Petticoat Rule

A titter went round the room. Gaston's attitude seemed suddenly to have eased the tension, as of an impending tragedy, which had hung over the brilliant assembly for the last half hour. Monsieur le Comte was such a dreadful mauvais sujet but so delightful in his ways, so delicately refined in his wickedness! He was quite right to take the matter lightly, and a murmur of approval followed the titter, at the tact with which he had lifted the load of apprehension from the minds of the company.

Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton was something of a fool to take the matter so thoroughly au tragique. No doubt the affairs of the Stuart prince would right themselves presently, and she certainly should have had more regard for her willing and obviously devoted accomplice.

He looked so superlatively elegant and handsome now, the younger women sighed whilst they admired him. He pointed his toe and held out his tricorne in the manner prescribed by fashion for the making of a bow, and it was most unfortunate that he was so suddenly stopped in the very midst of his graceful flourish by a quiet and suave voice which came immediately from behind him.

"I would not do that, were I in your red-heeled shoes, my good Stainville. A slip on this highly-polished floor is certain to be the result."

But even before the gentle echo of these blandly spoken words had penetrated to the further ends of the room, Monsieur le Comte de Stainville had measured his full length face downward on the ground.

His fall was so instantaneous that he had not the time to save himself with his hands, and he was literally sprawling now at Lydie's feet with arms and legs stretched out, his face having come in violent contact with the polished floor. Quite close to him Lord Eglinton was standing, laughing softly and discreetly and looking down on the prostrate and distinctly inelegant figure of the handsome cavalier.

A ripple of merry laughter followed this unexpected turn of events. One or two spectators, who had stood quite close at the very moment that the catastrophe occurred, declared subsequently that milor had with a quick action of his foot thrown Monsieur de Stainville off his balance; the intense slipperiness of the parquet having merely done the rest.

Be that as it may, the laughter of necessity was prudently suppressed, for already Gaston had picked himself up and there was that in his face which warned all those present that the farce – such as it was – would prove the prelude to real and serious tragedy.

"There now," said Lord Eglinton blandly, "did I not warn you, Monsieur le Comte? Graceful flourishes are apt to be treacherous."

"Milor.." said Gaston, who was livid with rage.

"Hush – sh – sh," interrupted milor in the same even and gentle voice, "not in the presence of ladies… An you desire, Monsieur le Comte, I'll be at your service later on."

Then he turned toward his wife, bowing low, but not in the least as Gaston de Stainville would have bowed, for he had inherited from his father all the stiffness of manner peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race.

Thus at this moment he looked distinctly gauche, though not without dignity, as, his back slightly bent, his left arm outstretched, he waited until Lydie chose to place her hand on his sleeve.

"Your seconds, milor," shouted Gaston, who seemed quite unable to control himself, and who had to be distinctly and even determinedly held back by two of his friends from springing then and there at Lord Eglinton's throat.

"They will wait on yours to-night, Monsieur le Comte," replied le petit Anglais affably. "Madame la Marquise, will you honour me?"

And Lydie took his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Monsieur Achille was waiting in the vestibule of the Queen's apartments. As soon as Lord and Lady Eglinton appeared his majestic figure detached itself from the various groups of flunkeys, who stood about desultorily pending the breaking up of Her Majesty's Court; he had a cloak over his arm, and, at a sign from his master he approached and handed him the cloak which milor then placed round his wife's shoulders.

"Do you desire to sleep in Versailles to-night, Madame?" he asked, "my coach is below in case you wished to drive to Château d'Aumont."

"I thank you, milor," she said, "I would wish to remain in Versailles."

Then she added with a pathetic sigh of bitterness:

"My father would prefer it, I think. He is not prepared for my visit. And I do not interfere with your lordship's arrangements.."

"Not in the least, Madame," he rejoined quietly. "The corridors are interminable; would you like a chair?"

"No… Let us walk," she said curtly.

