Читать книгу The Empress of Hearts - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 7

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He sat a moment, turning it over curiously, causing the light to play upon it from different angles. To him it was extraordinary that any one should care for such things. What did they mean? Nothing. A bit of honest handicraft such as a well-wrought lock was worth it all. But yet beauty and rank claim their adornments and that also was a bewildering part of the odd necessities life forced on one, for to him she was more lovely in the muslin gown she wore at the moment than in all the hooped and glittering splendours that held him at a distance and made a goddess of her. But how natural—how natural she should desire this wonder! Think of the ugly Charlotte of England sparkling in the diamonds an Indian Prince had laid at her flat feet! She had laughed over that news the other day. His eye fell on the arched and high-heeled shoe pressing the gilded footstool beside him. Watteau and Lancret might have taken it as an inspiration and lovers kissed its print upon the velvet. Where else could such beauty be found—and, more than beauty, charm crowning it with an indescribable attraction that drew all hearts. Rank, yes, but she could have laid that aside and yet been a world’s wonder.

He sat so long musing, his slow mind taking its own devious track to the goal, that Boehmer began to quake in his shoes. Did his Majesty disapprove? Had he forgotten? The Queen observing it put a light finger on her lip and remained looking steadily at the King.

“Of course you must have it, Madame,” he said. “I would not speak of it until you saw it, but Boehmer submitted it to me the other day and my mind was made up then that if you approved it could be no one else’s. It is suitable to you and you only.”

Bright red flushed up into Boehmer’s sallow cheeks. Praise be to God! The relief was painful. He drew a long breath like one released from bodily torment, but not a word did he utter. He watched while the Queen let the jewels fall through her fingers like water, her head bowed over them, her eyes invisible. And it seemed that much time went by.

Suddenly she looked up and made a sign to the jeweller which waived him away to a distant window. He went, stationing himself half behind the heavy curtain. The two were virtually alone.

At last with downcast eyes she said in a low voice:

“Will it be difficult?”

“Not to you, Madame.”

“But difficult?”

“It can be done. That is all the Queen needs to know.”

His heavy mouth relaxed into a very kindly smile—as when the little Dauphin snatching at the magnificent order of the Holy Ghost dragged it off his father’s breast. The child could not gauge its value. He wanted it. That was enough, and it was enough now also. But she was speaking:

“I am more than the Queen. I am your wife. Again I ask, will it be difficult? What will Calonne say when he hears?”

Calonne was the Comptroller General and his very name in those days that were coming upon them seemed to her a word of sinister omen. He was a man whom her every instinct distrusted and whom the King had called to the Ministry much against her will. De Calonne knew this very well and her fine perception felt an enemy. The thought of him took life and colour from the heap upon her lap.

“He has found money before. He can find it again.”

“But the means?”

“That I cannot tell. It is his business. Put it on that I may see it.”

“But it is believed that with Thérèse and the Polignacs I fill my hands from the Treasury whenever I please. It has done infinite harm.”

“That is a lie. What matters what liars say? You should know better than to listen!”

She hesitated, then lifted it mechanically and clasped it about her throat. Even the King’s dull eyes lighted at the rainbow lights it flung about her and the new meaning with which it irradiated her beauty. That beauty was of a type as unusual as the woman herself. She could wear a hoop with the stateliest dignity but in a hoop all figures are pretty much alike. Who but the Queen could wear that white drapery clinging about her and melt from one perfect pose of grace into another as unconsciously and naturally as a flower swaying on the stem?

None. His heart knew it.

Others also might have that blended beauty of lily and rose and the great blue eyes, but never their witchery of gaiety and melancholy. Another woman of Marie Antoinette’s colouring would have crowned it with golden hair and become banal and obvious with what is in itself a beauty. There too nature had been lavish to her. Her hair was the last touch of refinement and distinction—blonde cendrée—masses of almost ashen blonde hair making the most exquisitely softening background for colouring too brilliant had the frame been golden. That was exquisite—no one had hair like the Queen’s. It was as though it had been etherialized by a delicate veil of powder, and there were those who predicted that when it became grey it would still further stress the unapproachable distinction that all her Court envied. But how the diamonds lit it up! She glittered star-like from the darkening depths of the mirror, then turned to meet him, smiling doubtfully:

“You like it, Sire?”

“I like it, Madame.”

She stood, her hands dropped beside her, while Boehmer trembled in the distance anticipating the recall and decision, then lifting her arms she unclasped and laid it on the enamelled table.

“I will not have it, Sire.”

Dead silence, the King staring at her mutely.

“I will not have it,” she repeated slowly, as if to strengthen herself.

