Angelique - Part 3. The Corridors of the Louvre Chapter 8 - Read online

“IN YOUR OPINION, Monsieur Desgrez, why should an anonymous gentleman of fer me a chateau and a pension of a hundred thousand livresl”
“My word!” said the lawyer. “I suppose for the same reason that I myself might of fer you a pension of a hundred thousand livres.” Angelique looked at him blankly, then blushed slightly under the young man’s bold glance. She had never thought of her lawyer in this particular light. With no little agitation she noticed that his worn clothes must conceal a muscular, well-proportioned body. He was not hand¬some, with his big nose and uneven teeth, but his physiognomy was expressive. Maitre Fallot said of him that, apart from his talent and erudition, he lacked about everything that was required to become a respectable magistrate. He did not consort much with his colleagues, but continued to haunt the taverns as in his student days. That is why he was entrusted with certain cases that called for inquiries in places where the gentlemen of the rue Saint-Landry would have hesitated to go for fear of losing their souls.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Ang6lique, “it’s not at all what you think. I’ll put the question differently: why has someone twice tried to murder me, which is an even surer method of obtaining my silence?”
The lawyer’s face suddenly darkened.
“Ah! that’s what I’ve been waiting for,” he said.
He abandoned his casual pose on the edge of the table in Maitre Fallot’s study, and sat down gravely opposite Angelique.
“Madame,” he resumed, “I may not be a man of law who inspires you with great confidence. However, as it happens, I think your esteemed brother-in-law did not do too badly in chancing опте, for your husband’s case requires the qualities of a private sleuth, which I’ve become of necessity, more than a scrupulous knowledge of law and procedure. But I must tell you that I can unravel this tangle only if you supply me with all the facts. In short, here is the question I am dying to ask you . .
He got up, had a look behind the door, lifted the curtain that concealed boxes of files, then returned to the young woman and questioned her in a low voice:
“What is it that you and your husband know, which can scare one of the highest persons in the kingdom? I am referring to Monsieur Fouquet.”
Angelique’s lips went white. She stared at the lawyer with bewilder¬ment.
“All right, I see there is something,” said Desgrez. “At the moment, I am waiting for the report of a spy placed with Mazarin. But another one put me on the track of a servant called Clement Tonnel, who at one time was the handy-man of the Prince deConde. . . .”
“And major-domo at our chateau, in Toulouse.”
“That’s right. The fellow is in close touch with Monsieur Fouquet. In point of fact, he works only for him, although he rakes in substantial gratuities now and then from his former master, the Prince, probably by blackmail. Here’s another question: through whom did you receive the proposal to be set up in princely fashion?”
“Through Madame de Beauvais.”
“One-eyed Kate . . . This time it’s clear as daylight. The affair has the stamp of Fouquet. He pays the old hag fat sums of money in order to know all the Court secrets. She used to be in Mazarin’s pay, but he proved
less generous than the Controller-General. I might add that I’ve also tracked down another high personage who has sworn your husband’s downfall and ‘ your own.”
“And that is?”
“Monsieur, the King’s brother.”
Angelique uttered a cry.
“You are mad!”
The young man pulled a wry face.
“Do you think I’ve swindled you out of your 1,500 livres? I may look like a humbug, Madame, but if the information I bring back costs a lot, it’s because it’s always accurate. It’s the King’s brother who laid the trap for you at the Louvre and who tried to have you murdered. I know it from the very hoodlum who stabbed your maid Margot, and it cost me no less than ten pints of wine at The Red Cock to extract the confession from him.”
Angelique passed her hand over her forehead. In a jerky voice, she related to Desgrez the curious incident of which she had been a chance witness at the Chateau du Plessis-Bellicre some years ago.
“Do you know what has become of your relative, the Marquis du Plessis?”
“I have no idea. But he may be in Paris or else in the army.”
“The civil war is bygone history,” murmured the lawyer musingly, “but it wouldn’t take very much to make the glowing embers flare up again. Obviously there are many people who would be afraid of such evidence of their treason being openly exposed.”
With a flick of his hand he swept the tabic clear of its pile of papers and goose-quills.
“Let’s sum up the position: Mademoiselle Angelique de Sancl, that is to say yourself, is suspected of being in possession of a formidable secret. The Prince de Conde or Monsieur Fouquet instructs the valet Clement to spy on you. He keeps a watch on you for years. At last he becomes certain about what had hitherto been no more than a suspicion: you were the one who made the casket disappear; you and your husband alone know the secret of its hiding-place. Your major-domo now goes to see Fouquet and sells his information for hard cash. From that moment, your fate is sealed. All those who’ve hitched their wagon to the Controller’s star, all those who are afraid of losing their pensions and the Court’s favour, band together against the nobleman of Toulouse who may appear before the King any day and say: ‘This is what I know!’