Without further comment he once more offered her his arm. She took it and together they descended the monumental staircase and then turned along the endless, vast corridors which lead to the West Wing. Monsieur Achille followed at a respectful distance, and behind him walked two flunkeys, also in the gorgeous scarlet and gold Eglinton livery, whilst two more bearing torches preceded Monsieur le Marquis and Madame, lighting them on their way.

On the way to the West Wing, milor talked lightly of many things: of Monsieur de Voltaire's latest comedy, and the quaint new fashion in headgear, of His Majesty the King of Prussia and of the pictures of Monsieur Claude Gelée. He joked about the Duchesse de Pontchartrain's attempts at juvenility and Monsieur Crébillon's pretensions to a place among the Immortals. Lydie answered in monosyllables; she could not bring herself to speak, although she quite appreciated milor's desire to appear natural and unconcerned before his own lacqueys.

A great resolution was taking root in her mind, and she only wanted the privacy and the familiarity of her own apartments to put it into execution. Thus they reached the West Wing.

Arrived in the antechamber whence her rooms branched off to the right and milor's to the left, Lord Eglinton stopped, disengaged her arm from his and was about to bid her an elaborate good-night, when she said abruptly:

"May I speak with you privately and in your own study, milor?"

"Certainly, Madame," he replied seemingly a little astonished at her request.

He dismissed all the flunkeys with the exception of Monsieur Achille, who led the way through the reception rooms toward milor's private suite. Lord and Lady Eglinton followed in silence now. The rooms seemed strangely silent and deserted, ghostlike too, for there was no artificial light, and the moon peered in through the tall windows, throwing patches of pale mauve and weird, translucent greens on the parquet floor and the brocade coverings of the chairs.

In milor's study, Monsieur Achille lighted the candles in two massive candelabra, which stood on the secrétaire, then, at a nod from his master, he walked backward out of the room.

The heavy portière fell back with a curious sound like a moan, and for the third time to-day husband and wife stood face to face alone. The gaucherie of his manner became at once apparent now: yet he seemed in no way bashful or ill as ease, only very stiff and awkward in his movements, as he drew a chair for her at a convenient angle, and when she had sat down, placed a cushion to her back and a footstool at her feet. He himself remained standing.

"I pray you sit, milor," she said with a quick sigh, that trembled as it escaped her lips, "and if I have not angered you beyond the bounds of your patience, I earnestly ask you to bear with me, for if I have been at fault I have also suffered much and."

"Madame," he said quite gently if somewhat coldly, "might I entreat of you not to insist on this interview if it distresses you very much; as to a fault.. on my honour, Madame, the very thought of self-accusation on your part seems to me wildly preposterous."

He did not sit as she had asked him to do, but stood looking down at her and thinking – thinking alas! – that she never had been quite so beautiful. She was almost as white as her gown, the powder still clung to her hair, which, in the dim light of the candles, chose to hide the glory of its ardent colour beneath the filmy artificial veil. She wore some exquisite pearls, his gift on the day of her marriage: row upon row of these exquisite gems fell on her throat and bosom, both as white, as glittering and pure as the priceless treasures from the deep.

The chair in which she sat was covered with damask of a rich dull gold, and against this background with its bright lights and impenetrably dark shadows, the white figure stood out like what he had always pictured her, a cold and unapproachable statue.

But to-night, though so still and white, the delicate marble had taken unto itself life: the life which means sorrow. All the haughtiness of the look had vanished; there were deep shadows under the eyes and lines of suffering round the perfectly chiselled lips.

Henry Dewhyrst, Marquis of Eglinton, was not yet thirty: he loved this exquisitely beautiful woman with all his heart and soul, and she had never been anything more to him than a perfectly carved image would be on the high altar of a cathedral. She had been neither helpmate nor wife, only an ideal, an intangible shadow which his love had not succeeded in materializing.

As he looked at her now, he wondered for the first time in the course of their married life, if it had been his own fault that they had remained such complete strangers: this was because for the first time to-day a great sorrow, a still greater shame had breathed life into the marble-like statue.

