CHAPTER XV.

VERSAILLES--THE RIVAL ACTRESSES--THE DISCOVERY

Any one whom business or leisure had taken into the abode of Maître Picard one fine morning, a short time after his affair with the students, would have found the little _chapelier_ in a wondrous state of flurry and importance; whilst his best costume was so covered with knots of ribbons and floating streamers, fixed to every available part, that he was a perfect marvel to look at as he paraded about his shop, and attracted a crowd of _gamins_ to peep at him through the wares in the window. In fact, for once Maître Picard had completely eclipsed the glory of the large red tin hat, with the bright pendants that hung over his door, and had whilom formed the object of the students’ attack.

But Maître Picard was not the only person in the establishment thus finely arrayed, for his Gascon lodger, Jean Blacquart, appeared in a military costume of great effect, albeit it had been evidently made for one of larger proportions, and the long rapier pertaining to it somewhat interfered with the free progress of the wearer. But when the weapon got between his legs, and threatened to trip him up, Jean kicked it on one side with great disdain, and strode up and down the shop, with the blade clanking at his heels, as though he had just thrust it through the bodies of a score of stalwart antagonists, and was waiting to see who would be bold enough to come forward next.

The gossips of the Rue de la Harpe and Rue des Mathurins were well aware of the cause of this unwonted excitement. There were _portières_ in those days as at present; and they were just as garrulous. The old woman who kept the gate of the Hôtel de Cluny had heard the news from Maître Picard’s housekeeper; and it was soon known in the Quartier Latin that the Garde Bourgeois of that division were to have the honour of waiting upon their monarch at Versailles that evening, where a fete was to be given upon an unusual scale of splendour; a large part of the gardens being covered in and richly decorated, to accommodate the number of guests that it was expected would not find room in the palace;[11] for the building as it then stood was comparatively small, being little more than the chateau built by the preceding monarch as his hunting-lodge, upon the site of the windmill purchased from Jean de Soissy.

Maître Picard had borrowed a horse from a neighbour--a heavy Flemish animal, as plump as the bourgeois himself, which went its own pace, and would be put into no other. He would have hired a _voiture de place_ to go in state; but in the first place, the hire was somewhat beyond his means, and secondly, he thought a horse more warlike than sitting all the way to jolt upon a _haquet_ or _patache_--his ordinary species of carriage; so he determined to ride: and Blacquart was to be seated upon the pillion,--rather against his will, but a manner he still preferred to getting there as he could; for he had adopted his martial costume on purpose to creep into the palace under the wing of Maître Picard, and fell readily into whatever plans the bourgeois proposed.

They mounted amidst the cheers and admiration of the whole neighbourhood. But scarcely had they settled on their respective divisions of the horse’s back, when Blacquart, drawing himself up to look imposing, overbalanced himself, and, together with Maître Picard, was shot over upon the ground. The girths had evidently been undone by one of the wicked students of the Sorbonne, who was standing near.

At length this was set right again, their pride preventing either of them from owning to be hurt, and they started on their progress, descending the Rue de la Harpe with great effect, and crossing the river by the Pont St. Michel. Maître Picard assumed a grave and steady bearing, becoming his dignity; but Jean Blacquart put on the airs of a gallant, winking at the windows when any pretty face appeared, or singing songs of chivalry and love in accordance with his dress.

It took a long time for Maître Picard and his companion to traverse the four leagues between Paris and Versailles. The road was filled with acquaintances journeying in the same direction; and with these the bourgeois would stop at almost every hostelry for a friendly cup, and sometimes two, in which the Gascon joined him, so that it was well-nigh evening when they came to the end of the Avenue de Paris, at the gates of the semicircular outer court which then formed the entrance to the chateau. There was great confusion and noise in the court. Numbers of heavy carriages, of the quaint fashion of the age, drawn by four, six, and even eight horses, nearly filled the area, besides soldiers, country people, and lackeys of the different guests. A richly-ornamented voiture, drawn by four cream-coloured steeds, preceded them up to the palace door, whither Maître Picard insisted on proceeding mounted, although Blacquart had descended from his pillion, thinking such a position somewhat derogatory for a man of chivalric demeanour.

