was to repair to her father's court at Turin. But because the King of Sardinia had already experienced the prodigality of his sons-in-law (for each of the sons of France had married a Princess of Savoy), he strictly delimited the suite that was to attend her Highness. Some ladies-in-waiting, however, she must have, and to Madame de Balbi and Madame de Gourbillon, she would have added Mademoiselle de Kercadiou but for certain activities on the part of Madame de Balbi, activities which—so badly do we sometimes blunder when we seek to shape our destinies—were to precipitate in the end the very situation which with such clear reckoning they were calculated to avert.
An Electoral carriage brought Madame de Balbi, in the pursuit of these activities, one afternoon to the door of the Three Crowns.
Now it happened that Monsieur de Kercadiou, complaining of the cold and damp and of a general weariness resulting from his condition, had put himself to bed, and André-Louis was sitting alone over a book when a footman, ushered by a waiting-maid, brought the startling announcement of Madame la Comtesse de Balbi's presence.
In bewildered conjecture André-Louis consented to act as his godfather's deputy, and desired that the Countess be brought up.
She came, throwing back her gossamer light cloak and wimple, and her presence and personality seemed to bring a radiance into that long, low-ceilinged room. Her crisp, melodious tones offered apologies for her intrusion, and regrets for the condition and absence of Monsieur de Kercadiou.
'But the matter is almost more personal to yourself than to your godfather, Monsieur Moreau.'
'I am honoured by your memory, madame,' said André-Louis, surprised to hear his name so glibly from her lips. He bowed as he spoke, and offered her the armchair by the stove which Monsieur de Kercadiou had lately vacated.
She laughed as she advanced to take it, a rich, musical laugh that reminded one of the note of a thrush.
'I suspect you guilty of modesty, Monsieur Moreau.'
'You account it a guilt, madame?'
'Of course, since it fetters expression.' She sat down, and arranged her skirts.
Anne de Caumont-La Force, unhappily married to that eccentric libertine, Count de Balbi, who had brutally ill-treated her before he went mad and fortunately died, might from her appearance have been of any age from twenty-five to thirty-five. In reality she was already forty. She was small and elegantly dainty. Not beautiful, in spite of a pair of superb eyes, alluring in their glances, but endowed with an irresistible witchery to which all her contemporaries bear witness.
The glance of those magnificent dark eyes seemed now to envelop André-Louis, to challenge him, almost to woo him.
'I had remarked you at Schönbornlust, monsieur, on the day of your arrival, and I remarked you, let me say frankly, with admiration for your superb aplomb. I know no quality that better becomes a gentleman.'
He would have answered her, but the sparkling, voluble lady gave him no time. She swept on. 'It is really on your account that I am here, and as a result of the interest you inspire in me. Ah, but reassure yourself, Monsieur Moreau, I am not one of those greedy women who must find their every interest reciprocated and desire in addition to arouse interest which they cannot reciprocate.'
'I should not crave reassurance, madame, from an amiable illusion.'
'You turn a phrase, Monsieur Moreau. But, indeed, it was to be expected in you. You have been an author, I am told.'
'I have been so many things, madame.'
'And now you are the greatest thing of all: a lover. Ah, believe one who knows. No man can aspire to more, for it brings him nearer heaven than is otherwise possible on earth.'
'Your lovers, madame, will have discovered that.'
'My lovers! Ah, that! You speak as if I measured them by the bushel.'
'It will ever rest with you, madame, how you measure them.'
'Oh, I cry you mercy! This is a duel in which I risk defeat.' She was as grave as her roguish eye and the tilt of her nose permitted. 'It is to the lover that I have come to speak. For this is even more his affair than it is an uncle's. Therefore, we may leave Monsieur de Kercadiou in peace. Besides, it is not very easy to say what I have come to say, and it may be less difficult to say it to you alone. You will prove as understanding as I hope you will prove discreet.'
'Discreet as a confessor, be sure of that, madame,' said André-Louis, inwardly a little impatient.
The Countess considered a moment, her perfect hands smoothing her petticoat of striped taffeta the while.
'When I shall have told you my errand, you will be in danger of supposing me just a jealous woman. I warn you against it. I have much for which to answer. But jealousy is a vulgarity which I leave to the vulgar.'
'It is inconceivable, madame, that you should ever have had occasion for it.'
She flashed him a smile. 'That may be the reason. Remember it when you come to judge me. I am to speak, sir, of the lady whom I am told you are to marry. Frankly, it is not on her own account that her fate concerns me, but because of the ... let us say regard ... which you, monsieur, inspire in me.'
André-Louis was stirred. 'Her fate, madame? Is she, then, in danger?'
She shrugged, thrust out a full, sensual nether lip, and showed two dimples in a smile. 'Some would not account it danger. It depends upon the point of view. In your eyes, Monsieur Moreau, she certainly cannot be accounted safe. Do you even suspect at whose desire she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Madame?'
'You will tell me that it was at Monsieur's,' he replied, frowning.
She shook her head. 'It was at the desire of Madame herself.'
He was suddenly at a loss. 'But in that case, madame ...' He broke off.
'In that case you imagine that there is no more to say. You do not think it may be necessary to discover Madame's object. You assume it naturally to be a sympathy for that very charming person, Mademoiselle de Kercadiou. That is because you do not know Madame. Mademoiselle de Kercadiou is singularly attractive. There is about her an air of sweetness, of freshness, of innocence that arouses tenderness even in women. What, then, must it do in men? So far, for instance, as Monsieur is concerned, I have seldom seen his highness in such a state of deliquescence.' There was something contemptuous in her smile, as if she found the susceptible side of Monsieur's nature entirely ridiculous. 'Disabuse your mind of the thought that jealousy makes me see what is not present. The Count of Provence might trail a seraglio at his heels without perturbing me.'
'But you bewilder me, madame. Am I to believe that because Monsieur ... discovered attractions in Mademoiselle de Kercadiou, that is a reason why Madame should appoint her to a position that will throw her in his way? Surely not that?'
'Just that, monsieur. Just that. Madame's nature is peculiar; it is warped, soured, malicious. For the satisfaction of contemplating injury to another, she will endure even injury to herself. It happens with such natures. I have the distinction of being detested by Madame. This is all the more bitter in her because she is constrained to suffer my attendance and to be civil to me. Now do you understand?'
André-Louis was visibly troubled. 'I seem to. And yet ...'
'Madame would give her eyes to see me supplanted in the regard, the affection, of Monsieur. Does that help you?'
'You mean that to achieve this object, although the exchange can nothing profit her, her Highness desires to use Mademoiselle de Kercadiou?'
'That is as concise as it is accurate.'
'It is also infamous.'
The Countess shrugged. 'I should not use so fine a word. It is just the petty malice of a stupid, parasitic woman who is without useful thoughts to engage her.'
'I perceive your good intentions, madame.' André-Louis was very formal. 'You desire to warn me. I am deeply grateful.'
'The warning, my