CHAPTER XXII.

THE ORGY AT THE HÔTEL DE CLUNY

The Hôtel de Cluny, into the court-yard of which Gaudin led the Marchioness on alighting from the carriage, is not only a building of great interest at the present day, but was equally celebrated in the Middle Ages, and so intimately connected with ancient Paris, even in the time of the Romans, that a very brief description of it may not be altogether out of place.

Any one who cares to visit it may arrive at its gates by proceeding up the Rue de la Harpe from the river, at the Pont St. Michel, and turning to the left in the Rue des Mathurins. But just before this point the Palais des Thermes will be passed--the remains of a vast Roman edifice which once occupied a large area of ground in the Quartier Latin. Of this building the hall is still in tolerable preservation; and two stages of subterraneous passages may be traced to the length of about one hundred feet, where they are choked up with ruins. There is, however, existing proof that they formed a perfect communication between the Palais des Thermes and the Convent des Mathurins, at the other extremity of the street.

Upon the foundations of the Roman building, towards the close of the fifteenth century, Jacques d’Amboise, one of the nine brothers of Louis XII.’s minister who bore that name, built the present edifice. The ground had been purchased more than a century previous by Pierre de Chaslus, an abbe of the celebrated order of Cluny, a portion of the Roman palace then being sufficiently perfect to reside in; and that became the residence of the abbes of Cluny when their affairs called them to Paris.

The new building was raised upon this site, and with the materials of the ancient structure, so that at many parts of the _hôtel_ the graceful architecture of the _moyen âge_ may be seen rising from the foundation-walls of Roman masonry. This is not, however, the only part to interest the artist or the antiquary. The entire edifice, built at an epoch of architectural revolution, is a mixture of the last inspirations of the Gothic style with the first dawn of the _renaissance_.

At the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Hôtel de Cluny was for some time the abode of Mary, the Queen of Louis XII. and sister of our own Henry VIII. She had been married only three months when she was left a widow, being then little more than sixteen.[16] Afterwards it was inhabited by a troop of comedians, although by what means the players were enabled to establish themselves in a house avowedly the dwelling of the abbes of Cluny, and of which, whoever lived in it, they never ceased to be the landlords, is not explained. Subsequently it was made a species of temporary convent for the reception of Maire Angélique Arnaud, the abbess of Port-Royal, and a large number of her nuns, whilst a religious establishment was built for them in the Rue de la Bourbe, which at the present day forms the Hospice de l’Accouchement of the same name.

It is now some six or seven years since we went over the Hôtel de Cluny. The then proprietor, M. du Sommerard, has since died, and we know not how his decease has affected the admission of strangers. Certainly it was at that time the most interesting object of curiosity that Paris afforded. You turned from the narrow, busy Rue de la Harpe into its quiet court, and modern Paris was for the moment forgotten in the contemplation of the old and graceful building, with its picturesque _tourelle_--its beautifully-ornamented attic windows, each surrounded by a different pattern of florid Gothic sculpture--its antique spouts, and chiseled gallery running in front of the eaves, still showing its exquisite workmanship, in spite of the clumsy manner in which its trellised length had been patched up with mortar, and in many places totally concealed--its vanes and gables. Within, it was rich, indeed, in venerable associations; there were collected all those articles of rare worth and _vertu_ that made the _hôtel_ so famous; but these were not to us the principal attractions, for much was the result of comparatively modern labour. An atmosphere of antiquity pervaded the interior; you were sensible at once of that peculiar odour which clings to relics of former times--that mixture of cathedral interiors, old burly red-edged books, worm-eaten wainscoting, and damp closets, which is almost grateful, despite its elements. The sunbeam came through the patched coloured glass of the old windows, and fell in subdued and varied tints upon the relics which the rooms enshrined--relics of everyday life in days long passed away, which it would not mock with the garish light of present noon, except in the open gallery, and there the motes appeared to wake into existence in its rays, and dance about, until with its decline they fell back once more upon the old carvings and mouldings of the woodwork. In the disposition of the rooms, with their numberless articles of simple domestic use and homely furniture, the past was once more recalled; the visitor lived, for the time, in the bosom of a family long since forgotten, even to its very name; the solitude was dispelled, and the antique chambers were once more peopled with their former occupants, gliding noiselessly about the polished floors, circling round the table, still laid out for their meal, or kneeling at the chapel altar, as the quivering light fell on them, piercing the leaves that clustered from the trees of the adjoining garden about the windows. The day-dream was impressive and all-absorbing. The feeling, upon once more turning into the busy hum of the city, was that of dissatisfaction and confusion, like the first waking from a morning slumber, in which we have been again communing with those whom we once loved.

