The buzz of talk was going on as loudly and incessantly as before. The whispered conversation around M. le Contrôleur's bedside had excited no violent curiosity. The first surprise occasioned by His Majesty's unparalleled condescension soon gave way to indifference; it was obvious that the King's assiduity beside the Minister of Finance was solely due to a more than normal desire for money, and these royal demands for renewed funds were too numerous to cause more than passing interest.
Eavesdropping was impossible without gross disrespect, the latter far more unpardonable than the most insatiable curiosity. Lydie alone, privileged above all, had apparently not heeded the barrier which isolated Louis XV, Pompadour and milor from the rest of the vast apartment, for she now stood at the foot of the bed—a graceful, imposing figure dressed in somewhat conventual gray, with one hand resting on the delicate panelling, her grave, luminous eyes fixed on the King's face.
Louis shook himself free from the stupor in which milor's unexpected words had plunged him. Surprise yielded now to vexation. Lydie's appearance, her interference in this matter, would be the final death-blow to his hopes. Those tantalizing millions had dangled close before his eyes, his royal hands had almost grasped them, his ears heard their delicious clink; milor's original attitude had brought them seemingly within his grasp. Now everything was changed. The whole affair would have to be argued out again at full length, and though le petit Anglais might prove amenable, Mme. Lydie was sure to be obdurate.
Louis XV scowled at the picture of youth and beauty presented by that elegant figure in dove-gray silk, with the proud head carried high, the unconscious look of power and of strength in the large gray eyes, so grave and so fixed. In his mind there had already flashed the thought that milor's sudden change of attitude—for it was a change, of that his Majesty had no doubt—was due to a subtle sense of fear which had made him conscious of his wife's presence, although from her position and his own he could not possibly have seen her approach.
This made him still more vexed with Lydie, and as she seemed calmly to be waiting for an explanation, he replied quite gruffly:
"Nay, madame, you mistake; I assure you milor and ourselves are perfectly at one—we were so until a few moments ago."
"Until I came," she said quietly. "I am glad of that, for 'twill be easy enough, I hope, to convince your Majesty that my presence can have made no difference to M. le Contrôleur's attitude of deep respect."
"Pardi, we hope not!" interposed Mme. de Pompadour acidly; "but we hope milor hath found his tongue at last and will do the convincing himself."
But Louis XV was not prepared to reopen the discussion in the presence of Mme. Lydie. He knew, quite as well as M. le Duc d'Aumont himself, that she would have nothing but contempt and horror for that infamous proposal, which he was more determined than ever to accept.
It was tiresome of course not to have the coöperation of Lord Eglinton; that weak fool now would, no doubt, be overruled by his wife. At the same time—and Louis hugged the thought as it sprang to his mind—there were other ways of obtaining possession of Charles Edward Stuart's person than the direct one which he had proposed to milor just now. The young Pretender was bound sooner or later to leave the shores of Scotland. Unbeknown to King Louis a ship might be sent by private friends to rescue the fugitive, but that ship could be intercepted on her way home, and, after all, Charles Edward was bound to land in France some day!—and then——
And there were other means besides of earning the tempting millions. But these would have to be thought out, planned and arranged; they would be difficult and not nearly so expeditious, which was a drawback when royal coffers were clamouring to be filled. Still, it would be distinctly unadvisable to broach the subject with Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, and unnecessarily humiliating, since a rebuff was sure to be the result.
Therefore, when—as if in placid defiance of Pompadour's challenge—Lord Eglinton handed the Duke of Cumberland's letter silently back to the King, the latter slipped it into his pocket with a gesture of ostentatious indifference.
"Nay! we need not trouble Mme. la Marquise with the discussion now," he said; "she is unacquainted with the subject of our present conversation, and it would be tedious to reiterate."
"I crave your pardon, Sire," rejoined Lydie, "if I have transgressed, but my zeal in the service of France and in that of your Majesty has rendered my senses preternaturally acute. My eyes see in the gloom, my ears hear across vast spaces."
"In a word, Mme. la Marquise has been listening!" said Pompadour, with a sneer.
"I did not listen," said Lydie quietly. "I only heard."
"Then you know?" said Louis, with well-assumed indifference.
"Oh, yes!"
She smiled at him as she replied. This was apparently a day of surprises, for the smile seemed distinctly encouraging.
"And—and what do you say?" asked his Majesty somewhat anxiously, yet emboldened by that encouraging smile.
Of a truth! was he about to find an ally there, where he expected most bitter opposition?
"Meseems that milor was somewhat hasty," replied Lydie quietly.
"Ah!"
It was a sigh of intense, deep, heartfelt, satisfaction breathed by Louis the Well-beloved, and unrestrainedly echoed by Mme. de Pompadour.
"This proposal, Sire," continued Lydie; "'tis from England, I understand?"
"From his Grace of Cumberland himself, Madame," assented the King, once more drawing the letter from out his pocket.
