Chapter X: At the House of M. Le Marquis De Pomponne

Hyacinthe St. Croix, awaiting the pleasure of his employer, was agreeably diverted by the view he had of an inner room furnished in white and gold and occupied by two ladies.

The house of M. de Pomponne was situated in the outskirts of the Hague, and transformed into as much resemblance to a French château as taste and money could accomplish.

The chamber in which St. Croix found himself was hung with fine Flemish tapestry, representing the legend of St. Ursula, and divided from the other apartment by carved doors that stood open, revealing an elegant room furnished in Spanish leather and tulip wood, and lit by the soft radiance of a crystal lamp.

Seated by the bright fire was a dark-haired lady in a brown velvet gown, engaged in making lace. St. Croix knew her for the Marquise de Pomponne; the interest of his gaze was all for her companion.

She sat by the tapestry-covered window, a Chinese table before her, on which stood a chess-board set with scarlet and ivory pieces.

Her profile, face and figure were towards St. Croix. She seemed absorbed in some problem that she had set herself, for she did not raise her eyes from the chess-board, and her only movement came when she lifted her slender hand to change one of the white or red men.

Her delicate features, the knot of her golden hair, the slender lines of her figure in its tight blue gown were shown up distinctly by the dark background.

St. Croix, under cover of the space between them, stared at her boldly.

She was known to him by reputation, and he had seen her once before riding with de Pomponne on the Voorhout.

Glad was he of the chance to scrutinise her curiously at his ease, for she had a name powerful at Versailles. She was a woman he might be glad to have a word from, but he was well aware that her profession was nevertheless the same as his own, and that if she were more successful it was largely because she was less scrupulous.

He had heard her history, more than once, for it made a piquant story,--one not in the least to her credit, and containing incidents that it had needed a clever woman to get the better of, even at the Court of France.

He wondered what use de Pomponne could have for this lady at the Hague. The United Provinces seemed a field where her talents could find but little scope.

The entrance of M. de Pomponne disturbed both his reflections and his study of the slender lady with the chessmen.

The Marquis was not in the best of humours. He nodded to his visitor and flung himself into a chair, biting his glove.

His first remark was to complain that the candles were in need of snuffing. A servant was summoned and this remedied, then he deigned to look at St. Croix.

“This tool of yours, this Van Mander, has turned out very ill.”

St. Croix flushed.

“There has been no harm, Monsieur,” he said, secretly nettled.

“I am not so sure--first he returns you my letter to the Prince----”

St. Croix was surprised.

“You said, Monseigneur, that His Highness had explained he must avoid even the appearance of an intrigue.”

“Well, well,” the Marquis brought his hand down impatiently on the table,--“now I hear he has entered the Prince’s service.”

“But he is not to remain at the Hague,” replied St. Croix eagerly. “No, Monseigneur, that could not be under the very eyes of M. de Witt--he is to be sent to Brandenburg to join M. Bentinck at the Elector’s court.”

“Who told you so?”

“The man himself, Monsieur.”

“Then he is still in communication with you?”

“I see him occasionally.”

“But he is of no use to us?”

St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.

“I cannot tell.”

“It is your business to find out,” answered de Pomponne arrogantly.

“Only I ask you, Monseigneur, what can one do with these Hollanders? I have had this man in play for years, but----” he shrugged his shoulders.

“He is too much for you--which is a pity, for if you could have managed him he would have been very useful.”

“He was inclined to deal with us once, certainly; now, however----”

“Well, what has happened to him now?” demanded the Marquis sharply.

“He appears to be infatuated with the Prince of Orange.”

M. de Pomponne considered a moment.

“The Prince is friendly with us,” he said at length, narrowing his fine dark eyes.

“Many of his followers do not know _how_ friendly, Monseigneur.”

The Marquis smiled.

“Mon Dieu, that is what I would like to know myself,” he said,--“_how_ friendly.”

“A matter you cannot discover, Monseigneur, I cannot hope to.”

M. de Pomponne leant on the table, the candlelight full on his handsome, florid face, his glittering, splendid clothes.

“It must be discovered,” he said, and took his chin in his hand thoughtfully.

St. Croix glanced past him, through the open door, at the distant lady in blue.

“His Highness hath not shown himself unfriendly.”

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.

