CHAPTER XXVI
THE AWFUL CERTITUDE
Then all at once she understood!
There at the further end of the room, against the rich gold of thecurtain, she saw Gaston de Stainville standing beside his wife and oneor two other women, the centre of a gaily chattering crowd, he himselfchattering with them, laughing and jesting, whilst from time to timehis white and slender hand raised a gold-rimmed glass to his eye, witha gesture of fatuity and affectation.
Something in her look, though it had only lasted a few seconds, mustthen and there have compelled his own, for he suddenly dropped hisglass, and their eyes met across the room; Lydie's inquiring, onlyjust beginning to doubt, and fearful, as if begging for reassurance!his, mocking and malicious, triumphant too and self-flattering, whilstla belle Irene, intercepting this exchange of glances, laughed loudlyand shrugged her bare shoulders.
Lydie was not that type of woman who faints, or screams at moments ofacute mental agony. Even now, when the full horror of what she had sosuddenly realized, assailed her with a crushing blow that would havestunned a weaker nature, she contrived to pull herself together and tocontinue the dance to the end. The King--beginning to feel bored inthe company of this silent and obviously absent-minded woman--made nofurther effort at conversation. She had disappointed him; forMonsieur le Comte de Stainville's innuendoes had led him to hope thatthe beautiful marble statue had at last come to life and wouldhenceforth become a valuable addition to the light-hearted circle offriends that rallied round him, helping to make him forget the ennuiof his matrimonial and official life.
Thus the dance was concluded between them in silence. Louis was toodull and vapid to notice the change in his partner's attitude, the icytouch of her fingers, the deathly whiteness of her lips. But presentlyhe, too, caught sight of Gaston de Stainville and immediately therecrept into his face that malicious leer, which awhile ago had kindledLydie's wrath.
Whether she noted it now or not, it were difficult to say. Only agreat determination kept her from making a display before all theseindifferent eyes, of the agonizing torture of her mind and heart.
With infinite relief, she made her final curtsey to her partner, andallowed him to lead her back to her official place beside the royaldais. She could not see clearly, for her eyes had suddenly filled withburning tears of shame and bitter self-accusation. She bit her lipslest a cry of pain escaped them.
"You are ill, my dear! Come away!"
The voice--gentle and deeply concerned--was that of her father. Shedid not dare look at him, lest she should break down, but she allowedhim to lead her away from the immediate noise and glare.
"What is it, Lydie?" queried M. le Duc again, more anxiously, as soonas they had reached a small and secluded alcove. "Has anythingfurther happened? Par Dieu, if that man has again dared . . ."
"What man, father?" she interrupted.
Her voice had no tone in it, she wondered even if M. le Duc wouldhear, but he was talking ambiguously and she had had enough ofmisunderstandings to-day.
"What man?" rejoined Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont irritably. "Your husbandof course. I have heard rumours about his behaviour to you, and by allthe heathen gods . . ."
He paused, astonished and almost awed, for Lydie had laughed suddenly,laughed loudly and long, and there was such a strange ring in thatunnatural mirth, that Monsieur le Duc feared lest excitement had beentoo much for his daughter's brain.
"Lydie! what is it? You must tell me . . . Lydie . . ." he urged,"listen to me . . . do you hear me, Lydie?"
She seemed to be collecting her scattered senses now, but great sobsof hysterical laughter still shook her from head to foot, and sheleaned against her father's arm almost as if she feared to fall.
"Yes, father dear," she said fairly coherently, "I do hear you, and Ipray you take no heed of me. Much hath occurred to-day to disturb meand my nerves seem to be on the jar. Perhaps I do not see quiteclearly either. Father, tell me," she added with a voice almoststeady, but harsh and trenchant, and with glowing eyes fixed on theDuke's face, "did I perceive Gaston de Stainville in the crowd justnow?"
"You may have done, my dear," he replied with some hesitation. "I donot know."
She had been quick enough to note that, at mention of Gaston's name,his eyes suddenly wore a curious shamefaced expression and avoidedmeeting her own. She pressed her point more carelessly, feeling thatthere was something that he would only tell her, if she was perfectlycalm and natural in her questionings.
"Then he is here?" she asked.
"Yes . . . I believe so . . . why do you ask?"
