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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Queen’s Necklace, by Alexandre Dumas, père
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Queen’s Necklace
+
+Author: Alexandre Dumas, père
+
+Release Date: December 16, 2006 [eBook #20122]
+[Most recently updated: August 3, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Juergen Lohnert, Wilelmina Maillière, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE ***
+
+
+
+
+CAGLIOSTRO AND OLIVA Dumas,
+Vol. Eight
+
+ THE WORKS OF
+
+ALEXANDRE DUMAS
+
+
+IN THIRTY VOLUMES
+
+THE
+QUEEN’S NECKLACE
+
+ILLUSTRATED WITH DRAWINGS ON WOOD BY
+EMINENT FRENCH AND AMERICAN ARTISTS
+
+NEW YORK
+
+P. F. COLLIER AND SON
+
+MCMIV
+
+
+
+
+THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE.
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE.—THE PREDICTIONS.
+
+AN OLD NOBLEMAN AND AN OLD MAÎTRE-D’HÔTEL.
+
+
+It was the beginning of April, 1784, between twelve and one o’clock.
+Our old acquaintance, the Marshal de Richelieu, having with his own
+hands colored his eyebrows with a perfumed dye, pushed away the mirror
+which was held to him by his valet, the successor of his faithful Raffè
+and shaking his head in the manner peculiar to himself, “Ah!” said he,
+“now I look myself;” and rising from his seat with juvenile vivacity,
+he commenced shaking off the powder which had fallen from his wig over
+his blue velvet coat, then, after taking a turn or two up and down his
+room, called for his maître-d’hôtel.
+
+In five minutes this personage made his appearance, elaborately
+dressed.
+
+The marshal turned towards him, and with a gravity befitting the
+occasion, said, “Sir, I suppose you have prepared me a good dinner?”
+
+“Certainly, your grace.”
+
+“You have the list of my guests?”
+
+“I remember them perfectly, your grace; I have prepared a dinner for
+nine.”
+
+“There are two sorts of dinners, sir,” said the marshal.
+
+“True, your grace, but——”
+
+The marshal interrupted him with a slightly impatient movement,
+although still dignified.
+
+“Do you know, sir, that whenever I have heard the word ‘but,’ and I
+have heard it many times in the course of eighty-eight years, it has
+been each time, I am sorry to say, the harbinger of some folly.”
+
+“Your grace——”
+
+“In the first place, at what time do we dine?”
+
+“Your grace, the citizens dine at two, the bar at three, the nobility
+at four——”
+
+“And I, sir?”
+
+“Your grace will dine to-day at five.”
+
+“Oh, at five!”
+
+“Yes, your grace, like the king——”
+
+“And why like the king?”
+
+“Because, on the list of your guests, is the name of a king.”
+
+“Not so, sir, you mistake; all my guests to-day are simply noblemen.”
+
+“Your grace is surely jesting; the Count Haga,[A] who is among the
+guests——”
+
+“Well, sir!”
+
+“The Count Haga is a king.”
+
+“I know no king so called.”
+
+“Your grace must pardon me then,” said the maître-d’hôtel, bowing,
+“but, I believed, supposed——”
+
+“Your business, sir, is neither to believe nor suppose; your business
+is to read, without comment, the orders I give you. When I wish a thing
+to be known, I tell it; when I do not tell it, I wish it unknown.”
+
+The maître-d’hôtel bowed again, more respectfully, perhaps, than he
+would have done to a reigning monarch.
+
+“Therefore, sir,” continued the old marshal, “you will, as I have none
+but noblemen to dinner, let us dine at my usual hour, four o’clock.”
+
+At this order, the countenance of the maître-d’hôtel became clouded as
+if he had heard his sentence of death; he grew deadly pale; then,
+recovering himself, with the courage of despair he said, “In any event,
+your grace cannot dine before five o’clock.”
+
+“Why so, sir?” cried the marshal.
+
+“Because it is utterly impossible.”
+
+“Sir,” said the marshal, with a haughty air, “it is now, I believe,
+twenty years since you entered my service?”
+
+“Twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks.”
+
+“Well, sir, to these twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks, you will
+not add a day, nor an hour. You understand me, sir,” he continued,
+biting his thin lips and depressing his eyebrows; “this evening you
+seek a new master. I do not choose that the word impossible shall be
+pronounced in my house; I am too old now to begin to learn its
+meaning.”
+
+The maître-d’hôtel bowed a third time.
