Petticoat Rule Part 33

Already Monsieur de Louvois, Her Majesty's Chamberlain, was waiting, whilst the ladies, who were to receive the honour of special presentation, were arraigned in a semi-circle to the left of the dais.

Beneath the canopy the King and Queen were standing: Louis looking as usual insufferably bored, and the Queen calmly dignified, not a little disdainful, and closely scrutinizing the bevy of women--more or less gorgeously apparelled, some old, some young, mostly rather dowdy and stiff in their appearance--who were waiting to be introduced.

Quickly, and with a respectful curtsey indicative of apology, Lydie now took her stand beside her Royal mistress and the ceremony of presentations began. The chamberlain read out a name; one unit thereupon detached itself from the feminine group, approached with sedate steps to the foot of the throne, and made a deep obeisance, whilst Madame la Grande Marechale said a few appropriate words, that were meant to individualize that unit in the mind of the Queen.

"Madame de Balincourt. Your Majesty will deign to remember the brave General who fought at Fontenoy. Madame has eschewed country life momentarily for the honour of being presented to your Majesty."

"Enchantee, Madame," the Queen would reply graciously, offering her hand for a respectful kiss.

"Madame Helvetius, the wife of our renowned scientist and philosopher.

Your Majesty is acquainted with his works."

"Enchantee, Madame!"

"And Mademoiselle Helvetius, striving to become as learned as her distinguished father, and almost succeeding so 'tis said."

The Queen deigned to say a few special words to this shy _debutante_ and to her mother, both primly clad in badly-fitting gowns which proclaimed the country dressmaker, but in their simplicity and gaucherie peculiarly pleasing to Her Majesty.

And thus the procession filed past. Elderly women and young girls, some twenty in all, mostly hailing from distant parts of France, where the noise and frivolity of the Court of Versailles had not even roused an echo. The Queen was very gracious. She liked this select little circle of somewhat dowdy provincials, who she felt would be quite at one with her in her desire for the regeneration of social France. The uglier and less fas.h.i.+onable were the women, the more drabby and ill-fitting their clothes, the sweeter and more encouraging became Her Majesty's smile. She asked lengthy questions from her Grande Marechale, and seemed to take a malicious delight in irritating the King, by protracting this ceremony, which she knew bored him to distraction, until he could scarcely manage to smother the yawns which continually a.s.sailed his jaws.

Suddenly Lydie felt her limbs stiffen and her throat close as if iron fingers had gripped it. She had been saying the usual plat.i.tudes anent the wife, sister or aunt of some worthy general or country squire, when Monsieur de Louvois called out a name:

"Madame la Comtesse de Stainville."

And from out the group of dowdy country matrons and starchy-looking _devotes_ a brilliant figure now detached itself and glided forward with consummate grace. Irene de Stainville was approaching for presentation to the Queen, her eyes becomingly cast down, a rosy flush on her cheeks, for she was conscious that she was beautiful and that the King's wearied eyes had lighted up at sight of her.

There was something almost insolent in the gorgeousness of her gown: it was of a rich turquoise blue, that stood out, glaring and vivid against the b.u.t.tercup-coloured hangings of the room. Her stiff corslet was frankly _decollete_, displaying her fine shoulders and creamy bosom, on which reposed a delicately wrought turquoise necklet of exquisite design. Her hair was piled up over her head, in the monumental and _outre_ style lately decreed by Dame Fas.h.i.+on, and the brocade of her panniers stood out in stiff folds each side of her, like balloon-shaped supports, on which her white arms rested with graceful ease. It seemed as if a gaudy, exotic b.u.t.terfly had lost its way, and accidentally fluttered into an a.s.sembly of moths.

Gaston de Stainville stood a little behind his wife. Etiquette demanded that he should be near her, when she made her obesiance to the Queen. He, too, somehow, looked out of place among these more sedate cavaliers: there had always been a very distinct difference between the dress worn by the ladies and gentlemen of the Queen's entourage, and the more ornate style adopted by the gayer frequenters of the Court of Versailles. This difference was specially noticeable now, when this handsome young couple stood before Her Majesty, she not unlike a glittering jewel herself, he in a satin coat of pale mauve, that recalled the delicate shades of a bank of candytuft in mid-June.

The Queen no longer looked down from her das with an indulgent, somewhat melancholy smile. Her eyes--cold and gray as those of King Stanislaus had been--regarded with distinct disapproval these two people, who, in her rigid judgment, were naught but gaudily decked-out dolls, and who walked on high-heeled shoes that made an unpleasant noise on the polished floor.

