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Marie Antoinette Romances, Vol 2: The Mesmerist's Victim

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<h2>CHAPTER XI. THE DOWNFALL AND THE ELEVATION.</h2> THE great clock of Versailles Palace was striking eleven when King Louis XV., coming out of his private apartments, crossed the gallery nearest and called out for the Master of Ceremonies, Duke Vrilliere. He was pale and seemed agitated, though he tried to conceal his emotion. An icy silence spread among the courtiers, among whom were included Duke Richelieu and Chevalier Jean Dubarry, a burly coarse bully, but tolerated as brother of the favorite. They were calm, affecting indifference and ignorance of what was going on. The duke approaching was given a sealed letter for Duke Choiseul which would find him in the palace. The courtiers hung their heads while muttering, like ears of wheat when the squall whistles over them. They surrounded Richelieu while Vrilliere went on his errand, but the old marshal pretended to know no more than they, while smiling to show he was not a dupe. When the royal messenger returned he was besieged by the inquisitive. “Well, it was an order of exile,” said he, “for I have read it. Thus it ran,” and he repeated what he had retained by the implacable memory of old courtiers: <div class="blockquot"> COUSIN: My discontent with your services obliges me to exile your grace to Chanteloup, where you should be in twenty-four hours. I should send you farther but for consideration of the duchess’s state of health. Have a care that your conduct does not drive me to a severer measure. </div> The group murmured for some time. “What did he say,” queried Richelieu. “That he was sure I found pleasure in bearing such a message.” “Rather rough,” remarked Dubarry. “But a man cannot get such a chimney-brick on his head Without crying out something,” added the marshal-duke. “I wonder if he will obey?” “Bless us, here he comes, with his official portfolio under his arm!” exclaimed the Master of Ceremonies aghast, while Jean Dubarry had the cold shivers. Lord Choiseul indeed was crossing the courtyard, with a calm, assured look blasting with his clear glance his enemies and those who had declared against him after his disgrace. Such a step was not foreseen and his entrance into the royal privy chambers was not opposed. “Hang it! will he coax the King over, again?” muttered Richelieu. Choiseul presented himself to the King with the letter of exile in his hand. “Sire, as it was understood that I was to hold no communication from your Majesty as valid without verbal confirmation, I come for that.” “This time it holds good,” rejoined the King. “Such an offensive letter holds good against a devoted servitor?” “Against the servitor—you who received a letter in your house here, from Lady Grammont, by courier—— ” “Surely brother and sister may correspond?” “Not with such letters—” And the monarch held out a copy of the letter dictated by Balsamo’s Voice—this time made by the King’s own hand. “Deny not—you have the original locked up in the iron safe in your bedroom.” Pale as a spectre the duke listened to the sovereign continuing pitilessly. “This is not all. You have an answer for Lady Grammont in your pocketbook only waiting for its postscript to be added when you leave my presence. You see I am well informed.” The duke bowed without saying a word and staggered out of the room as though he were struck by apoplexy. But for the open air coming on his face he would have dropped backwards; but he was a man of powerful will and recovering composure, he passed through the courtiers to enter his rooms where he burnt certain papers. A quarter of an hour following he left the palace in his coach. The disgrace of Choiseul was a thunderbolt which set fire to France. The Parliament which his tolerance had upheld, proclaimed that the State had lost its strongest prop. The nobility sustained him as one of their order. The clergy felt fostered by a man whose severe style made his post almost sacerdotal. The philosophical party, very numerous by this time and potent, because the most active, intelligent and learned formed it, shouted aloud when “their” Government escaped from the hands of the protector of Voltaire, the pensioner of the Encyclopedist writers and the preserver of the traditions of Lady Pompadour playing the Maccenas-in-petticoats for the newspaper writers and pamphleteers. The masses also complained and with more reason than the others. Without deep insight they knew where the shoe pinched. From the general point of view Choiseul was a bad minister and a bad citizen, but he was a paragon of patriotism and morality compared with the sycophants, mistresses and their parasites—particularly Lady Dubarry whom a lampoonist qualified as less to be respected than a charcoal-man’s wife. To see the reins pass into the hands of the pet of a favorite made the future blacker than before. Hence nearly everybody flocked on the road to cheer the Minister as he went away in exile. There was a block to the traffic at the Enfer Tollbar, on the Touraine Road. A hundred carriages escorted the duke after he had got through here. Cheers and sighs followed him, but he was too sharp not to know that there was less regret over his going than fear about those who would replace him. On the crowded highway a postchaise came tearing and would have run down the minister but for a violent swerving of the postboy. A head was stuck out of the chaise window at the same time as the Duke of Choiseul looked out of his. It was the Duke of Aiguillon, nephew of Richelieu, who would probably have a place in the cabinet which the marshal duke, as the new minister, would form. No doubt he had received the cue and was hurrying to take the berth. He saluted the fallen one very lowly. The latter drew back in the coach, for in this second the sight had withered all the laurels. At the same time, as compensation up came a carriage with the royal colors, drawn by eight horses on the Sevres branch-road, and crossing with Choiseul’s equipage by chance or the block. On the back seat was the Dauphiness with her mistress of the Household, Lady Noailles; on the front one was Andrea de Taverney. Red with glory and delight, Choiseul leaned out and bowed lowly. “Farewell, princess,” he said in a choking voice. “Farewell, my lord, till soon we meet again!” was the reply. The Archduchess gave an imperial smile and showed majestic disdain for court etiquet, by replying. “Choiseul forever!” shouted an enthusiastic voice close upon these words. Andrea turned rapidly towards the speaker, for she knew the voice. “Room, make room there,” roared the royal squires, forcing Gilbert, pale and hot with getting to the front to see into the line along the roadside ditch. It was indeed our hero, who had in a fit of philosophical fervor, shouted for Choiseul. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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