“If we were in Italy, they’d have used a dagger or poison. But it’s well known that the Comte de Peyrac is immune to poison, and, anyway, in
France we like to give things a legal varnish. The stupid intrigue hatched by Monseigneur de Frontenac breaks just at the right time. The Comte is to be arrested as a sorcerer. The King is persuaded. His jealousy is kindled against this too wealthy nobleman. And there you are! The gates of the Bastille close on the Comte de Peyrac. Everyone can breathe more freely.”
“No!” said Angelique fiercely. “I am not going to let them breathe freely. I shall stir Heaven and earth until justice is done. I shall go and tell the King myself exactly why we have so many enemies.”
“Hush!” said Desgrcz quickly. “Don't get excited. You are carrying a load of gunpowder in your hands, but take care that it doesn't blow you to pieces first! What guarantee have you that the King or even Mazarin doesn't know all about it?”
“But surely,” protested Angelique, “they were the chosen victims of the old plot: the Cardinal was to be murdered, and so, if possible, were the King and his young brother.”
“I know, my beauty, I know,” said the lawyer.
He collected himself with a gesture of apology:
“I concede the logic of your reasoning, Madame. But, you see, the intrigues of the mighty form a nest of vipers. You court death trying to interpret their true feelings. It is quite possible that Monsieur de Mazarin has got wind of it through some double-crossing spy in that intricate net¬work of his. But what does Mazarin care about a past from which he emerged as the victor! The Cardinal was busy negotiating with the Spaniards about the reinstatement of Monsieur de Conde. That was hardly the moment to write one more crime on the slate which was about to be wiped clean. The Cardinal turned a deaf ear. They want to arrest the nobleman of Toulouse? Well, let them! The King is only too ready to follow the Cardinal’s guidance, and he'd taken umbrage, anyhow, at your husband's wealth. It will be child's play to have him sign a lettre de cachet for the Bastille.”
“But the King's brother?”
“The King's brother? Well, he too doesn't worry much about what Monsieur Fouquet tried to do to him when he was a child. The present alone counts for him, and for the present Monsieur Fouquet sees that he's comfortable. He covers him with gold, goes out of his way to find him favourites. The Petit Monsieur was never much spoiled by his mother, nor by his brother. He trembles lest his protector be compromised. In short, the whole affair could have been managed neatly if only you hadn't turned up. They had been hoping that, once deprived of your husband's support, you'd disappear . . . without ado ... no one knew where.
No one would have wanted to know. Nobody ever wants to know the fate of a wife, when a nobleman falls into disgrace. Wives generally are tactful enough to vanish into thin air. Perhaps they go to a convent. Perhaps they change their name. You alone don’t follow the general rule. You presume to demand justice! . . . This is the height of insolence, is it not? So, on two occasions, they try to kill you. Then, in despair, Fouquet plays the tempting demon.”
Angelique heaved a deep sigh.
“It’s overwhelming,” she murmured. “Whichever way I turn, I see only enemies, hateful glances, envy, distrust, threats. . . .”
“Listen—perhaps all is not lost as yet,” said Desgrez. “Fouquet of fers you an honourable way out. They won’t give you back your husband's fortune, but at least they’ll set you up in comfort. What more do you want?”
“I want my husband!” shouted Angelique, rising with rage.
The lawyer looked at her ironically.
“You really are a very strange person.”
“And you, you are a coward! In fact, you are shaking with fear like the rest of them.”
“It is true that the life of a poor lawyer counts for little in the eyes of the mighty.”
“Well, keep your little six-лш life! Keep it for the grocer who’s robbed by his assistant, and for the disappointed heir. I don’t need you.”
The lawyer got up without replying, but took his time to smooth a crumpled piece of paper.
“This is the account of my expenses. You will see that I did not deduct anything for myself.”
“Whether you are an honest man or a thief is a matter of indifference to me.”
“One more bit of advice.”
“I do not need your advice. I shall turn to my brother-in-law for what I need to know.”
“Your brother-in-law is not at all keen to take sides in this affair. He has put you up in his home and recommended you to me because, if things turn out well, it’ll redound to his glory. If not, he’ll wash his hands of it, protesting his loyalty to the King’s service. That’s why I tell you one thing more: try to see the King.”
He made a deep bow, put on his faded felt hat, then turned round again.