+
+“This evening,” said he, “I shall have taken leave of your grace, but,
+at least, up to the last moment, my duty shall have been performed as
+it should be;” and he made two steps towards the door.
+
+“What do you call as it should be?” cried the marshal. “Learn, sir,
+that to do it as it suits me is to do it as it should be. Now, I wish
+to dine at four, and it does not suit me, when I wish to dine at four,
+to be obliged to wait till five.”
+
+“Your grace,” replied the maître-d’hôtel, gravely, “I have served as
+butler to his highness the Prince de Soubise, and as steward to his
+eminence the Cardinal de Rohan. With the first, his majesty, the late
+King of France, dined once a year; with the second, the Emperor of
+Austria dined once a month. I know, therefore, how a sovereign should
+be treated. When he visited the Prince de Soubise, Louis XV. called
+himself in vain the Baron de Gonesse; at the house of M. de Rohan, the
+Emperor Joseph was announced as the Count de Packenstein; but he was
+none the less emperor. To-day, your grace also receives a guest, who
+vainly calls himself Count Haga—Count Haga is still King of Sweden. I
+shall leave your service this evening, but Count Haga will have been
+treated like a king.”
+
+“But that,” said the marshal, “is the very thing that I am tiring
+myself to death in forbidding; Count Haga wishes to preserve his
+incognito as strictly as possible. Well do I see through your absurd
+vanity; it is not the crown that you honor, but yourself that you wish
+to glorify; I repeat again, that I do not wish it imagined that I have
+a king here.”
+
+“What, then, does your grace take me for? It is not that I wish it
+known that there is a king here.”
+
+“Then in heaven’s name do not be obstinate, but let us have dinner at
+four.”
+
+“But at four o’clock, your grace, what I am expecting will not have
+arrived.”
+
+“What are you expecting? a fish, like M. Vatel?”
+
+“Does your grace wish that I should tell you?”
+
+“On my faith, I am curious.”
+
+“Then, your grace, I wait for a bottle of wine.”
+
+“A bottle of wine! Explain yourself, sir, the thing begins to interest
+me.”
+
+“Listen then, your grace; his majesty the King of Sweden—I beg pardon,
+the Count Haga I should have said—drinks nothing but tokay.”
+
+“Well, am I so poor as to have no tokay in my cellar? If so, I must
+dismiss my butler.”
+
+“Not so, your grace; on the contrary, you have about sixty bottles.”
+
+“Well, do you think Count Haga will drink sixty bottles with his
+dinner?”
+
+“No, your grace; but when Count Haga first visited France, when he was
+only prince royal, he dined with the late king, who had received twelve
+bottles of tokay from the Emperor of Austria. You are aware that the
+tokay of the finest vintages is reserved exclusively for the cellar of
+the emperor, and that kings themselves can only drink it when he
+pleases to send it to them.”
+
+“I know it.”
+
+“Then, your grace, of these twelve bottles of which the prince royal
+drank, only two remain. One is in the cellar of his majesty Louis
+XVI.——”
+
+“And the other?”
+
+“Ah, your grace!” said the maître-d’hôtel, with a triumphant smile, for
+he felt that, after the long battle he had been fighting, the moment of
+victory was at hand, “the other one was stolen.”
+
+“By whom, then?”
+
+“By one of my friends, the late king’s butler, who was under great
+obligations to me.”
+
+“Oh! and so he gave it to you.”
+
+“Certainly, your grace,” said the maître-d’hôtel with pride.
+
+“And what did you do with it?”
+
+“I placed it carefully in my master’s cellar.”
+
+“Your master! And who was your master at that time?”
+
+“His eminence the Cardinal de Rohan.”
+
+“Ah, mon Dieu! at Strasbourg?”
+
+“At Saverne.”
+
+“And you have sent to seek this bottle for me!” cried the old marshal.
+
+“For you, your grace,” replied the maître-d’hôtel, in a tone which
+plainly said, “ungrateful as you are.”
+
+The Duke de Richelieu seized the hand of the old servant and cried, “I
+beg pardon; you are the king of maîtres d’hôtel.”
+
+“And you would have dismissed me,” he replied, with an indescribable
+shrug of his shoulders.
+
+“Oh, I will pay you one hundred pistoles for this bottle of wine.”
+
+“And the expenses of its coming here will be another hundred; but you
+will grant that it is worth it.”
+
+“I will grant anything you please, and, to begin, from to-day I double
+your salary.”
+
+“I seek no reward, your grace; I have but done my duty.”
+
+“And when will your courier arrive?”
