Chapter 44 Scaramouche The Kingmaker by Rafael Sabatini
ACCOUNT RENDERED
It may interest those who are concerned to analyse the sequel of events, the multiplication of circumstance, amoeba-like by fission, to speculate upon what might have been the end of this story of André-Louis Moreau, but for that mission upon which the Baron de Batz dispatched him, as a last service to the cause. Among his surviving papers there is no hint of what alternative he might have found.
Neither are there any details of the journey to Turin upon which he obediently set out. Remembering that the long line of French frontier from Belgium to the Mediterranean was an armed camp and that he would have to pass through it, the difficulties he encountered must have been considerable. We are also left to infer this from the fact that it was not until the early days of the following April that he rode into the capital of the Kingdom of Sardinia. He arrived there at just about the time that the triumphant Robespierrists, whose fate for a moment had lain in the hollow of his hand, were assuming the undisputed mastery of France. Danton's great head had rolled into the executioner's basket, and Robespierre, ably supported by his terrible acolytes, Saint-Just and Couthon, was establishing with these two an evil triumvirate whose power was absolute. The restoration of the monarchy had never seemed so distant.
Turin, which André-Louis had deemed his goal, was to prove but a halting-place upon the way. He learned there that the Comte de Provence, unable to find an abiding refuge at the court of his timid father-in-law, had, after many humiliating appeals, been accorded in Verona the hospitality of the Republic of Venice. This as a result of representations made on his behalf by Russia and Spain, who undertook presently to provide for him more permanently.
His highness had been received by the Most Serene Republic subject to certain rigorous conditions. He was to do nothing that should compromise the Republic's strict neutrality. The title of Regent which he had assumed would not there be recognized, nor must he look for any of the courtesies normally commanded by a person of royal blood.
To comply he had assumed the title of Comte de Lisle, and he was quietly installed in the summer residence of the patrician family of Gazzola, near the Capuchin Convent in the suburbs of Verona. It was a simple, unpretentious villa, clad in jessamine and clematis.
His little court was much the same as it had been at Hamm. It was composed by the Counts d'Avaray and d'Entragues; two secretaries, one of whom was the Comte de Plougastel; a surgeon, Monsieur Colon; and four servants. The remainder of those who followed him or sought him in his exile were lodged in the inns of the town. For the rest, his existence was as impecunious as it had been in Westphalia, and he was constrained to continue the practice of a frugality unwelcome to one who loved good cheer as much as he did.
To seek him in these surroundings André-Louis rode out from Turin again, and took the road through Piedmont and across the fertile plain of Lombardy where spring had spread already her luxuriant carpets. It was on an April day that he rode at last dusty and travel-worn into the lovely, ancient, brick-and-marble city of the Scaligers, and drew rein in the courtyard of the Due Toni in the Piazza dei Signori.
Here, scarcely had he set foot to the ground, whilst an ostler led away his horse, and the landlord stood to receive his commands, a lady dressed for walking, in a long claret cloak and a wide black hat, who issued from the inn, was brought to a staggering halt on the very threshold by the sight of him.
André-Louis found himself looking into the face of Madame de Plougastel, a white face in which the lips were parted, the eyes wide and the eyebrows raised, its whole expression blending astonishment and fear.
To him, too, there was, of course, surprise in the meeting. But it was slight and transient. Her presence here was very natural, and she was of those he must have sought before again departing.
He bared his head, and bowed low with a murmured: "Madame!"
Thereupon, after another instant's gaping pause, she brushed past the landlord and came to clutch the traveller by his two shoulders.
"André-Louis!" she cried, her note almost interrogative. "André-Louis! It is you. It is you."
There was a queer tenderness in her voice that moved him. He feared that she was about to weep. He schooled himself to reply in quiet, level tones.
"It is I, Madame. I take you by surprise, no doubt."
