_ BOOK III. FRANCE
CHAPTER VIII. THE LITTLE SUPPER OF THE REGENT
Paris, city of delights, Paris drunk with gold, mad with the delirium of excesses, Paris with no aim except joy, no method but extravagance, held within her gilded gates one citadel of sensuality which remained ever an object of mystery, a source of curiosity even in that dissipated and pleasure-sated city. In the Palais Royal, back of the regally beautiful gardens, back of the noble rows of trees, beyond the gates of iron and the guards in uniform, lived France's regent, in a city of libertines the prince of libertines. In a city where there were more mistresses than wives, he it was who led the list of the licentious. In a city of unregulated vice and yet of exquisitely ordered taste, he it was who accorded to himself daily pleasures which were admittedly beyond approach. How unspeakably unbridled, how delightfully wicked, how temptingly ingenious in their features the little suppers of the regent might be--these were matters of curious interest to all, of intimate knowledge to but few.
It was to one of these famous yet mysterious gatherings that the regent of France had invited the master of that great and glittering bubble house, wherein dwelt so insecurely the affairs of France. John Law, director-general of the finances, controller of the Company of the Indies, was chosen by Philippe of Orleans for a position not granted to the crafty Dubois or to the shrewd D'Argenson, the last of that strange trinity who made his council. John Law, gallant, graceful, owner of a reputation as wit and beau scarce behind that of his sudden fame as financier, was admitted not only to the business affairs of the gay duke, but to his pleasures as well. To him and his brother Will, still associated in large measure in the stupendous operations of the director-general, there came the invitation of the regent, practically the command of the king, to join the regent after the opera for a little supper at the Palais Royal.
Law would have excused himself from this unsought honor. "Your Grace will observe," said he, "that my time is occupied to the full. The people scarcely suffer me to rest at night. Perhaps your Grace might not care for company so dull as mine."
"Fie! my friend, my very good friend," replied Philippe. "Have you become
devot? Whence this sudden change? Consider; 'tis no hardship to meet such ladies as Madame de Sabran, or Madame de Prie--designer though I fear De Prie is for the domestic felicity of the youthful king--nor indeed my good friend, La Parabere, somewhat pale and pensive though she groweth. And what shall I say for Madame de Tencin, the
spirituelle, who is to be with us; or Madame de Caylus, niece of Maintenon, but the very opposite of Maintenon in every possible way? Moreover, we are promised the attendance of Mademoiselle Aisse. She hath become devout of late, and thinks it a sin even to powder her hair, but Aisse devout is none the less Aisse the beautiful."
"Surely your Grace hath never lacked in excellent taste, and that is the talk of Paris," replied Law.
"Oh, well, long training bringeth perfection in due time," replied Philippe of Orleans, composedly, it having no ill effect with him to call attention to his numerous intrigues. "It should hardly be called a poor privilege, after all, to witness the results of that highly cultivated taste, as it shall be displayed this evening, not to mention the privilege you will have of meeting one or two other gentlemen; and lastly, of course, myself, if you be not tired of such company."
"Your Grace," replied Law, "you both honor and flatter me."
"Why, sir, you speak as if this were a new experience for you. Now, in the days--"
"'Tis true; but of late years I have grown grave in the cares of state, as your Grace may know."
"And most efficiently," replied the regent. "But stay! I have kept until the last my main attraction. You shall witness there, I give you my word, the making public of the secret of the fair unknown who is reputed to have been especially kind to Philippe of Orleans for these some months past. Join us at the little enterprise, my friend, and you shall see, I promise you, the most beautiful woman in Paris, crowned with the greatest gem of all the world. The regent's diamond, that great gem which you have made possible for France, shall, for the first time, and for one evening at least, adorn the forehead of the regent's queen of beauty!"
As the gay words of the regent fell upon his ears, there came into Law's heart a curious tension, a presentiment, a feeling as though some great and curious thing were about to happen. Yet ever the challenge of danger was one to draw him forward, not to hold him back. If for a moment he had hesitated, his mind was now suddenly resolved.
"Your Grace," said he, "your wish is for me command, and certainly in this instance is peculiarly agreeable."