All at once he felt deeply, unutterably sorry for her; he had no thought of her wrongs toward him, only of those done to herself by her pride and the faults of the epoch in which she lived.

"Milor," she said trying to steady her voice, "it would ease me a little – and ease the painfulness of this interview – if you were to tell me at what precise moment you entered Her Majesty's throne-room to-night."

"I cannot say, Madame," he replied with the ghost of a smile; "I did not look at the clock, but I was in attendance on His Majesty and therefore."

"You heard what passed between Madame la Comtesse de Stainville and myself?" she interrupted hastily.

"Every word."

Somehow she felt relieved. She would have hated to recapitulate that vulgar scene, the mutual recriminations, the insults, culminating in Her Majesty's contemptuous exit from the room. She could not now see her husband's face, for he had contrived to stand so as to allow the light from the candelabra to fall full upon her, whilst he himself, silhouetted against the light, remained in the shadow; but there was a certain dignified repose about the whole figure, the white, slender hand resting lightly on the bureau, the broad shoulders square and straight, suggesting physical strength, and the simple, somewhat sober style and cut of the clothes.

The room too appeared as a complete contrast to the other apartments of the palace of Versailles, where the mincing fancies of Watteau and the artificialities of Boucher had swept aside the nobler conceptions of Girardon and Mansard. It was quite plainly furnished, with straight-back chairs and hangings of dull gold, and the leather covering of the bureau gave ample signs of wear.

The turmoil in Lydie's heart subsided, yielding itself to peace in the midst of these peaceful surroundings. She was able to conquer the tremor of her voice, the twitch of her lips, and to swallow down the burning tears of humiliation which blinded her eyes and obscured her judgment.

"Then, milor, it will indeed be easier for me. You understand of what I am charged, the awful load of disgrace and shame which by my own folly I have placed upon my shoulders.. you understand," and her voice, though steady, sunk to a whisper, "that I have proved unworthy of the confidence which the unfortunate Stuart prince, who was your friend, placed in me as well as in you?"

He did not reply, waiting for her to continue. Her head had drooped and a heavy tear fell from her sunken lids upon her hands. To him who loved her, and whom she had so deeply wronged, there was a strange yet painful joy in watching her cry.

"What Madame de Stainville said to-night is true," she added tonelessly. "I gave into Monsieur de Stainville's hands the map, with full marginal notes and description of the place where the Stuart prince is hiding; I also gave him a letter written and signed by me, addressed to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, begging him to trust implicitly his own royal person and that of his friends to the bearer of my note. That letter and the plan are even now in the hands of His Majesty, who purposes to accept the proposals of His Grace the Duke of Cumberland, and to sell the Stuart prince to his foes for the sum of fifteen million livres. And that is all true."

Knowing men, the men of her world, she fully expected that this confession of hers would cause her husband's just wrath to break through that barrier of courteous good-breeding and self-restraint, imposed on all men of honour when in the presence of women, and which she firmly believed had alone prevented him from interfering between herself and Irène. She would not have been astonished if he had stormed and raged, loudly accused and condemned her, nay! – she had heard of such things – if he had laid hands on her. But when, hearing nothing, she looked up, she saw that he had scarcely moved, only the hand which still rested on the secrétaire trembled a little. Perhaps her look made him conscious of that, for he withdrew it, and then seemed to pull himself together, and draw himself up, straight and rigid like a soldier on parade.

"Having told you this, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, "I should like to add that I am fully aware that in your eyes there can be no excuse possible for what I did, since in doing it I have sacrificed the life of a man who trusted us – you and me, milor – more even than he did France. He and his friends, by my act, will leave the shelter of their retreat, and will be delivered into the hands of those who cannot do aught, for political and self-protective reasons, but send them to the scaffold. You see, milor, I do not palliate my offence, nor do I seek your pardon – although I know that you will look on what I have done as a disgrace brought by your wife upon your name. I deserve no pardon, and I ask for none. But if there is no excuse for my conduct, at least do I owe you an explanation, and for this I crave your attention if you would care to listen."

