The Duke's Motto: A Melodrama

XXII

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

Lagardere remained alone for a while in the room, pensively contemplating the portraits of the Three Louis. Then the sound of footsteps came to his ears, footsteps advancing from many directions, footsteps all making towards the great hall. He smiled as a man smiles who is prepared to encounter cheerfully great odds, and then, as if there were observing eyes upon him, though indeed no eyes beheld him save those that were painted in the canvases of the three friends, he slouched across the room, more markedly the hunchback than ever, till he came to the curtained door by the side of the picture of Louis de Nevers. He lifted the curtain, glanced round him for a moment at the empty room, and then dipped behind the curtain.

The curtain fell, the room was empty, save for the painted presences of the Three Louis. But the room was not empty long. A few moments later Gonzague entered the room respectfully escorting his illustrious master and friend, Louis of France. At their heels followed a little crowd of notabilities, eminent lawyers, eminent ecclesiastics, all of whom had claim, by virtue of their kinship or by virtue of their authority on delicate, contested family matters, to a seat and a voice in the council that Louis of Gonzague had been pleased to summon. After these again came Gonzague’s own little tail of partisans, Navailles and Nocé, Taranne and Oriol, Choisy and Gironne, Albret and Montaubert, with Chavernay fluttering about them like an impudent butterfly, laughing at them, laughing at his august cousin, laughing at the king, laughing at himself – laughing at everything. To him such a family gathering as this which he attended was almost the most ridiculous thing imaginable on the face of the whole world, and therefore deserving of consideration, if not of serious consideration.

The king took his place upon the kind of little throne which had been set apart for him. The rest of the company arranged themselves with instinctive sense of precedence upon the chairs that were ranged behind it. To Chavernay the whole thing looked like a pompous parody of a trial where there was nobody to be tried, and he made unceasing jokes to his neighbors, which compelled them to laugh. This earned for him a disapproving glance from the dark eyes of Gonzague, which had no effect whatever in depressing his spirits.

When all the guests were duly seated, Gonzague gravely rose, and, turning towards the king, saluted him respectfully. "I thank your majesty," he said, "for honoring us on this occasion, when matters of great moment to me and to the lady whom I am proud to call my wife, and to the great family with which I am associated at once by ties of blood and alliance, are in question. Your majesty will readily understand that nothing but the gravest sense of duty could have urged me to bring together so learned, so just, so brilliant an assembly of men to deal with delicate matters which have perhaps been too long left undealt with. Such differences of opinion as may perhaps be admitted to exist between madame the Princess de Gonzague and myself, however trivial in the beginning, have in a sense grown with the passing of time into an importance which calls imperatively for some manner or form of adjustment."

He paused in his speech, as if to control his emotions and to collect his thoughts. The king leaned forward and addressed him. "Does any one," he asked, "appear here for madame the Princess de Gonzague?"

Gonzague looked about him with a melancholy glance. "I had hoped, sire," he said, "that madame the princess would have chosen some one to represent her." But even as he spoke he paused, for the door that led to the princess’s apartment was thrown open, and the Princess de Gonzague appeared, clad in black as usual, and as usual leaning upon the arm of her faithful Brigitte.

As the princess entered the room, every one rose, and all eyes were fixed upon the stately figure and melancholy features of the still beautiful, if prematurely aged, widow of Nevers. The princess made a deep inclination to the king, and then spoke: "Your majesty, I need no one to represent me. I am here."

Gonzague allowed his features to betray the satisfaction he felt at the presence of his consort. He hastened to advance to her as she seated herself close to the curtained alcove, saying as he did so: "Madame, you are indeed welcome." And there was a sincerity in his tone not always characteristic of his utterances.

The king bowed in his courtliest manner to the unhappy lady, and addressed her: "Princess, you know why we are assembled here?"

Slowly the princess inclined her head. "I do," she said, and said no more, but sat looking fixedly before her, the image of a patience that shielded a strong purpose and a resignation that was now kindled by a new hope.

