The Duke's Motto: A Melodrama Read online

  XIX

  THE HALL OF THE THREE LOUIS

  One of the handsomest rooms in the Palace of Gonzague, as the Palace ofNevers was now called, was known as the Hall of the Three Louis. It wasso called on account of the three life-sized portraits which itcontained. The first was the portrait of the late duke, Louis de Nevers,in all the pride of that youth and joyousness which was so tragicallyextinguished in the moat of Caylus. His fair hair fell about hisdelicate, eager face; his left hand rested upon the hilt of the sword heknew how to use so well; his right hand, perhaps in the pathos, perhapsin the irony of the painter's intention, was pressed against his heart,for Louis de Nevers had been a famous lover in his little day, but neverso true a lover as when he wooed and won the daughter of the hostilehouse of Caylus. A heavy curtain by the side of the picture masked analcove sacred to the memory of Nevers.

  Facing the portrait of the dead duke was the portrait of his successor,of the present master of the house. Louis de Gonzague, in all otherthings a contrast to Louis de Nevers, contrasted with him mostflagrantly in appearance. Against the fair, boyish face of Nevers you hadto set the saturnine Italianate countenance of Gonzague. The brilliancyof Louis de Nevers was all external, bright as summer is bright, gay assummer is gay, cheerful as summer is cheerful. The brilliancy of Louis deGonzague showed more sombrely, as melting gold flows in a crucible. Noone who saw the picture could fail to deny its physical beauty, but manywould deny it the instant, the appealing charm which caught at the heartof the spectator with the first glance he gave to the canvas thatportrayed Louis de Nevers. In contrast, too, were the very garments ofthe two men, for the dead duke affected light, airy, radiantcolors--clear blues, and clear pale-yellows, and delicate reds withsubtle emphasis of gold and silver; but the splendor of Gonzague'sapparel was sombre, like his beauty, with black for its dominant note,and only deep wine-colored crimsons or fierce ambers to lighten itssolemnity.

  The third picture, which was placed between Louis de Nevers and Louis deGonzague, was the portrait of Louis, not as he now looked, being King ofFrance in reality, but as he looked some seventeen years earlier, whenthe cardinal was beginning his career, and when the peevishness of youthhad not soured into the yellow melancholy of the monarch of middle age.

  It was in this room, consecrated to the memory of his dead friend, to thehonor of his living friend, and to the glory of his own existence, thatLouis de Gonzague loved to work. It was a proof of his well-balancedphilosophy that he found nothing to trouble him in the juxtaposition ofthe three pictures. The great double doors at one end of the room servedto shut off a hall devoted for the most part to the private suppers whichit was Louis de Gonzague's delight to give to chosen friends of bothsexes, and when, as often happened, supper ended, and a choice company ofhalf-drunken women and wholly drunken men reeled through the open doorsinto the room where the three Louis reigned, Gonzague, who himself keptalways sober, was no more than cynically amused by the contrast betweenthe noisy and careless crew who had invaded the chamber and the sinistergravity with which the portraits of the three Louis regarded oneanother.

  The king himself, who sometimes since his freedom surreptitiously madeone at these merry gatherings, where a princely fortune and a more thanprincely taste directed all that appealed to all appetites--the kinghimself, coming flushed from one of these famous suppers into the suddencoolness and quiet of the great room, would appear to be more impressedthan his host at the sudden sight of the three canvases. Then, in a voiceperhaps slightly unsteady, but still carrying in its flood the utteranceof a steady purpose, Louis of France would catch Louis de Gonzague by thewrist, and, pointing to the bright, smiling image of Louis de Nevers,would repeat for the twentieth, the fiftieth, the hundredth time hisoath of vengeance against the assassin of his friend if ever thatassassin should come into his power. And hearing this oath for thetwentieth, the fiftieth, the hundredth time, Louis de Gonzague wouldalways smile his astute smile and incline his head gravely in sign ofsympathy with the king's feelings, and allow his fine eyes to be dimmedfor an instant with a suggestion of tears.