"Nay, Madame, you do but jest," he rejoined, "you owe me nothing.. not even an explanation."

"Yet you will listen?" she urged.

"It would be only painful to us both, Madame."

"You prefer to think of me as ignoble, treacherous and base," she said with sudden vehemence, "you do not wish to know for certain and from my own lips that Gaston de Stainville."

She paused abruptly and bit her lips, he watching her keenly, she not knowing that she was watched.

This was going to be a fight and he knew it, a dire conflict between distress and pride. At first he had hoped that she was prepared to yield, that she had sought this interview because the load of sorrow and of humiliation being more than she could bear, she had turned instinctively to the only man in the world who could ease and comfort her: whose boundless, untiring love was ready to share the present pain, as it had shrunk from participating in the glories of the past. But as she spoke, as she sat there before him now, white, passive, disdainful even in her self-abasement, he knew that his hour – Love's hour – had not yet struck. Pride was not yet conquered.

The dominant ruler of a lifetime will not abdicate very readily, and though distress and sorrow are powerful opponents, they are more transient, more easily cast aside than Pride.

"As you say, milor," she now said more quietly, "the matter is only painful to us both. I understand that your estimate of me is not an exalted one. You despise – you probably hate me! Well! so be it. Let us not think of our own feelings in this matter, milor! I entreat you to ignore my very existence for the time being, only thinking of the Stuart prince and of his dire peril!

"'Tis because of him I have begged for this interview," she resumed with just a thought of that commanding manner, which she was wont to assume whenever matters of public import were discussed: "I need not reiterate the fact that he is in deadly danger. Le Levantin, a fast brigantine, milor, is even now being equipped by His Majesty for the nefarious expedition. Le Levantin or perhaps Le Monarque– the latter is quite ready to sail at any time, and with the map and my letter it will be easy.. oh! so easy!.. Oh!" she added with a sudden uncontrollable outburst of passionate appeal, "milor, he was your friend.. can nothing be done?.. can nothing be done?"

"I do not know, madame," he replied coldly, "how should I?"

"But surely, surely you remember your promise to him, milor," she said impatient at his coldness, unable to understand this lack of enthusiasm. "You remember that night, in the Château d'Aumont – the banquet.. his farewell to you.. his trust, his confidence.. the assurance you gave him."

"So much has occurred since then, Madame," he said simply. "The guidance of affairs has been in your hands… I have lost what little grasp I ever had of the situation… As you know, I am neither clever nor strong – and I have only too gladly relied on abler wits than mine own.."

"But your promise," she urged, with real passion ringing in her voice, "your promise to him.."

"I made a far more solemn one to you, madame, never to interfere in matters of State."

"I'll release you of that," she cried impulsively; "think, milor.. I entreat you to think!.. there must be some way out of this terrible labyrinth.. there must be some one whom you can trust."

She checked herself, and a quick hot blush rose to her cheeks. She thought that she had detected a quick flash in his eyes at these last words of hers, a flash which had caused that sudden rush of blood to her temples, but which was extinguished almost as soon as it arose: he said quite naturally and tonelessly:

"There is no one. How could there be?"

"But surely, surely," she repeated with growing, obstinate vehemence, "you can think of something to do.. you have the means.. you are rich.. have you no enthusiasms, milor?"

"Oh!." he said deprecatingly, "so few!.. they are scarce worthy of the name.."

"No thought how to help your friend who is in fear and peril of his life?.. Heavens above us, what are the men of France? Wooden dolls or."

"That what the women of France have made them, Madame," he said quietly.

"Then you have no thought, or initiative how to help your friend?" she retorted.

He had noted the ring of scorn in her voice, the return of that haughty and obstinate self-will, which would for ever stand between her and happiness. His expression suddenly hardened, as he looked at her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curl of the exquisite lips, all the gentleness went out of his face, the latent tenderness which she had wilfully ignored, and his voice, no longer softly mocking, became hard and bitter in its tones.