The people were running at the side of the carriage and peeping into it. Maître Picard resolved to exert his authority to procure a better view for himself; so, rolling in some strange fashion from his horse, which he gave over to the care of a bystander, he put the crowd back, and cleared a way to the doors. Four females descended. The two first were elegantly dressed; the third wore a fancy costume, which had possibly attracted the attention of the mob; and the last was attired as a superior attendant. But all were handsome enough to draw the regards of the people towards them. As the first of these dames passed, Maître Picard made a low bow, and then drew himself up, and ruffled his plumes like a peacock.

‘Who is that?’ asked Jean Blacquart, who had come up to the Cour de Marbre, and was blustering his way through the crowd.

‘An excellent lady,’ replied Maître Picard aloud, ‘and my good friend. It is Madame Scarron, the widow of the author who wrote the _Écolier de Salamanque_. He was not a handsome man--Mass! lame, crooked, and paralytic; but he drew all the world to the theatre in the Rue de la Poterie.’

A brilliantly dressed woman followed her, and the crowd expressed their admiration as she rustled past them.

‘Stand back, fellow!’ said Maître Picard, bustling. ‘Room for Madame la Marquise de Brinvilliers! Make way there!’

The Marchioness smiled and passed on; Jean Blacquart thought her regards were directed to himself, as he cocked his hat, and stretched forward his leg in an attitude.

‘Poor lady!’ continued Maître Picard aloud, for the crowd to hear him. ‘I know her well: she is separated from her husband on account of his debaucheries.--Ah! Mademoiselle Marotte Dupré!--permit me to free your dress from the step.’

The beautiful actress passed on smiling, but without noticing the fussy little bourgeois, who perceiving that the next inmate of the carriage, although equally handsome, was but an attendant, fell back amongst the crowd.

It was indeed a strange quartette that left the carriage, although no one of them knew the position in which she stood towards another. Marie had returned to Paris, in consequence, as it was asserted, of the sudden and fearful indisposition of M. d’Aubray; who had, however, insisted on his daughter accepting the invitation to Versailles, were it only to establish her entree into society. In such a position it was not desirous that she should go alone; and Madame Scarron, who was daily finding fresh favour in the eyes of the King, was selected as a species of chaperone. Marotte Dupré, who was to appear in the mask, and for whom Scarron had written some of his best roles, was offered a seat in the voiture. And the fourth was madame’s companion, who had lived with her for more than the twelvemonth--the gentle Louise Gauthier.

The carriages and caleches of every kind kept bringing up the company. Many were masked--many came on foot, but nearly all were accompanied by torch-bearers; and when the Cour Royale became filled with these last, the effect was most beautiful. And as dusk came on, thousands of lights burst forth in every direction. Every window was illuminated as well as the gallery which connected the wings; and in the gardens long rows of lamps surrounded the basins and fountains, or quivered, by reflection, in the water of the canal, then lately finished by Le Notre. Despite the advanced season, the grounds were thronged with the guests; temporary pavilions for jousting and dancing had been built up in the various alleys, and more especially in the Allée du Roi, where a large theatre had been erected; and in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, over which a vast tarpaulin had been stretched at a great height, enclosing even the trees--which, from their sheltered position, still retained a great deal of their autumnal foliage--columns of spouting water rose like crystal pillars round the amphitheatre, with brilliant lights so artfully contrived, that they appeared to be burning in the middle of the fountains; and others, in coloured shades, sparkled amongst the foliage as if they had been the enchanted fruit of Aladdin’s garden, or twinkled upon the turf like glow-worms, until they were lost in the distance of the avenues. The very climate appeared to be subservient to the will of the luxurious monarch, for, although without the autumn was fast falling, yet in the park and gardens traces of the summer still lingered.

