him to the Bastille.”
“That would cause a fearful commotion!”
“Look! he is going to the king. It is incredible.”
In fact, without paying attention to the show of resistance which the astounded usher offered, M. de Choiseul entered the king's closet. Louis, on seeing him, uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
The duke held his lettre-de-cachet in his hand, and showed it to the king almost smilingly.
“Sire,” said he, “as your majesty had the goodness to forewarn me yesterday, I have, indeed, received a letter to-day.”
“And as your majesty had the goodness yesterday to tell me not to look upon any letter as serious which was not ratified by the express words of the king, I have come to request an explanation.”
“It will be very short, my lord duke.” replied the king. “To-day, the letter is valid.”
“Valid?” said the duke. “So offensive a letter to so devoted a servant?”
“A devoted servant, sir, does not make his master play a ridiculous part.”
“Sire.” replied the minister, haughtily. “I was born near the throne, that I might comprehend its majesty.”
“Sir,” replied the king, in a severe voice, “I will not keep you in suspense. Yesterday evening you received a courier from Madame de Grammont in your closet at Versailles.”
“Are a brother and sister forbidden to correspond?”
“Wait a moment, if you please. I know the contents of that letter.”
“Here it is. I took the trouble to copy it with my own hand.”
And the king handed to the duke an exact copy of the letter he had received.
“Do not deny it, duke; you placed the letter in an iron coffer standing at your bedside.”
The duke became pale as a specter.
“That is not all,” continued the king, pitilessly; “you have replied to Madame de Grammont's letter. I know the contents of that letter also. It is there in your portfolio, and only wants the post scriptum, which you are to add when you leave me. You see I am well informed, am I not?”
The duke wiped his forehead, on which the large drops of perspiration were standing, bowed without uttering a word, and left the closet, tottering as if he had been struck with apoplexy. Had it not been for the fresh air which fanned his face, he must have fallen.
But he was a man of strong will. When he reached the gallery he had regained his strength, and with erect forehead passed the hedge of courtiers, and entered his apartments in order to burn and lock up several papers. A quarter of an hour afterward, he left the chateau in his carriage.
M. de Choiseul's disgrace was a thunderbolt which set all France in flames.
The parliament, sustained in reality by the tolerance of the minister, proclaimed that the State had lost its firmest pillar. The nobility supported him as being one of themselves. The clergy felt themselves soothed by this man, whose personal dignity, often carried even to the extent of pride, gave almost an appearance of sanctity to his ministerial functions.
The encyclopedist or the philosophical party, who were very numerous, and also very strong, because they were re-en forced by all the enlightened, clever, and caviling spirits of the age, cried out loudly when the government was taken from the hands of a minister who admired Voltaire, pensioned the encyclopedia, and preserved, by developing them in a more useful manner, the traditions of Madame de Pompadour, the female Mecaenas of the writers of the “Mercure” and of philosophy in general.
The people had far better grounds for complaint than any of the other malcontents. They also complained, but without reasoning, and, as they always do, they hit the truth and laid bare the bleeding wound.
M. de Choiseul, absolutely speaking, was a bad minister and a bad citizen, but relatively he was a paragon of virtue, of morality, and of patriotism. When the people, dying of hunger in the fields, heard of his majesty's prodigality and of Madame Dubarry's ruinous whims, when open warnings were sent him, such as “L'homme aux quarante ecus,” or advices like “Le Contrat Social,” and secret revelations like the “Nouvelles a la main,” and the “Idees singulieres d'un bon citizen.” they were terrified at the prospect of falling back into the impure hands of the favorite, less respectable than a collier's wife, as Bauveau said, and into the hands of the favorite's favorites; and wearied with so much suffering, they were alarmed to behold the future looking even blacker than the past.
It was not that the people, who had strong antipathies, had also strong sympathies. They did not like the parliament, because they who ought to have been their natural protectors had always abandoned them for idle inquiries, questions of precedence, or selfish interests; and because, dazzled by the borrowed light of the royal omnipotence, they imagined themselves something like an aristocracy, occupying an intermediate place between the nobility and the people.
They disliked the nobility from instinct, and from memory. They feared the sword as much as they hated the church. Their position could not therefore be affected by the disgrace of M. de Choiseul, but they heard the complaints of the nobility, of the clergy, of the parliament, and this noise joined to their own murmurs made an uproar which intoxicated them. The consequence of these feelings was regret, and a sort of a quasi popularity for the name of Choiseul.
All Paris—the word in this case can be justified by the facts —accompanied the exile on his way to Chanteloup as far as the town gates.
The people lined the road which the carriage was to take, while the members of the parliament and the court, who could not be received by the duke, stationed themselves in their carriages in front of the crowd of people, that they might salute him as he passed, and bid him adieu.
The procession was the densest at the Barriere d'Enfer, which is on the road to Touraine, at which place there was such a conflux of foot passengers, horsemen, and carriages, that the traffic was interrupted for several hours.
When the duke had crossed the barrier, he found himself escorted by more than a hundred carriages, which formed a sort of triumphal procession around him.
Acclamations and sighs followed him on all sides, but he had too much sense and penetration not to know that all this noise was not so much occasioned by regret for him personally, as by the fear of those unknown people who were to rise upon his ruin.
A short way from the barrier a postchaise, galloping along the crowded road, met the procession, and had it not been for the skill of the postilion, the horses, white with foam and dust, would have dashed against M. de Choiseul's equipage.
A head bent forward out of the carriage window, and II. de Choiseul leaned out also from his.
M. d'Aiguillon bowed profoundly to the fallen minister whose heritage he had come to canvass. M. de Choiseul threw himself back in the carriage; a single second had sufficed to wither the laurels which had crowned his disgrace.
But at the same moment, as a compensation no doubt, a carriage drawn by eight horses and bearing the royal arms of France, which was seen advancing along the cross-road from Sevres to St. Cloud, and which, whether by accident, or on account of the crowd, did not turn into the high-road, also crossed before M. de Choiseul's carriage. The dauphiness, with her lady of honor, Madame de Xnailles, was on the back seat of the carriage, on the front was Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney. M. de Choiseul, crimson with exultation and joy, bent forward out of the door, and bowed profoundly.
“Adieu, madame,” said he, in a low voice.
“Au revoir, M. de Choiseul,” replied the dauphiness, with an imperial smile, and a majestic contempt of all etiquette.
“Long live M. de Choiseul!” cried a voice, enthusiastically, after the dauphiness had spoken.
At the sound of the voice, Mademoiselle Andree turned round quickly.
“Make way! make way!” cried her highness's grooms, forcing Gilbert, pale as death, and pressing forward in his eagerness, to range himself with the other people on the road.
It was indeed our hero, who, in his philosophical enthusiasm, had cried out, “Long live M. de Choiseul!”
