Читать книгу The Empress of Hearts - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 5

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Reaching the Hôtel de Rohan and dismounting from his coach in the imposing courtyard the Prince betook himself to the small and very luxurious room which none but himself and his intimates ever entered. There hung over the fireplace a portrait splendidly framed and surmounted with the united arms of France and Austria which Louis the Fifteenth had presented to him after the marriage of his grandson the Dauphin to the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. When the old King was dead and he himself had sailed to the North Pole of royal disfavour he had feared that that precious gift might be recalled. But, no—the young girl who was now Queen of France still smiled down upon him as cordially and trustfully as in days his heart remembered but too well. Sometimes it was almost too painful a reminder of the living smile which was once his and her cold averted eyes when last they met. Should he banish it and forget? But he could not. She was so sweet in her gorgeous dress of white satin embroidered in silver fleur-de-lis, the row of pearls about her stately little throat and the blue eyes above it. So, still she kept him company and the very light ladies who sometimes favoured that room with their perfumed presence would look up half in awe at the young royal beauty and dare no comment.

For once one of them, perched on the arm of the Prince’s chair, had ventured a criticism on the curling Austrian lip—a jealous one. Her host, rising instantly, bowed her politely and in dead silence to the door which she never re-entered. That hint was sufficient for a companion who was present. There were no more criticisms even if the pretty ladies wondered secretly why a great crystal vase of the choicest flowers stood winter and summer before the picture as before a shrine.

Prince Louis de Rohan sat now with long silk-stockinged legs thrust out before him staring up at her and brooding over memories which Boehmer’s words had awakened. They were not cheerful. He had held a brilliant hand in a great game and played it ill. Does Fate ever deal such cards twice over? Never.

His handsome eyes grew sullen with anger. Time, the merciless antagonist, was playing against him now. If he could have kept his gay youth—that youth for which he would have given any fortune but his own—there might be hope. But now!—He saw himself reflected in a long mirror, a figure still dignified but heavy and ageing. Invading flesh blurred the clear outline of his features, his flaccid hand trembled a little as he poured the priceless Tokay, the Austrian Empress’s gift, into a Venetian glass where golden threads twined themselves in crystal. Age! and he a man who could hope for no more of the things he loved better than life—the dazzle and intrigue of Court life, high office—and above all, the favour of the queen to whom the king could refuse nothing.

That story of his jest against her mother was good enough for the world to believe, but it was not the truth. The truth was one which none of the very few concerned would be willing to pour into the world’s greedy ear, and naturally it was his policy to encourage the common belief.

“Royal ladies!” he would say half-smiling, half-sighing, when sympathizers commented on the vindictive anger of the Queen, “they must never be blamed and her Majesty is the most dutiful of daughters. After all I should have known better!”—with a slight touch of regret.

And since the Austrian Queen was none too popular in Paris sympathizers agreed among themselves it was just like the Austrian venom to keep up a trifling grudge so long.

Oh, the cards he had held when she came to Paris with not a friend to steer her among the pitfalls and dangers! The Pompadour, proud of her power, had made the marriage to please the Empress Maria Theresa and was amply rewarded by delightful letters full of consideration and beginning, “My dear Cousin,” from the greatest and most pious Lady on earth. The presents of jewels which came with them were pleasant but not for a moment to be compared with the letters. It was something for the King’s harlot to be able to show them about the Court and to know that Europe had heard of the intimacy and envied her. Such a personal tribute to her position! Perhaps she would have valued it less, thought de Rohan, if she had known that to set a daughter on the French throne was so necessary to the Empress’s policy that to attain her end she would have kissed the devil’s black cloven hoof with as much zest as that with which she had written those enchanting letters to a lady whom she regarded as the prize goat of his flock on earth.

Madame de Pompadour meant to pay the debt owing for so much condescension. She would have honestly befriended the young bride, as she had promised the Empress. She would have spread the shadow of her august protection over the Austrian lamb. Not a dog would have barked where the Pompadour commanded! But she died, and when Marie Antoinette arrived in France the du Barry, pretty, coarse-minded, and furiously jealous, had stepped into the Pompadour’s painted high-heeled shoes, and very serious dangers awaited the Austrian Dauphine.

Even the Empress could not condescend to court that omnipotent slut! She who knew everything which passed at the French Court through her ambassador the Count de Mercy and his spies, knew as well as the du Barry herself the disreputable old King’s taste for green fruit. She knew also that the du Barry would therefore not only do all in her power to keep the bride in the shade but would actively plot and lie to injure her in the old King’s eyes, lest she should gain not only his liking but more. What was the Empress to do to protect her lamb from a wolf so sharp of tooth?