"I thought him gone," she said lightly, "that was all. Methought therewas an errand he had meant to perform."
"Oh! there is no immediate hurry for that!"
Monsieur le Duc d'Amont, never a very keen observer, was feeling quitereassured by her calmer mood. His daughter had been overwrought.Events had crowded in upon her, thick and fast, some of them of anunpleasant nature: her final surrender to Gaston de Stainville couldnot have occurred without a wrench; sentiment--he supposed--havingconquered friendship and loyalty, no doubt remorse had held sway forawhile. He certainly thought his daughter quite at one with him andhis confederates in the treacherous plan; it never entered his headfor a moment to blame her for this _volte-face_, nor did he realizethat Gaston's attitude had been one of lying infamy. He knew her for apure-minded and exceptionally proud woman and his paternal heart hadno fear that she would stoop to a vulgar intrigue, at the same time hehad no reason to doubt that she had yielded to the persuasive powersof a man whom she had certainly loved at one time, who and ofnecessity would still exercise a certain influence over her.
And now she was no doubt anxious to know something of future plansshe had probably not heard what had been decided with regard to theexpedition, and perhaps fretted as to how her own actions had beeninterpreted by her father and the King. It was with a view toreassuring her on all these points that he now added:
"We are not thinking of sending _Le Monarque_."
"Ah? I thought that she would have been the most likely vessel. . ."
"_Le Levantin_ will be safer," he explained, "but she will not beready to put to sea for five or six days, so Gaston will not startuntil then; but you need have no fear, dear; the orders together withthe map and the precious letter, which you have given him, are quitesafe in his hands. He is too deeply concerned in the success of theexpedition to think of betraying you, even if his regard were lessgenuine. . . . And we are all deeply grateful to you, my dear . . . Itwas all for the best. . ."
He patted her hand with kindly affection, much relieved now, for sheseemed quite calm and the colour even was coming back to her cheeks:all the afternoon he had been dreading this meeting with his daughter,for he had not seen her since he learned from Gaston that she hadyielded to his entreaties, and given him the map and letter whichwould help the King of France to betray his friend: now he was glad tofind that--save for an unusual hysterical outburst--she took the wholematter as coolly as he did himself.
There is no doubt that there are moments in life when a crisis is soacute, a catastrophe so overwhelming, that all our faculties becomecompletely deadened: our individuality goes out of us, and we becomemere dolls moving automatically by muscular action and quiteindependently of our brain.
Thus it was with Lydie.
Her father's words could not be misunderstood. They left her withoutthat last faint shadow of doubt which, almost unbeknown to herself,had been her main support during the past few minutes of this intenseagony. Now the tiny vestige of hope had vanished. Blank despairinvaded her brain and she had the sensation as if sorrow had turned itinto a pulpy mass, a great deal too bulky for her head, causing it tothrob and to ache intolerably. Beyond that, the rest of herself as itwere, became quite mechanical. She was glad that her father saidnothing more about the scheme. She knew all that she wanted to know:Gaston's hideous, horrible treachery, the clumsy trap into which shehad fallen, and above all the hopeless peril into
which she hadplunged the very man whom she had wished to save.
She had been the most perfidious traitor amongst them all, for theunfortunate prince had given her his friendship, and had trusted hermore fully than he had others.
And then there was her husband!
Of him she would not think, for that way lay madness surely!
She managed to smile to her father, and to reassure him. Presently shewould tell him all . . . to-morrow perhaps, but not just yet . . . Shedid not hate him somehow. She could not have hated him, for she knewhim and had always loved him. But he was weak and easily misguided.
Heavens above! had anyone been more culpably weak, more misguided thanshe herself?
Monsieur le Duc, fully satisfied in his mind now by her outward calm,and the steady brilliance of her eyes, recalled her to her officialduties.
"Dancing is over, Lydie," he said, "have you not a few presentationsto Her Majesty to effect?"
"Oh yes!" she said perfectly naturally, "of a truth I had almostforgotten . . . the first time for many years, eh? my dear father. . .How some people will gossip at this remissness of Madame la GrandeMarechale de la Cour . . . will you conduct me straight away to HerMajesty? . . . I hope she has not yet noticed my absence."
