Читать книгу The Empress of Hearts - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 4

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The most famous necklace of history. Rippling diamond splendours, it lay on its bed of cool pearly satin which enhanced the fierce glitter of the magnificent stones. Such a necklace had never been seen before in the story of the world’s great jewels—could not have been; for the means of procuring it did not exist. Not before the middle of the eighteenth century could men so have angled and netted the markets of the world to catch those radiant slippery fish of jewels. India aided from her Golconda, and Brazil searched dull earth for the cold hidden fire whose fame rang trumpet-tongued, and ancient caskets of high nobles were counted over in the hope that their owners might be induced by princely prices to sell. And sell they did and more than they would have told, for the ends of the earth were coming upon France, and there was the mutter of the far-off lion-roar which presaged the French Revolution and the downrush of things as men knew them into chaos. Many indeed of the more cautious sort of the noblesse were already realizing property here and there without attracting attention and buying little retreats in England, Holland and Italy which might be useful one day and, if not, were always a good investment. And what so easy to realize as diamonds—diamonds which that very accommodating Jew, Boehmer, could imitate in the cleverest possible paste so that great ladies might still sparkle at Versailles and the Tuileries, possibly themselves unconscious that their lords had taken thought for the morrow in this quite novel fashion.

Be that as it may, Boehmer the King’s Jeweller (proud title with such a queen as the lovely Marie Antoinette to decorate!) sat in his private room with his chubby little partner Bassauger at his elbow, gazing at their completed triumph as it dazzled their eyes with flying arrow-points of colour unnamable as the outer arches of the rainbow. The spring sunshine played hide and seek with it, acknowledging a rival, earthy indeed but with all the fire of sun and star concentrated in its radiance of living light. Let it be described and visualized, for these stones were to make history and make and unmake—what? As this story shall tell. Here is the portrait by grave historians.

First, about the throat went a chain of seventeen diamonds of purest water, the size of filberts. It had taken years to match the seventeen and when collected only picked workmen of Amsterdam were permitted to give them the finish art lends to nature: cut, angled and faceted so that from every surface entangled rays flashed lucent.

From these were looped in three festoons another chain of splendour bearing pendants of massed diamonds, star and pear-shaped; and as if this were not dazzlement enough, from the back were brought forward two broad, threefold rows of diamonds only lesser than the throat circlet, diamonds of a queen’s magnificence in hundreds, and from these two supple ribbons of diamonds knotting on the bosom fell lower, ending in tasselled diamonds, while at the back of the neck two similar ribbons, but in a sixfold row, fell scattering auroral lights from themselves and their tassels, and thus was the royalest jewel of the world complete in a blinding panoply of light to adorn only the royalest and most beautiful bosom in all the earth.

That certainly was its destination as far as Boehmer and Bassauger were concerned, but the expression with which they regarded their triumph was not triumphant—far from it.

“It was the curse of curses that Louis the Fifteenth died before it was complete,” said Boehmer moodily. “A man will give his mistress what he won’t give his wife, and Madame du Barry had lost her heart to the model in clay. The money was as good as in our pockets. He could refuse the slut nothing.”

Bassauger curled a sarcastic lip and sniffed audibly:

“Except constancy. If he had kept away from the girls of the Parc aux Cerfs he would have escaped the smallpox and death, and du Barry would have had her necklace. Hard luck for us!”

Boehmer lifted a glittering tassel with a meditative air; his Hebrew descent was very visible in his blond Germanic face, and obtruded itself also in the dull brooding look of his people when the hand of the Gentile is heavy on them—a man of the anxious nervous temperament which is bound to suffer in this best of all possible worlds.

“And yet—laugh at me, my friend, if you will—it would have been a bitter pill to me to see this about the du Barry’s plebeian neck. It asks—it demands—all that there is of most patrician and imperial to do it justice. You see it?”

He held the splendour dangling from his hand. Bassauger answered drily.

