Читать книгу Petticoat Government - Baroness Orczy - Страница 5

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Great activity reigned in the corridors and kitchens of the old château. M. le Chef—the only true rival the immortal Vatel ever had—in white cap and apron, calm and self-possessed as a field-marshal in the hour of victory, and surrounded by an army of scullions and wenches, was directing the operations of dishing-up—the crowning glory of his arduous labours. Pies and patties, haunches of venison, trout and carp from the Rhine were placed on gold and silver dishes and adorned with tasteful ornaments of truly architectural beauty and monumental proportions. These were then handed over to the footmen, who, resplendent in gorgeous liveries of scarlet and azure, hurried along the marble passages carrying the masterpieces of culinary art to the banqueting-hall beyond, whilst the butlers, more sedate and dignified in sober garb of puce or brown, stalked along in stately repose bearing the huge tankards and crystal jugs.

All of the best that the fine old Château d’Aumont could provide was being requisitioned to-night, since M. le Duc and Mlle. Lydie, his daughter, were giving a farewell banquet to Charles Edward Stuart by the grace of God—if not by the will of the people—King of Great Britain and Ireland and all her dependencies beyond the seas.

For him speeches were made, toasts drunk and glasses raised; for him the ducal veneries had been ransacked, the ducal cellars shorn of their most ancient possessions; for him M. le Chef had raged and stormed for five hours, had expended the sweat of his brow and the intricacies of his brain; for him the scullions’ backs had smarted, the wenches’ cheeks had glowed, all to do honour to the only rightful King of England about to quit the hospitable land of France in order to conquer that island kingdom which his grandfather had lost.

But in the noble salle d’armes, on the other hand, there reigned a pompous and dignified silence, in strange contrast to the bustle and agitation of the kitchens and the noise of loud voices and laughter that issued from the banqueting hall whenever a door was opened and quickly shut again.

Here perfumed candles flickered in massive candelabra, shedding dim circles of golden light on carved woodwork, marble floor, and dull-toned tapestries. The majestic lions of D’Aumont frowned stolidly from their high pedestals on this serene abode of peace and dignity, one foot resting on the gilded shield with the elaborate coat-of-arms blazoned thereon in scarlet and azure, the other poised aloft as if in solemn benediction.

M. Joseph, own body servant to M. le Duc, in magnificent D’Aumont livery, his cravat a marvel of costly simplicity, his elegant, well-turned calves—encased in fine silk stockings—stretched lazily before him, was sprawling on the brocade-covered divan in the centre of the room.

M. Bénédict, equally resplendent in a garb of motley that recalled the heraldic colours of the Comte de Stainville, stood before him, not in an attitude of deference of course, but in one of easy friendship; whilst M. Achille—a blaze of scarlet and gold—was holding out an elegant silver snuff-box to M. Joseph, who, without any superfluous motion of his dignified person, condescended to take a pinch.

With arm and elbow held at a graceful angle, M. Joseph paused in the very act of conveying the snuff to his delicate nostrils. He seemed to think that the occasion called for a remark from himself, but evidently nothing very appropriate occurred to him for the moment, so after a few seconds of impressive silence he finally partook of the snuff, and then flicked off the grains of dust from his immaculate azure waistcoat with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“Where does your Marquis get his snuff?” he asked with an easy graciousness of manner.

“We get it direct from London,” replied M. Achille sententiously. “I am personally acquainted with Mme. Véronique, who is cook to Mme. de la Beaume and the sweetheart of Jean Laurent, own body-servant to General de Puisieux. The old General is Chief of Customs at Havre, so you see we pay no duty and get the best of snuff at a ridiculous price.”

“Ah! that’s lucky for you, my good Eglinton,” said M. Bénédict, with a sigh. “Your Marquis is a good sort, and as he is not personally acquainted with Mme. Véronique, I doubt not but he pays full price for his snuff.”

“One has to live, friend Stainville,” quoth Achille solemnly—“and I am not a fool!”

“Exactly so; and with an English milor your life is an easy one, Monsieur.”

“Comme-ci! comme-ça!” nodded Achille deprecatingly.

“Le petit Anglais is very rich?” suggested Bénédict.

“Boundlessly so!” quoth the other, with conscious pride.

