Читать книгу Petticoat Government - Baroness Orczy - Страница 10

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And Lydie d’Aumont’s eyes had watched his disappearing figure through the crowd, until she could bear the sight no longer, and closed them with the pain.

An even, pleasant, very courteous voice roused her from her reverie.

“You are tired, Mlle. d’Aumont. May I—that is, I should be very proud if you would allow me to—er—”

She opened her eyes and saw the handsome face of “le petit Anglais” turned up to her with a look of humility, a deprecatory offer of service, and withal a strange mingling of compassion which somehow at this moment, in her sensitive and nervous state, seemed to wound and sting her.

“I’m not the least tired,” she said coldly; “I thank you, milor. The colours and the light were so dazzling for the moment, my eyes closed involuntarily.”

“I humbly beg your pardon,” said Eglinton with nervous haste; “I thought that perhaps a glass of wine—”

“Tush child!” interposed Lady Eglinton in her harsh dry voice; “have you not heard that Mlle. d’Aumont is not fatigued. Offer her the support of your arm and take her to see the Chevalier de Saint George, who is waiting to bid her ‘good-bye.’”

“Nay! I assure you I can walk alone,” rejoined Lydie, taking no heed to the proffered arm which Lord Eglinton, in obedience to his mother’s suggestion, was holding out toward her. “Where is His Majesty the King of England?” emphasizing the title with marked reproof, and looking with somewhat good-natured contempt at the young Englishman who, with a crestfallen air, had already dropped the arm which she had disdained and stepped quickly out of her way, whilst a sudden blush spread over his good-looking face.

He looked so confused and sheepish, so like a chidden child, that she was instantly seized with remorse, as if she had teased a defenseless animal, and though the touch of contempt was still apparent in her attitude, she said more kindly:

“I pray you forgive me, milor. I am loth to think that perhaps our gallant Chevalier will never bear his rightful title in his own country. I feel that it cheers him to hear us—who are in true sympathy with him—calling him by that name. Shall we go find the King of England and wish him ‘God-speed’?”

She beckoned to Lord Eglinton, but he had probably not yet sufficiently recovered from the snub administered to him to realize that the encouraging glance was intended for him, and he hung back, not daring to follow, instinctively appealing to his mother for guidance as to what he should do.

“He is modest,” said Lady Eglinton, with the air of a proud mother lauding her young offspring. “A heart of gold, my dear Mlle. d’Aumont!” she whispered behind her fan, “under a simple exterior.”

Lydie shrugged her shoulders with impatience. She knew whither Lady Eglinton’s praises of her son would drift presently. The pompous lady looked for all the world like a fussy hen, her stiff brocaded gown and voluminous paniers standing out in stiff folds each side of her portly figure like a pair of wings, and to Lydie d’Aumont’s proud spirit it seemed more than humiliating for a man, rich, young, apparently in perfect health, to allow himself to be domineered over by so vapid a personality as was milady Eglinton.

Instinctively her thoughts flew back to Gaston; very different physically to “le petit Anglais;” undoubtedly not so attractive from the point of view of manly grace and bearing, but a man for all that! with a man’s weaknesses and failings, and just that spice of devilry and uncertainty in him which was pleasing to a woman.

“So unreliable, my dear Mlle. d’Aumont,” came in insinuating accents from Lady Eglinton. “Look at his lengthy entanglement with Mlle. de Saint Romans.”

Lydie gave a start sudden; had she spoken her thoughts out loudly whilst her own mind was buried in happy retrospect? She must have been dreaming momentarily certainly, and must have been strangely absent-minded, for she was quite unconscious of having descended the alcove steps until she found herself walking between Lord Eglinton and his odious mother, in the direction of the corridors, whilst milady went prattling on with irritating monotony:

“You would find such support in my son. The Chevalier de Saint George—er—I mean the King of England—trusts him absolutely, you understand—they have been friends since boyhood. Harry would do more for him if he could, but he has not the power. Now as Comptroller of Finance—you understand? You have such sympathy with the Stuart pretensions, Mademoiselle, and a union of sympathies would do much towards furthering the success of so just a cause; and if my son—you understand—”

Lydie’s ears were buzzing with the incessant chatter. Had she not been so absorbed in her thoughts she would have laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. This insignificant nonentity beside her, with the strength and character of a chicken, pushed into a place of influence and power by that hen-like mother, and she—Lydie—lending a hand to this installation of a backboneless weakling to the highest position of France!

The situation would have been supremely ridiculous were it not for the element of pathos in it—the pathos of a young life which might have been so brilliant, so full of activity and interest, now tied to the apron-strings of an interfering mother.