The king turned to his friend and host: "Prince de Gonzague, we await your pleasure."

Louis de Gonzague rose to his feet and surveyed his assembled guests with a grave countenance that seemed to suggest boldness without effrontery and a grief nobly borne. All present admired his beauty, his dignity, the proud humility of his carriage towards the great lady who was in name his wife. Many sympathized with him in what they knew to be his strange position, and felt that the princess was indeed to blame in refusing friendship and sympathy to such a man.

Gonzague bowed respectfully to the king, and his eyes travelled over the whole range of his audience as he spoke. "Sire," he said, "I have to speak to-day of the sorrow that has haunted me, as it has haunted your majesty, for seventeen years. Louis de Lorraine, Duke de Nevers, was my cousin by blood, my brother by affection. His memory lives here, eternal as is the grief of his widow, who has not disdained to wear my name after wearing his."

He paused for a moment, and in that pause the princess spoke in a voice that was shaken with emotion, in spite of her determination to be firm: "Do not speak of that. I have passed those seventeen years in solitude and in tears."

Gonzague paid to her and her sorrow the homage of a bow; then he resumed: "When madame the princess did me the honor to accept my name, she made public her secret but legitimate marriage with the late Duke de Nevers and the birth of a daughter of that union. This child disappeared on the night of Nevers’s death. The registration of its birth is torn out of the chapel register and lost. For seventeen years the princess has patiently sought for her lost child, and has sought in vain."

The princess sighed: "Alas!" Gonzague paused for a moment as if to allow the princess to say more, and then, seeing she kept silent, he continued: "Calumniators have hinted that it was my wish that the child should not be found. Have they not, madame?"

"Such things have been said," the princess replied, gravely.

Again Gonzague spoke: "There were even those who hinted that my hand might strike at a child’s life. Is not that so?"

Again the princess repeated her former phrase: "Such things have been said."

Now Gonzague questioned her directly: "And you believed the accusation?"

The princess inclined her head: "I believed it."

At this reply a murmur not to be repressed ran through the assembly. Those that sympathized with Gonzague before now sympathized more deeply on hearing such an answer come so coldly from his wife’s lips. Gonzague allowed himself the luxury of a little, patient sigh, the privileged protest of the good and just under an intolerable suspicion.

"I am not surprised. The princess does not know me. For seventeen years the princess and I have been strangers. Now, for the first time, I can show myself to my wife as I am." He addressed himself directly to the princess: "Through all these seventeen years I, too, have been seeking what you sought; but, more fortunate than you, I have succeeded where you have failed."

He turned to Peyrolles, who was standing close to his master’s side, and commanded: "Bring in Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers."

In a moment Peyrolles had vanished from the room, leaving every man in the assembly impressed and startled by Gonzague’s statement. The king looked from Gonzague, whose face he had been studying while he spoke with admiration and approval, and fixed his keen gaze upon the princess. She alone, of all those in the room, seemed unmoved by the momentous tidings that her husband had communicated. The younger men whispered among themselves, the elders kept silence, but it was plain that their curiosity was very great.

In a few moments Peyrolles returned to the room escorting Flora, now very beautifully attired in a dress of simple richness.

Chavernay could not restrain his surprise as she entered. "The little dancing-girl," he whispered to his right-hand neighbor, Choisy, but he said no more. Even his airy nature was impressed by the stillness of the company and the gravity of the situation.

Gonzague took the hand of Flora and conducted her across the room to the princess. "Madame," he said, "I restore your child."

The princess looked fixedly at the girl, her thin hands clasping the arms of her chair convulsively, and it could be seen that she was trembling from head to foot. She was waiting for a voice, she was wondering if she would hear a voice, and as she waited and wondered she heard a voice from behind the curtain near where she sat apart, a voice which reached her ears, a voice with a mysterious message – "I am here."

The princess clasped her hand to her heart. "Ah!" she murmured, "will the dead speak? Is this my child?" And again the voice spoke and answered: "No."

