Petticoat Rule Part 24

These two phrases went hammering in her brain, a complement to that cry which still seemed to reach her senses, although the whole enfilade of reception rooms now stretched their vastness between her and that persistent echo.

Of course his love had been naught to her. It was nothing more at best than mute, somewhat dog-like adoration: a love that demanded nothing, that was content to be, to exist pa.s.sively and to wors.h.i.+p from afar.

Womanlike, she apprised it in inverse ratio to its obtrusiveness; the less that was asked of her, the less she thought it worth while to give. But the love had always been there. At great social functions, in the midst of a crowd or in the presence of royalty, whenever she looked across a room or over a sea of faces, she saw a pair of eyes which rested on her every movement with rapt attention and unspoken admiration.

Now she would have to forego that. The love was no longer there. On this she insisted, repeating it to herself over and over again, though this seemed to increase both the tension of her nerves, and the strange tendency to weakness, from which her proud spirit shrank in rebellion.

She was walking very rapidly now, and as she reached the monumental staircase, she ran down the steps without heeding the astonished glances of the army of flunkeys that stood about on landing and corridors. In a moment she was out on the terrace, breathing more freely as soon as she filled her lungs with the pure air of this glorious summer's day.

At first the light, the glare, the vibration of water and leaves under the kiss of the midday sun dazzled her eyes so that she could not see.

But she heard the chirrup of the sparrows, the call of thrush and blackbird, and far away the hymn of praise of the skylark. Her nostrils drew in with glad intoxication the pungent fragrance of oak-leaved geraniums, and her heart called out joyfully to the secluded plantation of young beech trees there on her left, where she often used to wander.

Thither now she bent her steps. It was a favourite walk of hers, and a cherished spot, for she had it always before her when she sat in her own study at the angle of the West Wing. The tall windows of her private sanctum gave on this plantation, and whenever she felt wearied or disheartened with the great burden which she had taken on her shoulders, she would sit beside the open cas.e.m.e.nts and rest her eyes on the brilliant emerald or copper of the leaves, and find rest and solace in the absolute peace they proclaimed.

And, at times like the present one, when the park was still deserted, she liked to wander in that miniature wood, crus.h.i.+ng with delight the moist bed of moss under her feet, letting the dew-covered twigs fall back with a swish against her hands. She found her way to a tiny glade, where a rough garden seat invited repose. The glade was circular in shape, a perfect audience chamber, wherein to review a whole army of fancies. On the ground a thick carpet of brilliant green with designs of rich sienna formed by last year's leaves, and flecks of silver of young buds not yet scorched by the midday sun; all around, walls of parallel, slender trunks of a tender gray-green colour, with bold patches of glaring viridian and gold intermixed with dull blue shadows. And then a dado of tall bracken fantastic in shape and almost weird in outline, through which there peeped here and there, with insolent luxuriance, clumps of purple and snow-white foxgloves.

Lydie sank on to the rough bench, leaning well back and resting her head against the hard, uneven back of the seat. Her eyes gazed straight upwards to a patch of vivid blue sky, almost crude and artificial-looking above the canopy of the beeches.

She felt unspeakably lonely, unspeakably forsaken. The sense of injustice oppressed her even more than the atmosphere of treachery.

Her father false and weak; her husband fickle and unjust! Prince Charles Edward abandoned, and she now powerless, probably, to carry through the work of rescue which she had planned! Until this moment she had not realized how much she had counted on her husband to help her. Now that she could no longer ask him to ride to Le Havre, and take her message to the commander of _Le Monarque_, she cast about her in vain for a subst.i.tute: some one whom she could trust. Her world was made up of sycophants, of flatterers, of pleasure-loving fops. Where was the man who would cover one hundred and eighty leagues in one night in order to redeem a promise made by France?

Her head ached with the agony of this thought. It was terrible to see her most cherished hope threatened with annihilation. Oh! had she been a man! . . .

Tears gathered in her eyes. At other times she would have scorned the weakness, now she welcomed it, for it seemed to lift the load of oppression from her heart. The glare of that vivid blue sky above weighed down her lids. She closed her eyes and for the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds she seemed to forget everything; the world, and its treachery, the palace of Versailles, the fugitives in Scotland.

Everything except her loneliness, and the sound of that cry: "Lydie!"

CHAPTER XVIII

CLEVER TACTICS

As soon as M. Durand had recovered from the shock of Madame la Marquise's sudden invasion of his sanctum, he ran to the portiere which he had been watching so anxiously, and, pus.h.i.+ng it aside, he disclosed the door partially open.