+
+“Your grace may judge if I have lost time: on what day did I have my
+orders for the dinner?”
+
+“Why, three days ago, I believe.”
+
+“It takes a courier, at his utmost speed, twenty-four hours to go, and
+the same to return.”
+
+“There still remain twenty-four hours,” said the marshal; “how have
+they been employed?”
+
+“Alas, your grace, they were lost. The idea only came to me the day
+after I received the list of your guests. Now calculate the time
+necessary for the negotiation, and you will perceive that in asking you
+to wait till five I am only doing what I am absolutely obliged to do.”
+
+“The bottle is not yet arrived, then?”
+
+“No, your grace.”
+
+“Ah, sir, if your colleague at Saverne be as devoted to the Prince de
+Rohan as you are to me, and should refuse the bottle, as you would do
+in his place——”
+
+“I? your grace——”
+
+“Yes; you would not, I suppose, have given away such a bottle, had it
+belonged to me?”
+
+“I beg your pardon, humbly, your grace; but had a friend, having a king
+to provide for, asked me for your best bottle of wine, he should have
+had it immediately.”
+
+“Oh!” said the marshal, with a grimace.
+
+“It is only by helping others that we can expect help in our own need,
+your grace.”
+
+“Well, then, I suppose we may calculate that it will be given, but
+there is still another risk—if the bottle should be broken?”
+
+“Oh! your grace, who would break a bottle of wine of that value?”
+
+“Well, I trust not; what time, then, do you expect your courier?”
+
+“At four o’clock precisely.”
+
+“Then why not dine at four?” replied the marshal.
+
+“Your grace, the wine must rest for an hour; and had it not been for an
+invention of my own, it would have required three days to recover
+itself.”
+
+Beaten at all points, the marshal gave way.
+
+“Besides,” continued the old servant, “be sure, your grace, that your
+guests will not arrive before half-past four.”
+
+“And why not?”
+
+“Consider, your grace: to begin with M. de Launay; he comes from the
+Bastile, and with the ice at present covering the streets of Paris——”
+
+“No; but he will leave after the prisoners’ dinner, at twelve o’clock.”
+
+“Pardon me, your grace, but the dinner hour at the Bastile has been
+changed since your grace was there; it is now one.”
+
+“Sir, you are learned on all points; pray go on.”
+
+“Madame Dubarry comes from the Luciennes, one continued descent, and in
+this frost.”
+
+“That would not prevent her being punctual, since she is no longer a
+duke’s favorite; she plays the queen only among barons; but let me tell
+you, sir, that I desire to have dinner early on account of M. de la
+Pérouse, who sets off to-night, and would not wish to be late.”
+
+“But, your grace, M. de la Pérouse is with the king, discussing
+geography and cosmography; he will not get away too early.”
+
+“It is possible.”
+
+“It is certain, your grace, and it will be the same with M. de Favras,
+who is with the Count de Provence, talking, no doubt, of the new play
+by the Canon de Beaumarchais.”
+
+“You mean the ‘Marriage of Figaro’?”
+
+“Yes, your grace.”
+
+“Why, you are quite literary also, it seems.”
+
+“In my leisure moments I read, your grace.”
+
+“We have, however, M. de Condorcet, who, being a geometrician, should
+at least be punctual.”
+
+“Yes; but he will be deep in some calculation, from which, when he
+rouses himself, it will probably be at least half an hour too late. As
+for the Count Cagliostro, as he is a stranger, and not well acquainted
+with the customs of Versailles, he will, in all probability, make us
+wait for him.”
+
+“Well,” said the marshal, “you have disposed of all my guests, except
+M. de Taverney, in a manner worthy of Homer, or of my poor Raffè.”
+
+The maître-d’hôtel bowed. “I have not,” said he, “named M. de Taverney,
+because, being an old friend, he will probably be punctual.”
+
+“Good; and where do we dine?”
+
+“In the great dining-room, your grace.”
+
+“But we shall freeze there.”
+
+“It has been warmed for three days, your grace; and I believe you will
+find it perfectly comfortable.”
+
+“Very well; but there is a clock striking! Why, it is half-past four!”
+cried the marshal.
+
+“Yes, your grace; and there is the courier entering the courtyard with
+my bottle of tokay.”
+
+“May I continue for another twenty years to be served in this manner!”
+said the marshal, turning again to his looking-glass, while the
+maître-d’hôtel ran down-stairs.
+
+“Twenty years!” said a laughing voice, interrupting the marshal in his
+survey of himself; “twenty years, my dear duke! I wish them you; but
+then I shall be sixty—I shall be very old.”