She leaned somewhat heavily on her father's arm, for she was afraidthat she could not otherwise have walked quite straight. She fullyrealized what it meant when men talked of drunkenness amongstthemselves. Copious libations must produce--she thought--just thissame sensation of swaying and tottering, and hideous, painfulgiddiness.
Already Monsieur de Louvois, Her Majesty's Chamberlain, was waiting,whilst the ladies, who were to receive the honour of specialpresentation, were arraigned in a semi-circle to the left of the dais.Beneath the canopy the King and Queen were standing: Louis looking asusual insufferably bored, and the Queen calmly dignified, not a littledisdainful, and closely scrutinizing the bevy of women--more or lessgorgeously apparelled, some old, some young, mostly rather dowdy andstiff in their appearance--who were waiting to be introduced.
Quickly, and with a respectful curtsey indicative of apology, Lydienow took her stand beside her Royal mistress and the ceremony ofpresentations began. The chamberlain read out a name; one unitthereupon detached itself from the feminine group, approached withsedate steps to the foot of the throne, and made a deep obeisance,whilst Madame la Grande Marechale said a few appropriate words, thatwere meant to individualize that unit in the mind of the Queen.
"Madame de Balincourt. Your Majesty will deign to remember the braveGeneral who fought at Fontenoy. Madame has eschewed country lifemomentarily for the honour of being presented to your Majesty."
"Enchantee, Madame," the Queen would reply graciously, offering herhand for a respectful kiss.
"Madame Helvetius, the wife of our renowned scientist and philosopher.Your Majesty is acquainted with his works."
"Enchantee, Madame!"
"And Mademoiselle Helvetius, striving to become as learned as herdistinguished father, and almost succeeding so 'tis said."
The Queen deigned to say a few special words to this shy _debutante_and to her mother, both primly clad in badly-fitting gowns whichproclaimed the country dressmaker, but in their simplicity andgaucherie peculiarly pleasing to Her Majesty.
And thus the procession filed past. Elderly women and young girls,some twenty in all, mostly hailing from distant parts of France, wherethe noise and frivolity of the Court of Versailles had not even rousedan echo. The Queen was very gracious. She liked this select littlecircle of somewhat dowdy provincials, who she felt would be quite atone with her in her desire for the regeneration of social France. Theuglier and less fashionable were the women, the more drabby andill-fitting their clothes, the sweeter and more encouraging became HerMajesty's smile. She asked lengthy questions from her GrandeMarechale, and seemed to take a malicious delight in irritating theKing, by protracting this ceremony, which she knew bored him todistraction, until he could scarcely manage to smother the yawns whichcontinually assailed his jaws.
Suddenly Lydie felt her limbs stiffen and her throat close as if ironfingers had gripped it. She had been saying the usual platitudes anentthe wife, sister or aunt of some worthy general or country squire,when Monsieur de Louvois called out a name:
"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville."
And from out the group of dowdy country matrons and starchy-looking_devotes_ a brilliant figure now detached itself and glided forwardwith consummate grace. Irene de Stainville was approaching forpresentation to the Queen, her eyes becomingly cast down, a rosy flushon her cheeks, for she was conscious that she was beautiful and thatthe King's wearied eyes had lighted up at sight of her.
There was something almost insolent in the gorgeousness of her gown:it was of a rich turquoise blue, that stood out, glaring and vividagainst the buttercup-coloured hangings of the room. Her stiff corsletwas frankly _decollete_, displaying her fine shoulders and creamybosom, on which reposed a delicately wrought turquoise necklet ofexquisite design. Her hair was piled up over her head, in themonumental and _outre_ style lately decreed by Dame Fashion, and thebrocade of her panniers stood out in stiff folds each side of her,like balloon-shaped supports, on which her white arms rested withgraceful ease. It seemed as if a gaudy, exotic butterfly had lost itsway, and accidentally fluttered into an assembly of moths.
Gaston de Stainville stood a little behind his wife. Etiquettedemanded that he should be near her, when she made her obesiance tothe Queen. He, too, somehow, looked out of place among these moresedate cavaliers: there had always been a very distinct differencebetween the dress worn by the ladies and gentlemen of the Queen'sentourage, and the more ornate style adopted by the gayer frequentersof the Court of Versailles. This difference was specially noticeablenow, when this handsome young couple stood before Her Majesty, she notunlike a glittering jewel herself, he in a satin coat of pale mauve,that recalled the delicate shades of a bank of candytuft in mid-June.