Lydie had during the last agonizing half-hour wholly forgotten Irene de Stainville and the presentation which, on an impulse of grat.i.tude toward Gaston, she had promised to bring about, and she certainly had not been prepared for this meeting, face to face, with the man who, for the second time in her life, had so bitterly and cruelly wronged her.

Gaston did not seem anxious to avoid her gaze. There was insolent triumph and mockery in every line of his att.i.tude: in the head thrown a little to one side; in the eyes narrowed until they were slits, gazing at her over the barrier of his wife's elaborate coiffure: in the slender, well-kept hand toying with the gold-rimmed eyegla.s.s, and above all in the sensual, sneering mouth, and the full lips parted in a smile.

Lydie was hardly conscious of Irene's presence, of any one in fact, save of Gaston de Stainville, of whom she had dreamed so romantically a few hours ago, speeding him on his way, praying--G.o.d help her!--that he might be well and safe. An intense bitterness surged up in her heart, a deadly contempt for him. Awhile ago she would not have believed that she could hate anyone so. She would at this moment have gladly bartered her life for the joy of doing him some awful injury.

All softness, gentleness, went out of her nature, just while she looked at Gaston and caught his mocking smile.

It was the mockery that hurt her so! The awful humiliation of it all!

And there was also in Lydie that highly sensitive sense of loyalty, which revolted at the sight of these traitors approaching, with a smile of complacency on their lips, this proud Queen who was ignorant of their infamy.

Women have often been called petty in their hates: rightly perhaps!

but let us remember that their power to punish is limited, and therefore they strike as best they can. Lydie, in spite of her influence and her high position, could do so little to punish Gaston, now that by his abominable treachery he had filched every trump card from her.

She had been such an unpardonable fool--and she knew it--that her very self-abas.e.m.e.nt whipped up her sense of retaliation, her desire for some sort of revenge, into veritable fury; and thus, when la belle Irene, triumphant in the pride of her universally acknowledged beauty, came to the foot of the Royal das, when--through some unexplainable and occult reason--a hush of expectancy descended on all spectators, Lydie's voice was suddenly raised, trenchant and decisive:

"This is an error on Monsieur le Chambellan's part," she said loudly, so that everyone in the vast audience-chamber might hear. "There is no one here to present this lady to Her Majesty!"

A gasp went round the room, a sigh of astonishment, of horror, of antic.i.p.ation, and in the silence that immediately followed, the proverbial pin would have been heard to drop: every rustle of a silken gown, every creak of a shoe sounded clear and distinct, as did the quickly-suppressed sneer that escaped Gaston de Stainville's lips and the frou-frou of his satin coat sleeve as he raised the gold-rimmed gla.s.s to his eye.

What were the joys of gossip in comparison with this unexpected sensation, which moreover would certainly be the prelude to an amazing scandal? Anon everyone drew instinctively nearer. All eyes were fixed on the several actors of this palpitating little scene.

Already Irene had straightened her graceful figure, with a quick jerk as if she had been struck. The terrible affront must have taken her completely unawares, but now that it had come, she instantly guessed its cause. Nevertheless there was nothing daunted or bashful about her att.i.tude. The colour blazed into her cheeks, and her fine dark eyes responded to Lydie's scornful glance with one of defiance and of hate.

The Queen looked visibly annoyed. She disliked scenes and unpleasantness, and all incidents which disturbed the even placidity of her official life: the King, on the other hand, swore an unmistakable oath. Obviously he had already taken sides in favour of the gaily-plumaged b.u.t.terfly against the duller moths, whilst Monsieur de Louvois looked hopelessly perturbed. He was very young and had only lately been appointed to the onerous position of Queen's Chamberlain.

Though the post was no sinecure, a scandal such as threatened now, was quite unprecedented. He scented a violent pa.s.sage of arms between two young and beautiful women, both of high social position, and manlike he would sooner have faced a charge of artillery than this duel between two pairs of rosy lips, wherein he feared that he might be called upon to arbitrate.

Lydie, alone among all those present, had retained her outward serenity. This was her hour, and she meant to press her triumph home to the full. All the pent-up horror and loathing which had well-nigh choked her during the whole of this terrible day, now rose clamouring and persistent in this opportunity for revenge. Though Gaston stood calm and mocking by, though Irene looked defiant and her cheeks flamed with wrath, they would glow with shame anon, for Lydie had deliberately aimed a blow at her vanity, the great and vulnerable spot in the armour of _la belle brune de Bordeaux_.

