Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 3

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In the gardens of Versailles, as everywhere else within the freezing influence of the Grand Monarque, nature herself seemed to accept the situation, and succumbed inevitably under the chain of order and courtly etiquette. The grass grew, indeed, and the Great Waters played, but the former was rigorously limited to certain mathematical patches, and permitted only to obtain an established length, while the latter threw their diamond showers against the sky with the regular and oppressive monotony of clockwork. The avenues stretched away straight and stiff like rows of lately-built houses; the shrubs stood hard and defiant as the white statues with which they alternated, and the very sunshine off the blinding gravel glared and scorched as if its duty were but to mark a march of dazzling hours on square stone dials for the kings of France.

Down in Touraine the woods were sleeping, hushed, and peaceful in the glowing summer’s day, sighing, as it were, and stirring in their repose, while the breeze crept through their shadows, and quivered in their outskirts, ere it passed on to cool the peasant’s brow, toiling contented in his clearing, with blue home-spun garb, white teeth, and honest sunburnt face.

Far off in Normandy, sleek of skin and rich of colour, cows were ruminating knee-deep in pasturage; hedges were loaded with wild flowers, thickets dark with rank luxuriance of growth, while fresh streams, over which the blue kingfisher flitted like a dragon-fly, rippled merrily down towards the sea. Through teeming orchards, between waving cornfields, past convent-walls grown over with woodbine and lilac and laburnum, under stately churches, rearing Gothic spires, delicate as needlework, to heaven, and bringing with them a cool current of air, a sense of freedom and refreshment as they hurried past. Nay, even where the ripening sun beat fiercely on the vineyards, terraced tier upon tier, to concentrate his rays—where Macon and Côte-d’Or were already tinged with the first faint blush of their coming vintage, even amidst the grape-rows so orderly planted and so carefully trained, buxom peasant-girls could gather posies of wild flowers for their raven hair, to make their black eyes sparkle with merrier glances, and their dusky cheeks mantle in rich carnation, type of southern blood dancing through their veins.

But Versailles was not France, and at Versailles nothing seemed free but the birds and the children.

One of the alleys, commanded from the king’s private apartments, was thickly crowded with loungers. Courtiers in silk stockings, laced coats, and embroidered waistcoats reaching to their thighs, wearing diamond hilts on their rapiers, and diamond buckles in their shoes, could not move a step without apology for catching in the spreading skirts of magnificent ladies—magnificent, be it understood, in gorgeousness of apparel rather than in beauty of face or symmetry of figure. The former, indeed, whatever might be its natural advantages, was usually coated with paint and spotted with patches, while the latter was so disguised by voluminous robes, looped-up skirts, falling laces, and such outworks and appendages, not to mention a superstructure of hair, ribbon, and other materials, towering so high above the head as to place a short woman’s face somewhere about the middle of her whole altitude, that it must have been difficult even for the maid who dressed her to identify, in one of these imposing triumphs of art, the slender and insignificant little framework upon which the whole fabric had been raised. Devotion in woman is never more sublime than when sustaining the torture of dress.

It was all artificial together. Not a word was spoken but might have been overheard with entire satisfaction by the unseen sovereign who set the whole pageant in motion. Not a gesture but was restrained by the consciousness of supervision. Not a sentiment broached but had for its object the greater glorification of a little old man, feeble and worn-out, eating iced fruit and sweetmeats in a closet opening from a formal, heavily-furnished, over-gilded saloon, that commanded the broad gravel-walk on which the courtiers passed to and fro in a shifting, sparkling throng. If a compliment was paid by grinning gallant to simpering dame, it was offered and accepted with a sidelong glance from each towards the palace windows. If a countess whispered scandal to a duchess behind her fan, the grateful dish was sauced and flavoured for the master’s palate, to whom it would be offered by the listener on the first opportunity. Marshals of a hundred fights tapped their jewelled snuff-boxes to inhale a pinch of the King’s Mixture. Blooming beauties, whose every breath was fragrance, steeped their gossamer handkerchiefs in no other perfume than an extract from orange-flowers, called Bouquet du Roi.

For Louis the Fourteenth, if he might believe his household, Time was to stand still, and the Seasons brought no change. “I am the same age as everybody else,” said a courtier of seventy to his Majesty at sixty-five. “The rain of Marly does not wet one,” urged another, as an excuse for not covering his head in a shower while walking with the king. By such gross flattery was that sovereign to be duped, who believed himself a match for the whole of Europe in perceptive wisdom and diplomatic finesse.