Lydie herself, though accustomed to rule in one of the widest spheres that ever fell to woman’s lot, wielded her sceptre with discretion and tact. In these days when the King was ruled by Pompadour, when Mme. du Châtelet swayed the mind of Voltaire, and Marie Thérèse subjugated the Hungarians, there was nothing of the blatant petticoat government in Lydie’s influence over her father. The obtrusive domination of a woman like milady was obnoxious and abhorrent to her mind, proud of its feminity, gentle in the consciousness of its strength.

Now she feared that, forgetful of courtly manners, she might say or do something which would offend the redoubtable lady. There was still the whole length of the banqueting-hall to traverse, also the corridor, before she could hope to be released from so unwelcome a companionship.

Apparently unconscious of having roused Lydie’s disapproval, milady continued to prattle. Her subject of conversation was still her son, and noting that his attention seemed to be wandering, she called to him in her imperious voice:

“Harry! Harry!” she said impatiently. “Am I to to be your spokesman from first to last? Ah!” she added, with a sigh, “men are not what they were when I was wooed and won. What say you, my dear Mlle. Lydie? The age of chivalry, of doughty deeds and bold adventures, is indeed past and gone, else a young man of Lord Eglinton’s advantages would not depute his own mother to do his courting for him.”

A shriek of laughter which threatened to be hysterical rose to Lydie’s throat. How gladly would she have beaten a precipitate retreat. Unfortunately the room was crowded with people, who unconsciously impeded progress. She turned and looked at “le petit Anglais,” the sorry hero of this prosaic wooing, wondering what was his rôle in this silly, childish intrigue. She met his gentle eyes fixed upon hers with a look which somehow reminded her of a St. Bernard dog that she had once possessed; there was such a fund of self-deprecation, such abject apology in the look, that she felt quite unaccountably sorry for him, and the laughter died before it reached her lips.

Something prompted her to try and reassure him; the same feeling would have caused her to pat the head of her dog.

“I feel sure,” she said kindly, “that Lord Eglinton will have no need of a proxy once he sets his mind on serious wooing.”

“But this is serious!” retorted Lady Eglinton testily. Lydie shook her head:

“As little serious as his lordship’s desire to control the finances of France.”

“Oh! but who better fitted for the post than my son. He is so rich—the richest man in France, and in these days of bribery and corruption—you understand, and—and being partly English—not wholly, I am thankful to say—for I abominate the English myself; but we must own that they are very shrewd where money is concerned—and—”

“In the name of Heaven, milady,” said Lydie irritably, “will you not allow your son to know his own mind? If he has a request to place before M. le Duc my father or before me, let him do so for himself.”

“I think—er—perhaps Mlle. d’Aumont is right,” here interposed Lord Eglinton gently. “You will—er—I hope, excuse my mother, Mademoiselle; she is so used to my consulting her in everything that perhaps— You see,” he continued in his nervous halting, way, “I—I am rather stupid and I am very lazy; she thinks I should understand finance, because I—but I don’t believe I should; I—”

Her earnest eyes, fixed with good-humoured indulgence upon his anxious face, seemed to upset him altogether. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt as if it were several sizes too large for his parched mouth. For the moment it looked as if the small modicum of courage which he possessed would completely give out, but noting that just for the moment his mother was engaged in exchanging hasty greetings with a friend, he seemed to make a violent and sudden effort, and with the audacity which sometimes assails the preternaturally weak, he plunged wildly into his subject.

“I have no desire for positions which I am too stupid to fill,” he said, speaking so rapidly that Lydie could hardly follow him; “but, Mademoiselle, I entreat you do not believe that my admiration for you is not serious. I know I am quite unworthy to be even your lacquey, though I wouldn’t mind being that, since it would bring me sometimes near you. Please, please, don’t look at me—I am such a clumsy fool, and I daresay I am putting things all wrong! My mother says,” he added, with a pathetic little sigh, “that I shall spoil everything if I open my mouth, and now I have done it, and you are angry, and I wish to God somebody would come and give me a kick!”

He paused, flushed, panting and excited, having come to the end of his courage, whilst Lydie did not know if she should be angry or sorry. A smile hovered round her lips, yet she would gladly have seen some manlike creature administer chastisement to this foolish weakling. Her keenly analytical mind flew at once to comparisons.