By this time Gonzague and the girl had reached the princess, who now rose to her feet and confronted the pair as she spoke. "My child should have with her a packet containing the page torn away from the register of the chapel of Caylus, torn away with my own hands." She turned to Flora and questioned her: "Have you that packet?"

Flora dropped on her knees and stretched out her hands with a pretty, pathetic air of supplication. "Madame, I have nothing. Ah, madame, the poor little gypsy girl asks of you neither wealth nor station; she only entreats you to love her as she loves you."

The princess prayed silently: "Oh, Heaven help me! Heaven inspire me!"

Gonzague was startled by this sudden hostility to his scheme, but spoke with respectful earnestness: "Madame," he said, slowly, "we have depositions, sworn to and duly attested in Madrid, that this girl, then a year-old child, was given to a band of gypsies by a man whose description coincides exactly with that of one of the men believed to have been concerned in the attack upon Louis de Nevers in the moat of Caylus. We have their statements that in their hearing the man called the child Gabrielle, that he said to the head gypsy that she was of noble birth, and that he gave her up to them because he wished the child to suffer for the hate he bore her father. All this and more than this we can prove. For my part, I say that in this girl’s lineaments I seem to see again the features of my dear dead friend. Madame, to reject the child whom we believe to be the daughter of Nevers, you must have reasons grave indeed – the strongest proofs. Have you such reasons, such proofs?"

From behind the curtain a voice travelled to the princess’s ears, murmuring, "Yes," and the princess repeated, "Yes," confidently.

Gonzague drew himself up with a look of pain and sorrow. "I understand, madame. Some impostor, speculating upon your sorrow, has told you that he has found your child."

Chavernay whispered behind his hand to Navailles: "Our cousin is losing his temper."

As the princess kept silent, Gonzague pressed his question: "Is that not so, madame? Speak! Is this not so? Some one has told you that she is alive?"

The princess heard the voice behind the curtain whisper: "She lives." Looking steadily at Gonzague, she said: "She lives, in spite of you, by the grace of God."

The agitation of the audience was very great. The king directly addressed the princess: "Can you produce her?"

Again the voice whispered to the Princess, "Yes," and again the Princess repeated, "Yes," as confidently as before.

"When?" asked the king, to whom Gonzague had at once yielded the privilege of question.

The voice whispered, "To-night," and the princess repeated the words.

The voice whispered again, "At the ball in the Palais Royal," and again the Princess echoed it, "At the ball in the Palais Royal."

The king had no more to say; he was silent. Gonzague groaned aloud as he turned to Flora. "My poor child, only God can give you back the heart of your mother."

The girl, with the quick impulsiveness of her race, again flung herself on her knees before the princess, while she cried: "Madame, whether you are my mother or not, I respect you, I love you!"

The princess laid her hand gently on the girl’s dark hair. "My child, my child, I believe you are no accomplice of this crime. I wish you well."

Flora was now sobbing bitterly, and seemed unable to rise. Peyrolles hastened to her side, hastened to lift her to her feet, and hurriedly conducted the weeping girl from the room. The princess, holding her head high, turned and addressed the king: "Your majesty, my mourning ends to-day. I have recovered my daughter. I shall be your guest to-night, sire."

The king bowed profoundly. "Believe that we shall be most proud to welcome you."

The princess made him a reverence and turned to leave the room. The king quitted his chair, hastened to her side, and gave her his arm to the door. When she had departed, Louis of France hastened to Gonzague where he stood alone, the centre of wondering eyes. "What is the meaning of this double discovery?" he asked.

Gonzague shook his head with the air of one who is faced by a shameful conspiracy, but who is not afraid to face it. "I have found Nevers’s child. Who the impostor is I do not know, but I shall know – and then – "

He paused, but his menacing silence was more impressive than any speech. The king wrung his friend’s hand warmly. "I hope you may. Till to-night, gentlemen."

All were standing now. The king embraced the company in a general salutation and went out, followed by his friends. The lawyers, the ecclesiastics took their leave. Only the friends of Gonzague remained in the room, and they stood apart, eying their master dubiously, uncertain whether he would wish them to go or to stay. Chavernay took it upon himself, with his usual lightness of heart, to play their spokesman. He advanced to Gonzague and addressed him.