“Now, if perchance you could see your way to introducing me to Mme. Véronique. Eh? I have to pay full price for my Count’s snuff, and he will have none but the best; but if I could get Mme. Véronique’s protection—”

Achille’s manner immediately changed at this suggestion, made with becoming diffidence; he drew back a few steps as if to emphasize the distance which must of necessity lie between supplicant and patron. He took a pinch of snuff, he blew his nose with stately deliberation—all in order to keep the petitioner waiting on tenterhooks.

Finally he drew up his scarlet and gold shoulders until they almost touched his ears.

“It will be difficult, very, very difficult my good Stainville,” he said at last, speaking in measured tones. “You see, Mme. Véronique is in a very delicate position; she has a great deal of influence of course, and it is not easy to obtain her protection. Still, I will see what I can do, and you can place your petition before her.”

“Do not worry yourself, my good Eglinton,” here interposed M. Bénédict with becoming hauteur. “I thought as you had asked me yesterday to use my influence with our Mlle. Mariette, the fiancée of Colonel Jauffroy’s third footman, with regard to your nephew’s advancement in his regiment, that perhaps— But no matter—no matter!” he added, with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

“You completely misunderstood me, my dear Stainville,” broke in M. Achille, eagerly. “I said that the matter was difficult; I did not say that it was impossible. Mme. Véronique is beset with petitions, but you may rely on my friendship. I will obtain the necessary introduction for you if you, on the other hand, will bear my nephew’s interests in mind.”

“Say no more about it, my good Eglinton,” said Bénédict, with easy condescension; “your nephew will get his promotion on the word of a Stainville.”

Peace and amity being once more restored between the two friends, M. Joseph thought that he had now remained silent far longer than was compatible with his own importance.

“It is very difficult, of course, in our position,” he said pompously, “to do justice to the many demands which are made on our influence and patronage. Take my own case, for instance—my Duke leaves all appointments in my hands. In the morning, whilst I shave him, I have but to mention a name to him in connection with any post under Government that happens to be vacant, and immediately the favoured one, thus named by me, receives attention, nearly always followed by a nomination.”

“Hem! hem!” came very discreetly from the lips of M. Bénédict.

“You said?” queried Joseph, with a slight lifting of the right eyebrow.

“Oh! nothing—nothing! I pray you continue; the matter is vastly entertaining.”

“At the present moment,” continued M. Joseph, keeping a suspicious eye on the other man, “I am deeply worried by this proposal which comes from the Parliaments of Rennes and Paris.”

“A new Ministry of Finance to be formed,” quoth M. Achille. “We know all about it.”

“With direct control of the nation’s money and responsible to the Parliaments alone,” assented Joseph. “The Parliaments! Bah!” he added in tones of supreme contempt, “bourgeois the lot of them!”

“Their demands are preposterous, so says my milor. ’Tis a marvel His Majesty has given his consent.”

“I have advised my Duke not to listen to the rabble,” said Joseph, as he readjusted the set of his cravat. “A Ministry responsible to the Parliaments! Ridiculous, I say!”

“I understand, though,” here interposed M. Achille, “that the Parliaments, out of deference for His Majesty are willing that the King himself shall appoint this new Comptroller of Finance.”

“The King, my good Eglinton,” calmly retorted M. Joseph—“the King will leave this matter to us. You may take it from me that we shall appoint this new Minister, and an extremely pleasant post it will be. Comptroller of Finance! All the taxes to pass through the Minister’s hands! Par Dieu! does it not open out a wide field for an ambitious man?”

“Hem! hem!” coughed M. Bénédict again.

“You seem to be suffering from a cold, sir,” said M. Joseph irritably.

“Not in the least,” rejoined Bénédict hastily—“a slight tickling in the throat. You were saying, M. Joseph, that you hoped this new appointment would fall within your sphere of influence.”

“Nay! If you doubt me, my good Stainville—” And M. Joseph rose with slow and solemn majesty from the divan, where he had been reclining, and walking across the room with a measured step, he reached an escritoire whereon ink and pens, letters tied up in bundles, loose papers, and all the usual paraphernalia commonly found on the desk of a busy man. M. Joseph sat down at the table and rang a handbell.

The next moment a young footman entered, silent and deferential.

“Is any one in the ante-room, Paul?” asked Joseph.

“Yes, M. Joseph.”

“How many?”

“About thirty persons.”