  The room was an interesting room to any one curious as to the concerns ofthe Prince de Gonzague for other reasons than the presence of the threepictures, for to any one who knew anything about the arrangements of thepalace this room represented, as it were, a kind of debatable landbetween the kingdom of Gonzague on the one side and the kingdom of Neverson the other. A door on the left communicated with the private apartmentsof Louis de Gonzague. Cross the great room to the right, and you came toa door communicating with the private apartments of Madame the Princessde Gonzague. The Prince de Gonzague never passed the threshold of thedoor that led to the princess's apartments. The Princess de Gonzaguenever passed the threshold of the door that led to the prince'sapartments. Ever since their strange marriage the man and the woman hadlived thus apart; the man, on his part, always courteous, alwaysdeferential, always tender, always ready to be respectfully affectionate,and the woman, on her part, icily reserved, wrapped around in theblackness of her widowhood, inexorably deaf to all wooing, immovablyresolute to be alone.

  What rumor said was, for once, quite true. The young Duchess de Nevers,on the night of her marriage to Prince Louis de Gonzague, had warned himthat if he attempted to approach her with the solicitations of a husbandshe would take her life, and Louis de Gonzague, who, being an Italian,was ardent, but who, being an Italian, was also very intelligent, sawthat the young wife-widow meant what she said and would keep her word,and desisted discreetly from any attempt to play the husband. After all,he had his consolations: he controlled the vast estates of his deadfriend and kinsman, and though he felt for the lady he had married acertain animal attraction, which easily cooled as the years went on, hispassion for the wealth of Nevers was more pronounced than his passion forthe wife of Nevers, and he contented himself easily enough with the partassigned to him by his wife in the tragi-comedy. Every day he requested,very courteously, through Monsieur Peyrolles, permission to wait upon theprincess, and every day the princess, also through a servant, expressedher regret that the state of her health would not allow her the pleasureof receiving his highness. So it had been through the years since Louisde Nevers was done to death in the moat of Caylus.

  On the day after the fair at Neuilly, Louis de Gonzague was seated in theroom of the Three Louis busily writing at a table. By his side stoodPeyrolles, his gorgeous attire somewhat unpleasantly accentuating thepatent obsequiousness with which he waited upon his master's will. For awhile Gonzague's busy pen formed flowing Italian characters upon the pagebefore him. Presently he came to an end, reread his letter, shook overthe final writings some silver sand, then folded it and sealed itleisurely. When he had done he spoke to Peyrolles:

  "This letter is to go to his majesty. Send Dona Flora here. Stay! Who isin the antechamber?"

  Peyrolles answered with a bow: "The Chevalier Cocardasse and theChevalier Passepoil, monseigneur."

  Gonzague made a faint grimace. "Let them wait there."

  Peyrolles inclined profoundly. "Yes, monseigneur," he said, and waited.The long knowledge of his master's manner, the long study of theexpression on his master's face, told him he had not done with him, andhe was right, for in a moment Gonzague spoke to him again:

  "This gypsy girl will serve the turn to perfection. She is dark, asGabrielle de Caylus was dark. She is beautiful, not so beautiful asGabrielle de Caylus indeed, but, bah! filia pulchra, matre pulchrior.Before the king to-day I will produce her. The princess cannot but accepther. If afterwards a charming young girl should die of a decline--manydie so--the fortune of Louis de Nevers becomes the fortune of Louis deGonzague, who will know very well what to do with it, having theinestimable advantage of being alive."

  Peyrolles indulged in the privilege of a faint little laugh at thiswitticism of his master, but apparently the applause did not pleaseGonzague, who gave him a gesture of dismissal. "Send the girl to me atonce," he said; and with a still more humble salute Peyrolles quitted th
eapartment. When Gonzague was alone he sat for a few minutes staringbefore him like one who dreams waking. Then he turned and glanced at thepicture of Louis de Nevers, and an ironical smile wrinkled, more thantime had ever done, his handsome face. Evidently the contemplation of thepicture seemed to afford him a great deal of satisfaction, for he wasstill looking at it, and still wearing the same amused smile, when thedoor behind him opened and Flora came timidly into the room. She was notin appearance the same Flora who had dwelt in the caravan and danced forstrangers on the previous day. She was now richly and beautifully dressedas a great lady should be, but she seemed more awkward in her splendidgarments than she had ever seemed in the short skirts of the gypsy.Gonzague, whose every sense was acute, heard her come in, though shestepped very softly, and abandoned his contemplation of the picture ofLouis de Nevers. He turned round and rose to his feet, and made her oneof his exquisite salutations. The girl drew back with a little gasp andpressed her hands to her bosom.

  Gonzague smiled paternally. "Are you afraid of me?"

  The girl shook her head dubiously, and there was suspicion in her darkeyes as she asked: "What do you want of me?"