"As I thought," replied the regent. "Had you hesitated, I should have called your attention to the fact that the table of the Palais Royal is considered to possess somewhat of character. The Vicomte de Bechamel is at the very zenith of his genius, and he daily produces dishes such as all Paris has not ever dreamed. Moreover, we have been fortunate in some recent additions of most excellent
vin d'Ai. I make no doubt, upon the whole, we shall find somewhat with which to occupy ourselves."
Thus it came about that, upon that evening, there gathered at the entrance of the Palais Royal, after an evening with Lecouvreur at the Theatre Francais, some scattered groups of persons evidently possessing consequence. The chairs of others, from more distant locations, threading their way through the narrow, dark and unlighted streets of the old, crude capital of France, brought their passengers in time to a scene far different from that of the gloomy streets.
The little supper of the regent, arranged in the private
salle, whose decorations had been devised for the special purpose, was more entrancing than even the glitter of the mimic world of the Theatre Francais. There extended down the center of the room, though filling but a small portion of its vast extent, the grand table provided for the banquet, a reach of snowy linen, broken at the upper end by the arm of an abbreviated cross. At each end of this cross-arm stood magnificent candelabra, repeated at intervals along the greater extension of the board. Noble epergnes, filled with the choicest plants, found their reflections in plates of glass cunningly inlaid here and there upon the surface of the table. Vast mirrors, framed in wreaths of roses and surmounted by little laughing cupids, gleamed in the walls of the room, and in the faces of these mirrors were reflected the beams of the many-colored tapers, carried in brackets of engraved gold and silver and many-colored glasses. The ceiling of the room was a soft mass of silken draperies, depending edgewise from above, thousands of yards of the most expensive fabrics of the world. From these, as they were gently swayed by the breath of invisible fans, there floated delicious, languorous perfumes, intoxicating to the senses. On any hand within the great room, removed at some distance from the table, were rich, luxurious couches and divans.
As one trod within the door of this temple of the senses, surely it must have seemed to him that he had come into another world, which at first glance might have appeared to be one of an unrighteous ease, an unprincipled enjoyment and an unmanly abandonment to embowered vice. Yet here it was that Philippe of Orleans, ruler of France, spent those hours most dear to him. If he gave thought to affairs of state during the day it was but that these affairs of state might give to him the means to indulge fancies of his own. Alike shrewd and easy, alike haughty and sensuous, here it was that Philippe held his real court.
These young gentlemen of France, these
roues who have come to meet Philippe at his little supper--how different from the same beings under the rule of the Grand Monarque. Their coats are no longer dark in hue. Their silks and velvets have blossomed out, even as Paris has blossomed since the death of Louis the Grand. Jabots of lace are shown in full abundance, and so far from the abolishment of jewels from their garb, rubies, sapphires, diamonds sparkle everywhere, from the clasp of the high ruffles of the neck to the buckles of the red-heeled shoes. Powder sparkles on the head coverings of these new gallants of France. They step daintily, yet not ungracefully, into this brilliantly-lighted room, these creatures, gracious and resplendent, sparkling, painted, ephemeral, not unsuited to the place and hour.
For the ladies, witness the attire, for instance, of that Madame de Tencin, the wonder of the wits of Paris. A full blue costume, with pannier more than five yards in circumference, under a skirt of silver gauze, trimmed with golden gauze and pink crape, and a train lying six yards upon the floor, showing silver embroideries with white roses. The sleeves are half-draped, as is the skirt, and each caught up with diamonds, showing folds lying above and below the silk underneath. Madame wears a necklace of rubies and of diamonds, and above the pannier a belt of diamonds and rubies. Her hair is dressed, following the mental habit of madame, in the Greek style, and abundantly trimmed with roses and gems and bits of silver gauze. There is a little crown upon the top of madame's coiffure. Her bodice, cut sufficiently low, is seen to be of light silken weave. From her hair depends a veil of light gauze covered with gold spangles, and it is secured upon the left side by a hand's grasp of pink and white feathers, surmounted by a magnificent heron plume of long and silken whiteness. The gloves of madame are white silk, and so also, as she is not reluctant to advise, are her stockings, picked out with pink and silver clocks. Her shoes, made by the celebrated
cordonnier, Raveneau, show heels three inches in height. As madame enters she casts aside the camlet coat which has covered her costume. She sweeps back the veil, endangering its confining clasp of plumes. Madame makes a deliberate and open inspection of her face in her little looking-glass to discover whether her
mouches are well placed. She carefully arranges the patch upon the middle of her cheek. She would be "gallant" to-night, would lay aside things
spirituelle. She twirls carelessly her fan, a creation of ivory and mother of pearl, elaborately carved, tipped with gold and silver and set with precious stones.