But though powdered heads were bowing, and laced hats waving, and brocades ruffling in the great walk, swallows skimmed and darted through the shades of a green alley behind the nearest fountain, and a little girl was sitting on the grass, making daisy-chains as busily as if there were no other interest, no other occupation at Court or in the world.

Her flapping hat was thrown aside, and her head bent studiously over her work, so that the brown curls, silken and rich and thick, as a girl’s curls should be, hid all of her face but a little soft white brow. Her dimpled arms and hands moved nimbly about her task, and a pair of sturdy, well-turned legs were stuck out straight before her, as if she had established herself in her present position with a resolution not to stir till she had completed the long snowy chain that festooned already for several yards across the turf. She had just glanced in extreme content at its progress without raising her head, when a spaniel scoured by, followed at speed by a young gentleman in a page’s dress, who, skimming the level with his toe, in all the impetuous haste of boyhood, caught the great work round his ankles, and tore it into a dozen fragments as he passed.

The little girl looked up in consternation, having duly arranged her face for a howl; but she controlled her feelings, partly in surprise, partly in bashfulness, partly perhaps in gratification at the very obvious approval with which the aggressor regarded that face, while, stopping short, he begged “Mademoiselle’s pardon” with all the grand manner of the Court grafted on the natural politeness of France.

It was indeed a very pretty, and, more, a very lovable little face, with its large innocent blue eyes, its delicate peach-like cheeks, and a pair of curling ruddy lips, that, combined with her own infantine pronunciation of her baptismal name Thérèse, had already obtained for the child the familiar appellation of “Cerise.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle!” repeated the page, colouring boy-like to his temples—“Pardon! I was running so fast; I was in such a hurry—I am so awkward. I will pick you a hatful more daisies—and—and I can get you a large slice of cake this evening when the king goes out of the little supper-room to the music-hall.”

“Mademoiselle” thus adjured, rose to her full stature of some forty inches, and spreading her short stiff skirt around her with great care, replied by a stately reverence that would have done credit to an empress. Notwithstanding her dignity, however, she cast a wistful look at the broken daisy-chain, while her little red lips quivered as if a burst of tears was not far off.

The boy was down on his knees in an instant, gathering handfuls of the simple flowers, and flinging them impetuously into his hat. It was obvious that this young gentleman possessed already considerable energy of character, and judging from the flash of his bold dark eyes, a determined will of his own. His figure, though as yet unformed, was lithe, erect, and active, while his noble bearing denoted self-reliance beyond his years, and a reckless, confident disposition, such as a true pedagogue would have longed and failed to check with the high hand of coercion. In a few minutes he had collected daisies enough to fill his laced hat to the rims, and flinging himself on the turf, began stringing them together with his strong, well-shaped, sunburnt fingers. The little girl, much consoled, had reseated herself as before. It was delightful to see the chain thus lengthening by fathoms at a time, and this new friend seemed to enter heart and soul into the important work. Active sympathy soon finds its way to a child’s heart; she nestled up to his side, and shaking her curls back, looked confidingly in his face.

“I like you,” said the little woman, honestly, and without reserve. “You are good—you are polite—you make daisy-chains as well as mamma. My name’s Cerise. What’s your name?”

The page smiled, and with the smile his whole countenance grew handsome. In repose, his face was simply that of a well-looking youth enough, with a bold, saucy expression and hardy sunburned features; but when he smiled, a physiognomist watching the change would have pronounced, “That boy must be like his mother, and his mother must have been beautiful!”

“Cerise,” repeated the lad. “What a pretty name! Mine is not a pretty name. Boys don’t have pretty names. My name’s George—George Hamilton. You mustn’t call me Hamilton. I am never called anything but George at Court. I’m not big enough to be a soldier yet, but I am page to Louis le Grand!”

The child opened her eyes very wide, and stared over her new friend’s head at a gentleman who was listening attentively to their conversation, with his hat in his hand, and an expression of considerable amusement pervading his old, worn, melancholy face.