"No doubt? You take me by surprise. By surprise?" And now it seemed as if she wanted to laugh, or as if she balanced between laughter and tears. "Whence are you? Whence do you spring?" she asked him.
"Why, from France, of course."
"Of course? You say of course? You spring from the grave, and you say I come from France, of course."
But as now it was his turn to stare, she took him by the arm.
"Come you in," she said, and almost dragged him with her across the threshold, leaving the landlord to shrug his shoulders and to inform the waiting ostler in confidence that they were all mad, these French.
André-Louis was conducted along a gloomy, unevenly-paved passage, and ushered into an austere but fairly spacious sitting-room on the left of it. A rug was spread on the stone floor. The ceiling was rudely frescoed in a pattern of fruit and flowers. The sparse furniture was of dark walnut, roughly carved. The tall mullioned windows, about which green creepers rioted, looked out upon a garden splashed with sunshine.
He stood bemused in mid-apartment whilst for a moment again she surveyed him. Then, still bemused, she had taken him in her arms. She was kissing him fondly and fondly murmuring his name before he took alarm at her transports.
"Madame! Madame! In Heaven's name, collect yourself, madame."
"Can I help it, André-Louis? Can I help it? I have believed you dead, and mourned you these months, and now...and now..." She was weeping.
"You have believed me dead?" He stood suddenly stiff within the compass of those maternal arms. His quick mind, that ever moved by leaps, was racing over all that was implied in that assertion.
And then the door behind them opened. A harsh voice spoke.
"I have been waiting, madame, for..." The voice checked, and then exclaimed: "Name of God! What is this?"
They fell apart. André-Louis turned. On the threshold, the door wide behind him, stood Monsieur de Plougastel, his brows knit, his face darkening.
André-Louis stood confused, fearful for his mother. But she, helped perhaps by her excitement, by the singleness of her thought, displayed no awkwardness.
"But look who it is, Plougastel."
The Count craned his neck to stare. "Moreau!" he said. He too was faintly surprised. But in the main indifferent. This godson of Kercadiou's was nothing to him, and he had always thought his wife ridiculous in her attachment to this good-for-nothing, simply because she had known him as a child. "We thought you dead," he added, and closed the door.
"But he's alive! Alive!" exclaimed Madame in a quivering voice.
"So I perceive." Monsieur de Plougastel was dry. "God knows if he's to be envied."
André-Louis, now white and grim, desired to know how such a thing had been assumed, and heard, of course, that Langéac had borne the tale to Hamm of his having been killed in the attempt to rescue the Queen.
"But Langéac was followed by another messenger who carried the true story, and also a letter from me to Aline. I know that he arrived safely."
"The letter never did," Madame asserted.
"But that is impossible, madame. I know that the letter arrived. And it was not by any means the last. I sent several others, and some of the messengers I have since seen, and I have heard from them that those letters were delivered. What does it mean? Can Aline have wished to—"
Madame interrupted him. "Aline mourned you for dead. Aline never had any news of you directly or indirectly after the tale that Langéac brought of your death. Of that you can be sure. I can answer for what Aline believed as I can answer for what I believed, myself."
"But then? My letters?" he cried almost in exasperation.
"It is impossible that she should have received them. Impossible that she would not have told me. She knew my own..." she checked, remembering Plougastel's presence, choked down the word "anguish" and replaced it by "concern." Then she continued: "But apart from that, I know, André, I know that she remained in the conviction that you were dead."
He stood there clenching and unclenching his hands, his chin on his breast. There was something here he could not fathom. Links were missing from the chain he sought to complete.
Abruptly he asked of her and of the Comte de Plougastel, who remained coldly aloof, the question beating in his mind. "How was it possible that these letters were not delivered to her?" And swift on the heels of this came his next fierce question, addressed directly to the Count. "By whose contriving was it? Do you know, Monsieur de Plougastel?"
Plougastel raised his brows. "What do you mean? Do I know?"