“No neck is plebeian with diamonds like this about it, and money doesn’t smell whatever hands it comes through. In business is no sentiment. Mon dieu, I wish it were about the du Barry’s neck this moment. She is a very pretty woman, though as coarse as a fish-fag. But that style suited his late Majesty very well. He was not particular in his tastes.”

Boehmer’s large full face bore a slight expression of contempt for his partner’s grossness of expression. His own manners and tastes were nothing if not courtly. His position admitted him to the Queen’s boudoir when she wished to consult him in matters of importance, and it was the rule that ornaments for repair or re-setting were always handed to him in her presence. He had acquired a strong liking for royalty and its magnificences in these surroundings and for dealing with a queen who was grace itself in the charm and kindliness of her manner to the Court Jeweller as to every one else. Romantic feeling combined with commercial in his sense that she and she only was worthy of the peerless jewels which he of all men had collected from the ends of the earth. Certainly business was business with him. No one was better aware of the qualities it demanded, but he could combine it with delicacies of sentiment quite unknown to Bassauger, whose hard commercialism reckoned everything in hard cash only. While the du Barry ruled France through her old voluptuary of a king, Boehmer had contrived to see a little romance even in her position and to think his diamonds not unsuitable to the First Sultana of the Most Christian King. Now that the King was dust and the lady of no consequence he thought mention of these doings a little unbecoming in connection with the necklace.

“That episode should be forgotten,” he said stiffly. “Our present beloved monarch does not indulge himself in such distractions, and you should know that an ornament destined for a du Barry cannot be pleasing to a queen of France. Her mother, the Empress of Austria, brought her up with the strictest notions in the world.”

“Which the bride of fourteen shook off as a dog shakes its ears when she cut her apron-strings. And besides, diamonds smell no more than money,” retorted Bassauger with a pinch of snuff. “But let it be forgotten if you will. The main point is that her Majesty must see the necklace—and soon. The matter is frightfully serious for us who have terrible expenses to pay for it. The times are not too promising for a toy of this cost, and you should—”

“Toy? Good God!” cried Boehmer. To him the necklace was the one splendid salient fact of the universe. He had given years of his life to it, had toiled, plotted and intrigued to get those jewels, and now—that that coarse Bassauger should call it a toy! Anger choked him.

“After all, one can eat and sleep without diamonds,” crowed the chubby Bassauger. “Better sometimes than one can with them, for that matter. But time is precious. Get permission this very day to see the King at the first chance. Since he fell in love with her eight years after the marriage he refuses her as little as Louis the Fifteenth the du Barry. So some say. But you who move in Court circles should know better than I.”

“His Majesty is a good husband. He will realize that this ornament should be an appanage of the Queen of France and no other. Well—I will arrange it. By the way, has the Cardinal de Rohan made any purchases for any of his little favourites whilst I was at Meudon? He spoke of something.”

“A pair of earrings set with diamonds and turquoises for little Madame Quesnel, and—yes—a ring to match. Nothing more. For a man of his wealth he has spent little of late.”

“His loss of Court favour depresses his Eminence, no doubt. That jest he made about the Queen’s mother was one of the unluckiest that ever left the mouth of man. It ruined him at Court—”

“But it was perfectly true,” said Bassauger with his inveterate disrespect. “The Empress Maria Theresa was the hardest, most gripping old harpy that ever sat upon a throne. That’s probably why our Queen runs to the opposite extreme and is a spendthrift, even for a queen and a beauty.”

Boehmer was profoundly irritated:

“For the love of God be guarded! Why criticize royalty? You may see by the downfall of the Cardinal, a prince of the blood royal, rich, handsome, gay, what comes to those who disparage their superiors. He has not been admitted to Court for years—except to say Mass.”

Boehmer’s raised eyebrows and hands might have illustrated the loss of heaven, so feelingly did he speak.

“But I,” retorted Bassauger, “am not a cardinal and my heaven is with Madame Bassauger in our little cosy retreat at Passy with a good dish of blanquette de veau before me, and a glass of Chambertin beside it, and my chimney corner after with a good book. Courts are not for me. But you, my friend— Well, let us put this dazzler away and you be off and make your appointment.”

