Читать книгу Forget-Me-Not - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 7

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It was the King's birthday, and Paris rejoiced in the warm May weather. There was much to rejoice at indeed, fifteen years of a peaceful monarchy under this citizen King, with his liberal ideas, who despised military force, who ruled by affection alone—not King of France, but King of the French.

In the morning, concerts were held under the high windows of the Tuileries, aubades for the King; from the Invalides cannons echoed round the new tomb of Napoleon I, saluting the heir of the House of Orleans who had espoused the cause of the Sovereign people in 1789. Among the crowd that pressed in the streets to enjoy the excitements of the fête du roi were many who could recall the execution of Louis XVI, the First Republic, the Directory, the Consulate, the Empire, the Restoration of the Bourbons, the death of Louis XVIII, the flight of Charles X. All these changes and tumults were now in the past; France rejoiced under the mild, wise rule of Louis Philippe, all was prosperous, tolerant, secure.

The courtyard of the Tuileries was blocked by the carriages of the aristocracy, the ministry hastening to offer their congratulations to His Majesty.

Outside the gates a respectful crowd listened to the concert given by the Garde Nationale; among the equipages was that of M. du Boccage, occupied by his elder children and the new governess,

Mademoiselle Debelleyme enjoyed the spectacle and her own part in it, sitting at ease in the handsome carriage with the magnificent escutcheon on the gleaming panels and liveried servants on the box, in the company of these pretty, eager children (already, by the exertion of all her charm, all her art, she had won them), in the midst of the bustle of the animated crowd, in front of the palace.

People noticed her; never before had she been so elegantly attired in such elegant surroundings. The acquaintances of M. du Boccage who stopped to salute the children glanced at her more than once, paying the tribute of curiosity to her distinction, her composure, her charming appearance.

Under her aloft decorum Lucille Debelleyme was pulsing to a nameless enthusiasm; Paris, the spring, the edge of great events! To be part of it, even as a spectator, to be in touch with all this life and movement... she thought of one man among the many crowding in the antechambers of the King—the man who had, a few days ago, spoken to her so anxiously, so intimately, who every morning gave her her instructions with a kindness, a consideration, a courtesy which she had never received before, this grand seigneur, this friend of royalty, this blond athlete with the allure of a cavalier of Lancret—this enigma that she believed she would in a short time be able to solve.

Amid loyal acclamations the Royal Family appeared on the balcony of the palace. The King, that man of many adventures, the dashing young victor of Valmy, the grave young school-teacher of Reicheneau, the aging exile, now heavy with the painful bulk of disease, but still an imposing figure in the white trousers, tight coat, high braided collar, stiff épaulettes and azure riband—the Queen, spirited yet melancholy, still overwhelmed by the tragedy of the sudden death of her eldest son, and that group of young Princes and their wives who seemed to promise a flourishing succession to the House of Orleans.

As the King bowed, his cocked, feathered hat in his hand, a raven rose and fluttered above the busbies of the Garde Nationale, hesitated, then circled round the Orleans flag in the midst of the soldiers.

Mademoiselle Debelleyme was conscious of a sudden tension in the crowd; she knew that the bird was believed to foretell misfortune. The people stopped talking, stopped moving, and watched the raven, which, an ugly shadow in the brightness of the scene, rose and flew three times above the balcony where the members of the House of Orleans were grouped.

The governess was not superstitious, but superstitions amused her; she narrowly watched the people who seemed to draw a breath, then let it out in a sigh—or a hiss? A sound of regret or of menace?

The band finished playing a melody from "La Barcarolle" the last success of M. Auber from the Opera Comique, and someone, somewhere, raised a cry for the hymn of the people, "La Marseillaise," the fearful song of 1793—a slight hesitation and it was played. The governess of M. du Boccage watched the people intently; were they as satisfied, as peaceful as they appeared? Did they not secretly long to try again the fortune of a bloody revolution—to see the heads of those who called themselves their masters drop into the basket of the guillotine?

The delicate nostrils of the governess expanded; she recalled her inherited hatred of the Bourbons which mingled with her rebellion as an outcast against any settled state of society; gladly would she have seen that family bowing from the balcony of the Tuileries sent the way of the relations they had displaced.

The playing of the song of the people was short; there was a clamour for repetition, but the soldiers ignored this and broke into the sweet strains of an aria from Richard en Palestine—the King left the balcony but the raven continued to hover over the flag of Orleans.

"Is it not all charming and agreeable, my darlings?" smiled the governess to the two excited little girls by her side. "Now you may each have some sugared almonds and we will drive along the river before going home."