“Go tell them, then, that M. Joseph is not receiving to-night. He is entertaining a circle of friends. Bring me all written petitions. I shall be visible in my dressing room to those who have a personal introduction at eleven o’clock to-morrow. You may go!”

Silently as he had entered, the young man bowed and withdrew.

M. Joseph wheeled round in his chair and turned to his friends with a look of becoming triumph.

“Thirty persons!” he remarked simply.

“All after this appointment?” queried Achille.

“Their representatives, you see,” explained M. Joseph airily. “Oh! my ante-chamber is always full—You understand? I shave my Duke every morning; and every one, it seems to me, is wanting to control the finances of France.”

“Might one inquire who is your special protégé?” asked the other.

“Time will show,” came with cryptic vagueness from the lips of M. Joseph.

“Hem! hem!”

In addition to a slight tickling of the throat, M. Bénédict seemed to be suffering from an affection of the left eye which caused him to wink with somewhat persistent emphasis:

“This is the third time you have made that remark, Stainville,” said Joseph severely.

“I did not remark, my dear D’Aumont,” rejoined Bénédict pleasantly—“that is, I merely said ‘Hem! hem!’”

“Even so, I heard you,” said Joseph, with some acerbity; “and I would wish to know precisely what you meant when you said ‘Hem! hem!’ like that.”

“I was thinking of Mlle. Lucienne,” said Bénédict, with a sentimental sigh.

“Indeed!”

“Yes! I am one of her sweethearts—the fourth in point of favour. Mlle. Lucienne has your young lady’s ear, my good D’Aumont, and we all know that your Duke governs the whole of France exactly as his daughter wishes him to do.”

“And you hope through Mlle. Lucienne’s influence to obtain the new post of Comptroller for your own Count?” asked M. Joseph, with assumed carelessness, as he drummed a devil’s tattoo on the table before him.

A slight expression of fatuity crept into the countenance of M. Bénédict. He did not wish to irritate the great man; at the same time he felt confident in his own powers of blandishments where Mlle. Lucienne was concerned, even though he only stood fourth in point of favour in that influential lady’s heart.

“Mlle. Lucienne has promised us her support,” he said, with a complacent smile.

“I fear me that will be of little avail,” here interposed M. Achille. “We have on our side, the influence of Mme. Auguste Baillon, who is housekeeper to M. le Docteur Dubois, consulting physician to Mlle. d’Aumont. M. le Docteur is very fond of haricots cooked in lard—a dish in the preparation of which Mme. Baillon excels—whilst, on the other hand, that lady’s son is perruquier to my Eglinton. I think there is no doubt that ours is the stronger influence, and that if this Ministry of Finance comes into being, we shall be the Chief Comptroller.”

“Oh, it will come into being, without any doubt,” said Bénédict. “I have it from my cousin François, who is one of the sweethearts of Mlle. Duprez, confidential maid to Mme. Aremberg, the jeweller’s wife, that the merchants of Paris and Lyons are not at all pleased with the amount of money which the King and Mme. de Pompadour are spending.”

“Exactly! People of that sort are a veritable pestilence. They want us to pay some of the taxes—the corvée or the taille. As if a Duke or a Minister is going to pay taxes! Ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous, I say,” assented Achille, “though my Marquis says that in England even noblemen pay taxes.”

“Then we’ll not go to England, friend Eglinton. Imagine shaving a Duke or a Marquis who had paid taxes like a shopkeeper!”

A chorus of indignation from the three gentleman rose at the suggestion.

“Preposterous indeed!”

“We all know that England is a nation of shopkeepers. M. de Voltaire, who has been there, said so to us on his return.”

M. Achille, in view of the fact that he represented the Marquis of Eglinton, commonly styled “le petit Anglais,” was not quite sure whether his dignity demanded that he should resent this remark of M. de Voltaire’s or not.

Fortunately he was saved from having to decide this delicate question immediately by the reëntry of Paul into the room.

The young footman was carrying a bundle of papers, which he respectfully presented to M. Joseph on a silver tray. The great man looked at Paul somewhat puzzled, rubbed his chin, and contemplated the papers with a thoughtful eye.

“What are these?” he asked.

“The petitions, M. Joseph,” replied the young man.

“Oh! Ah, yes!” quoth the other airily. “Quite so; but—I have no time to read them now. You may glance through them, Paul, and let me know if any are worthy of my consideration.”

