M. DE RICHELIEU, like all the courtiers, had a hotel at Versailles, one at Paris, a house at Marly, and another at Luciennes; a residence, in short, near each of the palaces or residences of the king.
Louis XIV., when he multiplied his places of residence so much, had imposed on all men of rank—on all those privileged to attend at the grand and little receptions and levees, the obligation of being very rich, that they might keep pace at once with the splendor of his household, and the flights of his whims.
At the period of the disgrace of MM. de Choiseul and de Praslin, M. de Richelieu was living in his house at Versailles; and it was there that he returned after having presented his nephew to Madame Dubarry at Luciennes.
Richelieu had been seen in the forest of Marly with the countess, he had been seen at Versailles after the minister's disgrace, his long and secret audience at Luciennes was known; and this, with the indiscretions of Jean Dubarry, was sufficient for the whole court to think themselves obliged to go and pay their respects to M. de Richelieu.
The old marshal was now going in his turn to inhale that delightful incense of praises, flatteries, and caresses, which every interested person offered without discrimination to the idol of the day.
M. de Richelieu, however, was far from expecting all that was to happen to him; but he rose that morning with the firm resolution of closing his nostrils against the incense, as Ulysses closed his ears with wax against the songs of the sirens. The result which he expected could not be known until next day, when the nomination of the new minister would be announced by the king himself.
Great was the marshal's surprise therefore when he awoke, or rather, was awakened by the loud noise of carriages, to hear from his valet that the courtyards of the hotel, as well as the anterooms and salons, were filled with visitors.
“Oh!” said he, “it seems I make some noise already.”
“It is still early, my lord marshal,” said his valet-de-chambre, seeing the duke's haste in taking off his nightcap.
“Henceforward,” replied the duke, “there will be no such word as early for me, remember that.”
“What did you reply to the visitors?”
“That was exceedingly stupid. You should have added that I was late up last night, or better still, you should have—let me see, where is Rafte?”
“M. Rafte is asleep,” said the valet.
“What! asleep! let him be called, the wretch!”
“Well,” said a fresh and smiling old man, who appeared at the door, “here is Rafte; what is he wanted for?”
All the duke's bombast ceased at these words.
“Ah! I was certain that you were not asleep.”
“And if I had been asleep, where would have been the wonder? It is scarcely daylight.”
“But, my dear Rafte, you see that I do not sleep.”
“That is another thing, you are a minister—how should you sleep?”
“Oh! now you are going to scold me,” said the marshal, making a wry face before the glass; “are you not satisfied?”
“I! What benefit is it to me? You will fatigue yourself to death and then you will be ill. The consequence will be that I shall have to govern the state, and that is not so amusing, sir.”
“How old you are gelling, Rafte!”
“I am just four years younger than yourself, sir. Yes. I am getting old.”
The marshal stamped with impatience.
“Did you come through the antechambers?” asked he.
“Every one is telling what favors he is going to ask from you.”
“That is very natural. But what did you hear about my appointment?”
“Oh! I would much rather not tell you that.”
“Yes, and from those who have need of your assistance! What will they say, sir, whose assistance you need?”
“Ah! Rafte,” said the old man, affecting to laugh, “those who would say you flatter me—”
“Well, sir,” said Rafte, “why the devil did you harness yourself to this wagon called a ministry? Are you tired of living and of being happy?”
“My dear fellow, I have tasted everything but that.”
“Corbleu! you have never tasted arsenic! Why do you not take some in your chocolate, from curiosity?”
“Rafte, you are an idle dog; you think that, as my secretary, you will have more work, and you shrink—you confessed as much, indeed.”
The marshal dressed himself with care.
“Give me a military air,” said he to his valet, “and hand me my military orders.”
“It seems we are in the war department?” said Rafte.
“Good heavens! yes. It seems we are there.”
“Oh I But I have not seen the king's appointment,” continued Rafte; “it is not confirmed yet.”
“The appointment will come in good time, no doubt.”
“Then, no doubt is the official word to-day?”
“You become more disagreeable, Rafte, as you get older. You are a formalist, and superstitiously particular. If I had known that, I would not have allowed you to deliver my inauguration speech at the Academic; that made you pedantic.”
“But listen, my lord; since we are in the government, let us be regular. This is a very odd affair.”
“Monsieur the Count de la Vaudraye, whom I met just now in the street, told me that nothing had yet been settled about the ministry.”
“M. de la Vaudraye is right.” said he. “But have you already been out, then?”
“Pardieu! I was obliged. This cursed noise of carriages awoke me; I dressed, put on my military orders also, and took a turn in the town.”
“Ah! M. Rafte makes merry at my expense.”
“Oh! my lord, God forbid. But—
“The secretary of the Abbe Terray.”
“Well! he told me that his master was appointed to the war department.”
“Oh! ho!” said Richelieu, with his eternal smile.
“What does monseigneur conclude from this?”
“That if M. Terray is appointed to the war department. I am not; that if he is not, I may perhaps be.”