De Rohan was then ambassador in Vienna and visiting at the palace of Schönbrunn. He occurred to her at once as a man too obtuse and absorbed in pleasure to be anything but a useful tool in her hands and those of her ambassador in Paris and yet, in virtue of his great position and ample means of collecting information, a most valuable friend and adviser for her daughter. The advice would of course be her own but it would be more likely to be well received by Marie Antoinette from the mouth of a man whom no one could afford to despise. His ambitions and hers might be made to coincide for, though she was but the Dauphine now, any day might make her Queen of France with endless gifts and possibilities in her hand if only she could be safely steered through the present dangers. So the Empress sent for him and received him with cordiality so winning and sunny that it obliterated all memories of escapades among the Court ladies which he also was very anxious to forget.

As he sat now he recalled that conversation, and the Empress, stately and smiling, little guessing that she was dealing to a very ambitious man exactly the cards he needed.

“You will understand my position, Eminence,” she said, leaning forward in a confidential attitude from her great gilt fauteuil. “I really counted on Madame de Pompadour’s influence with your illustrious Master for my daughter. She was in some respects a worthy woman and had a proper sense of responsibility to him and to the nation. You agree with me?”

Louis de Rohan could remember no worthiness in the Pompadour though a super-abundance of charm. Responsibility to the nation indeed! Who cared for the nation? Certainly not the lady who plundered it until she was gorged with gold and jewels. But he smiled as gravely as he bowed.

“And I know,” pursued the Empress, gently waving her fan, “that Madame du Barry, though beautiful and no doubt deserving her high position, for none can doubt his Majesty’s wisdom, is perhaps naturally so eager to preserve his esteem for herself that—”

The Empress was feeling her way. Who knew with a woman like the du Barry that she had not been—was not now—a chère amie of de Rohan’s? He relieved her mind instantly.

“Madame, it pains me to speak so plainly to your Majesty, but the woman is a slut! A fury of jealousy! She is capable of spreading the most atrocious lies about your royal daughter, not only to his Majesty but throughout the Court—throughout France! It will need the utmost skill to pilot her through the dangers of that woman’s tongue and deadly animosity.”

“Animosity? But why?” hesitated the Empress, even yet uncertain how far she could trust him.

“Because, Madame, your Majesty knows how my Sovereign adores beauty, especially youthful beauty, and she will dread the influence of the Dauphine more than any other in the world. There are possibilities—”

He hesitated. Maria Theresa laid her fan down and looked him straight in the face with inscrutable grey eyes.

“Your Eminence, can I trust you?” she asked.

“To the death, Madame.” Cardinal though he was he dropped on one knee and kissed her hand, his heart beating like a lover’s, but for very different reasons. The way—the way—was opening before him! She yielded her hand graciously, then motioned him to rise.

“I never trust by halves. You are worthy of knowing my whole mind. There is nothing—no anxiety I feel so deeply as the need of securing the support of France. I cannot hope to recover my lost province of Silesia, to move with any certainty in Europe, unless your august Sovereign supports me. My dearest hope is that my daughter may acquire the strongest influence with him, if only she can use it wisely. Had Madame de Pompadour lived— Alas! hers was a heavy loss for Europe!”

“All must lament it,” said de Rohan, with exactly the proper accent of regret. For all such niceties he could rely upon himself, but in deeper matters— No! He knew that the Empress’s plotting brain was worth a round dozen of his. Lord, steer him straight through the shoals to harbour! He knew that she cared no more what happened to her daughters except as pawns in her game than he for a last year’s love. Heavens, what a woman!

“She is so young, so inexperienced!” said the Empress mournfully. “What I desire is some friend, a man for choice, who will advise her kindly but firmly, not by any means sparing her home truths and who will confer with her tutor, the Abbé Vermond. I want a man who will in short act the part of a—”

She was about to say “father” but the look on the vain handsome face before her was a warning. She changed the word neatly to “friend” and went on smoothly:

“—a friend whom she can trust. He must be a man whose birth and position ensure respect and whose grace of manner will attract her confidence. For choice, owing to my profound respect for the Church, I would say a great churchman. Need I say, your Eminence, that I speak of you?”

Again (strictly as a prince of this world, not of the Church) he fell on his knee and kissed the imperial hand. He was profoundly flattered. The tribute was one he could scarcely have expected after the episodes of the rings and miniatures and it was the more gratifying. She listened with a benignant smile to the torrent of thanks and vows and then motioned him to rise.