Sainte-Croix and Marie entered the principal door of the _corps de logis_ of the _hôtel_, and passed up the staircase. He was recognised and saluted respectfully by the domestics, as one on terms of great intimacy with the master. The interior of the _hôtel_ was brilliantly illuminated; and every now and then sounds of the wildest revelry burst along the corridors, as the heavy rustling curtains that hung over the doors were thrust on one side. As they neared the principal room, a man stepped out and met them. His symmetrical figure was well set off by a magnificent dress; his physiognomy was _spirituelle_, without being handsome; his presence was commanding and prepossessing.

‘My dear Sainte-Croix,’ he exclaimed as he saw Gaudin, ‘you are welcome. The hours were flying by so rapidly, that I began to think we should not see you.’

‘Time generally runs away with bright grains, Marquis, whenever you direct his flight. He must fill his glass from the sands of Pactolus when he measures your enjoyments.’

‘Will you present me to your fair companion?’ said the host, as he glanced towards the Marchioness.

‘Henriette,’ said Gaudin, giving a false name to his partner, ‘this is the Marquis de Lauzun. His mere name conveys with it all those good qualities which, in one less known, we should mention distinctly.’

The Marquis bowed, and Marie inclined in return to his salute, trembling at the same time; for she knew him well, and was fearful of being discovered. And indeed Lauzun perceived in an instant, by her deportment, that her manners had more of the court than the _coulisses_ about them.

‘You have a charming residence, Marquis,’ she observed, endeavouring to disguise her voice.

‘Say, rather, the abbes of Cluny have,’ replied De Lauzun; ‘for I am here only as an intruder. But they are too liberal to me. In return for some poor advantages I persuaded his Majesty to bestow upon their order, they give up their house to me whenever I require it. Let us join the company who honour me this evening.’

He threw aside the heavy tapestry as he spoke, and ushered Sainte-Croix and Marie into the salon. The scene that presented itself was most exciting--almost bewildering from its gorgeous revelry. The whole suite of rooms had been thrown open, and was one blaze of light; the innumerable wax candles, shedding their brilliancy upon the throng from every available position, clustered in galaxies of bright twinkling stars round the elaborately-framed and quaintly-shaped looking-glasses that characterised the domestic architecture of the time, even in our own days always associated with splendid elegance and refinement, or diminished in long perspectives of light along the corridors, and through the other apartments branching off from the principal room, the comparatively low ceiling giving them a look of much greater extent than they in reality possessed.

A joyous crowd had assembled together; all that Paris then knew of reckless enjoyment and debauchery had collected that evening in the Hôtel de Cluny. The cavaliers and dames were in equal numbers; some of the latter were as closely masked as Marie, as were a few--very few--of the gentleman. Others of the fair visitors displayed their charms, both of face and bust, to the full, in the same loose fashion that they would have patronised in the warm season upon the Pont Neuf and _carrefours_. And the attractions of these beauties were of no ordinary character. Handsome beyond expression the majority indeed were, under the most ordinary circumstances; but now their full swimming eyes were sparkling with excitement--a glow of warmth and vivid life flushed their damask cheeks--the long clusters of perfumed and glossy hair showered tremblingly upon their rounded shoulders--and, as the light badinage or wicked repartee fell from their rosy lips, followed by the joyous peals of their silvery laughter, their mouths displayed pearly rows of teeth, which fairly dazzled by their brilliancy, and alone outshone the whiteness of their skin.

