Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 499
“You are deceiving yourself, Abbot, in trying to make me believe that from the chatter of a miserable Jew and his wife, a chatter surprised by an urchin, secrets of such importance can be won.”
“Count — what do you think of a fortune of nearly 220 millions of francs? Isn’t it a magnificent sum? If these 220 millions should pass into the possession of a party religious, able, tireless, blessed with cleverness and boldness, would they not become a lever of immense power? Again, suppose there were a mysterious sect, the object of which was the annihilation of the Catholic Church, the overthrow of thrones, the abolition of the privileges of birth and of fortune; suppose that sect extended its ramifications throughout all Europe, that it counted in its ranks classes the most diversified in society, from the lowest to the highest, and that some of them were even of kingly rank; suppose that association had at its disposal a considerable treasure; suppose its masters, men and women, to be capable of assuming, at need, any mask, any role; that, thanks to their specious masquerade, they introduced themselves among the royalists, and fathomed the secrets of our party; — then, Count, what would you think of the discovery of that sect? Would it not be of the primest importance? What say you?”
“Surely; but only if the pretended sect existed. Come, holy Father, it is with surprise and regret that I see a man of your good sense fall into the net of these absurd fables about the Voyants of France, the Illuminati of Germany, and other fish-yarns, veritable Mother Goose tales!”
“If I prove to you the existence of this society — if I show you the place where their leaders meet, will you admit that the revealer of the secret has rendered a signal service to the throne and the altar? Well, Count, compare now the results of your mad-cap passion for the beautiful foreign Marchioness, with the consequences of what you term my love for my gossip Rodin. According to you, my god-son is one of the visible and carnal outcomes of that love; if so I owe to the wily youngster first — the discovery of a treasure which should some day reach more than 200 millions, on the trail of which our Society of Jesus has been for over a century; and, second — the unearthing of a den of Voyants.”
CHAPTER VI.
ROYALISTS AT BANQUET.
THE ANSWER WHICH the Count of Plouernel was about to make to his friend the Jesuit was interrupted by the arrival of several of his convivial friends of the court party — dukes, marquises, canons, and archbishops. Among them was the Viscount of Mirabeau, nicknamed, by reason of his portly front and the quantity of liquor he could contain, “Barrel Mirabeau.” He was an infantry colonel, and younger brother to the famous orator of the Third Estate. He seemed to be in great heat, and cried in a loud voice to Monsieur Plouernel:
“Good evening, my dear Count. Devil take this infamous town of Paris and its Parisians! Long live Versailles, the true capital of France.”
“Whence all this anger, Viscount?”
“Anger! Allow me to inform you that just now this vile populace, which to-night overflows in all the streets, had the impudence to stop my carriage on the Louis XV Bridge. By God’s death, I shall punish these people!”
“What did you say to the insolent creatures?”
“I was treating this fraction of the ‘sovereign people’ like the abject rabble that they are, when my lackey, trembling like a hare, and hoping to secure our release, conceived the infernal idea of calling out to the beggars ‘Make way, there, if you please, for the carriage of Monsieur Mirabeau!’ Immediately the tempest turned to a zephyr, and the stupid people made way for me, to cries of ‘Long live Mirabeau!’”
“They must have taken you for your brother!”
“Death and fury! It is but too true! I shall never forgive my brother that insult!”
“Calm yourself, Viscount; but yet a few days and that filthy populace will be clouted back into the mire where it belongs.”
“Her Excellency, Marchioness Aldini,” loudly announced one of Plouernel’s valets at that moment, swinging back both sides of the great door of the parlor, into which he introduced — Victoria Lebrenn under her borrowed name and title.