Rafte had satisfied his conscience; he was a bold, indefatigable, ambitious man, as clever as his master, and much better armed than he, for he knew himself to be of low origin and dependent, two defects in his coat of mail which for forty years he had exercised all his cunning, strength, and acuteness to obviate. When Rafte saw his master so confident, he believed he had nothing more to fear.
“Come, my lord,” said he, “make haste; do not oblige them to wait too long; that would be a bad commencement.”
“I am ready; but tell me once more who is there?”
He presented a long list to his master, who saw with increasing satisfaction the names of the first among the nobility, the law, and the finance.
“Suppose I should be popular, hey. Rafte?”
“We are in the age of miracles,” replied the latter.
“Ha! Taverney!” said the marshal, continuing to peruse the list. “What does he come here for?”
“I have not the least idea, my lord marshal; but come, make your entree,” and the secretary, with an authoritative air, almost pushed his master into the grand salon. Richelieu ought to have been satisfied; his reception might have contented the ambition of a prince of the blood royal. But the refined cunning and craft which characterized the period, and particularly the class of society we are speaking of, only too well assisted Richelieu's unlucky star, which had such a disagreeable contretemps in store for him.
From propriety and respect for etiquette, all this crowded levee abstained from pronouncing the word minister before Richelieu; some were bold enough to venture as far as the word congratulation, but they knew that they must pass quickly over the word, and that Richelieu would scarcely reply to it.
For one and all, this morning visit was a simple demonstration of respect, a mere expression of good-will; for at this period such almost imperceptible shades of policy were frequently understood and acted upon by the general mass of the community. There were certain of the courtiers who even ventured, in the course of conversation, to express some wish, desire, or hope.
The one would have wished, he said, to have his government rather nearer Versailles; and it gratified him to have an opportunity of speaking on the subject to a man of such great influence as M. de Richelieu.
Another said he had been three times forgotten by M. de Choiseul in the promotions of the knights of the order, and he reckoned upon M. de Richelieu's obliging memory to refresh the king's, now that there existed no obstacle in the way of his majesty's good-will. In short, a hundred requests more or less grasping, but all veiled by the highest art, were preferred to the delighted ears of the marshal.
Gradually the crowd retired; they wished, as they said, to leave the marshal to his important occupations.
One man alone remained in the salon; he had not approached as the others had; he had asked for nothing; he had not even presented himself.
When the courtiers had gone, this man advanced toward the duke with a smile upon his lips.
“Ah! Monsieur de Taverney!” said the marshal; “I am enchanted to see you, truly enchanted.”
“I was waiting, duke, to pay you my compliments, and to offer you my sincere congratulations.”
“Ah! indeed? and for what?” replied Richelieu, for the cautious reserve of his visitors had imposed upon him the necessity of being discreet, and even mysterious.
“Hush, hush!” said the marshal, “let us not speak of that; nothing is settled; it is a mere rumor.”
“Nevertheless, my dear marshal, there are many people of my opinion, for your salons were full.”
“In truth, I do not know why.”
“Yesterday I had the honor of paying my respects to the king at Trianon. His majesty spoke to me of my children, and ended by saying; “You know M. de Richelieu, I think; pay your compliments to him.”
“Ah! his majesty said that?” replied Richelieu, with a glow of pride, as if these words had been the official brevet, the destination of which Rafte doubted, or at least deplored its delay.
“So that,” continued Taverney, “I soon suspected the truth; in fact, it was not difficult to do so, when I saw the eagerness of all Versailles; and I hastened to obey the king by paying my compliments to you, and to gratify my own feelings by reminding you of our old friendship.”
The duke had now reached a pitch of intoxication. It is a defect in our nature from which the highest minds cannot always preserve themselves. He saw in Taverney only one of those expectants of the lowest order—poor devils who had fallen behind on the road of favor, who are useless even as proteges, useless as acquaintances, and who are reproached with coming forth from their obscurity, after a lapse of twenty years, to warm themselves at the sun of another's prosperity.
“I see what you are aiming at,” said the marshal, harshly; “you have some favor to ask of me.”
“Ah!” grumbled Richelieu, seating himself on, or rather plumping into, the sofa.
“I told you I had two children,” continued Taverney, pliant and cunning, for he perceived the coolness of his great friend, and therefore only advanced the more eagerly; “I have a daughter whom I love very dearly, and who is a model of virtue and beauty. She is placed with her highness the dauphiness, who has been condescending enough to grant her her particular esteem. Of my beautiful Andree, therefore, I need not speak to you. Her path is smoothed; her fortune is made. Have you seen my daughter? Did I not once present her to you somewhere? Have you not heard of her?”
“Pshaw!—I don't know,” said Richelieu, carelessly, “perhaps so.”
“No matter,” pursued Taverney, “there is my daughter settled. For my own part, I want nothing; the king grants me a pension upon which I can live. I confess I would like to have some emolument to enable me to rebuild Maison-Rouge, where I wish to end my days, and with your interest and my daughter's—”
“Ha!” thought Richelieu, who until now had not listened, so lost was he in contemplation of his grandeur, but whom the words, “my daughter's interest,” had roused from his reverie. “Oh! ho! your daughter! Why, she is a young beauty who annoys our good countess; she is a little scorpion who is sheltering herself under the wings of the dauphiness, in order to bite some one at Luciennes. Come, I will not be a bad friend, and as for gratitude, this dear countess who has made me a minister shall see if I am wanting in time of need.” Then aloud:
“Proceed,” said he to the Baron de Taverney in a naughty tone.