+
+“You, countess!” cried the marshal, “you are my first arrival, and, mon
+Dieu! you look as young and charming as ever.”
+
+“Duke, I am frozen.”
+
+“Come into the boudoir, then.”
+
+“Oh! tête-à-tête, marshal?”
+
+“Not so,” replied a somewhat broken voice.
+
+“Ah! Taverney!” said the marshal; and then whispering to the countess,
+“Plague take him for disturbing us!”
+
+Madame Dubarry laughed, and they all entered the adjoining room.
+
+[A] The name of Count Haga was well known as one assumed by the King of
+Sweden when traveling in France.
+
+
+II.—M. DE LA PEROUSE.
+
+At the same moment, the noise of carriages in the street warned the
+marshal that his guests were arriving; and soon after, thanks to the
+punctuality of his maître-d’hôtel, nine persons were seated round the
+oval table in the dining-room. Nine lackeys, silent as shadows, quick
+without bustle, and attentive without importunity, glided over the
+carpet, and passed among the guests, without ever touching their
+chairs, which were surrounded with furs, which were wrapped round the
+legs of the sitters. These furs, with the heat from the stoves, and the
+odors from the wine and the dinner, diffused a degree of comfort, which
+manifested itself in the gaiety of the guests, who had just finished
+their soup.
+
+No sound was heard from without, and none within, save that made by the
+guests themselves; for the plates were changed, and the dishes moved
+round, with the most perfect quiet. Nor from the maître d’hôtel could a
+whisper be heard; he seemed to give his orders with his eyes.
+
+The guests, therefore, began to feel as though they were alone. It
+seemed to them that servants so silent must also be deaf.
+
+M. de Richelieu was the first who broke the silence, by saying to the
+guest on his right hand, “But, count, you drink nothing.”
+
+This was addressed to a man about thirty-eight years of age, short,
+fair-haired, and with high shoulders; his eye a clear blue, now bright,
+but oftener with a pensive expression, and with nobility stamped
+unmistakably on his open and manly forehead.
+
+“I only drink water, marshal,” he replied.
+
+“Excepting with Louis XV.,” returned the marshal; “I had the honor of
+dining at his table with you, and you deigned that day to drink wine.”
+
+“Ah! you recall a pleasing remembrance, marshal; that was in 1771. It
+was tokay, from the imperial cellar.”
+
+“It was like that with which my maître-d’hôtel will now have the honor
+to fill your glass,” replied Richelieu, bowing.
+
+Count Haga raised his glass, and looked through it. The wine sparkled
+in the light like liquid rubies. “It is true,” said he; “marshal, I
+thank you.”
+
+These words were uttered in a manner so noble, that the guests, as if
+by a common impulse, rose, and cried,—
+
+“Long live the king!”
+
+“Yes,” said Count Haga, “long live his majesty the King of France. What
+say you, M. de la Pérouse?”
+
+“My lord,” replied the captain, with that tone, at once flattering and
+respectful, common to those accustomed to address crowned heads, “I
+have just left the king, and his majesty has shown me so much kindness,
+that no one will more willingly cry ‘Long live the king’ than I. Only,
+as in another hour I must leave you to join the two ships which his
+majesty has put at my disposal, once out of this house, I shall take
+the liberty of saying, ‘Long life to another king, whom I should be
+proud to serve, had I not already so good a master.’”
+
+“This health that you propose,” said Madame Dubarry, who sat on the
+marshal’s left hand, “we are all ready to drink, but the oldest of us
+should take the lead.”
+
+“Is it you, that that concerns, or me, Taverney?” said the marshal,
+laughing.
+
+“I do not believe,” said another on the opposite side, “that M. de
+Richelieu is the senior of our party.”
+
+“Then it is you, Taverney,” said the duke.
+
+“No, I am eight years younger than you! I was born in 1704,” returned
+he.
+
+“How rude,” said the marshal, “to expose my eighty-eight years.”
+
+“Impossible, duke! that you are eighty-eight,” said M. de Condorcet.
+
+“It is, however, but too true; it is a calculation easy to make, and
+therefore unworthy of an algebraist like you, marquis. I am of the last
+century—the great century, as we call it. My date is 1696.”
+
+“Impossible!” cried De Launay.
+
+“Oh, if your father were here, he would not say impossible, he, who,
+when governor of the Bastile, had me for a lodger in 1714.”
+
+“The senior in age, here, however,” said M. de Favras, “is the wine
+Count Haga is now drinking.”