Gaston de Stainville—and now this poor specimen of manhood! She had twice been wooed in this self-same room within half an hour; but how different had been the methods of courting. A look of indulgence for the weak, a flash of pride for the strong, quickly lit up her statuesque face. It was the strong who had won, though womanlike, she felt a kindly pity for him who did not even dare to ask for that which the other had so boldly claimed as his right—her love.

Fortunately, the tête-à-tête, which was rapidly becoming embarrassing—for she really did not know how to reply to this strange and halting profession of love—was at last drawing to a close. At the end of the corridor Charles Edward Stuart, surrounded by a group of friends, had caught sight of her, and with gracious courtesy he advanced to meet her.

“Ah! the gods do indeed favour us,” he said gallantly in answer to her respectful salute, and nodding casually to Lady Eglinton, who had bobbed him a grudging curtsey, “We feared that our enemy, Time, treading hard on our heels, would force us to depart ere we had greeted our Muse.”

“Your Majesty is leaving us?” she asked. “So soon?”

“Alas! the hour is late. We start to-morrow at daybreak.”

“God speed you, Sire!” she said fervently.

“To my death,” he rejoined gloomily.

“To victory, Sire, and your Majesty’s own kingdom!” she retorted cheerily. “Nay! I, your humble, yet most faithful adherent, refuse to be cast down to-night. See,” she added, pointing to the group of gentlemen who had remained discreetly in the distance, “you have brave hearts to cheer you, brave swords to help you!”

“Would I were sure of a brave ship to rescue me and them if I fail!” he murmured.

She tossed her head with a characteristic movement of impatience.

“Nay! I was determined not to speak of failure to-night, Sire.”

“Yet must I think of it,” he rejoined, “since the lives of my friends are dependent on me.”

“They give their lives gladly for your cause.”

“I would prefer to think that a good ship from France was ready to take them aboard if evil luck force us to flee.”

“France has promised you that ship, Monseigneur,” she said earnestly:

“If France meant you, Mademoiselle,” he said firmly, “I would believe in her.”

“She almost means Lydie d’Aumont!” retorted the young girl, with conscious pride.

“Only for a moment,” broke in Lady Eglinton spitefully; “but girls marry,” she added, “and every husband may not be willing to be held under the sway of satin petticoats.”

“If France fails you, Monseigneur,” here interposed a gentle voice, “I have already had the honour of assuring you that there is enough Eglinton money still in the country to fit out a ship for your safety; and—er—”

Then, as if ashamed of this outburst, the second of which he had been guilty to-night, “le petit Anglais” once more relapsed into silence. But Lydie threw him a look of encouragement.

“Well spoken, milor!” she said approvingly.

With her quick intuition she had already perceived that milady was displeased, and she took a malicious pleasure in dragging Lord Eglinton further into the conversation. She knew quite well that milady cared naught about the Stuarts or their fate. From the day of her marriage she had dissociated herself from the cause, for the furtherance of which her husband’s father had given up home and country.

It was her influence which had detached the late Lord Eglinton from the fortunes of the two Pretenders; justly, perhaps, since the expeditions were foredoomed to failure, and Protestant England rightly or wrongly mistrusted all the Stuarts. But Lydie’s romantic instincts could not imagine an Englishman in any other capacity save as the champion of the forlorn cause; one of the principal reasons why she had always disliked the Eglintons was because they held themselves aloof from the knot of friends who gathered round Charles Edward.

She was, therefore, not a little surprised to hear “le petit Anglais” promising at least loyal aid and succour in case of disaster, since he could not give active support to the proposed expedition. That he had made no idle boast when he spoke of Eglinton money she knew quite well, nor was it said in vain arrogance, merely as a statement of fact. Milady’s vexation proved that it was true.

Delighted and eager, she threw herself with all the ardour of her romantic impulses into this new train of thought suggested by Lord Eglinton’s halting speech.

“Ah, milor,” she said joyously, and not heeding Lady Eglinton’s scowl, “now that I have an ally in you my dream can become a reality. Nay, Sire, you shall start for England with every hope, every assurance of success, but if you fail, you and those you care for shall be safe. Will you listen to my plan?”

“Willingly.”

“Lord Eglinton is your friend—at least, you trust him, do you not?”

“I trust absolutely in the loyalty of his house toward mine,” replied Charles Edward unhesitatingly.

“Then do you agree with him, and with him alone, on a spot in England or Scotland where a ship would find you in case of failure.”

“That has been done already,” said Eglinton simply.

“And if ill-luck pursues us, we will make straight for that spot and await salvation from France.”