The Queen no longer looked down from her dais with an indulgent,somewhat melancholy smile. Her eyes--cold and gray as those of KingStanislaus had been--regarded with distinct disapproval these twopeople, who, in her rigid judgment, were naught but gaudily decked-outdolls, and who walked on high-heeled shoes that made an unpleasantnoise on the polished floor.
Lydie had during the last agonizing half-hour wholly forgotten Irenede Stainville and the presentation which, on an impulse of gratitudetoward Gaston, she had promised to bring about, and she certainly hadnot been prepared for this meeting, face to face, with the man who,for the second time in her life, had so bitterly and cruelly wrongedher.
Gaston did not seem anxious to avoid her gaze. There was insolenttriumph and mockery in every line of his attitude: in the head throwna little to one side; in the eyes narrowed until they were slits,gazing at her over the barrier of his wife's elaborate coiffure: inthe slender, well-kept hand toying with the gold-rimmed eyeglass, andabove all in the sensual, sneering mouth, and the full lips parted ina smile.
Lydie was hardly conscious of Irene's presence, of any one in fact,save of Gaston de Stainville, of whom she had dreamed so romanticallya few hours ago, speeding him on his way, praying--God help her!--thathe might be well and safe. An intense bitterness surged up in herheart, a deadly contempt for him. Awhile ago she would not havebelieved that she could hate anyone so. She would at this moment havegladly bartered her life for the joy of doing him some awful injury.All softness, gentleness, went out of her nature, just while shelooked at Gaston and caught his mocking smile.
It was the mockery that hurt her so! The awful humiliation of it all!
And there was also in Lydie that highly sensitive sense of loyalty,which revolted at the sight of these traitors approaching, with asmile of complacency on their lips, this proud Queen who was ignorantof their infamy.
Women have often been called petty in their hates: rightly perhaps!but let us remember that their power to punish is limited, andtherefore they strike as best they can. Lydie, in sp
ite of herinfluence and her high position, could do so little to punish Gaston,now that by his abominable treachery he had filched every trump cardfrom her.
She had been such an unpardonable fool--and she knew it--that her veryself-abasement whipped up her sense of retaliation, her desire forsome sort of revenge, into veritable fury; and thus, when la belleIrene, triumphant in the pride of her universally acknowledgedbeauty, came to the foot of the Royal dais, when--through someunexplainable and occult reason--a hush of expectancy descended on allspectators, Lydie's voice was suddenly raised, trenchant and decisive:
"This is an error on Monsieur le Chambellan's part," she said loudly,so that everyone in the vast audience-chamber might hear. "There is noone here to present this lady to Her Majesty!"
A gasp went round the room, a sigh of astonishment, of horror, ofanticipation, and in the silence that immediately followed, theproverbial pin would have been heard to drop: every rustle of a silkengown, every creak of a shoe sounded clear and distinct, as did thequickly-suppressed sneer that escaped Gaston de Stainville's lips andthe frou-frou of his satin coat sleeve as he raised the gold-rimmedglass to his eye.
What were the joys of gossip in comparison with this unexpectedsensation, which moreover would certainly be the prelude to an amazingscandal? Anon everyone drew instinctively nearer. All eyes were fixedon the several actors of this palpitating little scene.
Already Irene had straightened her graceful figure, with a quick jerkas if she had been struck. The terrible affront must have taken hercompletely unawares, but now that it had come, she instantly guessedits cause. Nevertheless there was nothing daunted or bashful about herattitude. The colour blazed into her cheeks, and her fine dark eyesresponded to Lydie's scornful glance with one of defiance and of hate.
The Queen looked visibly annoyed. She disliked scenes andunpleasantness, and all incidents which disturbed the even placidityof her official life: the King, on the other hand, swore anunmistakable oath. Obviously he had already taken sides in favour ofthe gaily-plumaged butterfly against the duller moths, whilst Monsieurde Louvois looked hopelessly perturbed. He was very young and had onlylately been appointed to the onerous position of Queen's Chamberlain.Though the post was no sinecure, a scandal such as threatened now, wasquite unprecedented. He scented a violent passage of arms between twoyoung and beautiful women, both of high social position, and manlikehe would sooner have faced a charge of artillery than this duelbetween two pairs of rosy lips, wherein he feared that he might becalled upon to arbitrate.