“Faith, I am near the end,” replied the latter, promising himself to laugh in his sleeve at the vain marshal if he could only get what he wanted from him.
“I am anxious, therefore, only about my son Philip, who bears a lofty name, but who will never be able to support it worthily unless some one assists him. Philip is a bold and thoughtful youth; rather too thoughtful, perhaps, but that is the result of his embarrassed position. You know, the horse which is reined in too tightly droops its head.”
“What is all this to me?” thought Richelieu, giving most unequivocal signs of weariness and impatience.
“I want some one,” continued Taverney remorselessly, “some one in authority like yourself, to procure a company for Philip. Her highness the dauphiness, on entering Strasbourg, raised him to the rank of captain, but he still wants a hundred thousand livres to enable him to purchase a company in some privileged regiment of cavalry. Procure that for me, my powerful friend.”
“Your son,” said Richelieu, “is the young man who rendered the dauphiness a service, is he not?”
“A most essential service,” replied Taverney; “it was he who forced the last relay for her royal highness from that Dubarry who wanted to seize it by force.”
“Oh! oh!” thought Richelieu, “that is just it; the most violent enemies of the countess. He comes at the right time, this Taverney! He advances claims which are sufficient to damn him forever.”
“You do not answer, duke?” said Taverney, Fathered soured by the marshal's obstinate silence.
“It is perfectly impossible, my dear M. de Taverney,” replied the marshal, rising to show that the audience was over.
“Impossible? Such a trifle impossible? An old friend tell me that?”
“Why not? Is it any reason, because you are a friend, as you say, that you should seek to make me commit treason both against friendship and justice? You never came to see me for twenty years, for during that time I was nothing; now that I am a minister, you come.”
“M. de Richelieu, it is you who are unjust at this moment.”
“No, my dear friend, no; I do not wish to see you dangling in my antechambers; I am a true friend, and therefore—
“You have some reason for refusing me, then?”
“I!” exclaimed Richelieu, much alarmed at the suspicion Taverney might perhaps form; “I! a reason!”
The duke might have replied what he thought, but that would have been to discover to the baron that he tried to please Madame Dubarry from gratitude—it would have been to confess that he was the minister of the favorite; and that the marshal would not have confessed for an empire. He therefore hastily replied:
“You have no enemy, my dear friend; but I have many. To grant requests at once, without examining claims, would expose me to the accusations of continuing the Choiseul system. My dear sir, I wish to leave behind some trace of my administration of affairs. For twenty years I have projected reforms, improvements, and now they shall blossom. Favoritism is the ruin of France; I will protect merit. The writings of our philosophers are bright torches, whose light has not shone for me in vain; they have dissipated all the mists of ignorance and superstition which brooded over the past, and it was full time it should be so, for the well-being of the state. I shall therefore examine your son's claims neither more nor less than I should do those of any other citizen. I must make this sacrifice to my conscience—a grievous sacrifice, no doubt, but which, after all, is only that of one man for the benefit of three hundred thousand. If your son, M. Philip de Taverney, proves that, he merits my favor, he shall have it, not because his father is my friend, not because he bears the name he does, but because he is a man of merit. That is my plan of conduct.”
“You mean your system of philosophy,” replied the old baron, biting his nails with rage, and adding to his anger by reflecting how much humiliation and how many petty cowardices this interview had cost him.
“Philosophy, if you will, sir; it is a noble word.”
“Which dispenses good things, marshal, does it not?”
“You are a bad courtier!” said Richelieu, with a cold smile.
“Men of my rank are courtiers only of the king.”
“Oh! M. Rafte, my secretary, has a thousand of your rank in my antechambers everyday,” replied Richelieu; “they generally come from some obscure den or other in the provinces, where they have learned to be rude to their pretended friends while they preach concord.”
“Oh! I am well aware that a Maison-Rouge, a title which dates from the crusades, does not understand concord so well as a Vignerol fiddler.”
The marshal had more tact than Taverney. He could have had him thrown out of the windows, but he only shrugged his shoulders and replied:
“You are rather behind the time, most noble scion of the crusades; you only remember the calumnious memoir presented by parliament in 1720, and have not read that of the peers and dukes in reply. Be kind enough to walk into my library, my dear sir; Rafte will give it to you to read.”
As he was bowing his antagonist out with this apt repartee, the door opened, and a man entered noisily, crying:
This man, with ruddy visage, eyes dilated with satisfaction, and joyous air, was neither more nor less than Jean Dubarry.
On seeing this new-comer, Taverney started back with surprise and vexation.
Jean saw the movement, recognized the face, and turned his back.
“I understand,” said the baron, quietly, “and I shall retire. I leave the minister in most distinguished company.”