"You were in attendance upon Monsieur. It may be within your knowledge. That these letters reached Hamm leaves no doubt. Langéac assured me of it so far as the one he carried for me was concerned. He told me that he left it with Monsieur d'Entragues, to be delivered. Monsieur d'Entragues?" Again it was Plougastel he questioned. "Ay, it lies between Monsieur d'Entragues and the Regent."
It was Madame de Plougastel who answered him.
"If those letters reached the hands of Monsieur d'Entragues, they must have been suppressed, André."
"It is the conclusion I had formed, madame," said André-Louis, whilst the Count stormed at his lady for an assertion which he described as monstrous.
"It is not the assertion that is monstrous, but the fact," she retorted. "For clearly it must be the fact."
Monsieur de Plougastel empurpled. "Madame, in all my life I have never known you practise discretion in your assumptions. But this transcends all bounds."
What further form his voluble protest took André-Louis did not wait to ascertain. He heard his storming voice, but did not heed his words. Abruptly he quitted the room, and went forth to demand his horse and directions touching the whereabouts of the Casa Gazzola.
He came to that modest villa in the outskirts, tethered his horse within the gateway and strode purposefully to the door within the creeper-clad porch. It stood open to the little hallway. He rapped with the butt of his riding-whip on the panel, and to the servant who came in answer to the summons announced himself a courier from Paris.
This made a stir. Only a moment was he kept waiting in the hall until d'Entragues, scrupulously dressed as ever, graceful and consequential as if they were at Versailles, came hurrying forth. At sight of André-Louis the Count checked, and the expression of the dark, handsome face with its deeply graven, rather sinister lines underwent a perceptible change.
"Moreau!" he exclaimed.
André-Louis bowed. He was very coldly self-possessed now, his face set and grim. "Your memory flatters me, Monsieur le Comte. You believed me dead, I think?"
D'Entragues missed the mockery in his tone. He stammered in the precipitance of his affirmative reply, in his expressions of satisfaction at this evidence that the rumours had been unfounded. Then dismissing all that in haste, he ended on the question: "Are you from Paris, do you say?"
"With extraordinary news."
To d'Entragues' excited demand for details André-Louis swore that he had not breath to tell his tale twice, and desired to be taken at once to the Regent.
He was ushered into the presence chamber, which, if of no better proportions, was at least more dignified than that of Hamm. The floor was marbled and the ceiling trivially frescoed with cupids and garlands, the work of some journeyman artist's hand. There was a carved press, a gilded coffer, some tall chairs in dark leather with faded gildings were ranged against the wall, and in the middle of the well-lighted room a table with corkscrew legs at which his highness sat at work. He appeared to have increased in bulk and weight, but his face had lost some of its high colour. He was neatly dressed, and his head was powdered. He wore the ribbon of the Holy Ghost and a small dress sword. At the table's farther end sat the Comte d'Avaray, pallid, fair and frail.
"Monsieur Moreau, with news from Paris, monseigneur," d'Entragues announced.
His highness laid down his pen and looked up. Liquid eyes that seemed full of pathos pondered the newcomer, noted the dust upon him and the erect carriage of his slender, vigorous figure.
"Moreau?" he echoed. "Moreau?" The name was awakening memories in the royal mind. They came with a rush, and at their coming the colour rose in the great face and then receded again. The voice strove to maintain its level tone. "Ah, Moreau! And from Paris, with news, you say?"
"With great news, monseigneur," André-Louis replied. "I am sent by the Baron de Batz to give your highness the full details of the underground campaign we have been conducting against the revolutionaries, and of the stages by which we possessed ourselves of the keys to ultimate success."
"Success?" the Regent echoed. He leaned forward eagerly. "Success, sir?"
"Your highness shall judge."
André-Louis was very cold and formal in his manner. He began with the fall of the Girondins, stressing the part which de Batz and he had played in this by their propaganda.