The friends of Monsieur Plouernel thus beheld Marchioness Aldini for the first time. All were struck with astonishment at her beauty, heightened as it was by the splendor of her toilet. For Victoria now wore a trailing robe of poppy-colored cloth of Tours, trimmed with black lace. The cut of her corsage left bare her arms, shoulders and the rise of her breast, which seemed sculptured in the purest marble. Her black hair was not buried, as was the custom of the time, under a layer of white powder, but, glowing with the luster of ebony, and rolled in thick and numerous ringlets around her head, majestically crowned her brow. A triple string of Venetian sequins served both as diadem and collar. Nothing can give an adequate idea of the effect of this original mode, at once elegant and severe, which was still more remarkable in that it differed completely from the pomponned attires of the period, and harmonized marvellously with Victoria’s own cast of beauty.
Plouernel’s friends, seized with admiration, were for a moment speechless. Every look was fastened on the foreign dame; — even Abbot Morlet experienced the fascination, and said to himself as he gazed at her:
“I can understand how the Count is mad over her. The danger is greater than I suspected. She is a very siren.”
Of all Plouernel’s assembled friends, the Abbot was the only one to penetrate the true nature of Victoria’s beauty. Her pallor, her flashing black eyes, her bitter and sardonic smile, gave to her face an indefinable somberness, which was in accord with the severity of her costume of red, black and gold.
Soon the voice of Monsieur Plouernel’s chief butler was heard, announcing that supper was served. The Count offered his arm to Victoria, to lead her into the capacious dining room. Walls of white plaster were relieved by gilded moldings which framed large panels frescoed with birds, fruits and flowers. A splendid silver service was laid out on the table, along with a brilliantly colored set of Sevres china. On the burnished surface of the silver glittered the glow of rose-colored candles, held in candelabra of vermilion. The banqueters took their seats about the table. The Count, who had escorted Victoria to a place beside himself, opened the feast.
“Permit me, my friends,” he said, “to follow a custom recently introduced from England into France, and to propose a first toast to Madam the Marchioness Aldini, who has deigned to accept my invitation to supper.” The Count rose, glass in hand— “To Madam the Marchioness Aldini!”
The whole company, following the Count’s example, rose in their places; holding their glasses in their out-stretched hands, they repeated:
“To Madam the Marchioness Aldini!”
Draining their glasses, they resumed their seats.
Victoria in her turn rose. After a moment’s pause she replied:
“In response to the courtesy of Monsieur the Count of Plouernel, and of yourselves, my lords prelates, and gentlemen, I propose with my heart and with my lips a toast to the Church, to the monarchy, and to the nobility, — and to the extermination of revolutionists, of whatever rank.”
With these words Victoria moistened her lips in the wine which filled her glass, while Plouernel’s friends, transported by the words of the young woman, repeated in ecstasy, to the music of their clinking glasses —
“To the Church! To the King! To the nobility! To the extermination of the revolutionists!”
The roisterers sat down; even Abbot Morlet muttered to himself, “Ah, if the Marchioness is sincere, what an ally we should have in her! What a magic effect the energy of her words produced on these foppish gentlemen, and on these brainless and imprudent prelates, imbeciles who don’t even know how to cloak their vices under their sacred robes!”
Victoria, who had been cautiously watching the Jesuit, replied to his thought in her own mind: “That priest with the cadaverous mask keeps his snaky looks ever fastened on me. He alone, of all this company, seems to mistrust me. We must redouble our care and boldness — the game is on.”
Meanwhile a Cardinal was puzzling over something, and thinking to himself: “Where did I meet that beautiful Marchioness, or at least a girl who much resembled her? Ah! I remember! It was in the little house where the Dubois woman kept her nymphs, in the King’s ‘Doe Park,’ as he called it, near Versailles. Come, come, that must be an illusion — although, that Italian lord, Aldini, not knowing the antecedents of the old inmate of the Dubois house, might well have left her his name, his title, and all. But let us look into things a bit before we pass a rash judgment.”
The Viscount of Mirabeau was the first to speak aloud. “Madam the Marchioness,” he said, “has pledged us a toast to the death of the revolutionists of all ranks and conditions. I understand how a bourgeois, or a peasant, can be a revolutionary; but I can not admit that princes, nobles, or clericals would train with that breed.”
“All revolutionists are fit for the noose,” retorted a Duke. “But the opinions of the groundlings may be explained by their desire to shake off the yoke. The people is at the end of its patience; it is kicking the traces; it rebels.”