Lydie knew Marie Leszcynska well enough to be sure that the very breath of scandal, which she had deliberately blown on Gaston's wife, was enough to cause the rigid, puritanically-minded Queen to refuse all future intercourse with her. Rightly or wrongly, without further judgment or appeal, the Queen would condemn Irene unheard, and ban her and her husband for ever from her intimacy, thus setting the mark of a certain social ostracism upon them, which they could never live down.

Less than three seconds had elapsed whilst these conflicting emotions a.s.sailed the various actors of this drawing-room drama. The Queen now turned with a frown half-inquiring, wholly disapproving toward the unfortunate Louvois.

"Monsieur le Chambellan," she said sternly, "how did this occur? We do not allow any error to creep in the list of presentations made to our Royal person."

These few words recalled Irene to the imminence of her peril. She would not allow herself to be humiliated without a protest, nor would she so readily fall a victim to Lydie's obvious desire for revenge.

She too was shrewd enough to know that the Queen would never forgive, and certainly never forget, the _esclandre_ of this presentation; but if she herself was destined to fall socially, at least she would drag her enemy down with her, and bury Lydie's influence, power and popularity beneath the ruins of her own ambitions.

"Your Majesty will deign I hope to pause a moment ere you sweep me from before your Royal eyes unheard," she said boldly; "the error is on the part of Madame la Grande Marechale. My name was put on Monsieur le Chambellan's list by her orders."

But Marie Leszcynska would not at this juncture take any direct notice of Irene; until it was made quite clear that Madame la Comtesse de Stainville was a fit and proper person to be presented to the Queen of France, she absolutely ignored her very existence, lest a word from her be interpreted as implying encouragement, or at least recognition. Therefore she looked beyond Irene, straight at Monsieur de Louvois, and addressed herself directly to him.

"What are the true facts, Monsieur le Chambellan?" she said.

"I certainly . . . er . . . had the list as usual . . . er . . . from Madame la Grande Marechale . . . and . . ." poor Monsieur de Louvois stammered in a fit of acute nervousness.

"Then 'tis from you, Madame la Marquise, that we require an explanation for this unseemly disturbance," rejoined Her Majesty turning her cold, gray eyes on Lydie.

"The explanation is quite simple, your Majesty," replied Lydie calmly.

"It had been my intention to present Madame la Comtesse de Stainville to your Majesty, but since then events have occurred, which will compel me to ask Madame la Comtesse to find some other lady to perform the office for her."

"The explanation is not quite satisfactory to us," rejoined Her Majesty with all the rigid hauteur of which she possessed the stinging secret, "and it will have to be properly and officially amplified to-morrow. But this is neither the place nor the moment for discussing such matters. Monsieur de Louvois, I pray you to proceed with the other names on your list. The Queen has spoken!"

With these arrogant words culled from the book of etiquette peculiar to her own autocratic house, the daughter of the deposed King of Poland waved the incident aside as if it had never been. A quickly repressed murmur went all round the room. Lydie swept a deep and respectful curtsey before Her Majesty, and indicated by her own manner that, as far as she was concerned, the incident was now closed by royal command.

But Irene de Stainville's nature was not one that would allow the matter to be pa.s.sed over so lightly. Whichever way the Queen might choose to act, she felt that at any rate the men must be on her side: and though King Louis himself was too indolent and egotistical to interfere actively on her behalf, and her own husband could not do more than pick a quarrel with some wholly innocent person, yet she was quite sure that she detected approval and encouragement to fight her own battles in the looks of undisguised admiration which the masculine element there present freely bestowed upon her. Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont, for one, looked stern disapproval at his daughter, whilst Monsieur de Louvois was visibly embarra.s.sed.

It was, therefore, only a case of two female enemies, one of whom certainly was the Queen of France--a prejudiced and obstinate autocrat if ever there was one, within the narrow confines of her own intimate circle--and the other exceptionally highly placed, both in Court favour and in official status.

Still Irene de Stainville felt that her own beauty was at least as powerful an a.s.set, when fighting for social prestige, as the political influence of her chief adversary.

Therefore when the Queen of France chose to speak as if Madame la Comtesse de Stainville did not even exist, and Monsieur de Louvois diffidently but firmly begged her to stand aside, she boldly refused.

"Nay! the Queen shall hear me," she said in a voice which trembled a little now with suppressed pa.s.sion; "surely Her Majesty will not allow a jealous woman's caprice . . ."

"Silence, wench," interrupted Marie Leszcynska with all the authority, the pride, the dictatorial will, which she had inherited from her Polish ancestors; "you forget that you are in the presence of your Queen."

"Nay, Madame, I do not forget it," said Irene, nothing daunted, and firmly holding her ground. "I remember it with every word I utter, and remember that the name of our Queen stands for purity and for justice.