  Gonzague smiled more paternally than before. "I want you to love me," hesaid; and then, seeing that the gypsy lifted her brows, he continued,leisurely: "Do not misunderstand me. Women still are sometimes pleased tosmile on me. I do not want such smiles from you, child. There is anotherfate for you. Are you content with your new life?"

  Flora answered him with a weary tone in her voice and a weary look on herpretty face. "You have given me fine clothes and fine jewels. I ought tobe content. But I miss my comrades and my wandering life."

  Gonzague was still paternal as he explained: "You must forget yourwandering life. Henceforward you are a great lady. Your father was aduke."

  Flora gave a little gasp, and questioned: "Is my father dead?"

  Gonzague allowed his chin to fall upon his breast and an expression ofdeep gloom to overshadow his face. "Yes," he said, and his voice was as arequiem to buried friendship.

  Flora's heart was touched by this display of friendship. "And my mother?"she asked.

  Gonzague's face lightened. "Your mother lives."

  Flora questioned again, this time very timorously: "Will she love me?"

  Gonzague seemed to look at the girl sympathetically, but really looked ather critically. He found her so pleasing to his eye that he almostregretted that she had been chosen for the part she had to play, but alsohe found her on the whole so suited to that part that he felt bound tostifle his regret. "Surely," he said, and smiled kindly upon her.

  Flora gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "I have always dreamed that Ishould be a great lady. And dreams come true, you know--the dreams thatgypsies dream."

  Gonzague raised his hand to check her speech. "Forget the gypsies. Forgetthat the gypsies called you Flora. Your name is Gabrielle."

  Flora gave a start of surprise. "Gabrielle!" she said. "How strange! Thatis the name of my dearest friend."

  It was Gonzague's turn to be surprised, but he never was known to betrayan emotion. It was with an air of complete indifference that he asked:"Who is she?"

  And Flora answered, simply: "A girl I knew and loved when we were livingin Spain."

  Gonzague knew that he was agitated; and that he had every reason to beagitated, but he knew also that no one beholding him would know of hisagitation. "What became of her?" he asked, still with the same apparentindifference.

  And Flora answered as readily as before: "We travelled to Francetogether."

  "Travelled to France together!" echoed Gonzague.

  Perhaps, in spite of himself, some hint of keenness was betrayed in thevoice he was so studious to keep indifferent, for this time Flora gavequestion for question, suspiciously: "Why does all this interest you?"

  Gonzague's voice was perfectly indifferent when he replied: "Everythingthat concerns you interests me. Tell me; was this other Gabrielle aSpaniard like you?"

  Flora shook her head. "Oh no. She was French."

  "Was she, too, an orphan?" Gonzague asked.

  "Yes," said Flora; "but she had a guardian who loved her like a father."

  The gypsy girl could not guess what raging passions were masked by thechangeless serenity of Gonzague's face. "Who was that?" he asked, as hemight have asked the name of some dog or some cat.

  And he got the answer he expected from the girl: "A young Frenchsoldier."

  Perhaps, again, Gonzague's voice was keener with his next question:"Whose name was--"

  In this case Flora, suddenly recalling her conversation with Gabrielle onthe previous day, became as suddenly cautious. "I have forgotten hisname," she said, and looked as if nothing could rekindle her memory.

  Gonzague affected to be busy with some of the papers that lay before him,and then, at a venture, and as if with no particular purpose in histhoughts, he said: "I wish I could get this Gabrielle to be yourcompanion, child."

  Flora clapped her hands, and forgot her caution in her joy at theprospect. "Well, that might be done. I will tell you a secret. Gabrielleand her guardian are in Paris."

  Underneath the table, and hidden from the girl's sight, Gonzague's handsclinched tightly, as if they were clinching upon the throat of an enemy;but his face was still quite tranquil as he said, carelessly: "Where arethey?"

  Flora's voice was full of regret. "Ah! I do not know; but they were atthe fair where we were playing, and I know that they are coming toParis."

  Gonzague rose to his feet and took both the girl's hands affectionatelyin his. His eyes looked affectionately into hers, and his voice was fullof kindness. "If your friend can be found, be sure that I will find herfor you. And now go. I will send for you when the time comes for themeeting with your mother."

  Flora clasped her hands nervously. "My mother! Oh, what shall I say toher?" she cried.

  Gonzague's smile soothed her fears. "Hide nothing from her, for I am sureyou have nothing to hide. Speak the loving words that a mother would liketo hear."

  With a grateful look at her newly found protector, Flora darted from theroom, and Gonzague was left alone.