"Monsieur le Comte de Stainville!" he called discreetly.

"Has she gone?" came in a whisper from the inner room.

"Yes! yes! I pray you enter, M. le Comte," said M. Durand, obsequiously holding the portiere aside. "Madame la Marquise only pa.s.sed through very quickly; she took notice of nothing, I a.s.sure you."

Gaston de Stainville cast a quick searching glance round the room as he entered, and fidgeted nervously with a lace handkerchief in his hand. No doubt his enforced sudden retreat at Lydie's approach had been humiliating to his pride. But he did not want to come on her too abruptly, and was chafing now because he needed a menial's help to further his desires.

"You were a fool, man, to place me in this awkward position," he said with a scowl directed at M. Durand's meek personality, "or else a knave, in which case . . ."

"Ten thousand pardons, M. le Comte," rejoined the little man apologetically. "Madame la Marquise scarcely ever comes this way after _le pet.i.t lever_. She invariably retires to her study, and thither I should have had the honour to conduct you, according to your wish."

"You seem very sure that Madame la Marquise would have granted me a private audience."

"I would have done my best to obtain one for M. Le Comte," said M.

Durand with becoming modesty, "and I think I should have succeeded . . . with tact and diplomacy, Monsieur le Comte, we, who are privileged to . . ."

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Gaston impatiently, "but now?"

"Ah! now it will be much more difficult. Madame la Marquise is not in her study, and . . ."

"And you will want more pay," quoth Gaston with a sneer.

"Oh! Monsieur le Comte . . ." protested Durand.

"Well! how much more?" said the Comte impatiently.

"What does M. le Comte desire?"

"To speak with Madame la Marquise quite alone."

"Heu! . . . heu! . . . it is difficult. . . ."

But Gaston de Stainville's stock of patience was running low. He never had a great deal. With a violent oath he seized the little man by the collar.

"Two louis, you knave, for getting me that audience now, at once, or my flunkey's stick across your shoulders if you fool me any longer."

M. Durand apparently was not altogether unprepared for this outburst: perhaps his peculiar position had often subjected him to similar onslaughts on the part of irate and aristocratic supplicants. Anyway, he did not seem at all disturbed, and, as soon as the Comte's grip on his collar relaxed, he readjusted his coat and his cravat, and holding out his thin hand, he said meekly:

"The two louis I pray you, Monsieur le Comte. And," he added, when Gaston, with another oath, finally placed the two gold pieces on the meagre palm, "will you deign to follow me?"

He led the way through the large folding doors and thence along the enfilade of gorgeous reception rooms, the corridors, landings and staircase which Lydie herself had traversed just now. Gaston de Stainville followed him at a close distance, acknowledging with a curt nod here and there the respectful salutations of the many lackeys whom he pa.s.sed.

M. le Comte de Stainville was an important personage at Court: Madame de Pompadour's predilection for him was well known, and His Majesty himself was pa.s.sing fond of the gallant gentleman's company, whilst Madame la Comtesse was believed to hold undisputed sway over M. le Controleur-General des Finances.

Thus Gaston met with obsequiousness wherever he went, and this despite the fact that he was not lavish with money. M. Durand would have expected a much heavier bribe from any one else for this service which he was now rendering to the Comte.

Anon the two men reached the terrace. M. Durand then pointed with one claw-like finger to the spinney on the left.

"M. le Comte will find Madame la Marquise in yonder plantation," he said; "as for me, I dare not vacate my post any longer, for M. le Controleur might have need of me, nor would Monsieur le Comte care mayhap to be seen by Madame la Marquise in my company."

Gaston a.s.sented. He was glad to be rid of the mealy-mouthed creature, of whose necessary help in this matter he was heartily ashamed. Unlike Lydie, he was quite unconscious of the beauty of this August day: neither the birds nor the acrid scent of late summer flowers appealed to his fancy, and the clump of young beech trees only interested him in so far as he hoped to find Lydie there, alone.

When he reached the little glade, he caught sight of the graceful figure, half-sitting, half-reclining in the unconscious charm of sleep. Overcome by the heat and the glare, Lydie had dozed off momentarily.

Presently something caused her to open her eyes and she saw Gaston de Stainville standing there looking at her intently.

She was taken at a disadvantage, since she had undoubtedly been asleep--if only for a moment--and she was not quite sure if her pose, when Gaston first caught sight of her, was sufficiently dignified.

"I am afraid I have disturbed you," he said humbly.