The Mesmerist's Victim

Watching night and day for a week, without showing himself again, Gilbert at last caught sight of the plume of the guards corporal which was familiar to him. It was indeed that of Corporal Beausire, the trooper who had followed the court from Paris to the Trianon.

Nicole played the coldly cruel for a while but in the end accorded Corporal Beausire an appointment. Gilbert followed the loving pair on the shady avenue leading to Versailles. He felt the ferocious delight of a tiger on a trail. He counted their steps, and sighs; he learnt by heart what they whispered to each other; and the result must have made him happy for he went up to his garret singing. Not only had he ceased to be afraid of Nicole but he impudently showed himself at the window.

She was taking up “a ladder” in a lace mitten of her mistress at her window, but she looked up on hearing him singing a song of their old times in the country when he was courting her.

She made a sour face which proclaimed her enmity. But Gilbert met it with so meaning a smile and his song and mien were so taunting that she lowered her head and colored up.

“She has understood me,” said Gilbert; “this is quite enough.”

Indeed she had the audacity to creep to his room door, but he had the prudence to deny her entrance, dangerous as was the temptation.

It was only after many a mine and counter-mine that at last chance made them meet at the chapel door.

“Good evening, Gilbert: are you here?”

“Oh, Nicole, good evening – so you’ve come to Trianon?”

“As you see, our young lady’s maid still.”

“And I our Master’s gardener’s-man.”

Whereupon she dropped an elaborate courtsey which won his bow like a courtier’s; and they went their ways. But each was but pretending for, Gilbert, following the girl, saw her once more go to meet a man in one of the shady walks.

It was dark but Gilbert noticed that this was not the trooper; rather an elderly man, with a lofty air and dainty tread spite of age. Going nearer and passing under his nose with audacity he recognized him as the Duke of Richelieu.

“Plague take her! after the corporal a Marshal of France – Nicole is aiming high in the army!” he said.

CHAPTER XV

THE ROAD TO PREMIERSHIP IS NOT STREWN WITH ROSES

WHILE all these petty plots were going on at Trianon amid the trees and flowers, making things lively for the people of that trifling world, the vast plots of the capital, threatening tempests, were unfolding their black wings over the Temple of Themis, as they said in those high-flown days.

The Parliaments, degenerate remnant of old French opposition to royalty, had recovered the art of hating under the capricious reign of Louis XV., and since they felt danger impending when their shield, Choiseul, was removed, they prepared to conjure it away.

The appointment of the Duke of Aiguillon, ex-Governor of Brittany, to the command of the Light Cavalry, thanks to Lady Dubarry’s influence over the King, was, to quote Jean Dubarry, “a smack in the face” for the Third Estate, from Feudality.

How would they take it?

Lawyers and politicians were keen-sighted gentlemen and where most folks are perplexed, they see clearly.

They resolved: “The Parliamentary Court will deliberate on the conduct of the ex-Governor of Brittany and give its opinion.”

The King parried this thrust by intimating to the peers and princes that they must not go to the Parliament session to take part in the discussion, as far as Duke Aiguillon was concerned.

Already unpopular, the Duke of Aiguillon was discouraged and sat in a state of torpor at the impending overthrow when his uncle, the Duke of Richelieu, was announced. He ran to welcome him with all the more eagerness as he had been trying to meet him lately without the old fox being discoverable.

“Uncle,” he began when he had cornered the other in an armchair so he could not retreat, “is it true that you, the wittiest man in France could not see that I should be as selfish for us two as for myself alone? you have been shunning me when I most have need of you.”

“Upon honor, I do not understand you.”

“I will in that case make all clear. The King was not inclined to make you Prime Minister vice Choiseul banished, and he did make me commander of the Light Cavalry, so that you suppose I sold you to get my reward.”

“If I failed, you have won, and that is enough for the house of Richelieu. You have nothing to grumble about for you are high in favor and in six months will be ruler. Suppose I am the dog who snapped at the shadow of the meat – and letting the meat drop, sees another run away with it. I have learnt a lesson – but the meat is ours all the same. But what do I hear?”

“Nothing uncle; pray go on.”

“But it is a carriage – I am in the way.”

“No, no, go on for I love fables – ”

“Nay, it may be the appointment as minister – the meat! the little countess – ”

“She heartily loves you, uncle – ”

“Well she has been working for you in camera– ”

The servant entered.

“A deputation from Parliament,” he said with some trepidation.

“What did I tell you?” sneered the old noble.

“A Parliamentary deputation here?” queried the younger duke, far from encouraged by the other’s smile. “What can they want with me?”

“In the King’s name!” thundered a sonorous voice at the end of the anteroom.

“Whew!” muttered Richelieu.

Aiguillon rose, quite pale, and went to show in two members of Parliament, behind whom appeared two impassive ushers while at a distance a legion of frightened servants appeared.

Bowing to the duke, whom they officially recognized, the spokesman of the gentlemen of the Commission read a paper in a loud voice. It was the complete, particularised, circumstantial declaration that the Duke of Aiguillon was gravely inculpated and tainted with suspicions, moreover, guilty of deeds befouling his honor and that he was suspended in his functions as peer of France. The duke heard the reading like a man struck with lightning might listen to the thunder. He moved no more than a statue on its pedestal, and did not even put out his hand to take the document from the official of the Parliament. It was the marshal, standing up, alert and clear-headed, who took it, and returned the bow to the bearer. The Commission members were far while the duke remained in stupor.

“This is a heavy blow!” remarked Richelieu; “no longer a peer of the realm – it is humiliating.”

The victim turned round as if only now restored to life.

“Did you not expect it?” asked the elder.

“Did you, uncle?” was the retort.

“How could anybody suspect that Parliament would so smartly rap the favorite of the King and of the King’s favorite? these fellows will get themselves ground to powder.”

The duke sank into a seat, with his hand on his burning cheek.

“If they do such a thing because you are made commander of the Light Cavalry,” continued the old marshal, turning the dagger in the wound, “they will condemn you to be burnt at the stake when you are appointed Premier. These fellows hate you, Aiguillon; better distrust them.”

The duke bore this untimely joking with heroic constancy; his misfortune magnified him and purified his spirit. But the other took it for insensibility or even want of intelligence, perhaps, and thought that he had not stung deeply enough.