The various alcoves, containing beds, fitted up with magnificent hangings and curtains of rich brocade, shot with gold or embroidered with the most elaborate devices, were all thrown open, according to custom, separated only from the rooms by light gilt railings; and within these various young seigneurs were lounging, playing at dice or tables, surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on; and the profusion of broad pieces scattered carelessly about showed that the play was high and reckless. The extremity of the gallery was veiled by some fine fabric, and behind this, concealed from the view, a band of musicians, of a number then seldom collected, was performing the latest compositions of the court. In the centre a table glittering with plate and glass was loaded with the choicest refreshments, and the most ingenious devices in confectionery, surrounding a fountain of marvellous workmanship, modelled, after the Bassin de Neptune at Versailles, in dead silver and crystal, playing various kinds of wine, which fell into separate compartments, whence it was drawn by the guests into chased silver flagons and goblets of variegated Bohemian glass. The air was heavy with costly perfumes, whose vapours wreathed out from antique tripods; and every flower that art could force into bloom, for the time of year, assisted to form the rich bouquets that were placed about in all directions.

‘Place, messieurs,’ cried Lauzun gaily, affecting the manners of a chamberlain, ‘for the Captain Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, who will throw down his dice as a gage to any adversary who chooses to meet him!’

A number of young men welcomed Gaudin as the others spoke. He was evidently popular amongst them, possessing in a high degree that fatal versatility of pleasing which can mask the most heartless and unprincipled disposition with a semblance of the most ingenuous gaiety and _franchise_.

‘I pledge you, Monsieur de Sainte-Croix,’ cried a cavalier, whose dress was a strange mixture of extreme elegance and the roughest texture, ‘and will place a hundred louis d’ors against your own.’

‘A match!’ cried Gaudin, throwing his purse on the bed, round which the party gathered, including Marie, who still kept close to his side.

‘There are my pieces,’ replied the other; ‘they need no counting.’

And he placed a rude leathern bag by Sainte-Croix’s sparkling purse.

‘I shall beat you, Chavagnac,’ said Gaudin.

‘You will be clever to do it,’ observed a bystander. ‘The Count de Chavagnac has ruined us this night.’

‘A new gown of ruby velvet _à longues manches_, at the next Foire Sainte Germain, for me, if you win, Chavagnac,’ said one of the handsomest of the women.

‘You shall have it, Marotte,’ replied the Count.

‘What do you promise me, M. de Sainte-Croix, for old friendship?’ continued Marotte Dupré--for it was she--turning to Gaudin. ‘Let it be a kiss, if it be nothing else.’

Gaudin looked towards her, and pressed her arm, as he contracted his forehead, and made a sign of silence. He felt a sudden shudder pass over the frame of the Marchioness; and when he turned round, her eyes glared like a fury’s through her mask. She withdrew her arm and coldly fell back as she whispered--

‘My eyes are being opened anew. Beware!’

Gaudin was for the instant annoyed and returned no answer. Marotte Dupré had not taken the hint, and continued--

‘You owe me something on the score of your conduct when Antoine Brinvilliers carried me to the Rue d’Enfer against my will. By the way, where is his wife, Dubois? You know the secrets of every woman in our good city.’

This was addressed to the Abbe Dubois, whose name as a gallant, either on his own part or that of the King, was pretty well established.

‘Where she should be--quietly at home,’ replied the abbe. ‘Brinvilliers is on his travels. He is another man since she left him, or he left her, or they left one another. How is it, M. de Sainte-Croix?--you ought to know.’

‘By the mass!’ cried Gaudin angrily, ‘my sword can answer the curiosity of any one better than my tongue.’

‘It is the more innocent weapon of the two in Paris just at present,’ said Marotte. ‘O my reputation!’

Gaudin looked towards Marie. By the quivering of a jewelled aigrette that formed a portion of her head-dress, he could see that she was trembling, and her hand tightly clutched part of the rich curtain that hung beside her.