Lydie, alone among all those present, had retained her outwardserenity. This was her hour, and she meant to press her triumph hometo the full. All the pent-up horror and loathing which had well-nighchoked her during the whole of this terrible day, now rose clamouringand persistent in this opportunity for revenge. Though Gaston stoodcalm and mocking by, though Irene looked defiant and her cheeks flamedwith wrath, they would glow with shame anon, for Lydie haddeliberately aimed a blow at her vanity, the great and vulnerable spotin the armour of _la belle brune de Bordeaux_.
Lydie knew Marie Leszcynska well enough to be sure that the verybreath of scandal, which she had deliberately blown on Gaston's wife,was enough to cause the rigid, puritanically-minded Queen to refuseall future intercourse with her. Rightly or wrongly, without furtherjudgment or appeal, the Queen would condemn Irene unheard, and banher and her husband for ever from her intimacy, thus setting the markof a certain social ostracism upon them, which they could never livedown.
Less than three seconds had elapsed whilst these conflicting emotionsassailed the various actors of this drawing-room drama. The Queen nowturned with a frown half-inquiring, wholly disapproving toward theunfortunate Louvois.
"Monsieur le Chambellan," she said sternly, "how did this occur? We donot allow any error to creep in the list of presentations made to ourRoyal person."
These few words recalled Irene to the imminence of her peril. Shewould not allow herself to be humiliated without a protest, nor wouldshe so readily fall a victim to Lydie's obvious desire for revenge.She too was shrewd enough to know that the Queen would never forgive,and certainly never forget, the _esclandre_ of this presentation; butif she herself was destined to fall socially, at least she would dragher enemy down with her, and bury Lydie's influence, power andpopularity beneath the ruins of her own ambitions.
"Your Majesty will deign I hope to pause a moment ere you sweep mefrom before your Royal eyes unheard," she said boldly; "the error ison the part of Madame la Grande Marechale. My name was put on Monsieurle Chambellan's list by her orders."
But Marie Leszcynska would not at this juncture take any direct noticeof Irene; until it was made quite clear that Madame la Comtesse deStainville was a fit and proper person to be presented to the Queen ofFrance, she absolutely ignored her very existence, lest a word fromher be interpreted as implying encouragement, or at leastrecognition. Therefore she looked beyond Irene, straight at Monsieurde Louvois, and addressed herself directly to him.
"What are the true facts, Monsieur le Chambellan?" she said.
"I certainly . . . er . . . had the list as usual . . . er . . . fromMadame la Grande Marechale . . . and . . ." poor Monsieur de Louvoisstammered in a fit of acute nervousness.
"Then 'tis from you, Madame la Marquise, that we require anexplanation for this unseemly disturbance," rejoined Her Majestyturning her cold, gray eyes on Lydie.
"The explanation is quite simple, your Majesty," replied Lydie calmly."It had been my intention to present Madame la Comtesse de Stainvilleto your Majesty, but since then events have occurred, which willcompel me to ask Madame la Comtesse to find some other lady to performthe office for her."
"The explanation is not quite satisfactory to us," rejoined HerMajesty with all the rigid hauteur of which she possessed the stingingsecret, "and it will have to be properly and officially amplifiedto-morrow. But this is neither the place nor the moment for discussingsuch matters. Monsieur de Louvois, I pray you to proceed with theother names on your list. The Queen has spoken!"
With these arrogant words culled from the book of etiquette peculiarto her own autocratic house, the daughter of the deposed King ofPoland waved the incident aside as if it had never been. A quicklyrepressed murmur went all round the room. Lydie swept a deep andrespectful curtsey before Her Majesty, and indicated by her ownmanner that, as far as she was concerned, the incident was now closedby royal command.
But Irene de Stainville's nature was not one that would allow thematter to be passed over so lightly. Whichever way the Queen mightchoose to act, she felt that at any rate the men must be on her side:and though King Louis himself was too indolent and egotistical tointerfere actively on her behalf, and her own husband could not domore than pick a quarrel with some wholly innocent person, yet she wasquite sure that she detected approval and encouragement to fight herown battles in the looks of undisguised admiration which the masculineelement there present freely bestowed upon her. Monsieur le Ducd'Aumont, for one, looked stern disapproval at his daughter, whilstMonsieur de Louvois was visibly embarrassed.