"They were the most dangerous of all the foes of monarchy," he explained, "because they were sane and moderate in their notions. If they had prevailed they would have set up an orderly republican government under which the people might have been content. Therefore their removal was a great forward step. It left the government entirely in the hands of incompetent men. Disruption and famine followed. Discontent arose and a disposition to violence which only required clear direction so as to be turned into the proper channels.
"This is what we set out to do: to expose for the venal scoundrels that they were the men whom the people trusted; and to show the connection between this rascality and the sufferings and privations which in the name of Liberty the people were undergoing."
Briefly he sketched the India Company scandal in which they had implicated Chabot, Bazire and the other prominent men of the Mountain party, momentarily bringing that party into disrepute and suspicion. He showed how again their active propaganda had intensified the feeling.
"It was a bad moment for the Robespierrists. They knew themselves sorely shaken in the public esteem. But they rallied. Saint-Just, the ablest of them all, the champion and guiding spirit of Robespierre, boldly grasped the nettle and preached a crusade of purification against all those who trafficked in their mandate, to which trafficking he assigned the public distress.
"For a moment confidence was restored. But it left the Robespierrists shaken, and another such blow at the right moment must lay them low."
He went on to mention the return of Danton, and to dwell upon Danton's moderate and rather reactionary spirit, aroused by the excesses of the Hébertistes and Robespierrists. He showed how confidently de Batz counted upon Danton to bring back the monarchy once the others were out of the way, and he went on to the measures taken for their elimination. Danton had begun by attacking Hébert and his gang, and he had destroyed them, aided at the last moment by Robespierre.
And then, at last, he came to the steps which he personally had taken so as to expose the venality, hypocrisy and secret tyranny of that popular idol Saint-Just, clearly convincing the Regent that the revolution would never survive Saint-Just's fall.
"I come back to Paris," he said, "with the completest proofs of Saint-Just's villainy and corruption." He detailed them, and went on, "Desmoulins is to expose him in the Vieux Cordelier as a beginning. Then another—and that other will be Danton himself—will follow up the publication by an attack in the Convention, an attack which is not to be met, an attack under which Saint-Just must inevitably go down, dragging Robespierre with him, and leaving the party discredited, despised, detested. Danton will remain at the head of a state faced by a people weary of revolution and finally disillusioned on the subject of revolutionists, finally persuaded that their faith has been abused."
He paused. They were silent, intent, moved by an excitement which had been visibly growing in a measure as the clear narrative proceeded. As he paused there was a movement almost of impatience from d'Avaray, whose pale eyes were fixed upon him. The Regent, no less intent, mumbled:
"Well, sir? Well?"
D'Entragues' keener wits had been a little puzzled by the tense André-Louis was employing. "Do you mean," he asked, "that this is the situation which is now established?"
"This is the situation we had established just before I left Paris. It was something to compensate for the fall of Toulon and the royalist defeat in the South, something worth a dozen royalist victories in the field, for it opens the door for the unopposed return of the monarchical party. Your highness perceives this?"
The Regent was trembling in his excitement.
"Of course I perceive it. It is astounding. I can scarcely believe in so much good fortune at last, after all that we have suffered."
"I am glad that you perceive the inevitability of the success to follow, monseigneur."
"By now it must have followed," cut in d'Avaray. "If this was the state of affairs you left in Paris, the rest must already have happened."
André-Louis stood looking at them with brooding eyes. The normal pallor of his face had deepened in the last moment or two; the ghost of an oddly-mocking smile had crept round the corners of his lips.
"Come, sir," cried the Regent breathlessly. "Have you any doubt of what Monsieur d'Avaray says? Surely no doubt is possible."
"No doubt would have been possible if the plan for which we had laboured had been executed. If the weapons of success of which I had obtained possession had been wielded."
D'Entragues took a step towards him. The Regent and d'Avaray leaned forward. From the three of them simultaneously came the awed question: "What do you mean?"