Close at the elbow of Madame de Tencin steps a figure of different type, a woman not accustomed to please by brilliance of mind or vivacity of speech, but by sheer femininity of face and form. Tall, slender, yet with figure divinely proportioned, this beautiful girl, Haidee, or Mademoiselle Aisse, reputed to be of Turkish or Circassian birth, and possessed of a history as strange as her own personality is attractive, would seem certainly as pure as angel of the skies. Not so would say the gossips of Paris, who whisper that mademoiselle is not happy from her
chevalier--who speak of a certain visit to England, and a little child born across seas and not acknowledged by its parent. Aisse, the devout, the beautiful, is no better than others of her sex in this gay city. True, she has abandoned all artificial aids to the complexion and appears distinct among her flattering rivals, the clear olive of her skin showing in strange contrast to the heightened colors of her sisters. Yet Aisse, the toast of Europe and the text of poets, proves herself not behind the others in the loose gaiety of this occasion.
And there came others: Madame de Prie, later to hold such intimate relations with the fortunes of France in the selection of a future queen for the boy king; De Sabran, plain, gracious and good-natured; Parabere, of delicately oval face, of tiny mouth, of thin high nose and large expressive eyes, her soft hair twined with a deep flushed rose, and over her corsage drooping a continuous garland of magnificent flowers. Also Caylus the wit, Caylus the friend of Peter the Great, by duty and by devotion a
religieuse, but by thought and training a gay woman of the world--all these butterflies of the bubble house of Paris came swimming in as by right upon this exotic air.
And all of these, as they advanced into the room, paused as they met, coming from the head of the apartment, the imposing figure of their host. Philippe of Orleans, his powdered wig drawn closely into a half-bag at the nape of the neck, his full eye shining with merriment and good nature, his soft, yet not unmanly figure appearing to good advantage in his well-chosen garments, advances with a certain dignity to meet his guests. He is garbed in a coat made of watered silk, its straight collar faced with dark-green material edged with gold. A green and gold shoulder knot sets off the garment, which is provided with large opal buttons set in brilliants, this same adornment appearing on the hilt of his sword, which he lays aside as he approaches. From the sides of his wig depend two carefully-arranged locks, dusted with a tan-colored powder. His small-clothes, of lighter hue than the coat, display fitly the proportions of his lower limbs. The high-heeled shoes blaze with the glare of reflected lights as the diamonds change their angles during the calm advance down the room.
"Welcome, my very dear ladies," exclaimed Philippe, advancing to the head of the board and at once setting all at ease, if any there needed such encouragement, by the grace and good feeling of his air. "You do me much honor, ladies. If I be not careful, the fair Adrienne will become jealous, since I fear you have deserted the pomp of the play full early for the table of Philippe. Ladies, as you know, I am your devoted slave. Myself and the Vicomte de Bechamel have labored, seriously labored, for your welfare this day. I promise you something of the results of those painstaking efforts, which we both hope will not disappoint you. Meantime, that the moments may not lag, let me recommend, if I am allowed, this new vintage of Ai, which Bechamel advises me we have never yet surpassed in all our efforts. Madame de Tencin, let me beg of you to be seated close to my arm. Not upon this side, Mademoiselle Haidee, if you please, for I have been wheedled into promising that station this night to another. Who is it to be, my dear Caylus? Ah, that is my secret! Presently we shall see. Have I not promised you an occasion this evening? And did Philippe ever fail in his endeavors to please? At least, did he ever cease to strive to please his angels? Now, my children, accept the blessing of your father Philippe, your friend, who, though years may multiply upon him, retains in his heart, none the less, for each and all of you, those sentiments of passion and of admiration which constitute for him his dearest memories! Ladies, I pray you be seated. I pray you tarry not too long before proving the judgment of Bechamel in regard to this new vintage of Ai."
"Ah, your Grace," exclaimed De Tencin, "were it not Philippe of Orleans, we women might not be apt to sit in peace together. Yet, as we have earlier proved your hospitality, we may perhaps not scruple to continue."