“And now that we understand each other perfectly,” she said, “I will tell you, my dear Cardinal, that my poor child is making the most deplorable mistakes about Madame du Barry. One may think what one likes of that lady but what one says, what one does, is a very different matter, and unfortunately some officious fool has prejudiced her against Madame in the most shocking way. Imagine! I hear from Vermond that not long since your great Sovereign gave a supper-party for my daughter at which Madame du Barry was present. Three ladies who were there at once rose and left the table, considering it an affront to the Dauphine.—Did you ever hear such folly?—and the poor misguided child in consequence wrote me a frantic letter to the effect that his Majesty had insulted her by Madame du Barry’s presence and that she entreated I would interfere with a personal request to her royal grandfather that such a thing should never happen again! Need I say the letter was opened and read and naturally gave terrible offence in august quarters?”

“And what did your Majesty reply?” de Rohan asked, deeply interested.

“Ten simple words—no more. ‘Where the Sovereign himself presides no guest can be objectionable.’ ”

“Most true!” said de Rohan with deep conviction. “And the result?”

“The result was unluckily too great a rebound in the other direction. My last report says that, being told Madame du Barry was the happy person who is most successful in amusing the Sovereign, my silly little girl said, innocently enough, of course!—‘Then I declare myself her rival, for I shall just try in the future which of us can best amuse my grandpapa. And we shall see who succeeds!’ You can imagine Madame du Barry’s feelings! I hear my Antoinette plays off all sorts of childish tricks now which delight his Majesty and drive Madame du Barry frantic. Is it wonderful, Cardinal, that I beg you to advise the unfortunate child?”

“What exactly does your Majesty wish the Dauphine to do?” asked de Rohan cautiously.

“To conciliate Madame du Barry’s feelings in every way, while quietly consolidating her own influence with the King. To preserve her own dignity. I am told she even discards her hoops sometimes. Hoops! When she knows they are a matter of strict etiquette and, not only so, but most invaluable to ladies in delicate situations whether married or unmarried. Female reputation is really guarded by hoops and one may realize the animosity it provokes when she sets such a dangerous fashion. I sometimes think I have given birth to a fool!”

Not a sign of his inward mirth appeared on the Cardinal’s face. He sat, gravely absorbing information which had of course reached him from his own spies at the Court long before, then slowly shook his head.

“I fear her Royal Highness’s position is delicate in the extreme and the more so because her husband—” He hesitated and the Empress took him up smartly.

“—is not her husband in the true sense of the word and apparently takes no more notice of her than as if she were a perfect stranger! The unlucky child writes to me that he escorts her to her bedchamber door, takes off his hat with a bow and there leaves her!”

“Bless me!” ejaculated the Cardinal, who knew as much of the facts as the Empress, and indeed considerably more.

“But you knew that?” she questioned. The ignorance was a little over-done.

“Certainly I knew it, Madame, but I hoped, as all loyal subjects must hope, that such transcendent charms—”

“Oh, Antoinette is well-looking enough!” answered the Empress coolly. “But what is to come of it if she cannot win her husband’s heart? What about an heir for France? I ask you!”

“Madame, I can only quote to your Majesty a reply of my Sovereign’s to one of his daughters who asked the same question when in the same case. He replied, ‘A prudent princess will never want for heirs.’ It was apposite, I think!”

There was such humour in his face and twinkling blue eyes that for a moment the Empress softened into laughter, and they drifted more comfortably into gossip about the celebrities, men and women, of the French Court—a very highly spiced dish of gossip indeed, but valuable in another way also to the great Lady to whom it was of the utmost importance to know the character of every person in Marie Antoinette’s entourage. Several of them indeed were already in her pay. Others would very shortly be. The Cardinal had never before been so graciously dismissed. He could remember now the charm of the smile with which the Empress bid him to return next day as she expected important despatches from the Abbé Vermond on which she must have his opinion.

He had scarcely reached his own room before he sent for his secretary, the Abbé Georgel, and told him the whole amazing story, delighted to observe the changes of hope, doubt and gladness on that keen vulpine face with close-drawn black brows and narrow lips. He was the Cardinal’s faithful confidant and adviser in all but his lighter amusements. Those were kept strictly apart from business and the secretary attached no more importance to them than to the choice of his master’s very rich and fastidious wardrobe. Princes did these things and the ladies came and went and he scarcely knew their names and cared less. That was a department altogether distinct from his.