"May I be permitted to see it?" she asked.
For a moment Louis hesitated, then he gave her the letter. There was no risk in this, since she practically owned to knowing its contents.
And the whole affair would be so much easier, so much more expeditious with the coöperation of the Eglintons.
Lydie read the letter through, seemingly deeply engrossed in its contents. She never once raised her eyes to see how she was being watched. She knew quite well that the King's eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face, that Pompadour's cupidity and greed for the proposed millions were plainly writ upon her face. But she had not once looked at her husband. She did not look at him now. He had not spoken since that sudden burst of indignation, when his slender hand crushed the infamous document which she now studied so carefully, crushed it and would have torn it to ribbons in loathing and contempt.
When first she interposed he had turned and faced her. Since then she knew that his eyes had remained fixed on her face. She felt the gaze, yet cared not to return it. He was too weak, too simple to understand, and of her own actions she would be sole mistress; that had been the chief clause in the contract when she placed her hand in his.
Her intuitive knowledge of this Court in which she moved, her suspicions of this feeble monarch, whose extravagant caprices had led him to deeds at which in his earlier days he had been the first to blush, her dread of intrigues and treachery, all had whispered in her ear the word of prudence—"Temporize."
The whole infamous plan had been revealed to her through those same supernaturally keen senses, which her strong domineering nature had coerced, until they became the slaves of her will. Mingling with the crowd, her graceful body present in the chattering throng, her mind had remained fixed on that group beside the bed. She had noticed the King's expression of face when he engaged milor in conversation, his extraordinary bonhomie, his confidential attitude, his whispers, all backed and seconded by Pompadour. Gradually she manœuvred and, still forming a unit with the rest of the crowd, she had by degrees drawn nearer and nearer, until she saw her husband's movement, his almost imperceptible change of expression, as he clutched the letter which was handed him by the King.
Then she boldly entered the inner precincts; being privileged, she could do even that, without creating attention. Milor's words of contempt, the royal arms of England on the seal of the letter, coupled with her father's attitude with her just now, and his veiled suggestions, told her all she wanted to know. And quick as flashes of summer lightning her woman's intuition whispered words of wisdom in her ear.
"Know everything first—then temporize! Diplomacy will do more than defiance."
Having read the letter through, she of course knew all. It was simple enough—a monstrous proposal which the King of France was ready to adopt. She felt real physical nausea at contact with so much infamy.
But she folded the document neatly and carefully, then looked quietly at the King.
"The Duke of Cumberland is generous," she said, forcing herself to smile.
"Heu, heu!" assented Louis lightly, with a return of his wonted bonhomie. Matters were shaping themselves to a truly satisfactory end.
"Do I understand that your Majesty would desire us to accept his Grace's proposal?"
"What think you yourself, Madame?"
"It is worth considering," she mused.
"Parbleu! And you are a true woman!" exclaimed Louis XV, beaming with delight. "Full of wisdom as a statesman should be. To think that we could ever have mistrusted so clear a head and so sound a judgment."
"Your Majesty, I hope, will always remember that my sole desire is to serve France and her King!"
"Par ma foi! We'll not forget your help in this, Madame," he exclaimed whole-heartedly. "Then we may rely on your help?"
"What does your Majesty desire me to do?"
He came quite close to her, and she forced herself not to draw back one inch. For the sake of the fugitive prince and his friends, who had trusted in the honour of France; for the sake of that honour which, in her peculiar position, was as dear to her as her own, she would not flinch now; she would show no repulsion, no fear, though her whole being rose in revolt at contact with this man.
A man, not a king! Par Dieu, not a King of France!
His face to her looked hideous, the eyes seemed to leer, and there was lust for money, and ignoble treachery writ on every feature.
"We have explained it all to milor," whispered Louis under his breath; "a ship to be commissioned and sent to meet the Stuart. She will have secret orders—no one shall know but her captain—and he will be a man whom we can trust—a man whom we shall have to pay—you understand?"
"I understand."
"Then from you we want to know the place in Scotland where we will find Charles Edward—eh? And also a token—a ring, a word perhaps, by which that young adventurer will be made to trust his own person and that of his friends to our good ship. It is very simple, you see."
"Quite simple, your Majesty."
"The ship's orders will be that once the Stuart and his faction are on board, she shall make straight for the first English port—and—and—that is all!" he added complacently.
"Yes, that is all, your Majesty."
"And on the day that Charles Edward Stuart is handed over to the English authorities, there will be fifteen millions for your King, Madame, and a million livres pin money for the most able statesman in Europe."
And with consummate gallantry, Louis bowed very low and took her hand in his. It rested cold and inert between his hot fingers, but he was far too eager, far too triumphant to notice anything beyond the fact that he had succeeded in enlisting the help of Lydie d'Eglinton, without whom his project was bound to have been considerably delayed, if not completely frustrated. He had indeed not wasted this glorious morning.