It was, therefore, only a case of two female enemies, one of whomcertainly was the Queen of France--a prejudiced and obstinate autocratif ever there was one, within the narrow confines of her own intimatecircle--and the other exceptionally highly placed, both in Courtfavour and in official status.
Still Irene de Stainville felt that her own beauty was at least aspowerful an asset, when fighting for social prestige, as the politicalinfluence of her chief adversary.
Therefore when the Queen of France chose to speak as if Madame laComtesse de Stainville did not even exist, and Monsieur de Louvoisdiffidently but firmly begged her to stand aside, she boldly refused.
"Nay! the Queen shall hear me," she said in a voice which trembled alittle now with suppressed passion; "surely Her Majesty will not allowa jealous woman's caprice . . ."
"Silence, wench," interrupted Marie Leszcynska with all the authority,the pride, the dictatorial will, which she ha
d inherited from herPolish ancestors; "you forget that you are in the presence of yourQueen."
"Nay, Madame, I do not forget it," said Irene, nothing daunted, andfirmly holding her ground. "I remember it with every word I utter, andremember that the name of our Queen stands for purity and for justice.Your Majesty," she added, being quick to note the slightly yieldinglook which, at her cleverly chosen words, crept in Marie Leszcynska'seyes, and gracefully dropping on her knees on the steps of the throne,"will you at least deign to hear me? I may not be worthy to kiss yourMajesty's hand; we none of us are that, I presume, for you standinfinitely above us by right of your virtues and your dignity, but Iswear to the Queen of France that I have done nothing to deserve thispublic affront."
She paused a moment, to assure herself that she held the attention ofthe Queen and of every one there present, then she fixed her dark eyesstraight on Lydie and said loudly, so that her clear, somewhat shrillyoung voice rang out triumphantly through the room:
"My husband was made a tool of by Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton, forthe purpose of selling the Stuart prince to England."
Once more there was dead silence in the vast reception hall, a fewseconds during which the loudly accusing voice died away in an almostimperceptible echo, but in one heart at least those seconds might havebeen a hundred hours, for the wealth of misery they contained.
Lydie stood as if turned to stone. Though she had realized Gaston'streachery she had not thought that it would mean all this. The utterinfamy of it left her paralyzed and helpless. She had delivered hersoul, her mind, her honour, her integrity to the vilest traitor thatever darkened the face of the earth. If a year ago she had humiliatedhim, if to-day she had tried to thwart all his future ambitions, hewas fully revenged now.
She did not hear even the loyal Queen's protest:
"It is false!" for Marie Leszcynska, sickened and horrified, was lothto believe the truth of this terrible indictment against the one womanshe had always singled out for royal trust and royal friendship.
"It is true, your Majesty," said Irene firmly, as she once more roseto her feet. "Deign to ask Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton if to-day inthe loneliness of the Park of Versailles, she did not place in thehands of Monsieur le Comte de Stainville the secret of the Stuartprince's hiding place so that he might be delivered over to theEnglish for a large sum of money. Madame is beautiful and rich andinfluential, Monsieur de Stainville being a man, dared not refuse toobey her orders, but Monsieur de Stainville is also handsome andyoung, Madame honoured him with her regard, and I the wife was to bepublicly ostracised and swept aside, for I was in the way, and mighthave an indiscreet tongue in my mouth. That, your Majesty, is thetruth," concluded Irene now with triumphant calm; "deign to look intoher face and mine and see which is the paler, she or I."
Marie Leszcynska had listened in silence at the awful accusation thushurled by one woman against the other. At Irene's final words sheturned and looked at Lydie, saw the marble-like hue of the face, therigidity of the young form, the hopeless despair expressed in thehalf-closed eyes. It is but fair to say that the Queen even now didnot altogether believe Madame de Stainville's story: she instinctivelywas still drawing a comparison between the gaudily apparelled dollwith the shrill voice, and the impudently bared shoulders, and theproud, graceful woman in robes of virginal white, of whom, during allthese years of public life, unkind tongues were only able to say thatshe was cold, rigid, dull, uninteresting perhaps, but whose vestalrobes the breath of evil scandal had never dared to pollute.