"I should not be troubling you with this report if the Baron de Batz had not desired me to lay it before you," said André-Louis by way of preface. Then he explained himself. "On my return from Blérancourt with those proofs which I had employed my wits and risked my head to obtain, I made the discovery that during all those months when I had been braving death in Paris in the service of the monarchical cause, the head of that cause had been taking advantage of my absence to seduce the lady whom he knew was promised to me in marriage. It is only now, since my arrival here this morning, that I have discovered the full extent of this betrayal. So as to remove the barriers which the lady's honour and loyalty must present to his ignoble aims, this disloyal prince did not scruple to have me represented as dead, and to suppress my letters to her, which would have proved me living. An incredible story, is it not, messieurs?"
In the momentary pause that he made, they were too dumbfounded to interpose a word. Dispassionately he continued.
"When I discovered this, I perceived that no good could come to any country under the rule of a prince so treacherous and base. Therefore I thrust into the fire those papers which by destroying the Robespierrists must have opened the gates for your highness's speedy return to France.
"That is all my report, messieurs," he concluded quietly. "I should not, I repeat, have troubled to journey here to make it, but that the Baron de Batz considered that your highness should have it. He perceives a moral in the tale, which he hopes—since he remains behind to continue to labour in your service—your highness will also perceive, and, perceiving it, perhaps study to become worthy of the high destiny to which you may yet be called."
"You dare?" said d'Avaray, leaping to his feet.
"Oh no. These words are not mine. They are the message from Monsieur de Batz. Myself, I nourish no such hope. If I had no illusions on the subject of the gratitude of princes, at least I had illusions on the subject of their honour when I set out at the risk of my life to become a kingmaker. But it has never been among my illusions that a man can run counter to his nature." He shrugged, and ceased at last, his dark eyes travelling from one to the other of them, the curve of his lips expressing his unutterable contempt.
The Prince sat back, white to his twitching mouth, his body limp. D'Avaray, with eyes flaming in a livid face, remained standing where he had risen. D'Entragues, the only one to preserve his colour, faced André-Louis at closer quarters and conned him with narrowing, wicked eyes.
"You scoundrel! Not only have you committed this atrocious crime, but you dare to come here and tell us of it to our face, so lost to respect of his highness that you can permit yourself to speak as you have done."
"Did you use the word 'respect', Monsieur d'Entragues?" He laughed into the dark countenance that was within a foot of his own. "It need not surprise you or him that my feeling is something very different. Let him be thankful that his royal blood places him beyond the reach of the satisfaction it is my right to claim."
The Regent rocked in his chair "This insolence! My God, this insolence! To what have I fallen?"
"To what, indeed!" said André-Louis.
But now, d'Avaray, quivering with anger for his master, came swiftly round the table. "It shall be punished, monseigneur. I claim to act for you where your rank forbids you to act for yourself." He confronted André-Louis. "That for your insolence, you poor rascal," he said, and swept his fingers across the young man's cheek.
André-Louis fell back, and bowed to him, even as the Regent struggled to his feet.
"No, no! D'Avaray! It shall not be. I forbid it, do you hear? I forbid it. Let him go. What do his words matter? You cannot meet a man so base, a nameless bastard. To the door with him. D'Entragues, Monsieur Moreau to the door."
"The door for me, certainly, Monsieur d'Entragues," said André-Louis, and turned on his heel.
D'Entragues, stepping swiftly ahead of him, flung wide the door, and stood haughtily aside to let him pass. On the threshold André-Louis paused and turned.
"I am lodged at the Two Towers, Monsieur d'Avaray. And I shall be there until to-morrow if you want me, or if you feel that this is a matter which you may pursue in honour."
But the Regent anticipated his favourite. "If you are still there to-morrow, by God I'll send my grooms to give you the thrashing you deserve."
André-Louis smiled his contempt. "You are consistent, monseigneur." And on that went out, leaving rage and shame behind him.