Something in his acquiescence must have struck a vibrating chord of pity in her heart. Yes, it would be difficult, difficult indeed! True, Calonne must carry it through, but the King would suffer in deep anxiety, and for the King—not that squalid form of suffering if she could help it! For the voice of France was going up in cries and groans, the people wailing for bread. Taxation was frightful and yet did not bring in enough to pay the daily way of the country. There were sounds of rebellion, muffled and sinister stealing on the ear, not to be traced to this source or that but all-pervading, terrifying. And the world knew well that the dead King with his appalling vices, his appalling lavishness to the women who shared them, had left a debt which the people must exact with interest one dreadful day. Also, across the Channel English ships were watching, biding their time, fiercely resentful of French participation through Lafayette in the breaking away of the American colonies from the dominion of George the Third. They too had their score to settle. These thoughts and many more passed like grey phantoms of fear through her brain as she replaced the diamonds, slowly and delicate-fingered, in their purple case. Her husband’s voice roused her.

“You shall have them, Madame. I say it.”

She raised her own, soft but clear as a bell of crystal, and addressed not the King but Boehmer.

“Monsieur, have the goodness to return. The decision is made.”

From the velvet curtains which half-draped him Boehmer advanced elate, bowing deeply at every second step. Never a doubt now clouded his face or thoughts. The nightmare was lifted and prosperity rose like a dawning sun. Aha! what would Bassauger have to say when he returned empty-handed but full-hearted? He could see him rubbing his fat little hands and rallying “the man of affairs,” as he called the senior partner.

“Madame!”

She held the case towards him with a gesture of finality.

“Monsieur, France needs ships of war. The Queen cannot buy a diamond necklace.”

There was dead silence, the King staring mutely at her, his face indecipherable; Boehmer with dropped jaw. He had not heard a word they uttered, had taken all for granted from the King’s acquiescence, for who could doubt the Queen’s? Something seemed to snap in his brain. He did not intend it, did not even know what he was doing, but acting on the irresistible impulse of the moment fell on his knees before her making as if to clutch the folds of her white dress.

“Madame, Madame!” was all he could stutter. The blood charged to his brain and the sparkle of the diamonds seemed to fill it with fire that dazzled his eyes.

“Madame!” he gasped again and awed by her look, half-angry, half-startled like a surprised goddess, got himself clumsily on his feet again and faced her, while she stood with one hand laid on the table. The King watched both with his heavy gaze, veiling so much more feeling than he had power to express.

“Madame!” he stammered, his breath catching in every word. “Have pity on your old and faithful servant! This is a matter of life and death to me—of more, of much more: honour! For, will your Majesty’s goodness realize that not only have these jewels been a dreadful cost, but I have payments to make—” His voice failing for the moment trailed into nothingness, but he rallied it again, speaking with a violent effort that flushed his face purple.

“Madame, it shall be on any terms his Majesty imposes; spread out over what years he will. There is nothing I will not accept to facilitate your possession of these jewels that become you as they can no other in the world. I swear I had this honour before me all the time I was combing the earth for them. Oh, Madame, have pity!”

The Queen gathered herself together, the King dead silent beside her.

“I have listened, monsieur, and with sympathy, for I understand your emotion in view of the immense cost of the jewels, but you compel me to remind you now that you are a Frenchman and a loyal one. Consider the state of the country, known to you as to all. Is it a time when you would wish to see your sovereigns lavishing treasure on a thing so useless, however beautiful? Suppose it were not yours. What would you feel if you heard of such a purchase at such a crisis! No, you must sell it in happier countries. There is no time or place for it here.”

One does not argue with the Queen, but Boehmer’s misery thrust him beyond the pale of custom. He was sobbing, dry breathless sobs, while his hands clutching each other expressed the rigid tension of failing self-control.

“Madame! No one need know! Keep it for happier days and make only such payments as you approve. Sire, I beseech you! I am a ruined man! You were favourable. Oh, plead with her Majesty for me—”

The King moved a step forward.

“You are resolved, Madame?”

“Absolutely. With what face could I wear it? And as to hiding it—” Her look of disdain said the rest.

The King advanced on the man in his disconcerting short-sighted way which had the effect of seeming to drive people back against the wall. Boehmer shrank before him.

“Her Majesty has expressed her will, and I, the King, say she is right. There is no more to be said. No, I am not angry, but take your diamonds and go!”

Even to Boehmer’s anguish it was clear that the fiat of doom had gone forth and there was no more hope. He could not comprehend what had changed his world into hell. What had they said to one another? But what matter? All was lost. Trembling like an old man, his face a sickly white now, he gathered up the rejected treasure and secured it in his breast pocket, then bowed pitiably, piteously, and crept towards the door.

The Queen stood still as an image until it closed, then turned to her husband, her eyes brimming with tears that spilt down her cheeks.

“The poor man! But what could I do? I was right. You know I was right.”

He caught her clumsily in his arms and held her close, kissing her hair and brows.

“You are always right, my dear heart. I was wrong to say a word, but I thought you wished for it and if you had— But to me it looks more like the du Barry than—my Queen.” His tone was love’s homage alike to wife and queen. He could say little but there were moments when his look said much. It spoke then.

“You are too good to me!” she said sadly, disengaging herself. “If I had wished for it I should have been a wretch! Wear it perhaps four times a year, and see the veiled glances when I did! No, you are right. It is for women like the du Barry, for whom they made it. Forget it, Sire, and let us talk of happier things. But that poor Boehmer’s face! It haunts me.”

“Let him sell it elsewhere!” the King said stolidly. “We have heard the end of it now, and he will never dare to trouble us with it again.”

But a cold premonitory shudder shook the Queen, as when some one walks over a grave as yet undug. She clung against the King’s shoulder like one in fear, and knew there was no strength in it to save her from the poison-wind of calumny which had begun to breathe through the palaces of the kings of France.

“I wish with all my heart and soul that I had never seen it,” she said.

As to Boehmer, not knowing what he did, walking stiffly lest control should slip from him altogether, he passed almost unnoticed through the antechamber. The Count de Fersen, Colonel of the Regiment of Royal Swedes looked up from the game of cards he was playing in a recess with an officer of the Garde du Corps.

“The favoured Boehmer does not look particularly happy!” he said.

“I suppose he has not got rid of as much as he hoped!” answered the other carelessly. “But it is madness of the Majesties to buy so much as a diamond snuff-box now. The talk of the Queen’s expenses is frightfully dangerous and grows daily. Curse these cards! You have all the luck, Comte! It seems to me that a foreigner has always more wit or good fortune!”

“And yet she is probably one of the least expensive queens that ever sat upon the throne!” said de Fersen, ignoring the cards. “It’s the left-handed queens that cost the money. The Pompadour and du Barry spent as much in a month as the Queen in a year. And the King’s life is simplicity itself in so far as he can control it.”

“True! but, oh, curse it, Comte, you can’t talk and play. At least I can’t. And the poor devil is gone with his hangdog face. Do forget him and play.”

De Fersen picked up his cards but without interest and his look was absent. The poor devil had made his way out by a long corridor leading past the apartments of the Queen’s waiting-women. As he stumbled along, half-stupid with shock, a door opened and a pretty woman came out tripping coquettishly on ridiculous heels, the latest note of fashion; exceedingly well-dressed too. She turned to the friend inside.

“Good-bye then, chèrie. To-morrow you shall have the almond-water for the skin. It has an infusion of tree-bark in it from the Orient that acts like magic in effacing wrinkles. Try it and see. Yes—two louis. But what’s a louis for beauty renewed? Not that yours wants renewing—it’s a case of prevention with you!” She looked at Boehmer and halted. “Who’s the gentleman with the long face?” she asked in a tone of languid interest.

“That’s Boehmer, the King’s Jeweller, Madame Lamotte. I thought to hear you talk you knew all the people about Court. I daresay he’s been selling something to make your mouth water. He’s coming from the Queen.”

“Mighty fine, I’ve no doubt,” said the other edging up. A pretty woman with brown black hair and bright dark eyes, a heart-shaped face and slight tip-tilted nose. But, to a knowledgeable eye, distinctly lacking in refinement. She cast a sidelong glance after Boehmer and added:

“I wager her Majesty doesn’t stint herself these hard times.”

The Queen’s woman was condescending.

“Those who are about queens, madame, know that they must be fine. It is a part of their business.”

“A business that’s getting a bit out of date, I imagine. I wonder what she bought.”

“Perhaps the diamond necklace!” the other said yawning. “Well, I must dress for my attendance.”

Lamotte pricked up her pretty ears for more.

“The diamond necklace? Which? What?”

“Why, the one Boehmer made for the du Barry. One of us overheard the Queen and the Princess de Lamballe talking about it. There never was anything like it in the world. As big as a big crystal lustre! You ask the Cardinal to give it to you!”

This was a roguish side-dart that brought a becoming little flush to the Lamotte’s face.

“How you talk! You pretty women are always suspecting others of the same tricks as your own! Well, I too must be off. I have an appointment in the apartments of Madame de Provence. She’s most awfully good to me. You’d be jealous if you knew. Adieu!”

With a parting giggle she minced off on her little high-heeled shoes, her hoop billowing about her. The other turned to her friend inside.

“She knows as much of Madame de Provence’s apartments as I do of the King’s. The King’s sister-in-law indeed and a wench like the Lamotte! Not likely, I should say. Still, she knows a lot about face and hair washes. Don’t you think I look a different creature since she took me in hand?”

They closed the door on the corridor. Lamotte, with her little contemptuous smile, was well out of sight following on Boehmer’s track. To her quick observation he had not the air of a man who has sold a diamond necklace or anything else. He looked stunned, dazed, almost unconscious.

She watched him with interest until he disappeared, for in her trade all was fish that came to her net, and Heaven only knew what might turn up. Finally she went slowly along the corridor which led to the apartments of the King’s sister-in-law, calculating the exact point at which she could turn and give herself the appearance of having just left them in case any one should be coming along that way. Then she would read their interest in a quickened curiosity. They would be thinking: “That woman must be somebody. She has been with her Royal Highness. Who can she be?” The thought pleased her.