"I?" he said with a slight uplifting of his brow and a self-deprecating droop of the lip, "surely, Madame, you are pleased to jest. I am no statesman, no politician, I scarce have a sufficiency of brains to be a figure head in an administration. I have never been taught to think."

"You are mocking me, milor," she said haughtily.

"Nothing is further from my thoughts. I have far too much respect for your ladyship to venture on either mockery or individual thought."

She paused awhile, frowning and impatient, angered beyond bounds, too, at his attitude, which she was quite clever enough to see did not represent the true state of his mind. No doubt he desired to punish her for her contempt of him that morning. She would have liked to read the expression in his face, to know something of what was going on behind that straight, handsome brow, and the eyes always so gentle, yet so irritating now in this semblance of humility. She thought certainly that the outline of the jaw suggested obstinacy – the obstinacy of the inherently weak. If she had not wanted his help so much, she would have left him then and there, in scorn and in wrath, only too glad that sentiment had not led her into more excuses or explanations – a prayer for forgiveness mayhap. She was not a little irritated with herself too, for she felt that she had made a wrong start: she was quite sure that his supineness, at any rate with regard to the fate of the Stuart prince, was assumed. There must be a way of appealing to that loyalty which she knew he cherished for his friend, some means of breaking down that barrier of resentment which he had evidently set up against her.

Oh! if it had been a few months ago, when he still loved her, before Irène de Stainville.. She paused in this train of thought, her mind not daring to travel further along it; it was such a wide, such a glorious possibility that that one little "if" suggested, that her heart quivered with renewed agony, and the weak tears, of which she was so ashamed, insisted on coming to her eyes.

If only his love for her was not dead, how easy her task would have been! It would have fired him to enthusiasm now, caused him to forget his resentment against her in this great work yet to be accomplished, and instead of asking him for passive help she could have incited him to a deed of loyalty and of courage. But now she was too proud to continue her appeal: she thought that she had done her best, and had not even succeeded in breaking through the icy reserve and resentment which in his heart had taken the place of silent and humble worship.

"Milor," she said with sudden determination, and in the authoritative manner which was more habitual to her than the more emotional, passionately appealing mood, "with your leave we'll cease these unworthy bickerings. I may have been hasty in my actions this morning. If so I pray you not to vent your anger against your friend. If I have wronged you by taking you at your word, when a year ago you told me that you would never wish to interfere in my official work, well! I humbly beg you pardon, and again entreat you not to allow your friend to expiate the sins of your wife. You say that the men of France are what the women have made them; there I think that you are wrong – at least in this: that in your mind the word woman stands for those of the sex who are pure and loyal as well as those for who are not. It is not the women of France who have made the men, milor, rather it is the men who – looking to the Pompadours, the Irène de Stainvilles, not only for companionship and for pleasure, but also, heaven help them! for ideals – have made the women what they are! But enough of this. You no doubt think me wordy and tedious, and neither understand, nor wish to understand that there may be honour and chivalry in a far greater degree in the heart of a woman, than in that of the more selfish sex. I have asked for your advice in all simplicity and loyalty, acknowledging the sin I have committed and asking you to help me in atoning for it, in a way useful to your friend. This appeal for advice you have met with sneers and bitter mockery: on my soul, milor if I could now act without your assistance I would do so, for in all the humiliation which I have had to endure to-day, none has been more galling or more hard to bear believe me, than that which I must now endure through finding myself, in a matter essentially vital to my heart and even to my reason, dependent upon your help."

He could hear her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts at self-control. He knew quite well that at this moment she spoke the truth, and these last words of hers, which for many a long day afterward rang persistently in his ears, represented to him ever afterward the very acme of mental – aye! and physical – pain which one human being could inflict on another. At the time it absolutely seemed unendurable: it seemed to him that under the blow, thus coldly dealt by those same beautiful lips, for which his own ached with an intensity of passionate longing, either his life or his reason must give way. The latter probably, for life is more tenacious and more cruel in its tenacity: yet if reason went, then Heaven alone could help him, for he would either kill her or outrage her beyond the hope of pardon.