Philippe smiled blandly. The remark was not ill-fitted to the actual case. Though the regent counted his sweethearts by scores, he dismissed the one with the same air of interest as he welcomed the other, and indeed ended by retaining all as his friends.
"Madame de Tencin, in admiration there can be no degrees," said he. "In love there can be no rank."
"Why, then, do you place as your chief guest this other, this unknown?" pouted Mademoiselle Aisse, as she seated herself, turning upon her host the radiance of her large, dark eyes. "Is this stranger, then, so passing fair?"
"Not so fair as you, my lovely Haidee, that I may swear, and safely, since she is not yet present. Yet I announce to you that she is
tres interessante, my unknown queen of beauty, my
belle sauvage from America. But see! Here she comes. 'Tis time for her to appear, and not keep our guests in waiting."
There sounded at the back of the great hall the tinkle of a little bell of some soft metal. It approached, and with it the sweeping stir of heavy silken garb. The door opened, admitting a still greater blaze of light, and there swept into the hall, as though swimming upon the flood of this added brilliance, a figure striking enough to arouse attention even at that time and place, even among the beauties of the court of France. There advanced, calm and stately, with the gliding ease of a perfect carriage, the figure of a woman, slender, with full bright eyes and somber hair--so much might be seen at a glance. Yet the newcomer left somewhat of query in the mind of womankind accustomed to view in detail any costume.
The stranger was enveloped in a wide and undefining garment, a sweeping robe fit for any duchess of the realm, whose flowing folds showed a magnificent tissue of silver embroidery covered with golden flowers, below the plum-color and green. The high corsage of the white robe covered the bosom fully, and was caught at the throat with a bunch of blazing jewels. Under these soft draperies, tinkling in time with the movements of an otherwise noiseless tread, there sounded ever the faint note of the little bell. At the toe of shoes otherwise silent, there peeped in and out the flash of diamonds, and in the dark masses of her hair, shifting as she trod beneath each new sconce in turn, and catching more and more brilliance as she advanced, there smoldered the flame of a mass of scintillating gems. A queen's raiment was that of this unknown beauty, and she herself might have been a queen as she swept down the great hall, scornfully careless of the eyes of those other beauties.
She stepped to the place at the regent's right hand, with head high and eyes undrooping. For a dramatic instant she paused, as though in the rehearsal of a part--a part of which it might be said that the regent was not alone the author. This triumph of woman over other women, this triumph of vice over other vice, of effrontery over effrontery akin--this could not have been so planned and executed by any but a woman. One another these beauties might tolerate, knowing one another's frailties as they did; yet the elegance, the disdain, the indifference of this newcomer--this they could not support. Hatred sat in the bosom of each woman there as she swept her courtesy to the new guest of the regent, who took her place as of right at the head of the board and near the regent's arm.
"Our gentlemen are somewhat late this evening," exclaimed Philippe. "'Tis too bad the Abbe Dubois could not be with us to-night to administer clerical consolation."
"Ah!
le drole Dubois!" exclaimed Madame de Tencin.
"And that vagabond, the Due de Richelieu--but we may not wait. Again ladies, the glasses, or Bechamel will be aggrieved. And finally, though I perceive most of you have graciously unmasked, let me say that the moment has now arrived when we make plain all secrets."
He turned his gaze upon the woman at his right. As though at a signal, she half rose, unclasped the circlet of gems at her throat, and swept back across the arm of her chair the soft garment which enveloped her.
A sigh, a long breath of amazement broke from those other dames of Paris. Not one of them but was sated with the blaze of diamonds, the rich, red light of rubies and the fathomless radiance of sapphires. Silks and satins and cloth of gold and silver had few novelties for them. The costumers of Paris, center of the world of art, even in those times of unrivaled extravagance and unbridled self-gratification, held no new surprise for these beauties, possessed so long of all that their imagination required or that princely liberality could supply. Yet here indeed was a surprise.