This gentleman had stolen round the corner of the alley, treading softly on the turf, and might have been watching the children for some minutes unperceived. He was a small, shrunken, but well-made person, with a symmetrical leg and foot, the arched instep of the latter increased by the high heels of his diamond-buckled shoes. His dress in those days of splendour was plain almost to affectation; it consisted of a full-skirted, light-brown coat, ornamented only with a few gold buttons; breeches of the same colour, and a red satin waistcoat embroidered at the edges, the whole suit relieved by the cordon bleu which was worn outside. The hat he dangled in his pale, thin, unringed hand was trimmed with Spanish point, and had a plume of white feathers. His face was long, and bore a solemn, saddened expression, the more remarkable for the rapidity with which, as at present, it succeeded a transient gleam of mirth. Notwithstanding all its advantages of dress and manner, notwithstanding jewelled buckles, and point lace, and full flowing periwig, the figure now standing over the two children, in sad contrast to their rich flow of youth and health, was that of a worn-out, decrepid old man, fast approaching, though not yet actually touching, the brink of his grave.

The smile, however, came over his wrinkled face once more as the child looked shyly up, gathering her daisy-chain distrustfully into her lap. Then he stooped to stroke her brown curls with his white wasted hand.

“Your name is Thérèse,” said he gravely. “Mamma calls you Cerise, because you are such a round, ruddy little thing. Mamma is waiting in the painted saloon for the king’s dinner. You may look at him eating it, if your bonne takes you home past the square table in the middle window opposite the Great Fountain. She is to come for you in a quarter of an hour. You see I know all about it, little one.”

Cerise stared in utter consternation, but at the first sound of that voice the boy had started to his feet, blushing furiously, and catching up his hat, to upset an avalanche of daisies in the action, stood swinging it in his hand, bolt upright like a soldier who springs to “attention” under the eye of his officer. The old gentleman’s face had resumed its sad expression, but he drew up his feeble figure with dignity, and motioned the lad, who already nearly equalled him in height, a little further back. George obeyed instinctively, and Cerise, still sitting on the grass, with the daisy-chain in her lap, looked from one to the other in a state of utter bewilderment.

“Don’t be frightened, little one,” continued the old gentleman, caressingly. “Come and play in these gardens whenever you like. Tell Le Notre to give you prettier flowers than these to make chains of, and when you get older, try to leave off turning the heads of my pages with your brown curls and cherry lips. As for you, sir,” he added, facing round upon George, “I have seldom seen any of you so innocently employed. Take care of this pretty little girl till her bonne comes to fetch her, and show them both the place from whence they can see the king at dinner. How does the king dine to-day, sir? and when?” he concluded, in a sharper and sterner tone. George was equal to the occasion.

“There is no council to-day, sire,” he answered, without hesitation. “His Majesty has ordered ‘The Little Service’[1] this morning, and will dine in seventeen minutes exactly, for I hear the Grey Musketeers already relieving guard in the Front Court.”

“Go, sir,” exclaimed the old gentleman, in great good-humour. “You have learnt your duty better than I expected. I think I may trust you with the care of this pretty child. Few pages know anything of etiquette or the necessary routine of a Court. I am satisfied with you. Do you understand?”

The boy’s cheeks flushed once more, as he bowed low and stood silent, whilst the old gentleman passed on. The latter, however, had not gone half-a-dozen paces ere he turned back, and again addressed the younger of the children.

“Do not forget, little one, to ask Le Notre for any flowers you want, and—and—if you think of it, tell mamma you met the honest bourgeois who owns these gardens, and that he knew you, and knew your name, and knew how old you were, and, I dare say, little one, you are surprised the bourgeois should know so much!”

That Cerise was surprised admitted of small doubt. She had scarcely found her voice ere the old gentleman turned out of the alley and disappeared. Then she looked at her companion, whose cheeks were still glowing with excitement, and presently burst into a peal of childish laughter.

“What a funny old man!” cried Cerise, clapping her hands; “and I am to have as many flowers as I like—what a funny old man!”

“Hush, mademoiselle,” answered the boy, gravely, as though his own dignity had received a hurt, “you must not speak like that. It is very rude. It is very wrong. If a man were to say such things it should cost him his life.”

Cerise opened her blue eyes wider than ever.

“Wrong!” she repeated, “rude! what have I done? who is it, then?”

“It is the King!” answered the boy, proudly. “It is Louis le Grand!”