With all the care and ceremony that befitted its importance the treasure was locked and barred into safety. Bassauger had never said a truer word than that those who possess diamonds sleep ill.

It had become a nightmare to Boehmer. Fire—thieves—Heaven knows what, flitted nightly in procession about his bed and the mere thought of carrying the thing to the Tuileries brought out beads of sweat on his forehead. One must do it alone to avoid observation, but if there were a street scuffle, if his carriage were run down and himself carried unconscious to his house, they would strip him, they would find the treasure. O that it were in the keeping of the guardian of the royal jewels! He hated and worshipped the thing.

But he pulled himself together. He assumed his fine tricorne hat, his coat and breeches, his silk stockings, irreproachable as befitted the King’s Jeweller, and with his gold-topped cane he stepped out daintily into the street, his large face as apparently untroubled as if he had not had the most gorgeous diamonds in the world upon his conscience. Verily upon his conscience, for Bassauger, honest man, had disclaimed the adventure of collecting them. “It is beyond us,” he had said. “Just suppose the du Barry were to die!”—with a hundred more unpalatable supposes, and Boehmer, irritated, would have his way in spite of Bassauger and now, ruin, or success splendid as the diamonds, lay before them. “The game is worth the gamble,” he said to Bassauger, but in his heart he knew he scarcely thought so now.

As he went down the street a coach drawn by four fine horses came lumbering noisily along the cobblestones, swaying from side to side on high leather straps, with gold-encrusted hammercloth, magnificent coats of arms on either door, everything imaginable suited to the coach the fairy godmother would have bestowed on Cinderella if she could have afforded anything so gorgeously unpractical. Four splendid lacqueys adorned the shelf behind, clinging on precariously by gilded straps. There were outriders. There was a coachman stout and imposing in a gold-laced hat. There was all that rank and riches could bestow. People stood respectfully aside and murmured that it was the Cardinal. What cardinal, asked the country bumpkins, tremendously impressed. Why, Prince Louis de Rohan, his Majesty’s cousin, a prince of the blood—returning from a visit to the Archbishop of Paris. Men uncovered and women made reverences. The street was hushed and watchful.

A florid handsome face appeared at the window with a gracious salute for all and sundry. The glance, accustomed to homage, swept the little crowd and alighted on Boehmer, standing gravely back and saluting with deep respect. The face was immediately withdrawn, and an order evidently given, for the coach stopped and a footman sprang down from the back and hat in hand approached Boehmer, while the crowd turned like one man to see the happy being whom the great man delighted to honour.

“Monsieur, I have the honour to inform you that his Eminence desires a word with you at your convenience. Move on, good people, move on! Make way for Monseigneur!”

They moved on obediently, and Boehmer with profound bows approached the coach-door and stood respectfully bareheaded beside it. Prince Louis de Rohan’s extremely unecclesiastical face appeared at the window once more, full, jovial, self-indulgent, a prince of the Church indeed but much more unquestionably a prince of the World, the Flesh and—ahem! That certainly was the thought which flashed through Boehmer’s mind as he made his bow. Yet, after all, what could one expect from a man trained in the wicked school of the Court of Louis the Fifteenth, where it was much more profitable to propitiate Madame du Barry than the Queen of Heaven or the Queen of France, and the King had no use for any one who could not share his amusements? Generous allowance must also be made for rank and good looks, and such a prince would never lack for the profoundest respect and obedience.

“Eh, Boehmer! it’s a long time since we met,” said the deep condescending voice. “And how is my old friend and how is the world using him? You look a little thinner than you should. Take my recipe of a light refreshment of a few oysters and a glass of white wine before déjeuner daily. It acts like a charm in restoring vitality.”

The high nobility of France could allow themselves familiarity with Boehmer because the demarcations of his position were so clear in his mind that he could be trusted never to overstep them. His bow was even deeper on this gracious recommendation.

“Permit me the honour of observing that your Eminence looks the very picture of health and younger instead of older,” he answered. “I sincerely rejoice to see it.”

