Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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The third of the great geniuses of Sweden of the Tessin family had designed the Stockholm Opera House for Gustaf when he was Crown Prince, after the completion of the royal palace that rose majestic from the swift waters of the Norrstrom in the florid and imposing style of Italy. The Opera House was not yet complete, no music had ever resounded under the lofty ceiling, no applause had ever echoed from the loges that lined the horseshoe auditorium; neither curtains nor candelabrum were in place, the walls were bare of painting and statuary and the floor unencumbered by gilt chairs. One of the private rooms, the third from the right looking from the stage was however furnished for here the King consulted with his architects, his painters and sculptors, with the musicians and poets, the dramatists and singers who were to glorify Sweden in this superb building dedicated to the Arts of Scandinavia. Hung with pale yellow velvet and four circular mirrors, garlanded with gilt roses, this cabinet was elegantly supplied with a sofa of gold brocade, needlework, upholstered chairs, a console on which stood a goblet of rock crystal filled with fine wild lilies, a cabinet of acacia wood packed with papers and drawings, that showed through the open doors. On a tulip wood table, topped by a plaque in Sevres porcelain, there sparkled in the waxlight glow the pale bottle of yellow German wine that neither the King nor his guest touched; this light came from a single candle in a silver stick, and the brilliant little side scene was full of uncertain shadow as if the gloom in the unfinished, empty theatre had invaded this retreat on the edge of a deserted darkness.

M. de Vergennes, one of the ablest of French diplomats, was a prudent man, much disturbed. He had been constantly in the company of Gustaf when, Crown Prince and incognito as Count of Gotland, he had visited Paris the previous year, to be adored alike by the ladies, the philosophers, and the courtiers; his sparkling fascination had stirred even the sick lethargy of Louis XV, and M. de Vergennes had been told to encourage him politically, the Swedish alliance might be worth while in a reign barren of any diplomatic success. M. de Vergennes, who detested England and was fomenting trouble in the American colonies, had been pleased with this task, pleased even to undertake the long and uncomfortable journey to the North, a word that to him, savoured of barbarism, but he was not pleased with what the young King told him now—the plot against the Constitution, in which there was no one more important than a few impetuous young officers, and that France was expected to finance—against the Diet, against men as astute as Fersen, as wily as Pechlin, against the resources of Russia, England, Denmark.

A handsome gentleman, who took pains not to show his fifty-five years, M. de Vergennes, still in his black braided brown travelling coat, watched, listened and disapproved. "You know my situation," said Gustaf, "it is little better than that of my father in '69, when the Diet wished to fix their seat at Norrkoping, in order to be near the Russian fleet—Osterman, then the envoy and paymaster of Russia, still plays the same part."

"Sire," answered M. de Vergennes carefully. "On that occasion the French ambassador, M. de Modene, backed the Swedish monarchy with some millions of livres. These were totally lost."

"Yes. You lead to the question I have not dared to ask you till now—what sum, my dear Comte, have you brought from France? His Christian Majesty, in his last dispatch, promised supplies." He had waited, with a gay patience, until this moment of complete privacy, but his enchanting voice, that of the most seductive orator in Sweden, stammered and his blue eyes, black in this shifting shadow were brilliant with anxiety.

The Frenchman was too able a politician to employ guile where frankness would serve.

"I have brought nothing, sire. The resources of France are extremely low. I did not expect to find your Majesty preparing a coup d'état."

Gustaf paled from the force of the disappointment.

"No? Rather you expected me to accept the part of a roi fainéant—a palace chamberlain—a lackey to the Tzarina—you have a very poor opinion of me, so I suppose, has your King, your nation."

"Your Majesty has surely not forgotten that you were the idol of Paris?"

"Of the drawing rooms," said Gustaf quietly. "A fashion. Yet the Swedish alliance was not useless to you. The subsidy for next year holds good?" he added, then. "Ah, I stand, forgetting you are fatigued," he took one of the chairs, indicating the sofa to the Frenchman who replied: "Yes, sire, the second instalment will be paid on the first day of the New Year. Until then, there is nothing I can do."

Much agitated, Gustaf rose and walked to and fro; his tall and graceful figure was eclipsed now and then in the shadows as the candle flame flickered in the draught; he spoke, in uncommon disorder, of his humiliation, of the sorry show he made before Europe, of his noble ancestors, of the past splendours of Sweden, of his resolve to die rather than to be dishonoured.

M. de Vergennes again on his feet, adept at judging men, could not be sure of the qualities of this one, who on the surface seemed a favourite of the gods, but who had never yet been tried in any great occasion—a darling of the salons, yes, a man of letters, a wit, of incomparable personal fascinations, for his brilliance was neither hard nor cloying, it was as natural to him as beams to a star, a man with every social grace, liberally educated, without pedantry, or superstition, chivalrous, enthusiastic for noble deeds. What else? Frivolous, perhaps, too fond of music, the theatre, cold to women, trapped in a nominal marriage, (his brother would be his heir), extravagant—the palace with costly bestaries and superb stove houses, this opera Palace, all in this distant North, as rich as luxurious as in France—cold to women? He had Madame d'Egmont's colours at his lapel now; M. de Vergennes did not know what to make of that pure and knightly affection, a pose, perhaps?