Maître Picard was everywhere, elbowing amongst the throng, followed by Jean Blacquart, who assumed the airs of a person high in command, and gave orders in a loud tone, whenever he fancied any of the ladies were looking at him. Of course they were never obeyed; but he conceived the effect was the same. At length, finding the company turning towards the theatre, the bourgeois took his post near one of the entrances, and Jean stationed himself where he thought he might best attract attention.

The King and his suite had not arrived; and those who had already assembled were talking loudly, in which conversation Maître Picard also joined.

‘_L’Impromptu de Versailles_, and _La Princesse d’Elide_. Ah! I know them well,’ he exclaimed, as some of the audience by him mentioned the names of the pieces to be represented that evening. ‘But they are nothing to those which have gone by. Think of _Peleus and Thetis_.’

‘You saw _Peleus and Thetis_?’ asked Jean loudly, in the manner of people anxious to draw out an acquaintance before company.

‘Did I see _Peleus and Thetis_?’ replied the _chapelier_. ‘Mass! I supplied the hats. They were shown at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon. Think of the figures being arranged by Bouty--the rhyme by Benserade, the scenes by Torelli, and the hats by me, Maître Picard, of the Rue des Mathurins!’

‘It is twelve years back, bourgeois,’ said a bystander. ‘The King was a mere boy.’

‘And played himself in five dresses,’ replied Maître Picard, ‘representing Apollo, Mars, a fury, a dryade, and a courtier. He wore my hats thrice in the ballet.’

‘He had more attractions than the applause of the audience to make him play, so it was said,’ continued the other.

‘He was desperately enamoured of the Cardinal’s niece, Mademoiselle Mancini,’ said Maître Picard; ‘but she also wore one of my perukes as the Goddess of Music. The Cardinal brought two from Rome.’

‘Hats, bourgeois!’

‘Mass! no--nieces. There was no need to go to Rome for hats whilst I was in Paris.’

And Maître Picard evidently felt insulted, and contemplated saying something sharp; but just at this moment further conversation was arrested by a sudden buzz of voices, and that undefined movement which guides a crowd to one point of attraction. ‘The King! the King!’ passed rapidly from mouth to mouth; and the next instant Louis XIV. advanced through an irregular line of spectators, respectfully uncovered.

It was a brilliant cortege. In the prime of his age, his noble figure set off by the gorgeous costume of the day, and his keen, intelligent features tempered by that look of high command which, seemed native to him, so well it sat upon his curved lip and lofty brow, Louis passed along, answering the salutations of the crowd with a slight, but courteous motion of his richly-plumed beaver, and pausing for an instant from time to time to address a whispered remark to Madame de Montespan, whose imperious beauty well entitled her to her place of honour on the King’s right hand. After them came the less distinguished suite of courtiers and court functionaries; and the mass of spectators, closing in behind them, crowded into the temporary theatre.

The auditory presented a brilliant _coup d’œil_ of bright eyes and brighter diamonds, alive with brilliant costumes and waving plumes.

The King, with Madame de Montespan at his side, and those whose rank entitled them to the privilege, occupied the fauteuils in the front of the parterre, and the rest of the audience filled every inch of standing room.

Jean Blacquart was in ecstasies. His blood boiled in his veins; and he felt a noble for the night,--in fact, almost as great a personage as Louis himself. His next neighbour--a garrulous old abbe,--mistaking the Gascon, in his curious military garb, for some distinguished visitor, took apparent pleasure in pointing out to him the notables present.

‘You see that gay gentleman,’ he said, ‘who is leaning over his Majesty’s chair, and whispering something to Mademoiselle de Montpensier?’

‘It has brought the colour into her cheek through her rouge,’ said Blacquart. ‘I wonder what he was saying: I could perhaps produce a great effect with it.’

‘That’s the Marquis de Lauzun,’ continued the abbe. ‘He’s in favour just now. _Ma foi!_ he divides his time between the court and the Bastille pretty equally. If all tales be true, La Grande Mademoiselle would not be sorry to grace him with another title than that of Marquis.’