Perhaps not the less because the Prince had been one of the best customers of his firm. Even Bassauger respected rank when it indulged in such lavish expenditure as that of Louis de Rohan. Could either of them forget the boxes crammed with costly trinkets which the Cardinal had taken with him as ambassador to Vienna after Madame de Pompadour (the du Barry’s predecessor) had graciously promoted the marriage of the King’s grandson, the Dauphin, heir of France, with the loveliest of that bouquet of rosebuds, the daughters of the widowed Empress of Austria, the famous Maria Theresa? Heavens! how Boehmer had rushed to and from the Hôtel de Rohan—the town house of his Eminence—laden with pearl pendants and rings, delicately engraved étuis set with a discreet sparkle of diamonds, vinaigrettes and snuff-boxes of exquisite enamel, and all to conciliate the ladies and gentlemen of the Viennese Court who could be trusted to breathe pretty fables of his devotion to her Imperial Majesty into the Imperial ear! There was also a chicken-skin fan painted by Vanloo with Loves flying like bees to cluster round a girl attended by the three Graces, weaving a garland of roses under bluest summer skies by the silver spray of a fountain. The sticks of mother-of-pearl and gold, the diamond monogram M. A. surmounted by the crown of France—a masterpiece indeed and worthy of the young Archduchess Marie Antoinette whose fair features the girl bore. That was a gift worthy of the future Queen of France. Boehmer almost licked his lips in thinking of the price he had asked and the Prince paid ungrudgingly for that and the whole cargo of lovely frivolities. Was it for him to censure if some had been given to ladies dear to the Cardinal himself as well as to the Empress of Austria? No indeed, for those tendernesses had resulted in further orders for avalanches of rings on his leaving Vienna later—rings the ingenious settings of which (if you touched a cunningly contrived spring) disclosed the hidden face, a little flattered, of that most unecclesiastical of cardinals. Also there were many miniatures of the same attractive subject delicately rimmed with pearls. The Empress Maria Theresa was so shocked as to declare that she never would have believed in that epidemic of rings and miniatures if she had not seen it with her own eyes. There was indeed much to shock so pious a lady in the escapades of the Cardinal. Certainly the parting guest had been urgently speeded on his way to France. Boehmer was inclined to think that the rings explained it. But that did not concern him. Summoned to the coach his one thought was, Could so excellent a customer be interested in the Necklace in case of—what of course could not happen—the Queen’s refusing it? At all events his good word could do no harm, for the more pretty ladies flocked to see it the better its chances. And such a connoisseur in jewels! The very man to help an anxious King’s Jeweller from a very terrible burden.

“And you truly enjoy the health, Monseigneur, which your very humble servant always desires for you?” he repeated.

“Why, yes, Boehmer, my good friend. But what I want to ask is, Have you any pearls of respectable lustre—but by no means a king’s ransom—suitable for a ring? There is a little lady who has set her little heart on black pearls—the whims of women!—to enhance her white hand. Three, to be set with an illustration of diamonds. I wish it to resemble the famous ring which my father gave Madame de Boufflers when she first appeared at Court. You know the song:

“When Boufflers was first seen at Court,

Venus’ self shone less beauteous than she did.

To please her each eagerly sought,

And too well in his turn each succeeded.

Well, that ring—your predecessor made it—was one of the baits. I want the same thing but at half the cost.”

“Certainly I know it, Monseigneur, and I have the pearls, moreover, fresh from Ceylon. But half the cost! Your Eminence did not used to bargain. Ah, these are hard times for my trade!”

“And would not bargain now if times favoured me. But the lady, though charming, is not worth more than half what my father has told me of Madame de Boufflers. Now, for some women one would give all the world were it all condensed into a single pearl like that of Cleopatra’s.”

“I have a jewel for such a lady!” cried Boehmer eagerly. “A supreme, a royally magnificent jewel for a queen of beauty or empress of the world. There is no woman who could refuse anything to the man who gave her such a magnificence.”