“If you need me, you can send for me at‘The Trois-Maillets’, where I can be found every evening.”
When he had gone, Ang&ique felt a sudden urge to cry. Now she was quite alone. She felt a thundering, stormy sky weighing on her, a gather¬ing of clouds from all the comers of the horizon: Monseigneur de Frontenac’s ambition, Fouquet’s and Conde’s fears, the Cardinal’s inertia and, closer to her, the watchful misgivings of her brother-in-law and sister, ready to turn her out of their house at the least sign of trouble. . . .
In the vestibule she met Hortense, with a white apron tied around her lean waist. The house was redolent with the smell of cooked strawberries and oranges. In September good housewives make their preserves. It was a delicate and important operation, performed amid huge red copper basins, crushed sugar-loaves and Barbe’s tears. The house was upside down for three days.
Hortense, who was carrying a precious sugar-loaf, stumbled against Florimond, who was coming out of the kitchen, wildly waving his silver rattle with its three little bells and two crystal teeth. Nothing more was needed to make the thunderstorm break.
“Not only are we crowded out and compromised,” gasped Hortense, “but on top of it I can’t go about my work without being pushed about and deafened by an ear-splitting din. My head is bursting with migraine. And while I’m working myself to death, Madame receives her lawyer or gads about in the streets on the pretext of trying to free a dreadful husband whose fortune she’s crying after.”
“Don’t scream so much,” said Angelique. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to help you make your jams. I know some very good southern recipes.”
Hortense, sugar-loaf in hand, straightened herself to her full height, as if draping herself in the garments of a tragic actress.
“Never,” she said fiercely, “never shall I allow you to put your hand to the food I cook for my husband and my children! I am not forgetting that you have a husband who is a devil’s henchman, a spell-binder, a poison- maker. For all I know, you may have become his doomed soul. Gaston has changed since you’ve been here.”
“Your husband? I haven’t even looked at him.”
“But he keeps looking at you . . . much more than is proper. You ought to understand that you are overstaying your welcome here. Originally you spoke of a single night. . . .”
“I assure you that I am trying to clear up the situation.”
“All this running about will end in your attracting attention and you’ll get у ourself arrested as well.”
“At this point, I am wondering whether I wouldn’t be better of f* in prison. At least I’d be lodged free of charge and no fuss about it.”
“You don t know what you arc saying, my girl,” sneered Hortense. “You have to pay ten sols per day, and they’d probably come to me, your only relative, to collect the money.”
“That isn’t so much. It’s less than I am giving you. And that’s taking no account of the dresses and jewels I gave you.”
“With two children, it would come to thirty sols per day. . . .” Angelique sighed with fatigue.
“Oh well, come, Florimond,” she said to the baby. “You can see you’re tiring Aunt Hortense. The fumes from her jam have gone to her head and make her mind wander.”
The child rushed to her, waving his pretty rattle. This put the final spark to Hortense’s smouldering rage.
“It’s like this rattle,” she cried. “Never did my children have anything like it. You keep complaining that you have no more money, and then you go and buy your son such an extravagant toy!”
“He wanted it so much. Besides, it wasn’t so expensive. The cobbler’s child at the comer has one just like it.”
“Everybody knows that the common people don’t know how to save money. They spoil their children and don’t give them any education. Before you go buying extravagant stuff, don’t forget that you are ruined and that I have no intention of paying your keep.”
“I’m not asking you to,” said Angelique, wincing. “As soon as Andijos returns, I’ll go and stay at the inn.”
Hortense shrugged her shoulders with a pitying laugh.
“Decidedly, you are even more stupid than I thought. You are com¬pletely ignorant of die laws and the way justice works. He won’t bring you back anything, your Marquis d’Andijos.”
Hortense’s gloomy prediction turned out to be only too accurate. When the Marquis d’Andijos reappeared, followed by the faithful Kouassi-Ba, he informed Angelique that in Toulouse all the Comte’s possessions were under seal. He had been able to bring back only a thousand livres, a loan made under a promise of secrecy by two of the prisoner’s biggest tenant-farmers. Most of Angelique’s jewellery, the gold and silver plate, and the greater part of the valuables which the Palace of Gay Learning contained, including the gold and silver nuggets, had been seized and transported partly to Toulouse, partly to Montpellier.
Andijos seemed embarrassed. He was no longer voluble, had lost his usual geniality, and kept casting furtive glances all around. He also related that Toulouse was seething with unrest ever since the arrest of the Comte de Peyrac. Rumour having got about that the Archbishop was responsible for it, a veritable riot had broken out around the episcopal palace. The members of the Toulouse Parliament had come to see Andijos and had asked him to put himself at the head of a rebellion against the royal authority. The Marquis had had the greatest difficulties in leaving the town to get back to Paris.
