CHAPTER XIII
THE WEIGHT OF ETIQUETTE
Perhaps certain characteristics which milor the Marquis of Eglinton had inherited from his English grandfather caused him to assume a more elaborate costume for his petit lever than the rigid court etiquette of the time had prescribed.
According to every mandate of usage and fashion, when, at exactly half-past ten o'clock, he had asked M. Achille so peremptorily for his shoes and then sat on the edge of his bed, with legs dangling over its sides, he should have been attired in a flowered dressing gown over a lace-ruffled chemise de nuit, and a high-peaked bonnet-de-coton with the regulation tassel should have taken the place of the still absent perruque.
Then all the distinguished gentlemen who stood nearest to him would have known what to do. They had all attended petits levers of kings, courtisanes, and Ministers, ever since their rank and dignities entitled them so to do. Mme. la Comtesse de Stainville, for instance, would have stepped aside at this precise juncture with a deep curtsey and mayhap a giggle or a smirk—since she was privileged to be frivolous—whereupon M. Achille would with the proper decorum due to so solemn a function have handed M. le Contrôleur's day shirt to the visitor of highest rank there present, who was privileged to pass it over milor's head.
That important formality accomplished, the great man's toilet could be completed by M. le valet-de-chambre himself. But who had ever heard of a Minister's petit-lever being brought to a close without the ceremony of his being helped on with his shirt by a prince of the blood, or at least a marshal of France?
However, le petit Anglais had apparently some funny notions of his own—heirlooms, no doubt, from that fog-ridden land beyond the seas, the home of his ancestors—and vainly had Monsieur Achille, that paragon among flunkeys, tried to persuade his Marquis not to set the hitherto inviolate etiquette of the Court of France quite so flagrantly at defiance.
All his efforts had been in vain.
Monsieur d'Argenson, who was present on this 13th of August, 1746, tells us that when milor did call for his shoes at least ten minutes too soon, and was thereupon tenderly reproached by Madame la Comtesse de Stainville for this ungallant haste, he was already more than half dressed.
True, the flowered robe-de-chambre was there—and vastly becoming, too, with its braided motifs and downy lining of a contrasting hue—but when milor threw off the coverlet with a boyish gesture of impatience, he appeared clad in a daintily frilled day-shirt, breeches of fine faced cloth, whilst a pair of white silk stockings covered his well-shaped calves.
True, the perruque was still absent, but so was the regulation cotton night-cap; instead of these, milor, with that eccentricity peculiar to the entire British race, wore his own hair slightly powdered and tied at the nape of the neck with a wide black silk bow.
Monsieur Achille looked extremely perturbed, and, had his rigorous features ventured to show any expression at all, they would undoubtedly have displayed one of respectful apology to all the high-born gentlemen who witnessed this unedifying spectacle. As it was, the face of Monsieur le valet-de-chambre was set in marble-like rigidity; perhaps only the slightest suspicion of a sigh escaped his lips as he noted milor's complete unconsciousness of the enormity of his offense.
Monsieur le Contrôleur had been in the very midst of an animated argument with Madame de Stainville anent the respective merits of rose red and turquoise blue as a foil to a mellow complexion. This argument he had broken off abruptly by calling for his shoes. No wonder Irène pouted, her pout being singularly becoming.
"Had I been fortunate enough in pleasing your lordship with my poor wit," she said, "you had not been in so great a hurry to rid yourself of my company."
"Nay, madame, permit me to explain," he protested gently. "I pray you try and remember that for the last half-hour I have been the happy yet feeble target for the shafts aimed at me by your beauty and your wit. Now I always feel singularly helpless without my waistcoat and my shoes. I feel like a miserable combatant who, when brought face to face with a powerful enemy, hath been prevented from arming himself for the fray."
"But etiquette——" she protested.
"Etiquette is a jade, madame," he retorted; "shall not you and I turn our backs on her?"
In the meantime M. Achille had, with becoming reverence, taken M. le Contrôleur's coat and waistcoat in his august hands, and stood there holding them with just that awed expression of countenance which a village curé would wear when handling a reliquary.
With that same disregard for ceremony which had characterized him all along, Lord Eglinton rescued his waistcoat from those insistent hands, and, heedless of Achille's look of horror, he slipped it on and buttoned it himself with quick, dexterous fingers, as if he had never done anything else in all his life.
For a moment Achille was speechless. For the first time perhaps in the history of France a Minister of Finance had put his waistcoat on himself, and this under his—Achille's—administration. The very foundations of his belief were tottering before his eyes; desperately now he clung to the coat, ready to fight for its possession and shed his blood if need be for the upkeep of the ancient traditions of the land.
"Will milor take his coat from the hands of Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai—prince of the blood?" he asked, with a final supreme effort for the reëstablishment of those traditions, which were being so wantonly flouted.
"His Majesty will be here directly," interposed Irène hastily.
"His Majesty never comes later than half-past ten," protested milor feebly, "and he has not the vaguest idea how to help a man on with his coat. He has had no experience and I feel that mine would become a heap of crumpled misery if his gracious hands were to insinuate it over my unworthy shoulders."
He made a desperate effort to gain possession of his coat, but this time M. Achille was obdurate. It seemed as if he would not yield that coat to any one save at the cost of his own life.
"Then it is the privilege of Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai," he said firmly.
"But M. de Courtenai has gone to flirt with my wife!" ejaculated Lord Eglinton in despair.