"I am eternally your debtor, Madame!" he said gaily; "and 'tis well, believe me, to serve the King of France."
"I have done nothing as yet, Sire," she rejoined.
"Nay, but you will," he said confidently.
She bowed her head and he interpreted the movement according to his will. But he was impatient, longing to see this matter finally settled to his entire satisfaction.
"Will you not give me a definite answer now?"
"In the midst of so much chatter, Sire?" she said, forcing herself to smile gaily. "Nay, but 'tis a serious matter—and I must consult with my father."
Louis smiled contentedly. M. le Duc d'Aumont was at one with him in this. The letter had been originally sent to the Prime Minister, and the Duke, who was weak, who was a slave to the Bourbon dynasty, and who, alas! was also tainted with that horrible canker which was gradually affecting the whole of the aristocracy of France, the insatiable greed for money, had been bribed to agree with the King.
Therefore Louis was content. It was as well that Lydie should speak with the Duke. The worthy D'Aumont would dissipate her last lingering scruples.
"And your husband?" he added, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at milor, and smiling with good-natured sarcasm.
"Oh, my husband will think as I do," she replied evasively.
At thought of her father and the King's complacent smile, Lydie had winced. For a moment her outward calm threatened to forsake her. She felt as if she could not keep up this hideous comedy any longer. She would have screamed aloud with horror or contempt, aye! and deep sorrow, too, to think that her father wallowed in this mire.
She too cast a quick glance at milor. His eyes were no longer fixed on her face. He stood quietly beside Madame de Pompadour, who, leaving the King to settle with Lydie, had engaged Lord Eglinton in frivolous conversation. He was quite placid again, and in his face, gentle and diffident as usual, there was no longer the faintest trace of that sudden outburst of withering contempt.
The Duke of Cumberland's letter was still in her hand. It seemed to scorch her fingers with its loathsome pollution. But she clung to it, and after a violent effort at self control, she contrived to look Louis straight in the face and to give him a reassuring smile, as she slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown.
"I will consult with my father, Sire," she repeated, "and will read the letter when I am alone and undisturbed."
"And you will give me a final answer?"
"The day after to-morrow."
"Why not sooner?" he urged impatiently.
"The day after to-morrow," she reiterated with a smile. "I have much to think about, and—the only token which Charles Edward would trust without demur must come from Lord Eglinton."
"I understand," said the King knowingly. "Par ma foi! But we shall want patience. Two whole days! In the meanwhile we'll busy ourselves with preparations for the expedition. We had thought of Le Monarque. What say you?"
"Le Levantin would be swifter."
"Ah, yes! Le Levantin—and we can trust her captain. He is under deep obligation to Madame de Pompadour. And M. de Lugeac, Madame's nephew, you know—we had thought of him to carry the secret orders to Brest to the captain of Le Levantin directly she is ready to sail. Methinks we could trust him. His interests are bound up with ours. And there is another, too; but more of that anon. The secret orders will bear our own royal signature, and you might place them yourself, with the token, in our chosen messenger's hands."
Once more he gave her a gracious nod, and she curtseyed with all the deference, all the formality which the elaborate etiquette of the time demanded. Louis looked at her long and searchingly, but apparently there was nothing in the calm, serene face to disturb his present mood of complacent satisfaction. He put out his podgy hand to her; the short, thick fingers were covered with rings up to their first joint, and Lydie contrived to kiss the large signet—an emblem of that kingship to which she was true and loyal—without letting her lips come in contact with his flesh.
What happened during the next ten minutes she could not afterward have said. Her whole mind was in a turmoil of thought, and every time the infamous letter crackled beneath her corselet, she shuddered as with fear. Quite mechanically she saw the King's departure, and apparently she acted with perfect decorum and correctness. Equally, mechanically she saw the chattering throng gradually disperse. The vast room became more and more empty, the buzz less and less loud. She saw milor as through a mist, mostly with back bent, receiving the adieux of sycophants; she heard various murmurs in her own ears, mostly requests that she should remember and be ready to give, or at least to promise. She saw the procession of courtiers, of flatterers, of friends and enemies pass slowly before her; in the midst of them she vaguely distinguished Mme. de Stainville's brightly coloured gown.
La belle Irène lingered a long time beside milor. She was one of the last to leave, and though Lydie forced herself not to look in that direction, she could not help hearing the other woman's irritating giggle, and Lord Eglinton's even, pleasant voice framing compliments, that pandered to that brainless doll's insatiable vanity.
And this when he knew that his friend was about to be betrayed.
The taint! The horror! The pollution of it all!
Fortunately she had not seen her father, for her fortitude might have broken down if she read that same awful thought of treachery in his face that had so disgusted her when Louis stood beside her.
The last of that senseless, indifferent crowd had gone. The vast room was empty. Milor had accompanied Mme. de Stainville as far as the door. The murmur of talk and laughter came now only as a faint and lingering echo. Anon it died away in the distant corridors.
Lydie shivered as if with cold.