The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini
wistful eyes more observant of her natural son, André-Louis, than of her surroundings; and Aline de Kercadiou, slight, virginal, and lovely in a rose brocade, her golden hair dressed high, her blue eyes half-shyly taking stock of her surroundings.
They attracted no attention until a gentleman issuing from the presence chamber, the salon d'honneur, made his way briskly towards them. This gentleman, no longer young, of middle height, inclining to portliness, moved even in his present haste with an air of consequence which left no doubt of the opinion in which he held himself. He was resplendent in yellow brocade and glittered at several points.
André-Louis had an intuition of his identity before he reached them, before he was bending formally over the hand of Madame de Plougastel, and announcing in an utterly emotionless voice his satisfaction at beholding her at last in safety.
'It was by no wish of mine, madame, as I think you are aware, that you remained so long in Paris. It would have been better, I think, for both of us had you decided to make the journey sooner. Now it was scarce worth the trouble. For very soon, following in Monsieur's train, I should have come to you. However, I give you welcome. I hope that you are well. I trust that you will have travelled comfortably.'
Thus, in stilted, pompous phrases, did the Count of Plougastel receive his countess. Without pausing for any reply from her, he swung half-aside. 'Ah, my dear Gavrillac! Ever the attentive cousin, the faithful cavalier, is it not?'
André-Louis wondered was he sneering, watched him narrowly as he pressed Kercadiou's hand, and found himself there and then moved to a profound dislike for this consequential gentleman with the big head on its short thick neck, the big nose that was Bourbon in shape, and the chin too big for strength, but not for obstinacy when considered with the stupid mouth.
'And this is your adorable niece,' the gentleman was continuing. He had a curiously purring voice and an affected enunciation. 'You have grown in beauty and in stature, Mademoiselle Aline, since last we met.' He looked at André-Louis, and checked, frowning, as if in question.
'This is my godson,' said the Lord of Gavrillac shortly, withholding a name that had become a thought too famous.
'Your godson?' The black eyebrows were raised on that shallow brow. 'Ah!'
Then others, having realized Madame de Plougastel's identity, came crowding, chattering about them, with rustle of silken skirts and tapping of red-heeled shoes, until the Count, remembering the august personage awaiting the travellers, rescued them from that frivolous throng, and ushered them into the presence.
CHAPTER II
SCHÖNBORNLUST
Wondering if his own attendance was either necessary or desirable, but yielding to Monsieur de Kercadiou's gentle insistence, André-Louis found himself in a spacious pillared room that was lighted by very tall windows. A beam of pallid sunshine, breaking through heavy clouds, touched into vividness the colours of the soft Aubusson carpet, glinted on the profuse gildings against their white background, and sparkled in the great crystal chandelier that hung from the painted ceiling.
In a gilded armchair, from either side of which a flock of courtiers of both sexes was spread fanwise athwart the chamber, André-Louis observed a portly, florid man in the middle thirties, dressed in grey velvet finely laced in gold with the blue ribbon of the Holy Ghost across his breast.
Without having yet reached the pronounced obesity of his brother, Louis XVI, which in time he was to exceed, the Count of Provence already showed every sign of the same tendency. He had the big Bourbon nose, a narrow brow, whence his face widened downwards to a flabby double chin, and the full, excessively curling lips of the sensualist. The blue eyes were full and fine under heavy, smoothly arching eyebrows. He had a look of alertness without intelligence, of importance without dignity. Observing him, André-Louis read him accurately for stupid, obstinate, and vain.
The slight woman in white-and-blue sarcenet with the pumpkin headdress, hovering on his right, was the Countess of Provence. At no time attractive, her countenance now almost repelled by its sneering air of discontent. The younger woman on his left, who, if also without conspicuous beauty of features, was agreeably formed and of a lively expression, was the Countess of Balbi, his recognized mistress.
Monsieur de Plougastel led his countess forward. Monsieur inclined his powdered head, mumbling a greeting, his eyes dull. They quickened, however, when Mademoiselle de Kercadiou was presented. They seemed to glow as they took stock of her delicate golden loveliness, and the curl of the gross lips was increased into a smile.
'We give you welcome, mademoiselle. Soon we shall hope to welcome you to a worthier court, such as you were born to grace.'
Mademoiselle curtsied again with a murmured 'Monseigneur,' and would have withdrawn but that he detained her.
It was amongst his vanities to conceive himself something of a poet, and he chose now to be poetical.
How was it possible, he desired to know, that so fair a bloom from the garden of French nobility should never yet have come to adorn the court?
She answered him with commendable composure that five years ago, under the sponsorship of her uncle, Étienne de Kercadiou, she had spent some months at Versailles.
His Highness protested his annoyance with himself and Fate that he should have been unaware of this. He desired Heaven to inform him how such a thing should ever have come to pass. And then he spoke of her uncle Étienne, whom he had so greatly esteemed and whose death he had never ceased to deplore. In this he was truthful enough. There was a weakness in him which made him ever seek to lean upon some particular person in his following, rendering a favourite as much a necessity to him as a mistress. For a time this place had been filled by Étienne de Kercadiou, who, had he lived, might have continued to fill it, for Monsieur had this virtue, that he was loyal and steadfast in his friendships.
He detained her yet a while in aimless talk, whilst those about him, perceiving here no more than an exhibition of gallantry in a man whose callow ambition it was ever to appear in the guise of a gallant, grew impatient for the news from Paris which was expected from the men accompanying her.
Madame smiled sourly, and whispered in the ear of her reader, the elderly Madame de Gourbillon. The Countess of Balbi smiled too; but it was the indulgent, humorous smile of a woman who, if without illusions, is also without bitterness.
In the immediate background the Lord of Gavrillac waited with his hands behind him, nodding his great head, the light of satisfaction on his rugged pock-marked countenance to see his niece honoured by so much royal notice. At his side André-Louis stood stiff and grim, inwardly damning the impudence with which his Highness smirked and leered at Aline before the entire court. It was, he supposed, within the exercise of a royal prerogative to be reckless of what scandal he might cause.
It may have resulted from this that when at last the Lord of Gavrillac, having been presented and required to announce the latest news from Paris, begged leave to depute the task to his godson, there sprang from André-Louis's resentment a self-possession so hard and cold as to be almost ruffling to the feelings of those present.
His bow in acknowledgement of Monsieur's nod was scarcely more than perfunctory. Then erect, the lean, keen face impassive, his voice metallic, he delivered the brutal news without any softening terms.
'A week yesterday, on the tenth of the month, the populace of Paris, goaded to frenzy by the manifesto of the Duke of Brunswick and driven to terror by the news of a foreign army already on the soil of France, turned with the blind ferocity of an animal at bay. It stormed the Palace of the Tuileries and massacred to a man the Swiss Guard and the gentlemen who had remained there to defend the person of his Majesty.'
An outcry of horror interrupted him. Monsieur had heaved himself to his feet. His countenance had lost much of its high colour.
'And the King?' he quavered. 'The King?'
'His