“You speak words of gold, my dear Duke,” answered young Mirabeau. “We shall hang them all, and we shall show ourselves without pity for those pretended revolutionists, Orleans, Talleyrand, Lafayette, and my unworthy brother Mirabeau, who has brought dishonor upon our house.”
“No, no pity for traitors, to whatever class they belong — nobles, clergy, or bourgeoisie,” cried the Count of Plouernel.
“On the day of reckoning,” echoed the Cardinal, “these felons shall all be hanged, high and low alike.”
“They shall all be hanged at the same height — on their own principle of equality!” added a young Marquis, laughing.
Victoria cut short his laugh. “By the blood of Christ,” she cried, “is there not in France a revolutionist a hundred times more damnable than the gentlemen, the bishops, and even than the princes of the blood who league themselves with the revolution — I would say, the most guilty?”
Surprise fell upon the company. Finally the Count of Plouernel stammered out: “What! Who is that revolutionist — more highly situated, according to you, than gentlemen or bishops — or even princes of the blood?”
“The King, Louis XVI!”
Again silence and stupefaction fell upon the thunder-struck banqueters. Some exchanged frightened glances. Others, deep in thought, sought for the key to the enigma. The rest stared at Victoria with anxious curiosity. Abbot Morlet alone said to himself: “Aha! I catch the woman’s trend.”
“How, Marchioness,” fumbled Plouernel, “according to you — the King — would be — a revolutionist — and so cut out for the gibbet?”
“What was your motive, Count, for giving up your commission as colonel in the French Guards?” returned Victoria, unmoved.
“As I wrote you, Marchioness, I surrendered the command of my regiment because the King refused to authorize the severity which alone, to me, seems capable of re-establishing discipline among my soldiers and preventing them from becoming the allies of the revolution.”
“And yet you are astonished when I pronounce the name of the accomplice of the revolutionists! I denounce the King, Louis XVI.”
“You are a woman of genius, madam,” acclaimed the Viscount of Mirabeau warmly. “You justly signalize one of the causes of the revolution. Honor to you, madam.”
“I have no right to these praises, Viscount. I am a woman whom God has dowered with some little good sense, that is all. I am a patrician and a Catholic.”
“Nevertheless, Madam Marchioness,” interposed the Duke who had spoken before, “it seems to me hazardous to pretend that the King, our Sire, is a revolutionist. In truth, it is pursuing the metaphor to its extreme limits. I should hesitate to follow you upon that ground.”
Here the Marquis broke in again with his irrepressible laugh, saying: “On one side the revolutionary King — on the other the ‘sovereign people.’ What a comicality! What a mess!”
Victoria continued: “King Louis XVI is the first, the most damnable of revolutionists. Neither grace nor pity for the guilty! What I say, I maintain; I shall prove it. I shall essay to rouse in you all remorse — for you represent here the nobility, the clergy, and the world of money, and you are nearly as responsible as the King. I shall soon make it clear to you.”
“By the life of God, Marchioness, I am of your opinion,” echoed the Viscount of Mirabeau. “Six months ago the nobility should have saddled its horses, and, whether the King consented or no, ridden against the revolution and put every peasant to the saber.”
“Six months ago the curates should have stirred themselves, roused their parishes to the sound of the tocsin, and put arms into their hands. They also will have to enter the fight,” quoth Abbot Morlet, speaking aloud for the first time since the beginning of the banquet.
“We understand each other, Monsieur Abbot,” answered Victoria; and then to Mirabeau: “We judge the situation alike, Monsieur Viscount — the moment calls for a general and armed uprising.”
“But we who are less keen-sighted,” objected the Duke, “we confess the weakness of our prevision; we reject your conclusions.”
“We are the three ninnies — the Duke, the Cardinal and I,” put in the Marquis, cracking another joke.
“Decidedly,” observed the Cardinal aside to himself. “I was the dupe of an accidental resemblance. This patrician Marchioness has nothing in common with the lovely nymph of the Dubois woman’s lupanar.”