The Queen did not feel that guilt was written now on that straight,pure brow, but she had a perfectly morbid horror of any _esclandre_occurring in her presence or at one of her Courts. Moreover, Irene hadcertainly struck one chord, which jarred horribly on the puritanicalQueen's nerves, and unfortunately at the very moment when Madame deStainville made this final poisoned suggestion, Marie Lesczynska'seyes happened to be resting on the King's face. In Louis' expressionshe caught the leer, the smile, half-mocking, half indulgent which washabitual to him when woman's frailty was discussed, and her wholepride rose in revolt at contact with these perpetual scandals, whichdisgraced the Court of Versailles, and which she was striving so hardto banish from her own entourage.
Because of this she felt angered now with every one quiteindiscriminately. A few years ago her sense of justice would havecaused her to sift this matter through, to test for herself the rightsor wrongs of an obviously bitter quarrel; but lately this sense ofjustice had become blunted, through many affronts to her personaldignity as a Queen and as a wife. It had left her with a morbidegotistical regard for the majesty of her Court: this she felt hadbeen attainted; and now she only longed to get away, and leave behindher all this vulgarity, these passions, these petty quarrels, whichshe so cordially abhorred.
"Enough," she said sternly; "our royal cheeks glow with shame atthought that this indecent brawl should have occurred in our presence.Your Majesty," she added turning haughtily to the King, "your arm, Ipray; we cannot endure this noisy bickering, which is more fitting forthe slums of Paris than for the throne-room of the Queen of France."
Louis' bewilderment was almost comical. It would have been utterlyimpossible for him, and quite unseemly in his wife's presence, tointerfere in what was obviously a feminine quarrel, even if he haddesired to do so; and he had not altogether made up his mind howMadame la Comtesse de Stainville's indiscreet outburst would affecthim personally, which was all that really interested him in thematter. On the whole he was inclined to think favourably of the newaspect of affairs. When the fact of the Stuart prince's betrayal intohis enemies' hands became known--which it was bound to do sooner orlater--it was not unpleasant that the first hint of the treacheryshould have come in such a form as to implicate Lydie, and that sodeeply, that ever afterward the public, clinging to the old proverbthat there is no smoke without fire, would look upon her as the primemover in the nefarious scheme.
Louis the Well-beloved possessed, par excellence, the subtle knack oftaking care of his august person, and above all of his augustreputation. It would certainly be as well, for the sake of thefuture, that his over-indulgent subjects should foster the beliefthat, in this vile treachery, their King had been misled; more sinnedagainst than sinning.
But of course he too was anxious to get away. That the presentfeminine altercation would lead to a more serious quarrel, he alreadyguessed from the fact that his shrewd eyes had perceived Lord Eglintonstanding close to one of the great doors at the further end of theroom. Vaguely Louis wondered how much the husband had heard, and whathe would do if he had heard everything. Then he mentally shrugged hisshoulders, thinking that after all it did not matter what milor'sfuture actions might be. Louis was quite convinced that Madame Lydiehad thrown her bonnet over the mills, and that, as a gallantgentleman, milor would above all things have to hold his peace.
His Majesty therefore was not angered against any one. He smiled quiteaffably at the Comte and Comtesse de Stainville and bestowed a knowingwink on Lydie, who fortunately was too dazed to notice this finalinsult.
Every one else was silent and awed. The Queen now descended the stepsof the dais on the arm of the King. Irene was a little disappointedthat nothing more was going to happen. She opened her lips, ready tospeak again but Marie Leszcynska threw her such a haughty, scornfulglance that Gaston de Stainville, realizing the futility--nay! thedanger---of prolonging this scene, placed a peremptory hand on hiswife's arm, forcibly drawing her away.
At the foot of the steps Her Majesty once more turned to Lydie.
"We shall expect an explanation from you, Marquise," she saidhaughtily, "but not to-night. See that our audience chamber is clearedfrom all this rabble."
And with this parting shot, hurled recklessly at her faithfuladherents, just as much as at those who had offended her, thedescendant of a proud line of Kings sailed majestically out of theroom, whilst a loud "hush-sh-sh-sh . . ." caused by the swish ofbrocaded skirts on the parquet floor as every one made a deepobeisance, ac
companied the Royal lady in her short progress toward thedoor and then softly died away.