“There is only one woman who is queen of beauty and royal also,” said the Cardinal with lowered eyes. “And she has diamonds too many to care for more.”

Boehmer smiled discreetly:

“Has a woman ever enough, Monseigneur? You know better than I. But have you heard of my diamond necklace?”

His Eminence yawned indolently:

“I believe I heard a rumour of some such thing. But, Boehmer, the pearls?”

“I will bring them for your approval, your Eminence. At present I am on my way to present my duty and ask an interview later with her Majesty that she may see my necklace.”

Life sprang into the Cardinal’s dull eyes, colour flushed his cheek. That name always touched something in him apart from all other amours. There was somewhere hidden under the mud and murk of his life a stray sparkle of imagination, of romance, dimmed, befouled, but still surviving. And the exquisite Queen touched it. The thought of her alternately shamed and stimulated him. The lovely creature, proud, airy, the very embodiment of race and high sentiment and a girl’s romance playing at hide and seek with a great queen’s dignity! He had known her when as little more than a child she had believed in his devotion to her mother’s interests and to hers and had given him a very loyal and innocent confidence which he had grossly misused. He had seen her arrival in France, a girl scarcely fifteen, fair and hopeful as the dawn, luminous with youth and life and beauty—a glittering jewel for a king’s wearing. He had watched her before he lost Court favour, a virgin wife, as all knew, failing to charm or even to interest her dull young unripe husband though the very safety of France demanded an heir. He had seen that rose unplucked high on the topmost bough, wasting its sweetness on the desert air, while the man who might have worn it in his bosom never looked at her nor answered her half-pathetic, half-humorous little attempts to please him. And men, knowing this, climbed as far as they dared to reach the Unapproachable. There was the handsome Duke of Dorset, gay and beautiful as the long-ago Duke of Buckingham who had won the heart of a queen of France. Had he—had they? No, the Cardinal would not believe it. He trampled on the thought. Marie Antoinette had coquetted innocently, she had spread out her charms in the sunlight as a peacock spreads his net of gold and jewelled moons. But more—no.

And then after eight years of marriage suddenly the Dauphin, now king, awaked as from a drugged sleep to the worth of his treasure that all the world envied, and his wife was his wife indeed and mother of the little Dauphin and Madame Royale of France.

Yet, knowing all this, the Cardinal longed still for the beautiful angry woman who let her eyes glide over him as coldly as a December frost when he must cross her path at the celebration of the religious ceremonies which as Grand Almoner of France he and none other could perform. It was his only approach to Court now—otherwise it was forbidden, and through her influence. And yet in his own way he loved her in spite of it all. Not a high love—desire backed by self-interest and stayed on thwarted pride—but still the best in him. And this fellow, this Jew Boehmer, a mere tradesman, might enter her cabinet and display his wares and hear her voice rise and fall, see her pleasure as she examined the treasures laid before her. And he, Louis de Rohan, whom the King must call “my cousin” might sooner hope to enter Paradise (in itself improbable) than that sacred sealed cabinet which held the one thing his soul coveted with the only passion left in his life. What was the use of his descent from Anne of Brittany and the blood royal of France? What the use of the proud motto of his House:

Roi ne veux,

Prince ne daigne.

Rohan suis,

if the only woman he valued never cast a glance his way? Hopeless!

“She will not buy your necklace,” he said coldly to Boehmer. “Public affairs are too disturbed and the people are beginning to thrust their pigs’ snouts into financial matters and others too high for them. The King would not hear of it.”

“Monseigneur, the King is so madly in love with her Majesty now, making up for lost time, as all say, that if he once sees it about her neck—”

Had Boehmer fully persuaded himself or was it the desperate hope of getting rid of his glittering nightmare? He spoke with conviction and the Cardinal flushed at his words, a dull, jealous red. He made a sign to his men to drive on and Boehmer was left in the street, bowing and protesting that the black pearls should be at his service and at a price the most reasonable, and so forth until the great man was out of hearing. Then he pursued his way, tremulous with anxiety.