But the Empress—the Empress!

“Of course,” said the secretary, “she would do anything to conciliate the King. It is vital to her policy. But, for the love of God, remember, your Highness, how the Empress and the Austrian marriage are loathed in France. France has never loved Austrian marriages and will never forgive the Empress for her cruel conduct to us after the battle of Prague. So far even the youth and beauty of the Dauphine have not conquered the prejudice. Indeed you are shouldering a most anxious responsibility.”

“I see no cause for alarm, and much for ambition. One has only to please all parties alike and—”

But the Abbé was too deep in thought to listen. He went on earnestly:

“If his Majesty really falls in love with the Dauphine the marriage with the Dauphin may easily be annulled as it has never been consummated, and in that case his Majesty might marry her himself. Would that please the Empress?”

“I should say that even the Empress might have scruples there,” said the Prince with affected coolness. “But who can tell?”

“I doubt any scruples!” replied the Abbé eagerly. “Does your Eminence know what happened when she designed her daughter the Archduchess Josepha for the King of Naples? The marriage by proxy had actually taken place, when just before she left for Naples the Empress happened to ask her if she would second her mother’s plans in everything at the Court of Naples and—”

“Don’t tell me the girl refused!” said the Prince. “Every one of them has been brought up to think their mother a pope in petticoats.”

“The new Queen answered demurely: ‘Scripture says, your Majesty, that when a woman is married she belongs to her husband’s country.’ ”

“The little prig!” cried the Cardinal.

“ ‘But what about State affairs?’ asked the Empress in consternation. ‘Are they above religion?’ answered the young Queen solemnly. The Empress reflected for a moment in silence. ‘My daughter, you are right and wrong!’ she said. ‘It is a case where we must implore Divine guidance! Go to-morrow to the tombs of our family and in the sacred vaults of your ancestors pray to Heaven to illumine you.’ As a matter of fact the unfortunate young Queen was sent to pray by the tomb of the princess who had just died of the smallpox (her name I regret to say has escaped me), but the young Queen of Naples caught the disease and was dead in a few days.”

“Bless me! What a woman!” repeated the Cardinal. “And then she sent Marie Caroline, the next daughter, instead!”

“Certainly, and when she arrived in Naples that young lady discovered that it was not etiquette for the Queen to dine at the same table with the King. The old lady immediately sent a despatch to the Neapolitan Prime Minister to say an Austrian army would fetch her daughter home if she were treated as inferior to her husband. But before this reached Naples the young Queen had already dismissed the ministry, upset the Cabinet and forbidden her bedchamber to the King. It is a very singular family indeed, and for that reason I entreat your Eminence to go warily not only with the Empress but the young Dauphine. It is not because a head is lovely that there may not be deep plotting instincts hidden within it.”

“My friend Georgel,” replied the Cardinal with a superior smile, “you are a very wise man and sometimes a very great fool. If a man of my age and experience cannot fathom the mind of a girl in her teens I give you leave to write me down an ass!”

The Abbé bowed submissively and remonstrated no more.

“She is as innocent as a lily, as fresh and guileless as a lamb!” cried the Cardinal. “She and her sisters have been brought up like nuns. Whole pages alluding to even the most refined love affairs were chopped out of their books before they were allowed to read them and—”

“That I should think might arouse a very unwholesome curiosity,” replied the Abbé grimly, “but I own I am unacquainted with the minds of young women.”

“Pooh, my friend! What can girls imagine who know nothing? They were not even permitted anything but female dogs and birds as pets. Only women attended them. Excepting their confessor, who was all but a dotard, they never beheld men except on State occasions. I am told the Dauphine has no understanding whatever of her husband’s neglect. All she complains of is his negligent manner. What can surpass such innocence?”

“I question it—I should indeed, your Eminence. Your Highness’s information may be correct, and yet— Since you have done me the honour to ask my advice I would say: Go most warily. Remember the two queens of Naples. The Archduchess Josepha had the courage to defy her terrible mother; the present Queen of Naples had the kingdom by the ears before she had been in Naples a month. Possibly the Dauphine—”

“Bah! she is the sweetest little innocent alive!” said de Rohan laughing.

“She will not always be and who can say when the age of enlightenment begins,” replied the secretary seriously. “However, one may safely say that few men have such a magnificent position thrust upon them and I congratulate your Eminence with all my heart.”