Lydie said no more; she was conscious of a distinct feeling of disappointment that her own plan should have been forestalled. She had fondled the notion, born but a moment ago, that if her own influence were not sufficiently great in the near future to induce King Louis to send a rescue ship for the Young Pretender if necessary, she could then, with Lord Eglinton’s money, fit out a private expedition and snatch the last of the Stuarts from the vengeance of his enemies. The romantic idea had appealed to her, and she had been forestalled. She tried to read the thoughts of those around her. Lady Eglinton was evidently ignorant of the details of the plan; she seemed surprised and vastly disapproving. Charles Edward was whispering a few hasty words in the ear of his friend, whom obviously he trusted more than he did the word of France or the enthusiasm of Mlle. d’Aumont.

“Le petit Anglais” had relapsed into his usual state of nervousness, and his eyes wandered uneasily from Lydie’s face to that of his royal companion, whilst with restless fingers he fidgeted the signet ring which adorned his left hand. Suddenly he slipped the ring off and Charles Edward Stuart examined it very attentively, then returned it to its owner with a keen look of intelligence and a nod of approval.

Lydie was indeed too late with her romantic plan; these two men had thought it all out before her in every detail—even to the ring. She, too, had thought of a token which would be an assurance to the fugitives that they might trust the bearer thereof. She felt quite childishly vexed at all this. It was an unusual thing in France these days to transact serious business without consulting Mlle. d’Aumont.

“You are taking it for granted, Sire, that France will fail you?” she said somewhat testily.

“Nay! why should you say that?” he asked.

“Oh! the ring—the obvious understanding between you and milor.”

“Was it not your wish, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh! a mere suggestion—in case France failed you, and I were powerless to remind her of her promise.”

“Pa ma foi,” he rejoined gallantly, “and you’ll command me, I’ll believe that contingency to be impossible. The whole matter of the ring is a whim of Eglinton’s, and I swear that I’ll only trust to France and to you.”

“No, no!” she said quickly, her own sound common sense coming to the rescue just in time to rout the unreasoning petulance of a while ago, which truly had been unworthy of her. “It was foolish of me to taunt, and I pray your Majesty’s forgiveness. It would have been joy and pride to me to feel that the plans for your Majesty’s safety had been devised by me, but I gladly recognize that milor Eglinton hath in this matter the prior claim.”

Her little speech was delivered so simply and with such a noble air of self-effacement that it is small wonder that Charles Edward could but stand in speechless admiration before her. She looked such an exquisite picture of proud and self-reliant womanhood, as she stood there, tall and erect, the stiff folds of her white satin gown surrounding her like a frame of ivory round a dainty miniature. Tears of enthusiasm were in her eyes, her lips were parted with a smile of encouragement, her graceful head, thrown slightly back and crowned with the burnished gold of her hair, stood out in perfect relief against the soft-toned gold and veined marble of the walls.

“I entreat you, Mademoiselle,” said the Young Pretender at last, “do not render my departure too difficult by showing me so plainly all that I relinquish when I quit the fair shores of France.”

“Your Majesty leaves many faithful hearts in Versailles, none the less true because they cannot follow you. Nay! but methinks Lord Eglinton and I will have to make a pact of friendship, so that when your Majesty hath gone we might often speak of you.”

“Speak of me often and to the King,” rejoined Charles Edward, with a quick return to his former mood. “I have a premonition that I shall have need of his help.”

Then he bowed before her, and she curtsyed very low until her young head was almost down to the level of his knees. He took her hand and kissed it with the respect due to an equal.

“Farewell, Sire, and God speed you!” she murmured. He seemed quite reluctant to go. Gloom had once more completely settled over his spirits, and Lydie d’Aumont, clad all in white like some graceful statue carved in marble, seemed to him the figure of Hope on which a relentless fate forced him to turn his back.

His friends now approached and surrounded him. Some were leaving Versailles and France with him on the morrow, others accompanied him in spirit only with good wishes and anxious sighs. Charles Edward Stuart, the unfortunate descendant of an unfortunate race, turned with a final appealing look to the man he trusted most.

“Be not a broken reed to me, Eglinton,” he said sadly. “Try and prevent France from altogether forgetting me.”

Lydie averted her head in order to hide the tears of pity which had risen to her eyes.

“Oh, unfortunate Prince! if thine only prop is this poor weakling whose dog-like affection has no moral strength to give it support!”

When she turned once more toward him, ready to bid him a final adieu, he was walking rapidly away from her down the long narrow corridor, leaning on Eglinton’s arm and closely surrounded by his friends. In the far distance King Louis the Well-beloved strolled leisurely toward his departing guest, leaning lightly on the arm of Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour.