Читать книгу Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2) - Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson - Страница 9

THE Duc de Beaufort is summoned to a private audience at the Louvre. On his way up the grand staircase entering from the inner quadrangle he meets his mother, the Duchesse de Vendôme, and his sister, the Duchesse de Nemours, who, their attendance on the Queen over, are descending.

"Good God! Francis," cries his mother, raising her hands with a gesture of horror, "I thought you were safe at Rambouillet. You within the Louvre at this moment? You must be mad!" And she throws herself upon him and tries to bar his further passage.

"Oh, my brother!" exclaims his sister Nemours, in the same breath, throwing her arms around his neck; "in the name of the Holy Virgin, do not tempt your fate. Fly, dear Francis – fly, while you can – our coach is waiting below – come with us instantly." And Madame de Nemours takes him by the arm, and tries to draw him downwards.

Beaufort plants himself firmly on the stair. His first impulse is to push them both forcibly aside, and to proceed; his next to curse their folly in the spicy argot of the halles. He does neither; but stands open-mouthed, his fierce eyes demanding an explanation he does not condescend to ask. The explanation is soon forthcoming.

"My son," cries his mother, bursting into tears, and seizing on his hand to detain him, as he makes a motion as if to evade them, "listen to me, I implore you. Your sister and I have been in waiting on the Queen many hours to-day. She is terribly incensed against you. People have been coming all day with tales to her here, at the Louvre. Crowds have filled her audience chamber."

"Mille Diables! What do you mean, mother?" bursts out Beaufort, shaking himself free from both ladies. "You call me mad, if any one be mad it is yourselves. I am here, summoned by the Queen herself, to a private audience. Ventre de ma vie!" – Beaufort much affects some of the favourite oaths of his grandfather, Henri Quatre – "what are her Majesty's humours to me?"

"Oh, Francis," sobs the Duchesse de Nemours, "what have you done? You have threatened the life of Cardinal Mazarin. The Queen knows it. She has sent for you to secure your person. She can have no other motive. Nothing can exceed her indignation. She said, in my hearing, that you had personally insulted her; that your party, the Importants, were the curse of her reign; and that the Duchesse de Montbazon corrupted the princes of the blood by her intrigues. In the name of Heaven, do not venture near her Majesty if you value your liberty, or even your life!"

The Duchesse de Vendôme wrings her hands while her daughter is speaking.

"For my sake, quit Paris, my dear son. If you remain, not even Gondi can save you. Come with us instantly, and cross the frontier while you can."

Her words are broken; she trembles at her son's manifest danger; Beaufort looks at her, shakes his head, and bursts into a loud laugh.

"You are a couple of lunatics, both of you" – and again he laughs – "I shall not leave Paris; I will not even hide myself. Calm yourself, mother," – and he kisses her on the cheek – "her Majesty has summoned me to a private audience. I shall obey her. She is no traitress. I have been guilty of rudeness towards her. I go to wipe out the remembrance of it. I am rough, but not brutal, especially to the Queen. Besides, they dare not arrest me." 1

Saying which, he pushes his mother and sister, who still endeavour to stop him, on one side, and bounds up the stairs.

It is evening. Anne of Austria is alone in a spacious withdrawing-room, from which her private writing-closet opens. Four lofty windows turn towards the river – one is open. She sits beside it, gazing at the dazzling tints of the summer sunset that lace the western heavens with bars of fire. In front rise the double towers of Notre-Dame. The fretted spire of the Sainte-Chapelle glistens against a bank of heavy clouds that are rapidly welling up from the south. These clouds deepen with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset soon fades out. The sun disappears, and darker and denser clouds gather and thicken, and obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance, and a few heavy raindrops descend. Long shadows fall across the floor, the corners of the room grow dark, and only a few bright gleams, lingering low on the horizon, rest on the Queen's face and figure.

Anne of Austria has now passed into middle life; her form is full, her movements heavy. The glorious eyes are still lustrous, but no longer flash with the fire of youth. Her hair, though still abundant, has lost its glossy brightness. Her dress is rich, her bearing cold and stately. She affects a distant, almost a haughty manner, and is severe in exacting the most rigid etiquette from all who approach her, save alone the Cardinal. He comes and goes as he lists, smiling and obsequious, but no longer humble or subservient as of yore. Indeed, at times he treats her Majesty with absolute familiarity, to the utter dismay of the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle de Hautefort. When not engaged with Mazarin in state affairs, or in giving audiences, the Queen passes her time in her oratory. Not only is she devout herself, but exacts at all events the same outward show of piety from her ladies.