‘And who is that pretty woman next to her?’ asked Jean. ‘I saw her arrive, but could not hear her name.’

‘Ah! pretty you may say. There is more wit lying under that calm gray eye than in De Montespan’s sparkling black one. That is Scarron’s widow. Madame de Maintenon they call her now. She will make her way.’

‘And talking to her--’

‘De Beringhen--an honest man, they tell me, and a sincere friend of the King; more’s the miracle! And that’s De Beauvillers, first gentleman of the King’s bedchamber. How tired he looks!’

‘There are two quietly-dressed men in the fourth row,’ said Jean, indicating the direction. ‘They are not gay; they look like a couple of crows in an aviary of bright-winged birds.’

‘They are Racine and Boileau,’ said the abbe; ‘Louis has great taste in literature. I have a little poem of my own, which I hope to be allowed to present to his Majesty. Bachelier, his _garçon de garde-robe_, is a cousin of mine. I wish I could read it to you: I think you would like it.’

Jean shrunk from the infliction; but luckily the curtain rose at this moment, and the _Impromptu_ commenced. It was a satire on the courtiers who had ventured to criticise Molière’s last production, and on the rival company of actors--the tragedians of the Théâtre de Bourgogne. The King laughed heartily at the hits; and when the great author, Molière himself, delivered the ‘tag,’ which contained a well-turned compliment to the monarch, Louis rose from his chair, and bowed to the actor: a condescension which displeased Jean’s neighbour extremely.

‘To think,’ said the abbe, ‘of his paying such a mark of respect to a comedian--a vagabond whom the church has excommunicated! A bad example, monsieur--a bad example.’ And the abbe shook his head.

The _comédie-ballet_ of the _Princesse d’Elide_ followed; and Jean was obliged to vow that it was dull enough for a court performance, although compressed. He was a little relieved, however, by the appearance of Estelle des Urlis--the ‘Estelle’ whom Theria had left so unceremoniously when he fled to Liége, and who had returned to the profession from which he had taken her. She played _Cynthie_, cousin of the Princess; and her costume showed off her neat figure and pretty face to great advantage. Marotte Dupré, who enacted _Aglante_, her companion and friend, exchanged, as Jean observed, anything but friendly glances with Estelle, whenever the action of the piece brought them together.

‘Would you like to visit the _coulisses_!’ asked the abbe, when the curtain fell at the end of the second act. ‘I have the entree; we shall escape the crowd of the _salle_, and perhaps I may find time to read you my poem.’

Jean shuddered at the prospect; but his wish to display himself braved even this condition, and he replied--

‘With pleasure. I know some of the ladies of the company, and should be glad to exchange a few words with one of them.’

He winked significantly as he said so; wishing to impress the abbe with a notion that his acquaintance with the actresses was something very mysterious and improper.

Making their way with difficulty through the crowd, they left the auditory, and after some trouble found the _entrée des artistes_, or stage door.

The abbe procured instant admission; and Jean, who was all impatience to show off his martial dress to Estelle, took advantage of his companion’s seizing the button of Chapelle, the friend of Molière, and noted epicurean, to slip away to the _foyer_, where he found, not Estelle, as he had expected, for she was on the stage at the moment, but Marotte Dupré, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and flinging bright glances and _bon mots_ amongst them with a prodigality that was rewarded by a constant accession to her circle.

Jean hovered about, in the vain endeavour to thrust his little body into the way of a stray compliment, but in vain, until the appearance of Mademoiselle Molière--as Amande de Béjart was called, though the wife of the great author-actor--drew away the greater number of Marotte’s court to the more potent one of the handsomest and most _spirituelle_ coquette of the stage. Upon this, with true Gascon assurance, Jean seized the opportunity of commencing a fire of high-flown compliments to Marotte, who, nothing loath, added fuel to the fire by her answers. In fact, he quite forgot Estelle, and was becoming helpless in the toils of her lively rival, when he was suddenly recalled to his responsibilities by a terrific box on the ear. He turned, and, to his intense terror, beheld Mademoiselle des Urlis, who had watched his flirtation until her woman’s jealousy could bear it no longer. Tiresome as Blacquart’s admiration was to herself, she could not see it transferred to Marotte, who, from her first appearance in Molière’s comedy, seemed to have taken a malicious pleasure in rivalling poor Estelle alike on the stage and the _coulisses_.