Victoria began her proof: “Is not Louis XVI the worst of the revolutionists? Judge! On May 5th of this year, 1789, did he not convene the States General, instead of summoning to Versailles 25,000 men whom he had under his hand, led by resolute heads? At that time the revolution, hardly hatched, could have been stamped into oblivion. I am willing to excuse him for that mistake, but here is one more serious: The States General convened the 5th of May. The majority of the nobility and the clergy attempted to hold their deliberations by Order, and refused to mingle with the bourgeois for the examination of credentials. The Third Estate insisted, and upon a new refusal of the nobles and clergy, left the hall. At length the deputies of the communes had the insolence to declare themselves, on the 17th of June, the National Assembly, in the name of the pretended sovereignty of the people. They arrogated to themselves the right to vote the taxes, and declared that if the royal authority should order them to dissolve, they would not be responsible for the outcome. Did not the King tolerate all these audacities?”
“’Tis true,” acquiesced the Viscount of Mirabeau. “It all passed before our eyes, at Versailles.”
“That is the second crime I impute to the King,” Victoria continued. “Louis XVI could still have crushed out in its cradle this rising rebellion, scattered by force this handful of malcontents—”
“That has been tried, madam, by us of the court party,” interposed the Duke. “We induced his Majesty to allow the seats of the Assembly to be occupied by troops. On the morning of the 19th of June these so-called Representatives of the people found the corridors of their chamber occupied by two companies of grenadiers, with loaded muskets.”
“Yes,” put in the Marquis bitterly, “the King had the cleverness on that occasion to commit what was, from the point of view of the revolutionists, an assault upon the National Assembly, by allowing their meeting place to be invaded by the troops; and at the same time to perpetrate a new assault against royalty by not preventing the rebels from reuniting in the Tennis Court at Versailles; mistakes, mistakes, ever more mistakes.”
“All this is conclusive evidence,” chimed in Barrel Mirabeau. “This unfortunate King seems to be infatuated with folly.”
“Either brace up foolish Kings or suppress them — else look out for the safety of the monarchy, Monsieur Viscount,” replied Victoria.
“Thanks to God,” went on a cavalry officer at the other end of the table, “thanks to God the King’s brother, Monseigneur the Count of Provence, rose to the emergency. At this vexatious juncture the prince took an energetic step. Without even asking the King, he hired the Tennis Court for a whole month!”
Victoria broke out into a peal of grim and mocking laughter. “There is a party leader,” she said, “of great bravery and great wisdom! One need go into no ecstasies over his courage!”
“Madam the Marchioness is right,” chimed in the Viscount of Mirabeau again. “This measure had no other effect upon the rebels than to cause them, the next day, to instal themselves in the Church of St. Louis.”
“And then the clergy, or at least a part of the clergy, committed another imbecility — they rallied to the Third Estate. The shaven-heads have their share of responsibility in all this,” said the Count of Plouernel.
“The high clergy protested, against this treason, the blame of which should be thrown on the curates of the country districts,” declared the Cardinal in self-defense.
“Monsieur the Cardinal is in error!” it was the harsh voice of Abbot Morlet that broke in. “That fraction of the clergy which went over to the Third Estate displayed great political sense. The low clergy did just what they should have done.”
“Peace, Abbot, peace there!” cried the Cardinal in accents of sovereign scorn. “You are talking nonsense, my dear sir!”
“I maintain what I stated— ’tis but little I care for the approbation of Monsieur the Cardinal,” snapped Morlet.
“What’s that you say, Abbot?” flashed back the Cardinal in great irritation. “Measure your words!”
“I wish to talk with reasonable men,” returned Morlet, impassibly. “This is addressed to you, gentlemen. The royal power having tolerated the existence of this Assembly of malcontents, the clergy, both high and low, should have seized upon the fact, and turned it to its own advantage. By the simple means of choosing its best men, and joining them to the Third Estate, it would then have been able at need to stand in with revolutionary motions, in order to drive the dissatisfied element to the last extremes in the paroxysms of their rage.”