The young man liked to act, to walk the stage in disguise, to embroider scarves, to write verses, to play the violincello, his opening speech at his first Riksdag had transported everyone into a frenzy of admiration, but how soon that had faded! Now he stood alone save for a few hotheads, the Tzarina had bought his country under his eyes.

"It would be impossible to dislike him, one would suppose," mused the Frenchman, leaning on the back of his chair. "Yet how many enemies he has—perhaps even these malcontents despise him in their hearts."

With civil attention M. de Vergennes listened to the young man's agitated appeals, delivered with all the graces of consummate oratory, and all the charms of his seductive personality and pondered over what France might hope for from her investments in the King of Sweden.

He saw in that uncertain light of the one candle that gave a wildness to the scene, at variance with the dainty appointments, a gentleman aged twenty-six years wearing a purple velvet coat cut by a Parisian tailor, a cravat of Malines lace fastened by a brooch of sapphires, with a long scarf of shot silk, blue and crimson across his left shoulder, flowing over his baldric; his sword was as slight as that of a fencing master, his abundant hair, a brown fairer than gold, was fastened back with a diamond buckle and hung in tassel curls to his waist. His features were difficult to describe, his expression was so changing, so vivacious, the attention was so held by the vivid blue eyes, the soft caressing voice, but M. de Vergennes had seen him in repose, at the opera when fascinated by the music and he knew that the countenance was exact, handsome with full firm lips, a clear carnation, a sensitive flush that came and went easily.

"Adonis," thought M. de Vergennes. "A pretty youth—a Queen's favourite—perhaps the leader of some delightful ballet, perhaps an elegant harlequin—a king, a soldier? A leader? Hardly. He does not hunt because he fears the sight of blood."

Gustaf paused before the Frenchman.

"Again I have made you stand," swiftly, but not abruptly, he had concluded his persuasive arguments. "I shall not importune you any longer. Only, my dear Comte, realize that nothing can deter me from my project."

"And nothing, sire, involve France in it," replied M. de Vergennes with great deference. "As for the money—since your Majesty can do nothing without it—"

"I shall obtain it. Will you see, at least, my followers?"

"If your Majesty can contrive that secretly—or—prudently. Who are they, sire, beyond the young officers of whom you have spoken? And your Majesty's brothers?"

Gustaf smiled, snuffing the candle.

"The two good souls who wait for me outside, Beylon, my Swiss Reader, Schorderheim, my Herald and factotum."

"Of no weight whatever, Sire."

"But faithful and useful. Had I brought soldiers or—men of weight—with me here to-night, we should have been watched, followed—with those two ban-dogs I am left alone. You see, my dear Comte, so many people take me for a fribble. My confederates? Baron Jakob Sprengtporten has some able lieutenants—I shall term the Bishop of Visby my good friend."

"The army, the navy, the arsenals, the forts, the populace?"

Gustaf glanced up from behind the clean flame. "M. de Vergennes, the harvest has failed for two seasons, the government is in utter anarchy—it is not only the honour of my crown, but the existence of my people—ay, and the welfare of Europe for which I contend."

These were words that on any other lips the Frenchman would have heard with cynicism, but there was no irony in his mind as he considered—"Has this man really noble and lofty intentions?"

"Meet my conspirators at your embassy, as M. de Modene did in '69," suggested Gustaf, lightly again. "Their lives are held precariously—as is mine—"

"Friendship and policy alike make me and my master true to your Majesty," protested M. de Vergennes warmly. "Had I the resources of Russia and England to dispose of I should be a happier man."

The King opened the delicate door and looked into the dark incomplete theatre; a small lamp stood on the empty stage where Beylon and Schorderheim sat on a workman's trestle, playing cards; their modest figures in sombre cloaks seemed part of a remote drama performed before an invisible audience; the shadows in the wings and flies made the building limitless, as if it merged into the night sky; the black drop cloth seemed an abyss. The King picked up the candle, and shading it with a slender, steady hand, walked across the bare floor. M. de Vergennes, hidden in shade watched the graceful, eager figure in that small fluttering radiance, bright and shining, too. "He has many advantages if he had the courage, he might do it—there is, however, little hope of a success, I must keep France out and spend as little as possible." The King had reached the stage, standing by the trestle he blew out his candle; Beylon took up the lantern while Schorderheim asked without hope, with the touching familiarity, humble and loving, of an old servant— "What luck, Sire?"

"Very little. He has brought nothing with him, but I shall get something out of him, by writing to France and he will be loyal. Come, it is a little cold." The King picked up a thin dark mantle that he had tossed over a pile of drawings and plans on a deal table, he threw it over his shoulders, eclipsing himself into the shadow. "I long to hear music here," he said, he felt he listened to the overture to Iphigénie en Tauride, played by phantoms who warned and menaced.