‘_Trou de Diou!_ that you were a man, mademoiselle!’ cried the Gascon, as red as a turkey-cock, and fumbling at his sword-hilt.

‘Mademoiselle des Urlis is labouring under a misconception,’ said Marotte, with provoking coolness. ‘She mistakes the green room for the _Halles_,[12] and monsieur for an old admirer. It is a souvenir she presents to you, monsieur,’ she added, turning to the indignant Jean.

‘_Fourbe!_’ exclaimed Estelle. ‘Do not imagine I shall submit to your impertinence as I have done.’

‘Impertinence! Take care, mademoiselle,’ was Marotte’s rejoinder.

‘_Tiens!_’ rapidly retorted Estelle. ‘_Voilà pour toi!_’

And she slapped Marotte’s face, so that the room rang with the blow. Fortunately the crowd was gathered round La Molière, and did not heed what was passing at the opposite end of the apartment.

‘A blow!’ cried Marotte, springing forward; ‘this must be accounted for.’ And whilst Jean gazed open-mouthed and utterly bewildered, she walked up to Estelle, and in a half whisper said, ‘You can use a sword: unless you are a coward as well as a coquette meet me, when the comedy is over, on the Tapis Vert, opposite the fountain of Latona. Bring a woman for your second.’

‘_Soit_,’ said Estelle; ‘I ask nothing better. This struggle must finish sooner or later.’

At this moment the ‘call-boy,’ putting his head into the room, shouted, with the shrill nasal twang peculiar to his class, ‘Ma’amselle Dupré--Ma’amselle des Urlis!’ and the rivals, obeying the summons, passed on to the stage arm-in-arm, radiant with ready smiles, and commenced a most friendly dialogue. Jean, who heard the challenge imperfectly, could hardly believe his ears. He was too averse to fighting himself to believe in the possibility of women resorting to this plan of adjusting a quarrel--which, strange as it may appear to modern minds, was by no means without a parallel in the days of Louis XIV. However, it is probable he would have taken some step to prevent such a consummation, had he not been seized upon by the persevering abbe, who, drawing him into a corner of the room, contrived to wedge him there with fauteuils whilst he read his new poem. Poor Jean groaned, and winced, and yawned, and sneezed, but in vain. On went the flow of the abbe’s rounded verse. He knew the value of a victim; and in the vernacular of the nineteenth century was determined to take it out of him. Meanwhile the play had terminated, and the guests who were admitted to the honour had sought the Bosquet de Bal, where the orchestra was vigorously giving out the newest minuets and gavottes, under the experienced leadership of Lulli.

The Tapis Vert--the scene of the actresses’ rendezvous--was a wide alley of smooth green turf, bordered by statues, fronting the terrace of the chateau, and the magnificent fountain of Latona. All the guests of the fete had been attracted towards the _salle de danse_, and the only sounds that mingled with the distant fanfare of the band were the sighing of the gusty autumn wind as it swept through the long avenues, whirling the reddening leaves to the ground, and the plashing of the numerous fountains.

There were two figures standing near one of the statues, and throwing their shadows athwart the moonlight: they were Marotte Dupré and Louise Gauthier, who, at the request of her friend, had accompanied her, without any knowledge of what was to take place. Marotte was in her stage dress, over which she wore a roquelaure.

‘But what is the purpose of this rendezvous, Marotte?’ asked Louise, as her friend uttered a hasty exclamation of impatience, and began pacing up and down before the statue.

‘You will learn that in a moment, Louise, if Estelle keep her appointment,’ replied Marotte.

‘Some one comes this way,’ cried Louise. ‘See--they are emerging from the shadow of the fountain.’