As she stood at the regent's right, calmly and composedly looking down the long board as she arranged her drapery before reseating herself, this new favorite of the regent appeared in the full costume of the American native! A long soft tunic of exquisitely dressed white leather fell below her hips, intricately embroidered in the native bead work of America, and stained with great blotches of colors done in the quills of the porcupine--heavy reds, sprightly yellows, and deep blues. Down the seams of this loose-fitting tunic depended little waving fringes. The belt which caught it at the waist was wrought likewise in beads. Beneath the level of the table, as she stood, the inquiring eyes might not so clearly see; yet the white leggings, fringed and beaded, and covered by a sweeping blanket of snowy buckskin, might have been seen to finish at the ankle and blend in texture and ornamentation with tiny shoes, which covered the smallest foot yet seen in Paris--shoes at the side of which there dangled the little bells of metal whose tones had told her coming.
Here and there upon the bead work of the native artist, who had made this attire at the expense of so much patient effort, there blazed the changing rays of real gems, diamonds, rubies, emeralds--every stone known as precious. As the full bosom of the scornful beauty rose and fell there were cast about in sprays of light the reflections of these gems. Bracelets of dull, beaten metal hung about her wrists. In her hair were ornaments of some dull blue stone. Barbaric, beautiful, fascinating, savage she surely seemed as she met unruffled the startled gaze of these beautiful women of the court, who never, at even the most fanciful
bal masque in all Paris, had seen costume like to this.
"Ladies,
la voila!" spoke the regent. "
Ma belle sauvage!"
The newcomer swept a careless courtesy as she took her seat. As yet she had spoken no word. The door at the lower end of the hall opened.
"His Grace le Duc de Richelieu," announced the attendant, who stood beneath the board.
There advanced into the room, with slouchy, ill-bred carriage, a young man whose sole reputation was that of being the greatest rake in Paris, the Duc de Richelieu, half-gamin, half-nobleman, who counted more victims among titled ladies than he had fingers on his hands, whose sole concern of living was to plan some new impassioned avowal, some new and pitiless abandonment. This creature, meeting the salute of the regent, and catching at the same moment a view of the regent's guest, found eyes for nothing else, and stood boldly gazing at the face of her whom Paris knew for the first time and under no more definite title than that of "
Belle Sauvage."
"Pray you, be seated, Monsieur le Duc," said the regent, calmly, and the latter was wise enough to comply.
"Your Grace," said Madame de Sabran, "was it not understood that we were to meet to-night none less than the wizard, Monsieur L'as?"
"Monsieur L'as will be with us, and his brother," replied Philippe. "But now I ask you to bear witness to the shrewdness of your friend Philippe in entertainment. I bethought me that, as we were to have with us the master of the Messasebe, it were well to have with us also the typified genius of that same Messasebe. 'Twas but a little conceit of my own. And why--
mon enfant, what is it to you? What do you know of our controller of finance?"
The face of the woman at his right had suddenly gone white with a pallor visible even beneath its rouge and patches. She half turned, as though to push back her chair from the board, would have arisen, would have spoken perhaps; yet act and gesture were at the time unnoticed.
"His Excellency, Monsieur Jean L'as,
le controleur-general," came the soft tones of the attendant near the door. "Monsieur Guillaume L'as, brother of the
controleur-general."
The eyes of all were turned toward the door.. Every petted bolle of Paris there assembled shifted bodily in her seat, turning her gaze upon that man whose reputation was the talk of all the realm of France.
There appeared now the tall, erect and vigorous form of a man owning a superb physical beauty. Powerful, yet not too heavy for ease, his figure retained that elasticity and grace which had won him favor in more than one court of Europe. He himself might have been king as he advanced steadily up the brilliantly-illuminated room. His costume, simply made, yet of the richest materials of the time; his wig, highly powdered though of modest proportions; his every item of apparel appeared alike of great simplicity and barren of pretentiousness. As much might be said for the garb of his brother, who stepped close behind him, a figure less self-contained than that of the man who now occupied the absorbed attention of the public mind, even as he now filled the eager eyes of those who turned to greet his entrance.
"Ah, Monsieur L'as, Monsieur L'as!" exclaimed Philippe of Orleans, stepping forward to welcome him and taking the hand of Law in both his own. "You are welcome, you are very welcome indeed. The soup will be with us presently, and the wine of Ai is with us now. You and your brother are with us; so all at last is well. These ladies are, as I believe, all within your acquaintance. You have been present at the
salon of Madame de Tencin. You know her Grace the Duchesse de Falari, recently Madame d'Artague? Mademoiselle de Caylus you know very well, and of course also Mademoiselle Aisse,
la belle Circassienne--But what?