M. Joseph was born in an epoch when reading was not considered an indispensable factor in a gentleman’s education. Whether the petitions of the thirty aspirants to the new post of Comptroller of Finance would subsequently be read by M. Paul or not it were impossible to say; for the present he merely took up the papers again, saying quite respectfully:

“Yes, M. Joseph.”

“Stay! you may take cards, dice, and two flagons of Bordeaux into my boudoir.”

“Yes, M. Joseph.”

“Have you dismissed every one from the ante-chamber?”

“All except an old man, who refuses to go.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know; he—”

Further explanation was interrupted by a timid voice issuing from the open door.

“I only desire five minutes’ conversation with M. le Duc d’Aumont.”

And a wizened little figure dressed in seedy black, with lean shanks encased in coarse woollen stockings, shuffled into the room. He seemed to be carrying a great number of papers and books under both arms, and as he stepped timidly forward some of these tumbled in a heap at his feet.

“Only five minutes’ conversation with M. le Duc.”

His eyes were very pale, and very watery, and his hair was of a pale straw colour. He stooped to pick up his papers, and dropped others in the process.

“M. le Duc is not visible,” said M. Joseph majestically.

“Perhaps a little later—” suggested the lean individual.

“The Duke will not be visible later either.”

“Then to-morrow perhaps; I can wait—I have plenty of time on my hands.”

“You may have, but the Duke hasn’t.”

In the meanwhile the wizened little man had succeeded in once more collecting his papers together. With trembling eager hands he now selected a folded note, which evidently had suffered somewhat through frequent falls on dusty floors; this he held out toward M. Joseph.

“I have a letter to Monsieur le valet de chambre of the Duke,” he said humbly.

“A letter of introduction?—to me?” queried Joseph, with a distinct change in his manner and tone. “From whom?”

“My daughter Agathe, who brings Monsieur’s chocolate in to him every morning.”

“Ah, you are Mlle. Agathe’s father!” exclaimed Joseph with pleasant condescension, as he took the letter of introduction, and, without glancing at it, slipped it into the pocket of his magnificent coat. Perhaps a thought subsequently crossed his mind that the timorous person before him was not quite so simple-minded as his watery blue eyes suggested, and that the dusty and crumpled little note might be a daring fraud practised on his own influential personality, for he added with stern emphasis: “I will see Mlle. Agathe to-morrow, and will discuss your affair with her.”

Then, as the little man did not wince under the suggestion, M. Joseph said more urbanely:

“By the way, what is your affair? These gentlemen”—and with a graceful gesture he indicated his two friends—“these gentlemen will pardon the liberty you are taking in discussing it before them.”

“Thank you, Monsieur; thank you, gentlemen,” said the wizened individual humbly; “it is a matter of—er—figures.”

“Figures!”

“Yes! This new Ministry of Finance—there will be an auditor of accounts wanted—several auditors, I presume—and—and I thought—”

“Yes?” nodded M. Joseph graciously.

“My daughter does bring you in your chocolate nice and hot, M. Joseph, does she not?—and—and I do know a lot about figures. I studied mathematics with the late M. Descartes; I audited the books of the Société des Comptables of Lyons for several years; and—and I have diplomas and testimonials—”

And, carried away by another wave of anxiety, he began to fumble among his papers and books, which with irritating perversity immediately tumbled pell-mell on to the floor.

“What in the devil’s name is the good of testimonials and diplomas to us, my good man?” said M. Joseph haughtily. “If, on giving the matter my serious consideration, I come to the conclusion that you will be a suitable accountant in the new Ministerial Department, ma foi! my good man, your affair is settled. No thanks, I pray!” he added, with a gracious flourish of the arm; “I have been pleased with Mlle. Agathe, and I may mention your name whilst I shave M. le Duc to-morrow. Er—by the way, what is your name?”

“Durand, if you please, M. Joseph.”

The meagre little person with the watery blue eyes tried to express his gratitude by word and gesture, but his books and papers encumbered his movements, and he was rendered doubly nervous by the presence of these gorgeous and stately gentlemen, and by the wave of voices and laughter which suddenly rose from the distance, suggesting that perhaps a brilliant company might be coming this way.

The very thought seemed to completely terrify him; with both arms he hugged his various written treasures, and with many sideway bows and murmurs of thanks he finally succeeded in shuffling his lean figure out of the room, closely followed by M. Paul.