"Can we condole with you on this game of cross-purposes?"

Gonzague turned to Chavernay, and his countenance was calm, bold, almost smiling. "No. I shall win the game. We shall meet to-night. Perhaps I shall need your swords."

"Now, as ever, at your service," Navailles protested, and the rest murmured their agreement with the speaker. Then Gonzague’s partisans slowly filed out of the room, Chavernay, as usual, smiling, the others unusually grave. Gonzague turned to Peyrolles, who had returned from his task of convoying Flora to her apartments. "Who has done all this?" he asked.

He thought he was alone with his henchman, but he was mistaken. Æsop had quietly entered the room, and was standing at his side. Æsop answered the question addressed to Peyrolles. "I can tell you. The man you can neither find nor bind."

Gonzague started. "Lagardere?"

Æsop nodded. "Lagardere, whom I will give into your hands if you wish."

Gonzague caught at his promise eagerly. "When?" he asked.

"To-night, at the king’s ball," Æsop answered.

XXIII

THE KING’S BALL

The gardens of the Palais Royal made a delightful place for such an entertainment as the king’s ball. In its contrasts of light and shadow, in its sombre alleys starred with colored lights, in its blend of courtly pomp and sylvan simplicity, it seemed the fairy-like creation of some splendid dream. Against the vivid greenness of the trees, intensified by the brightness of the blazing lamps, the whiteness of the statues asserted itself with fantastic emphasis. Everywhere innumerable flowers of every hue and every odor sweetened the air and pleased the eye, and through the blooming spaces, seemingly as innumerable as the blossoms and seemingly as brilliant, moved the gay, many-colored crowd of the king’s guests. The gardens were large, the gardens were spacious, but the king’s guests were many, and seemed to leave no foot of room unoccupied. Hither and thither they drifted, swayed, eddied, laughing, chattering, intriguing, whispering, admiring, wondering, playing all the tricks, repeating all the antics that are the time-honored attributes and privileges of a masquerade. Here trained dancers executed some elaborate measure for the entertainment of those that cared to pause in their wandering and behold them; there mysterious individuals, in flowing draperies, professed to read the stars and tell the fortunes of those that chose to spare some moments from frivolity for such mystic consultations.

In the handsomest part of the garden, hard by the Pond and Fountain of Diana, a magnificent tent had been pitched, which was reserved for the accommodation of the king himself and for such special friends as he might choose to invite to share his privacy. Around this tent a stream of mirth-makers flowed at a respectful distance, envying – for envy is present even at a masquerade – those most highly favored where all were highly favored in being admitted into the sovereign’s intimacy.

At the door of this tent, Monsieur Breant, who had been one of the cardinal’s principal servants, and who still remained the head custodian of the palace, was standing surveying the scene with a curiosity dulled by long familiarity. He was unaware that a sombrely clad hunchback, quite an incongruous figure in the merry crowd, was making for him, until the hunchback, coming along beside him, touched him on the arm and called him by name: "Monsieur Breant!"

Breant turned and gazed at the hunchback with some surprise. "Who are you?" he asked.

The hunchback laughed as he answered: "Don’t you know me? Why, man, I am Æsop the Second. My illustrious ancestor laughed at all the world, and so do I. He loved the Greek girl Rhodopis, who built herself a pyramid. I am wiser than he, for I love only myself."

Breant shrugged his shoulders and made to turn upon his heel. "I have no time for fooling."

Æsop detained him. "Don’t leave me; I am good company."

Breant did not seem to be tempted by the offer. "That may be, but I must attend on his majesty."

Æsop still restrained him. "You can do me a favor."

Breant eyed the impertinent hunchback with disfavor. "Why should I do you a favor, Æsop the Second?"

The hunchback explained, gayly: "In the first place, because I am the guest of his Majesty the King. In the second place, because I am the confidential devil of his Highness the Prince de Gonzague. But my third reason is perhaps better."