“And what do you intend to do now?” asked Angelique.
“Stay in Paris for some time. My financial means, like yours, are limited, alas! 1 sold an old farm and a dovecot. Perhaps I'll be able to obtain a commission at Court. ...”
His formerly bouncing manner was sagging woefully like a flag at halfmast.
‘Oh! these southerners!’ thought Angelique. ‘Great ones for swearing and laughing, but when misfortune descends on them, the fireworks fizzle out/
“I do not wish to compromise you,” she said aloud. “Thank you for all your services, Monsieur d*Andijos. I wish you good luck at Court.”
He kissed her hand in silence and withdrew somewhat shamefacedly. In the vestibule Angelique stared at the painted entrance-door of the proctor’s house. How many servants had already left her by this door, with lowered eyes, but fleeing with relief from their disgraced mistress! . . . Kouassi-Ba squatted at her feet. She stroked his big, kinky head, and the giant gave her a childlike smile.
A thousand livres was something, all the same. The following night, Angelique made up her mind to leave her sister’s house, where the atmo-sphere was becoming intolerable. She would take the little nursemaid from Bearn and Kouassi-Ba with her. She would be able to find some modest inn. She still had some jewels left and her gold lame dress. How much would she be able to get for it?
The baby she was expecting had begun to stir within her, but she hardly gave it a thought and it did not move her as Florimond had. After the first feeling of joy she had realised that the coming of a second child at such a time was almost a catastrophe. Anyhow, there was no point in looking too far ahead if she wanted to keep her courage.
The next day brought a ray of hope with die arrival from Mademoiselle de Montpensier’s household of a page resplendent in a buff livery with gold and black velvet trimmings. Even Hortense was quite impressed. The Grande Mademoiselle asked Angelique to come and see her in the afternoon. The page specified thai Mademoiselle was no longer at the Tuileries, but at the Louvre.
At the appointed hour, Angelique, trembling with impatience, passed over the bridge of Notre Dame. She had been on the verge of asking
Hortense to lend her the wheeled chair called a 1vinaigrette in order to spare her last fairly expensive dress. But in view of her sister’s sour attitude she had given up the idea.
Angelique wore a two-tone dress of olive and pale green. She had wrapped herself in a plum-coloured silk cloak, for the moist wind blew forcefully in the narrow lanes and along the quays. Eventually she reached the massive palace, whose roofs and domes, topped by high, emblazoned chimneys, rose against a sultry sky.
Through the interior courtyard and up vast marble staircases, Angelique reached the apartment that had been indicated to her as Mademoiselle’s. She could not help shivering as she found herself again in these long corridors, which were sinister despite their gold-encrusted ceilings, their flowered wainscoting and their precious hangings. But too much dark¬ness stagnated in those recesses made for ambushes and foul play. A history of blood and terror loomed at every step in this old royal palace, although the Court of a very young King tried to rouse it to a little gaiety.
A Monsieur de Prefontaincs informed Angelique that Mademoiselle was at her painter’s studio in the great gallery and of fered to lead the young woman there.
Angelique soon found herself in a sort of basement underneath the great gallery. Since Henri IV, these apartments had been reserved for artists and people exercising various crafts. Sculptors, painters, clockmakers, per¬fumers, engravers of precious stones, steel-swordsmiths, the most skilful gilders, damaskccners, musical and scientific instrument-makers, up¬holsterers, librarians lived there with their families at the King’s expense. Behind the heavy, varnished wooden doors could be heard the hammering of mauls and forges, the clatter of looms from the workshops specialising in high-warp tapestries and Turkish carpets, the dull thud of printing- presses.
The painter who was painting Mademoiselle de Montpensier’s portrait was a Dutchman with a fair beard, and fresh blue eyes in a face the colour of cooked ham. Van Ossel, a modest craftsman and a man of talent, par¬ried the tantrums of the Court ladies with the fortress of a peaceful temper and a halting knowledge of French. If most of the mighty ones treated him familiarly, as they would a servant or a workman, he nevertheless managed to make all this high society dance to his tune. Thus, he had insisted that Mademoiselle be painted with one breast bared, and actually he showed good judgment, for her bosom was the hefty spinster’s best feature. Assuming that the picture was intended for some fresh suitor, one had to admit that the eloquence of this round, white, tempting object would happily complement the figure of her dowry and the nobility of her descent.