Diable! Have you too gone mad? Come, is the sight of my guest too much for you also, Monsieur L'as?"
There was irritation in the tone with which the regent uttered this protest, yet he continued.
"Monsieur L'as, 'tis but a little surprise I had planned for you. Mademoiselle, my princess of the Messasebe, let me present Monsieur Jean L'as, king of the Messasebe, and hence your sovereign! This is my fair unknown, whose face I have promised you should see to-night--this, Monsieur L'as, is my princess, the one whom I have seen fit to honor this evening by the wearing of the chief gem of France."
The regent fumbled for an instant at his fob. He stepped to the side of the faltering figure which stood arrayed in all its savage finery. One movement, and upon the dark locks which fell about her brow there blazed the unspeakable fires of a stone whose magnificence brought forth exclamations of awe from every person present.
"See!" cried Philippe of Orleans. "'Twas on the advice and by the aid of Monsieur L'as that I secured the gem, whose like is not known in all the world. 'Tis chief of the crown jewels of the realm of France, this stone, now to be known as the regent's diamond. And now, as regent of France and master for a day of her jewels, I place this gem upon the brow of her who for this night is to be your queen of beauty!"
The wine of Ai had already done part of its work. There were brightened eyes, easy gestures and ready compliance as the guests arose to quaff the toast to this new queen.
As for the queen herself, she stood faltering, her eyes averted, her limbs trembling. John Law, tall, calm, self-possessed, did not take his seat, but stood with set, fixed face, gazing at the woman who held the place of honor at the table of the regent.
"Come! Come!" cried the latter, testily, his wine working in his brain. "Why stand you there, Monsieur L'as, gazing as though spellbound? Salute, sir, as I do, the chief gem of France, and her who is most fit to wear it!"
John Law stood, as though he had not heard him speak. There swept through the softly brilliant air, over the flash and glitter of the great banquet board, across the little group which stood about it, a sudden sense of a strange, tense, unfamiliar situation. There came to all a presentiment of some unusual thing about to happen. Instinctively the hands paused, even as they raised the bright and brimming glasses. The eyes of all turned from one to the other, from the stern-faced man to the woman decked in barbaric finery, who now stood trembling, drooping, at the head of the table.
Law for a moment removed his gaze from the face of the regent's guest. He flicked lightly at the deep cuff of lace which hung about his hands. "Your Grace is not far wrong," said he. "I regret that you do not have your way in planning for me a surprise. Yet I must say to you, that I have already met this lady."
"What?" cried the regent. "You have met her? Impossible! Incredible! How, Monsieur L'as? We will admit you wizard enough, and owner of the philosopher's stone--owner of anything you like, except this secret of mine own. According to mademoiselle's own words, it would have been impossible."
"None the less, what I have said is true," said John Law, calmly, his voice even and well-modulated, vibrating a little, yet showing no trace of anger nor of emotional uncontrol.
"But I tell you it could not be!" again exclaimed the regent.
"No, it is impossible," broke in the young Duc de Richelieu. "I would swear that had such beauty ever set foot in Paris before now, the news would so have spread that all France had been at her feet."
Law looked at the impudent youth with a gaze that seemed to pass through him, seeing him not. Then suddenly this scene and its significance, its ultimate meaning seemed to take instant hold upon him. He could feel rising within his soul a flood of irresistible emotions. All at once his anger, heritage of an impetuous youth, blazed up hot and furious. He trod a step farther forward, after his fashion advancing close to that which threatened him.
"This lady, your Grace," said he, "has been known to me for years. Mary Connynge, what do you masquerading here?"
A sudden silence fell, a silence broken at length by the voice of the regent himself.
"Surely, Monsieur L'as," said Philippe, "surely we must accept your statements. But Monsieur must remember that this is the table of the regent, that these are the friends of the regent. We bring no recollections here which shall cut short the joy of any person. Sir, I would not reprimand you, but I must beg that you be seated and be calm!"
Yet the imperious nature of the other brooked not even so pointed a rebuke. As though he had not heard, Law stepped yet a pace nearer to the woman, upon whom he now bent the blaze of his angered eyes. He looked neither to right nor left, but visually commanded the woman until in turn her eyes sought his own.