As he spoke he took a well-filled purse from his pocket and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other, looking at Breant with a sneering smile. Breant would have been no true servant of the time if he had not liked money for the sake of the pleasure that money could give; Breant would have been no true servant of the time if he had not been always in want of money. He eyed the purse approvingly, and his manner was more amiable.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Æsop made his wishes clear. "There is a little lodge yonder in the darkness at the end of that alley, hard by the small gate that is seldom used. You know the gate, for you sometimes used to wait in that little lodge when a late exalted personage chose to walk abroad incognito."

Breant frowned at him. "You know much, Master Æsop."

Æsop shrugged his shoulders. "I am a wizard. But it needs no wizard to guess that, as the exalted personage is no longer with us, he will not walk abroad to-night, and you will not have to yawn and doze in the lodge till he return."

"What then?" asked Breant.

Æsop lowered his voice to a whisper. "Let me have the key of the little lodge for to-night."

Breant lifted his hands in protest. "Impossible!" he said.

Æsop shook his head. "I hate that word, Monsieur Breant. ’Tis a vile word. Come now, twenty louis and the key of the lodge for an hour after midnight."

Breant looked at the purse and looked at the hunchback. "Why do you want it?" he asked.

Æsop laughed mockingly. "Vanity. I wish to walk this ball like a gentleman. I have fine clothes; they lie now in a bundle on the lodge step. If I had the key I could slip inside and change and change again and enjoy myself, and no one the worse or the wiser."

The purse seemed to grow larger to Breant’s eyes, and his objections to dwindle proportionately. "A queer whim, crookback," he said.

Æsop amended the phrase: "A harmless whim, and twenty louis would please the pocket."

Breant slipped his hand into a side-pocket, and, producing a little key, he handed it to Æsop. "There’s the key, but I must have it back before morning."

Æsop took the key, and the purse changed owners. "You shall," he promised. "Good. Now I shall make myself beautiful."

Breant looked at him good-humoredly. "Good sport, Æsop the Second." He turned and disappeared into the tent.

Æsop, looking at the key with satisfaction, murmured to himself: "The best."

As he moved slowly away from the king’s tent a little crowd of Gonzague’s friends – Chavernay, Oriol, Navailles, Nocé, Gironne, Choisy, Albret, and Montaubert – all laughing and talking loudly, crossed his path and perceived the hunchback, who seemed to them, naturally enough, a somewhat singular figure in such a scene. "Good Heavens! What is this?" cried Navailles.

Nocé chuckled: "A hunchback brings luck. May I slap you on the back, little lord?"

Æsop answered him, coolly: "Yes, Monsieur de Nocé, if I may slap you in the face."

Nocé took offence instantly. "Now, by Heaven, crookback!" he cried, and made a threatening gesture against Æsop, who eyed him insolently with a mocking smile.

Chavernay interposed. "Nonsense!" he cried. "Nonsense, Nocé, you began the jest." Then he added, in a lower voice: "You can’t pick a quarrel with the poor devil."

The hunchback paid him an extravagant salutation. "Monsieur de Chavernay, you are always chivalrous. You really ought to die young, for it will take so much trouble to turn you into a rogue."

Fat Oriol, staring in amazement at the controversy, questioned: "What does the fellow mean?"

Chavernay burst into a fit of laughing, and patted Oriol on the back. "I’m afraid he means that you are a rogue, Oriol."

While the angry gentlemen stood together, with the hunchback apart eying them derisively, and Chavernay standing between the belligerents as peace-maker, Taranne hurriedly joined the group. He was evidently choking with news and eager to distribute it.

"Friends, friends," he cried, "there is something extraordinary going on here to-night!"

"What is it?" asked Chavernay.

Taranne answered him, with a voice as grave as an oracle: "All the sentinels are doubled, and there are two companies of soldiers in the great court."

Navailles protested: "You are joking!"

Taranne was not to be put down. "Never more serious. Every one who enters is scrutinized most carefully."