“He is politic, extraordinarily prudent for his age. I saw him the other day. He was courteous, protested his duty to His Majesty; still, he refuses our help?”

“He fears to compromise himself in the eyes of M. de Witt,” said Hyacinthe St. Croix instantly.

“You have gained nothing from this Van Mander as to the Prince’s actual thoughts?”

“No, he is no way in his intimacy; the Prince has hardly spoken to him.”

“What we need is to gain some one in his confidence.”

“I fear it is impossible, Monseigneur,” answered St. Croix. “I believe his best friends are M. Triglandt, a fanatical Calvinist----”

“His former tutor.”

“--whom it would be folly to approach----”

“Naturally--and the other?”

“M. Bentinck, at Brandenburg.”

“It would be no use meddling with him----”

“There is the Princess.”

“She knows no more than I, neither does M. Zuylestein.” The Marquis frowned thoughtfully. “I am baffled at every turn; I have nothing to send to His Majesty, nothing, and I know not how to act. Before I help place the Orange party in power I must be assured that they will serve me when they have arrived at it.”

“The Prince could never stand alone, and where else should he find support?” returned St. Croix.

“I do not know--but he plays a deep game, this last move shows it.”

“Some say he has but damaged himself, since he provoked such severity from M. de Witt.”

“That very severity works to his ends since it further estranges the people from M. de Witt,” answered the Marquis. “We may look out for a revolution, it is very plain.… That is not the point. The question is, what will this youth do when he obtains the power?”

St Croix lowered his voice--

“If any can discover, you have one in this house----”

The Marquis glanced at him.

“You mean Madame Lavalette?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“She is leaving for Spain in another week.” M. de Pomponne tapped his fine fingers on the table. “Besides--Mon Dieu, one has no chance.”

“There is the ball at the Binnenhof, on Friday, Monsieur.”

“It is not known if the Prince goes.”

“Van Mander told me--yes.”

“I wonder why?--I think he does nothing without a reason.”

“To show himself--to speak to the Deputies.”

The Marquis looked over his shoulder at the impassive figure of Madame Lavalette over her chess problem.

“He is a boy, Monsieur; in some things utterly untried.”

“I confess it had occurred to me--but,” de Pomponne shrugged his shoulders, “these Hollanders!--and the Prince is secretive--even for a Hollander.”

“Still, Monsieur, you can try.”

“You mean Madame Lavalette can try,” answered the Marquis.

“It would be my advice, Monseigneur.”

“Take most men--she would get more in five minutes than I in a fortnight,” de Pomponne admitted; “but whether this little Calvinist----”

“He is seventeen, Monsieur--it is not possible he should possess the wisdom of thrice his age.”

“Well, we will put him to the test;” the Marquis gave his indolent smile and pushed back his chair.

Hyacinthe St. Croix rose.

“I will send you a ticket for the ball,” said the Marquis. “You had better be there.”

“Thank you, Monseigneur.”

St. Croix bowed till his yellow, frizzled hair fell over his face.

De Pomponne gave him a nod and a wave of a plump hand, which careless dismissal was all that he deigned.

When St. Croix had gone he leant forward and looked into the inner room.

His wife had left it, Madame Lavalette sat alone, fingering the red and white pieces. The Marquis de Pomponne rose and walked slowly over to her.

She turned on him large, deep blue and languishing eyes.

“I have just solved my problem,” she said in a low and pretty voice.

“And I, Madame, want you to help me solve mine.”

“Ah?” She sank back in her stiff chair, and taking up the red king turned him about in her fingers.

The Marquis leant carelessly against the carved window frame.

“You overheard, perhaps, what I was saying to Monsieur St. Croix?”

“No, Monsieur.”

She glanced up. Her fair and shining hair was waved simply round her oval face and caught on her neck with a pearl comb; a few long ringlets fell on to her deep lace collar. Her face had a soft, almost plaintive expression, her mouth was small and wistful.

“Well,” said the Marquis, “I will desire you to attend the ball at the Binnenhof.”

“Monsieur,” she answered, “I have M. de Louvois’ commands to go to Spain.”

“But you may do me this service first, Madame la Duchesse.”

“What is the problem and the service, Monsieur?”

The Marquis, looking down at her indolently, frowned now discontentedly.