Twilight has deepened into gloom, ere the Duc de Beaufort enters. He stands in shadow, and as he glances at the Queen, he inwardly apostrophises his mother and sister as a couple of fools and gossips, for imagining him to be in any danger of her displeasure. His boisterous bearing – for he affects the manners of the lowest of the populace, the better to sway them, and by so doing to embarrass the minister – is visibly softened. He remembers with pain the insults of which he has been guilty in turning his back on the Queen, when they last met, and in refusing to receive her herald. He is both repentant and flattered at her summons. His obeisance to her is unusually low, and some tokens of emotion betray themselves on his dissipated, though handsome countenance.

"Good evening, cousin," says Anne of Austria, as he enters, a gracious smile upon her face, and with that queenly grace natural to her, she presents her still beautiful hand to him, which he kisses kneeling. "Where have you been these four days past? You are a stranger at the Louvre."

Her voice is sweet, her look is gentle. It is impossible that what Beaufort has heard can be true.

"Madame," he answers, bowing, "had I not been absent from Paris, I should not have failed to present my duty to your Majesty. But I am only just returned from a hunting-party at Rambouillet, whither I went with my brother-in-law, Nemours. Until I came back I did not know that you had asked for me. What can I do for your Majesty's service? I am always at your command."

"Ah, cousin, you are always at my command, I know," answers the Queen, repeating his words, and she gives a little laugh. Beaufort winces at the covert rebuke. He feels that her meaning must be ironical, yet she speaks caressingly, and the same gracious smile still plays about her mouth.

"You once called me the most honourable man in France, Madame; I am proud to remember it." Beaufort speaks roughly, and in a loud voice; the momentary polish is passing away with the momentary emotion. "I am what I ever was. I do not change. I wish I could say the same of your Majesty. Madame, you have greatly altered," and he looks at her straight in the face. Anne of Austria shifts her position, so as to sit in shadow, then she replies: —

"I have no special purpose in summoning you, cousin, save for the satisfaction your presence here gives me." Again Beaufort feels the covert stab, and observes that she studiously avoids noticing his remarks on her altered conduct towards him.

"You and I," adds the Queen, in a voice strangely monotonous, "are indeed old friends and comrades as well as cousins."

"You have not a truer friend in whole France than I am," answers the Duke vehemently, and he advances a step or two towards the window, near which the Queen sits, raises his hand to emphasise his words, and lets it fall so heavily on a table near as to make the whole room echo. The Queen still smiles graciously.

"Yes, Madame, I am no courtier; I hate courts; but before you made that Italian facchino your favourite you relied on Beaufort." As he pronounced the Cardinal's name his face hardens and his hands clench themselves; an almost imperceptible shudder passes over the Queen. Then he continues: —

"Was it not to Beaufort that you entrusted the sacred person of his Majesty and your own safety after the death of your husband, before the Regency was settled?"

Anne of Austria bows her head in silence. She is evidently determined not to take offence. If any one else had dared to mention the Cardinal to her in such language she would have ordered him to the Bastille.

Had the Duke been less giddy this knowledge ought to have curbed him, especially after the warning he had received; but his thoughts are now passing into a different channel, and he heeds it not.

"Yes, cousin, I have known you long, and closely," is the Queen's cautious rejoinder. "You have been at Rambouillet, Prince," she continues; "have you had good sport? The canals there are, I am told, full of fat carp. Do you love fishing?"

The Duke stares at her without replying. The Queen, who appears to desire to continue the conversation, yet to avoid all discussion, still speaks —

"My son will grow up to be a keen sportsman, I hope. The royal forests must be better guarded. Did you and the Duc de Nemours find any deer at Rambouillet?"

Spite of the Queen's unusual loquacity, there is something in her manner which irritates the excitable Duke. He cannot altogether convince himself that she is not mocking him. He had come certainly repentant, but his fiery temper now overmasters him at the bare suspicion.

"Did your Majesty send for me to put such questions as these?" cries he roughly. "If so, I would rather have stayed at Rambouillet."

"Truly, Duke," replies the Queen evasively, colouring at his bluntness, "it is difficult to content you. I have already said that I summoned you for no special purpose, save that we might converse together" – and she stops suddenly, and hesitates – "as cousins, and as friends