Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume II

“The pretty widow who refuses to come to court?”

“The same, sire. She continues to reside at the antique château of her late husband, alone, and without companionship; and, if report speak truly, the brightest eyes of France are wasting their brilliancy in that obscure retreat.”

“Well, what is to be done? You would not, surely, order her up to Versailles by a ‘lettre de cachet?’”

“No, sire, the measure were too bold; nay, perhaps my counsel will appear far bolder: it is, that since Madame de Vaugirarde will not come to court, your Majesty should go to Madame de Vaugirarde.”

It was not very difficult to make this notion agreeable to the king. It had one ingredient pleasurable enough to secure its good reception – it was new – nobody had ever before dreamt of his Majesty making a tour into the provinces incog. This was quite sufficient; and Richelieu had scarcely detailed his intentions than the King burned with impatience to begin his journey. The wily minister, however, had many things to arrange before they set out; but of what nature he did not reveal to his master. Certain is it that he left for Paris within an hour, hastening to the capital with all the speed of post-horses. Arrived there, he exchanged his court suit for a plain dress, and in a fiacre drove to the private entrance of the Théâtre Français.

“Is M. Duroset engaged?” said he, descending from the carriage.

“He is on the stage, monsieur,” said the porter, who took the stranger for one of the better bourgeois of Paris, coming to secure a good loge by personal intercession with the manager. Now, M. Duroset was at the very moment occupied in the not very uncommon task of giving a poor actor his congé who had just presented himself for an engagement.

As was the case in those days – (we have changed since then) – the Director, not merely content with declining the proffered services, was actually adding some very caustic remarks on the pretension of the applicant, whose miserable appearance and ragged costume might have claimed exemption from his gratuitous lecture.

“Believe me, mon cher,” said he, “a man must have a very different air and carriage from yours who plays ‘Le Marquis’ on the Parisian boards. There should be something of the style and bearing of the world about him – his address should be easy, without presumption – his presence commanding, without severity.”

“I always played the noble parts in the provinces. I acted the ‘Régent’ – ”

“I’ve no doubt of it; and very pretty notions of royalty the audience must have gained from you. There, that will do. Go back to Nancy, and try yourself at valets’ parts for a year or two – that’s the best counsel I can give you! Adieu! adieu!”

The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at the same instant that the graceful figure of Richelieu advanced in easy dignity.

“Monsieur Duroset,” said the Maréchal, seating himself, and speaking in the voice so habituated to utter commands, “I would speak a few words with you in confidence, and where we might be certain of not being overheard.”

“Nothing could be better than the present spot, then,” said the manager, who was impressed by the style and bearing of his visitor, without ever guessing or suspecting his real rank. “The rehearsal will not begin for half-an-hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one has entered this morning.”

“Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall say,” said the Maréchal. The words were felt as a command, and instantly obeyed.

“They tell me, M. Duroset, that a young actress, of great beauty and distinguished ability, is about to appear on these boards, whose triumphs have been hitherto won only in the provinces. Well, you must defer her début for some days; and meanwhile, for the benefit of her health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from the royal forest, stands a small château. This will be ready for her reception; and where a more critical taste than even your audiences boast will decide upon her merits.”

“There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!” said the manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.

“And I am exactly that man,” rejoined the Maréchal. “There need never be secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty, whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality of the château. Grief has not usurped every faculty and devoir of the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the respectful homage of the travellers, and even invites them, weary as they seem by travel, to stay another day.”

“I understand – I understand,” said Duroset, hastily interrupting this narrative, which the speaker poured forth with impetuous rapidity; “but there are several objections, and grave ones.”

“I’m certain of it,” rejoined the other; “and now to combat them. Here are a thousand louis; five hundred of which M. Duroset will keep – the remainder he will expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate, in the costume of the fair Countess.”

“But Mademoiselle Bellechasse?”

“Will accept of these diamonds, which will become her to perfection. She is not a blonde?”

“No; dark hair and eyes.”

“This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful addition to her toilette.”

“They are magnificent!” exclaimed the manager, who, with wondering eyes, turned from one jewel-case to the other; “they are splendid! Nay” – then he added, in a lower accent, and with a glance, as he spoke, of inveterate cunning – “nay, they are a Princely present.”

“Ah, M. Duroset, un homme d’esprit is always so easy to treat with! Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle Bellechasse is here? – if I might be permitted to pay my respects?”

“Certainly; your Excell – ”

“Nay, nay, M. Duroset, we are all incog.” said the Maréchal, smiling good-humouredly.

“As you please, sir. I will go and make a brief explanation to Mademoiselle, if you will excuse my leaving you. May I take these jewels with me? Thanks.”

The explanation was, indeed, of the briefest; and he returned in a few seconds, accompanied by a young lady, whose elegance of mien and loveliness of form seemed to astonish even the critical gaze of Richelieu.

“Madame la Comtesse de Vaugirarde,” said the Director, presenting her.

“Ah, belle Comtesse!” said the Maréchal, as he kissed the tips of her fingers with the most profound courtesy; “may I hope that the world has still charms to win back one whose griefs should fall like spring showers, and only render more fragrant the soil they water!”

“I know not what the future may bring forth,” said she, with a most gracefully-affected sadness; “but for the present, I feel as if the solitude of my ancient château, the peaceful quiet of the country, would best respond to my wishes: there alone, to wander in those woods, whose paths are endeared to me – ”

“Admirable! – beautiful! – perfect!” exclaimed Richelieu, in a transport of delight; “never was the tribute of affection more touching – never a more graceful homage rendered to past happiness! Now, when can you set out?”