“The problem is the Prince of Orange, Madame--and the service----”

She interrupted with the slightest sparkle of malice in her tone--

“You call me in when you have failed--what would M. de Louvois say?”

M. de Pomponne answered in a vexed tone--

“I wish M. de Louvois was here doing my work and I at Versailles doing his, for, Mon Dieu! one might as well be sent on an embassy to the fishes as be asked to come into exile here where one’s health is ruined by damp, one’s temper by Leyden Logic--where the only amusement is the contemplation of Dutch virtue.”

“It is the virtue that is the difficulty,” smiled Madame Lavalette. “They are a quite impossible people--that is why, Monsieur, I am going to Spain--but you----?”

“I!” he answered impatiently. “It is like trying to negotiate with a lot of frogs, cold and stupid. When you have got through their formalities they start on their religion, and when they have finished with that they freeze into a silence----”

“That you want me to endeavour to break?”

“I should be your debtor for life, Madame.”

She raised her brows.

“But, my friend, what do you think I can do?”

The Marquis knew that she had already failed to obtain even an audience of M. de Witt, though she had come to the Hague with the object of persuading him to the concessions required by M. de Louvois with regard to the herring fisheries; her question was, therefore, pertinent enough.

“I am thinking of the Prince.”

Madame Lavalette showed some impatience.

“I am tired of the whole country, its psalm-singing burghers and its frogs--I wish to get away.”

“Madame, the ball is on Friday, it would not detain you--and the Prince is different from these others.”

“He does not interest me.”

“Have you seen him?”

She shook her fair head--

“He is kept too close.”

“Well, when you see him, and speak to him, you will be interested, Madame.”

She replaced the red king on the board.

“Why?”

“He is an enigma.”

Madame looked up. De Pomponne had piqued her curiosity and her vanity, as he intended.

“You think I can solve this enigma?”

The Marquis smiled.

“If any one can, Madame.”

“I wonder?” she mused languidly, then she rose with a soft sound of silks.

“What do you want me to do?”

“To draw from the Prince something of his designs, something of his feelings towards France. In a word, Madame, to discover that which I have failed to discern--what manner of stuff we have there. If he worked with us, he would, as His Majesty’s cousin, be of immense use; he could, without much difficulty, be placed at the head of the State----”

“Oh, I know the position quite well,” she interrupted. “Considering that you have talked nothing else since I have been at the Hague, I should have it by heart; but, Mon Dieu, whether I care to meddle is another matter.”

She crossed to the fireplace and rested the tip of her blue shoe on the brass curb.

“It will be very little trouble to you, Madame, and a vast service to me.”

The Duchess looked at him over her shoulder with a little laugh.

“My good de Pomponne, this country is unnerving you!”

The Marquis did not deny it.

“I always protested against the appointment, as you must remember, Madame.”

“But M. de Louvois was obdurate.”

“As he always is,” grumbled de Pomponne.

Madame Lavalette tapped her chin with the tips of her feather fan.

“The Prince hates women, I think,” she said, “and all manner of frivolities----”

“He is as austere as John de Witt … but a great deal younger.”

“And not so confirmed in severity?” She smiled and raised a face that was glowing a golden rose-colour in the radiance of the fire. “Maybe he hath lacked opportunity,” she added. “Had he even the nature of a rake he could hardly have shown it under M. de Witt’s guardianship.”

“Mon Dieu, no!”

The Duchess looked thoughtfully into the clear flames.

She was angry with M. de Witt for having refused her an opportunity to execute her mission. Did she succeed in drawing the Prince of Orange she might avenge herself on the severe Grand Pensionary, and not wholly fail towards M. de Louvois. She foresaw that let M. de Witt once see her even speaking to William, he would take care no other chance would be given for the continuance of her intrigues, for he knew both her character and her mission.

But Madame Lavalette decided she might be careless there, for she was leaving Holland. She could also rely on accomplishing much in a short time.

She was not generally unsuccessful.

The thought of a youthful and royal Scipio was not displeasing to her vanity; and to play Cleopatra to an Augustus of seventeen seemed to the Duchess both safe and amusing.

She turned her languishing eyes on de Pomponne’s handsome, indolent face.

“Get me a ticket for the ball at the Binnenhof, Monseigneur,” she said.