"This woman, your Grace," said Law, at length, "was for some time in effect my wife. This I do not offer as matter of interest. What I would say to your Grace is this--she was also my slave!"
"Sirrah!" cried the regent.
"Ah, Dame!" exclaimed the Duc de Richelieu. And even from the women about there came little murmurs of expostulation. Indeed there might have been pity, even in this assemblage, for the agony now visible upon the brow of Mary Connynge.
"Monsieur, the wine has turned your head," said the regent scornfully. "You boast!"
"I boast of nothing," cried Law, savagely, his voice now ringing with a tone none present had ever known it to assume. "I say to you again, this woman was my slave, and that she will again do as I shall choose. Your Grace, she would come and wipe the dust from my shoes if I should command it! She would kneel at my feet, and beg of me, if I should command it! Shall I prove this, your Grace?"
"Oh, assuredly!" replied the regent, with a sarcasm which now seemed his only relief. "Assuredly, if Monsieur L'as should please. We here in Paris are quite his humble servants."
Law said nothing. He stood with his biting blue eyes still fixed upon Mary Connynge, whose own eyes faltered, trying their utmost to escape from his; whose fingers, resting just lightly on the snowy Hollands of the table cloth, moved tremulously; whose limbs appeared ready to sink beneath her.
"Come, then, Mary Connynge!" cried Law at last, his teeth setting savagely together. "Come, then, traitress and slave, and kneel before me, as you did once before!"
Then there ensued a strange and horrible spectacle. A hush as of death fell upon the group. Mary Connynge, trembling, halting, yet always advancing, did indeed as her master had bidden! She passed from the head of the table, back of the chair of the regent, who stood gazing with horror in his eyes; she passed the chair of Aisse, near which Law now stood; she paused in front of him, and stood as though in a dream. Her knees would have indeed sunk beneath her. She drew from her bosom a silken kerchief, as though she would indeed have performed the ignoble service which had been threatened for her. There came neither voice nor motion to those who saw this thing. The sheer force of one strong nature, terrible in the intensity of one supreme moment--this might have been the spell which commanded at the table of the regent. Yet this did occur.
There came a sound which broke the silence, which caused all to start as with swift relief. A sob, short, dry, hard, as from one whose heart is broken, came from beyond the place where Law stood facing the trembling woman. The eyes of all turned upon Will Law, from whom had burst this irrepressible exclamation of agony. Will Law, as one grown swiftly old, haggard, broken-down, stood gazing in wide-eyed horror at this woman, so humiliated in the presence of all in this brilliantly-lighted hall; before the blazing mirrors which should have reflected back naught but beauty and joy; under the twining roses, which should have been the signs manual of undying love; under the smiling cherubs, which should have typified the deities of happy love. Will Law, too, had loved. Perhaps still he loved.
This sharp sound served to break also the spell under which Law himself seemed held. He cast aloft his arms, as in remorse or in despair. Then he extended a hand to the woman who would have sunk before him.
"God forgive me! Madam," he cried. "I had forgot. Savage indeed you are and have been, but 'tis not for me to treat you brutally."
"Your Grace," said he, turning toward the regent, "I crave your pardon. Our explanations shall reach you on the morrow."
He turned, and taking his brother by the arm, advanced toward the door at which he had recently entered, pausing not to look behind him. Had his eye been more curious as he and his half-fainting brother bowed before passing through the door, it might have seen that which he must long have borne in memory.
Mary Connynge, trembling, pallid, utterly broken, never found her way back to the right hand of the regent. She half stumbled into a chair near the foot of the table. Her bosom fluttered at the base of the throat. Half blindly she reached out her hand toward a glass of wine which stood near by, foaming and sparkling, its gem-like drops of keen pungency swimming continuously up to the surface. Her hand caught at the slender stem of the glass. Leaning upon her left arm, she half rose as though to put it to her lips. Her head moved, as though she would follow the retreating figure of the man who had thus scornfully used her. All at once, slowly, and then with a sudden crash, she sank down upon her seat and fell forward across the table. The fragile glass snapped in her fingers. The amber wine rushed in swift flood across the linen. In the broadening stain there fell and lay blazing the great gem of France. _