“To-morrow.”

“Why not to-day? Time is every thing here.”

“Remember, monsieur, that we have purchases to make – we visit the capital but rarely.”

“Quite true; I was forgetting the solitude of your retreat. Such charms might make any lapse of memory excusable.”

“Oh, monsieur! I should be, indeed, touched by this flattery, if I could but see the face of him who uttered it.”

“Pardon me, fair Countess, if I do not respond to even the least of your wishes; we shall both appear in our true colours one of these days. Meanwhile, remember our proverb that says, ‘It’s not the cowl makes the monk.’ When you shall hear this again, it will be in your château of Vaugirarde, and – ”

“Is that the consigne, then?” said she, laughing.

“Yes, that is the consigne, – don’t forget it;” and, with a graceful salutation, the Maréchal withdrew to perfect his further arrangements.

There was a listener to this scene, that none of its actors ever guessed at – the poor actor, who, having lost his way among forests of pasteboard and palaces of painted canvass, at last found himself at the back of a pavilion, from which the speakers were not more than two paces distant. Scarcely had the Maréchal departed, than he followed his steps, and made all haste to an obscure auberge outside the barriers, where a companion, poor and friendless as himself, awaited him. There is no need to trace what ensued at this meeting. The farce-writer might, indeed, make it effective enough, ending as it does in the resolve, that since an engagement was denied them at Paris, they’d try their fortune at Fontainebleau, by personating the two strangers, who were to arrive by a hazard at the Château de Vaugirarde.

The whole plot is now seen. They set out, and in due time arrive at the château. Their wardrobe and appearance generally are the very reverse of what the fair Countess expected, but as their stage experiences supply a certain resemblance to rank and distinction – at least to her notions of such – she never doubts that they are the promised visitors, and is convinced by the significant declaration, that if their wayworn looks and strange costume seem little indicative of their actual position, yet the Countess should remember, “It is not the cowl makes the monk.”

The constraint with which each assumes a new character forms the second era of the piece. The lover, far from suspecting the real pretensions he should strive to personate – the Countess, as much puzzled by the secrecy of her guest’s conduct, and by guesses as to his actual rank and fortune. It is while these doubts are in full conflict, and when seated at supper, that the King and Richelieu appear, announced as two travellers, whose carriage being overturned and broken, are fain to crave the hospitality of the château.

The discomfiture of Richelieu and the anger of the King at finding the ground occupied, contrast well with the patronising graces of the mock Countess and the insolent demeanour of the lover, who whispers in her ear that the new arrivals are strolling players, and that he has seen them repeatedly in the provinces. All Richelieu’s endeavours to set matters right, unobserved by the King, are abortive; while his Majesty is scarce more fortunate in pressing his suit with the fair Countess, by whose grace and beauty he is fascinated. In the very midst of the insolent badinage of the real actors, an officer of the household arrives, with important despatches. Their delivery brooks no delay, and he at once presents himself, and, kneeling, hands them to the King. Shame, discomfiture, terror, and dismay, seize on the intruding players. The King, however, is merciful. After a smart reproof all is forgiven; his Majesty sagely observing, that although “the Cowl may not make the Monk,” the Ermine has no small share in forming the Monarch.

CHAPTER IX. Florence

What did Shelley, what does any one, mean by their raptures about Florence? Never, surely, was the epithet of La Bella more misapplied. I can well understand the enthusiasm with which men call Genoa Il Superbo. Its mountain background, its deep blue sea, its groves of orange and acacia, the prickly aloe growing wild upon the very shore in all the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, indicative of an almost wasteful extravagance of production; while its amphitheatre of palaces, proudly rising in terraced rows, are gorgeous remembrances of the haughty Republic. But Florence! dark, dirty, and discordant! Palaces, gaol-like and gloomy, stand in streets where wretchedness and misery seem to have chosen their dwelling-place – the types of feudal tyranny side by side with modern destitution. The boasted Arno, too, a shrunk-up, trickling stream, not wide enough to be a river, not clear enough to be a rivulet, winds along between hills hot and sun-scorched, where the brown foliage has no touch of freshness, but stands parched and shrivelled by the hot glare of eternal noon. The white-walled villas glisten in the dazzling heat, not tempered by the slightest shade, but reflecting back the scorching glow from rocks cracked and fissured by the sun!

How disappointing is all this! and how wearisome is the endeavour, from the scattered objects here and there, to make any approach to that Florence one has imagined to himself! To me the abstraction is impossible. I carry about with me, even into the galleries, before the triumphs of Raf-faelle and the wonders of Michael Angelo, the sad discordant scenes through which I have passed. The jarred senses are rendered incapable of properly appreciating and feeling those influences that should diffuse their effect upon the mind; and even the sight of the “Guardia Civica,” strutting in solemn mockery beneath the archways where the proud Medici have trod, are contrasts to suggest rather a sense of sarcasm than of pleasure.

Here and there you do come upon some grand and imposing pile of building, the very stones of which seem laid by giant hands; but even these have the fortress character, the air of strongholds, rather than of princely dwellings, as at Genoa. You see at once how much more defence and safety were the guiding principles, than elegance of design and beauty of proportion. No vestibule, peopled with its marble groups, opens here to the passer-by a glimpse of a noble stair rising in spacious amplitude between walls of marble. No gate of gilded fretwork shews the terraced garden, with the plashing fountains, and the orange-trees bending with their fruit.