‘They are here at last--_Dieu merci!_’ exclaimed Marotte. And throwing off her cloak, she disclosed to the astonished eyes of her friend a pair of swords--not ‘stage’ swords, but good serviceable rapiers.

‘For the Virgin’s sake, Marotte,’ said Louise, ‘tell me what you are about to do with those weapons.’

‘Only a duel between Estelle and myself. Nay,’ she added, seeing Louise start, ‘it is not the first time I have handled a hilt.’

And after trying the quality of the blades by bending them until they almost formed a circle, she went through a series of passes and stockades that would have done honour to a fencing-master. Louise was almost too bewildered for speech, but with a woman’s instinct she threw her arms round Marotte, imploring her to abandon her purpose.

But by this time it was too late. Estelle had come up, accompanied by a second in the person of Mademoiselle Duparc, an actress in Molière’s company. The rivals bowed courteously to each other, and Estelle’s second with perfect gravity saluted Louise, who was going wildly from one to the other, mingling tears, prayers, threats, ridicule--but all in vain.

‘Is it _à l’outrance_?’ asked Mademoiselle Duparc.

‘_A l’outrance!_’ exclaimed Marotte and Estelle in a breath.

‘You shall not murder each other, then!’ shrieked Louise. ‘I will prevent it.’

And before they could hinder her, she was off at the top of her speed.

‘Quick! quick!’ cried Marotte, ‘or she will give the alarm, and we shall be interrupted.’ At the same moment she threw herself into position, and Estelle did the same.

The combatants were well matched; but Marotte was the cooler of the two. Had it been a stage fight, she could not have parried her rival’s thrusts, and riposted more dexterously. It would have been ludicrous, but for the serious purpose of the affair, could a male spectator have seen the two young women in their theatrical costumes, which allowed free motion to the limbs, advancing and retreating, thrusting and parrying, with the skill of practised duellists.

‘This for your cutting me out of _Madelon_!’ said Estelle, with a vigorous _flanconnade_.

‘That for spoiling my last scene in the ballet!’ retorted Marotte, with a thrust in _tierce_.

‘Be cool, Estelle!’ cried her second.

It was too late. Estelle had laid herself open by a furious lunge over Marotte’s guard. Unable to recover herself in time, she received her adversary’s point in the sword-arm, and falling on one knee, lowered her blade in token of submission.

‘This will teach you better manners another time, Mademoiselle des Urlis,’ said Marotte as she wiped her sword. ‘Ha! Louise has given the alarm, as I feared. Save yourself!’

She darted off through the trees which bordered the alley, as Louise, who had in vain sought Madame de Maintenon, came up, followed by some of the Garde Royale, and accompanied by the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, whom she had encountered passing along the terrace, on her way to the ball. They found poor Estelle faint and bleeding; whilst Mademoiselle Duparc was in vain trying to staunch the blood, which darted freely in jets from a wounded artery in her arm. With a severe reprimand, and a threat of the King’s displeasure, the Marchioness consigned Estelle to the guards, who raising her up, quietly turned towards the chateau, accompanied by her second and Louise.

They had scarcely departed, when, as she was about to turn on her way to the Bosquet de Bal by one of the cross avenues, a voice that thrilled her called, in a low tone, ‘Marie!’

A man advanced from the trees, and she directly saw that it was Sainte-Croix! His face looked ghastly in the moonbeams,

[image: img_09.jpg caption: The Duel]

and his eyes gleamed with a light that conscience made demoniac in the eyes of the Marchioness.

‘You here!’ she exclaimed.

‘Where should I be but in the place of rejoicing just now?’ replied Gaudin through his set teeth, and with a sardonic smile. ‘I am this moment from Paris. We are free!’

‘My father?’ cried the Marchioness, as a terrible expression overspread her countenance.

‘He is dead,’ returned Sainte-Croix; ‘and--we are free!’

There was a pause, and they looked at each other for nearly a minute.

‘Come,’ at length said the Marchioness;--‘Come. To the ball!’