"In that case no doubt M. le Duc de Luxembourg will claim the right——"
"Mais comment donc?" said the Duke with great alacrity, as, in spite of milor's still continued feeble protests, he took the coat from the hands of M. Achille.
M. de Luxembourg was very pompous and very slow, and there was nothing that Lord Eglinton hated worse than what he called amateur valeting. But now there was nothing for it but forbearance and resignation; patience, too, of which le petit Anglais had no more than a just share. He gathered the frills of his shirt sleeves in his hands and tried not to look as if he wished M. de Luxembourg at the bottom of the nearest pond; but at this very moment Monseigneur le Prince de Courtenai, who, it appeared, had not gone to flirt with Madame la Marquise, since the latter was very much engaged elsewhere, but had merely been absorbed in political discussions with M. de Vermandois, suddenly realized that one of his numerous privileges was being encroached upon.
Not that he had any special desire to help M. le Contrôleur-Général on with his coat, but because he was ever anxious that his proper precedence as quasi prince of the blood should always be fully recognized. So he gave a discreet cough just sufficiently loud to attract M. Achille's notice, and to warn M. le Duc de Luxembourg that he was being presumptuous.
Without another word the coat was transferred from the hands of the Maréchal to those of the quasi-royal Prince, whilst Eglinton, wearing an air of resigned martyrdom, still waited for his coat, the frills of his shirt sleeves gripped tightly in his hands.
Monseigneur advanced. His movements were always sedate, and he felt pleased that every one who stood close by had noticed that the rank and precedence, which were rightfully his, had been duly accorded him, even in so small a matter, by no less a personage than M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances.
He now held the coat in perfect position, and Lord Eglinton gave a sigh of relief, when suddenly the great doors at the end of the long room were thrown wide open, and the stentorian voices of the royal flunkeys announced:
"Messieurs, Mesdames! His Majesty the King!"
The buzz of talk died down, giving place to respectful murmurs. There was a great rustle of silks and brocades, a clink of dress swords against the parquet floor, as the crowd parted to make way for Louis XV. The various groups of political disputants broke up, as if scattered by a fairy wand; soon all the butterflies that had hovered in the further corners of the room fluttered toward the magic centre.
Here an avenue seemed suddenly to form itself of silken gowns, of brocaded panniers, of gaily embroidered coats, topped by rows of powdered perruques that bent very low to the ground as, fat, smiling, pompous, and not a little bored, His Majesty King Louis XV made slow progress along the full length of the room, leaning lightly on the arm of the inevitable Marquise de Pompadour, and nodding with great condescension to the perruqued heads as he passed.
Near the window embrasure he met la Marquise d'Eglinton and M. le Duc d'Aumont, her father. To Lydie he extended a gracious hand, and engaged her in conversation with a few trivial words. This gave Mme. de Pompadour the opportunity of darting a quick glance, that implied an anxious query, at the Duc d'Aumont, to which he responded with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
All the while M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances was still standing, shirt frills in hand, his face a picture of resigned despair, his eyes longingly fixed on his own coat, which Monseigneur de Courtenai no longer held up for him.
Indeed, Monseigneur, a rigid stickler for etiquette himself, would never so far have forgotten what was due to the house of Bourbon as to indulge in any pursuit—such as helping a Minister on with his coat—at the moment when His Majesty entered a room.
He bowed with the rest of them, and thus Louis XV at the end of his progress, found the group around milor's bedside; his cousin de Courtenai bowing, Monsieur Achille with his nose almost touching his knees, and milor Eglinton in shirt sleeves looking supremely uncomfortable, and not a little sheepish.
"Ah! ce cher milor!" said the King with charming bonhomie, as he took the situation in at a glance. "Nay, cousin, I claim an ancient privilege! Monsieur le Contrôleur-Général, have you ever been waited on by a King of France?"
"Never to my knowledge, Sire," stammered le petit Anglais.
Louis XV was quite delightful to-day; so fresh and boyish in his movements, and with an inimitable laisser aller and friendliness in his manner which caused many pairs of eyes to stare, and many hearts to ponder.
"Let this be an epoch-making experience in your life, then," he said gaily. "Is this your coat?"
And without more ado he took that much-travelled garment from Monseigneur de Courtenai's hands.
Such condescension, such easy graciousness had not been witnessed for years! And His Majesty was not overfond of that State-appointed Ministry of Finance of which milor was the nominal head.
"His Majesty must be sorely in need of money!" was a whispered comment which ran freely enough round the room.
Withal the King himself seemed quite unconscious of the wave of interest to which his gracious behaviour was giving rise. He was holding up the coat, smiling benevolently at M. le Contrôleur, who appeared to be more than usually nervous, and now made no movement toward that much-desired portion of his attire.
"Allons, milor, I am waiting," said King Louis at last.
"Er—that is," murmured Lord Eglinton pitiably, "could I have my coat right side out?"
"Ohé! par ma foi!" quoth the King with easy familiarity, "your pardon, milor, but 'tis seldom I hold such an article in my hands, and I believe, by all the saints in the calendar, that I was holding it upside down, wrong side out, sleeves foremost, and collar awry!"
He laughed till his fat sides ached, and tears streamed from his eyes; then, amidst discreet murmurs of admiration at so much condescension, such gracious good humour, the ceremony of putting on M. le Contrôleur's coat was at last performed by the King of France, and milor, now fully clothed and apparently much relieved in his mind, was able to present his respects to Madame de Pompadour.