‘_Chut!_’ cried Lauzun, observing Sainte-Croix’s kindling temper; ‘to your play.’

‘Nine!’ said Guadin, throwing his dice, as he caught at the opportunity of turning the subject.

‘Nine also,’ observed Chavagnac, throwing.

‘Ten!’ exclaimed Guadin. ‘Will you pay me half, or run the chance?’

‘I will play,’ replied Chavagnac, gently shaking the dice-box. ‘Twelve.’

‘_Peste!_’ cried Gaudin, ‘you have gained them. I thought my dice knew better than that.’

‘You forgot whose they were to play against,’ said Chavagnac with a grim smile, taking up the money. ‘Come, I shall be in funds again. Lauzun’s hospitality has kept me from the high-road. The twelve hundred pistoles I appropriated from the good people of the Garonne were nearly gone.’

‘You can still give me the kiss, Gaudin, without being entirely ruined,’ said Marotte Dupré, as she pouted her red lips towards him.

Sainte-Croix inclined his head towards her. As he did so, Marie darted forward, and violently drew him back. The action was seen by all the bystanders. They said nothing, but shrugged their shoulders; whilst Marotte Dupré looked as if she felt perfectly ready for another duel with her new and unknown rival.

‘Messieurs,’ cried Lauzun, ‘I have a novelty in store for you. I have picked up a fellow on the Pont Neuf who will sing you couplets about yourselves by the mile. He is there every afternoon that it is warm enough for folks to stand and listen.’

‘Let us see him,’ said Dubois, anxious with the rest to turn the attention of the company. ‘_A diable les femmes!_ There is not a misery in the world but is connected with them, if you search its source.’

‘Nor a pleasure,’ replied Lauzun. ‘You ought to know, abbe, if experience teaches anything.’

‘And monsieur does know,’ said a person who entered just at the moment. A glance sufficed to show Sainte-Croix that it was Benoit, who appeared to have reassumed, in part, his ancient mountebank costume.

‘This is the fellow,’ said Lauzun. ‘Come, friend,’ he continued, addressing the other, ‘do you see any one here you can sing about?’

‘That do I,’ said Benoit, looking over the crowd; ‘there is the Abbe Dubois.’

‘Respect the church,’ cried Lauzun laughing. ‘The abbe is beyond your couplets.’

‘Not at all,’ said Benoit. ‘Mère Ledru left the Quartier Saint-Honoré but yesterday, entirely to save her daughter from his addresses. Oh! the abbe is a _bon diable_, but sly in his pursuits. Hem!’

And clearing his voice he sang these lines, the others repeating the last lines in chorus--

‘Monsieur l’Abbé, ou allez-vous? Vous allez vous casser le cou, Vous allez sans chandelles, Eh bien! Pour voir les demoiselles! Vous m’entendez bien! _C’est bien!_ _Pour voir les demoiselles!_’

‘Silence, rascal!’ cried Dubois, hurling some pieces at Benoit’s head, who picked them up, put them in his pocket, and was quieted directly--sooner, indeed, than the laugh against the gallant abbe which he had raised.

‘Let M. de Sainte-Croix have his turn,’ said Chavagnac. ‘Do you know him, fool?’

Benoit glanced expressively at Gaudin as he commenced--

‘Monsieur Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, Whence do you your treasures draw? Not from dice, nor cards alone, Nor philosophy’s rare stone, _Biribi!_ Why affect such scenes as these, And neglect your _belle Marquise_? Where is she? Left lamenting, like Louise. _Sacristie!_’

Gaudin’s cheek flamed with anger. The company observed that he was stung deeper than mere badinage could have done; and this time the laugh was less general than the one which had been raised against the abbe. He drew Marie’s arm closer within his own, and with a look of vengeance at Benoit, left the circle; whilst the other proceeded to launch a couplet against Chavagnac, filled with no very complimentary allusions to his wild spirit of appropriation.