Mademoiselle was draped in opulent, dark blue velvet that fell in broken folds. She was covered with pearls and jewels, and, a rose in her fingers, she smiled at Angelique.
“I shall be with you in a moment, my pet. Van Ossel, when will you at last put an end to my ordeal?”
The artist growled into his beard and, for form’s sake, added a few touches of light to the single breast, object of his most tender cares. While a chambermaid was helping Mademoiselle to dress, the painter handed his brushes to a young boy who seemed to be his son and who was serving as his apprentice. He looked attentively at Angelique and her servant Kouassi-Ba. At last he removed his hat and bowed deeply.
“Would you, Madame, like me to paint your portrait? ... Oh! Very beautiful! The luminous woman and the black Moor! The sun and the night ”
Ang£lique declined the of fer with a smile. The moment was not well chosen. But some day perhaps. . . .
She imagined the big picture that she would hang in the reception room of the hotel in the Saint-Paul quartier, when she moved in victoriously with Joffrey de Pcyrac. It gave her a new spurt of courage for the future.
As they were walking through the gallery on their way back to her apartments, the Grande Mademoiselle took Angelique’s arm and spoke with her customary abruptness.
“My dear child, I was hoping, after some investigation, to bring you good news and to be able to tell you that it’s all a misunderstanding about your husband. Some misunderstanding instigated by a soured courtier who was trying to curry favour with the King, or else some slander from an unsuccessful applicant for Monsieur de Peyrac’s largesse . . . but I now fear the case may be somewhat long and complicated.”
“For mercy’s sake, Highness, what did you learn?”
“Let’s go into my rooms, far from indiscreet ears.”
When they had settled down side by side on a comfortable settee, Mademoiselle resumed:
“Actually, I learned very little, and if you discount the usual Court gossip, I must tell you that just this lack of information seems to me dis¬quieting. People don’t know anything or prefer not to.”
Lowering her voice, she added with a trace of hesitation:
“Your husband is accused of witchcraft. That part is not too serious, and the matter could have been arranged without difficulty if your husband had been handed over to an ecclesiastical tribunal, as he should have been in view of the nature of the charge. I won’t hide from you that I sometimes fmd churchmen rather annoying, but one must admit that their peculiar justice, when it comes to points that lie within their sphere, is for the most part upright and sensible. But the important fact is that, despite this particular accusation, your husband has been handed over to the secular justice. Now, about that justice I have no illusions. If it comes to a trial, which is not certain, the issue will depend entirely on the persons of the sworn judges.”
“Do you mean to say, Highness, that the judges of the secular arm may show themselves partial?”
“It depends on those that are chosen.”
“And who must choose them?”
“The King.”
“Your husband must have knowledge of something. In any case, the King alone can intervene. Oh, he isn’t easy to handle. He has been trained by Mazarin in Florentine diplomacy. One may see a smile on his face and even a tear in his eye, for he is soft-hearted . . . while he’s preparing the dagger that will execute a friend.”
Seeing Angelique go white, her protectress put an arm around her shoulder and said playfully:
“I am joking, as usual. You mustn’t take me seriously. Nobody does any more. So I’ll come to the point: do you want to see the King?”
And as Angelique, succumbing to the strain of this perpetual alternation of good and bad news, threw herself at the feet of the Grande Made¬moiselle, they both dissolved in tears. Thereupon Mademoiselle de Montpensier informed her that the formidable appointment had already been fixed and that the King would receive Madame de Peyrac in two hours’ time. ■
Far from being shattered by this news, Angelique felt imbued with utter calm. So this very day would be decisive.
There was no time to return to the Saint-Landry district, so she asked Mademoiselle to allow her to make use of the latter’s powders and cos¬metics in order to make herself presentable. Seated in front of the glass of the dressing-table, Angelique wondered whether she was still beautiful enough to influence the King in her favour. Her waist had grown bigger, but her face, which used to be childishly rounded, had grown thinner. There were dark rings round her eyes and her complexion was pale. After a stem scrutiny, she told herself that the oval curve of her face and the mauve shadows that enlarged her eyes were not unbecoming. They gave her a pathetic, touching expression which did not lack charm.
She made up very lightly, stuck a black velvet patch near her temple and let the chambermaid dress her hair. A little later, as she looked at herself in the mirror and saw her green eyes gleaming like a cat’s in the night, she murmured:
“It’s not me any more! But it’s a beautiful woman, all the same. Oh! the King can’t remain insensitive! But, alas, I am not humble enough for him. Dear God, let me be humble!”