Would the congratulations have been so heartfelt if he had guessed that for the first time in his life de Rohan would fall in love, and desperately, with the girl he was set to watch and influence? Had such a possibility occurred to him he would on his knees have besought his master to leave the danger-zone for others who had more taste for ruin. Ruin would certainly come of the smallest slip on the ice of such altitudes. Georgel who cared for his master’s interests because they were his own would have gone half-mad with terror if he had guessed what was in that master’s mind but, thinking as he did with the austerity of a churchman, passion was a force outside his estimate. The love affairs had never interested him and never would.

The rest can be briefly told.

Trusting in his own skill, keeping secret from his one adviser his true motive, de Rohan attempted to play a double game and to make his royal marionettes dance on his strings. He kept the Empress in a constant state of terror as to her daughter’s indiscretions and follies that she might feel his advice and protection indispensable. He fed her upon lies and exaggerations and at last she could endure her anxiety no longer and sent a man whom she could trust to report upon the girl’s conduct. Discovering the utter falsity of de Rohan the Empress forbade him her presence and he left Vienna in haste and secrecy for Versailles.

There he set himself to the task of winning Marie Antoinette by embittering her against her mother.

Sitting in his own room and staring at her portrait while he recalled these things he remembered her trusting confidence and amazement when he seriously warned her against the Empress.

“It is painful but true that her Majesty feels you have failed, Madame, in carrying out her plans for Austria. Keep the secret I am about to tell you if you value your future. It is her intention that your grandfather the King should marry your younger sister the Archduchess Elizabeth and—”

He could never forget the look of dismay on Marie Antoinette’s young face.

“What? And I am to be nothing, and my sister is to be set over me, and if she has a son my husband will be nothing!”

She broke down sobbing. She had tried so hard—what had she left undone?

She sobbed on and de Rohan resisted the longing to throw his arms about her and comfort her as a man may. She had nowhere else to turn and no position could be lonelier or more dangerous.

“But, Madame, hear reason. The Empress has confided this negotiation to me. Do you not know that in my hands it is safe? Can you believe I will let it go a step further? Not if it costs my life. I am returning to Vienna now to put a stop to such a hideous imagining.”

She believed him. How otherwise? And he, speeding, got himself back to Vienna and straightway assured the Empress when he could gain an audience that he had set on foot a negotiation with the old King for his marriage with her daughter the Archduchess Elizabeth.

“For we shall never make any impression on the Dauphine, Madame. She is engrossed in her amusements and perfectly careless of the Austrian interests. Austria will make no progress in France while the august Dauphine represents her.”

It is useless to open out the web of intrigue in which he snared the mother and daughter, intercepting their letters, playing a desperate game desperately. And in the midst of it the old King died and Marie Antoinette was Queen of France! Had he lived longer her marriage would have been annulled and she sent back to Vienna, so fatal had been the plottings of de Rohan and others to her hopes and future.

So the house of cards built upon deceit fell to the ground and the truth became known both to the Empress of Austria and the Queen of France. The Empress declared he should never enter her dominions again. Marie Antoinette, who dared not reveal all to her husband lest it should cause an open rupture with her mother and with Austria, could only use her influence to have the man forbidden the Court. That was in itself a sentence of death to all his hopes and in the glories of the new reign he faded into the background, a thwarted man, bitter with disappointed love and ambition, weak and dangerous alike to himself and others, waiting listlessly for some chance he might turn to better account.

Recalling all these things as he sat there he felt the past to be irreparable. She would never—could never forgive him. It was only the old King’s death that had saved her. No, life would go on in this dull succession and he would see other men rise to power and favour. He had had to bear as best he could the knowledge that her husband had become her lover and to see her mother of the Dauphin of France. He had lost all. She could be generous to her other foes. Even the du Barry was allowed her pension and retired fat with ill-gotten gains. The Queen’s influence was always for peace and a better understanding. For him only she had no pity. Could she have suspected that the traps he had set were to drive her into his arms for safety? Was that the explanation? He sat still staring at the picture, his mind wandering through the mad past and hopeless present.

She had her dangers yet in spite of her queenship. Not all her beauty and charm could soften the French hatred of Austria which he himself had helped to strengthen by his intrigues. To the French people she was always “The Austrian,” she still walked in the midst of pitfalls where even her gaiety and grace were her enemies. But queens are safe enough, thought de Rohan. It is only those who trust them who pay their debts.

He rose at last sullen and wearied and blew a note on a gold whistle.

“Send to Madame de Lamotte and say I should like to see her this evening!” he said curtly to the lacquey who appeared. He could bear his own company no longer.