+
+“You are right, M. de Favras; this wine is a hundred and twenty years
+old; to the wine, then, belongs the honor——”
+
+“One moment, gentlemen,” said Cagliostro, raising his eyes, beaming
+with intelligence and vivacity; “I claim the precedence.”
+
+“You claim precedence over the tokay!” exclaimed all the guests in
+chorus.
+
+“Assuredly,” returned Cagliostro, calmly; “since it was I who bottled
+it.”
+
+“You?”
+
+“Yes, I; on the day of the victory won by Montecucully over the Turks
+in 1664.”
+
+A burst of laughter followed these words, which Cagliostro had
+pronounced with perfect gravity.
+
+“By this calculation, you would be something like one hundred and
+thirty years old,” said Madame Dubarry; “for you must have been at
+least ten years old when you bottled the wine.”
+
+“I was more than ten when I performed that operation, madame, as on the
+following day I had the honor of being deputed by his majesty the
+Emperor of Austria to congratulate Montecucully, who by the victory of
+St. Gothard had avenged the day at Especk, in Sclavonia, in which the
+infidels treated the imperialists so roughly, who were my friends and
+companions in arms in 1536.”
+
+“Oh,” said Count Haga, as coldly as Cagliostro himself, “you must have
+been at least ten years old, when you were at that memorable battle.”
+
+“A terrible defeat, count,” returned Cagliostro.
+
+“Less terrible than Cressy, however,” said Condorcet, smiling.
+
+“True, sir, for at the battle of Cressy, it was not only an army, but
+all France, that was beaten; but then this defeat was scarcely a fair
+victory to the English; for King Edward had cannon, a circumstance of
+which Philip de Valois was ignorant, or rather, which he would not
+believe, although I warned him that I had with my own eyes seen four
+pieces of artillery which Edward had bought from the Venetians.”
+
+“Ah,” said Madame Dubarry; “you knew Philip de Valois?”
+
+“Madame, I had the honor to be one of the five lords who escorted him
+off the field of battle; I came to France with the poor old King of
+Bohemia, who was blind, and who threw away his life when he heard that
+the battle was lost.”
+
+“Ah, sir,” said M. de la Pérouse, “how much I regret, that instead of
+the battle of Cressy, it was not that of Actium at which you assisted.”
+
+“Why so, sir?”
+
+“Oh, because you might have given me some nautical details, which, in
+spite of Plutarch’s fine narration, have ever been obscure to me.”
+
+“Which, sir? I should be happy to be of service to you.”
+
+“Oh, you were there, then, also?”
+
+“No, sir; I was then in Egypt. I had been employed by Queen Cleopatra
+to restore the library at Alexandria—an office for which I was better
+qualified than any one else, from having personally known the best
+authors of antiquity.”
+
+“And you have seen Queen Cleopatra?” said Madame Dubarry.
+
+“As I now see you, madame.”
+
+“Was she as pretty as they say?”
+
+“Madame, you know beauty is only comparative; a charming queen in
+Egypt, in Paris she would only have been a pretty grisette.”
+
+“Say no harm of grisettes, count.”
+
+“God forbid!”
+
+“Then Cleopatra was——”
+
+“Little, slender, lively, and intelligent; with large almond-shaped
+eyes, a Grecian nose, teeth like pearls, and a hand like your own,
+countess—a fit hand to hold a scepter. See, here is a diamond which she
+gave me, and which she had had from her brother Ptolemy; she wore it on
+her thumb.”
+
+“On her thumb?” cried Madame Dubarry.
+
+“Yes; it was an Egyptian fashion; and I, you see, can hardly put it on
+my little finger;” and taking off the ring, he handed it to Madame
+Dubarry.
+
+It was a magnificent diamond, of such fine water, and so beautifully
+cut, as to be worth thirty thousand or forty thousand francs.
+
+The diamond was passed round the table, and returned to Cagliostro,
+who, putting it quietly on his finger again, said, “Ah, I see well you
+are all incredulous; this fatal incredulity I have had to contend
+against all my life. Philip de Valois would not listen to me, when I
+told him to leave open a retreat to Edward; Cleopatra would not believe
+me when I warned her that Antony would be beaten: the Trojans would not
+credit me, when I said to them, with reference to the wooden horse,
+‘Cassandra is inspired; listen to Cassandra.’”
+
+“Oh! it is charming,” said Madame Dubarry, shaking with laughter; “I
+have never met a man at once so serious and so diverting.”
+
+“I assure you,” replied Cagliostro, “that Jonathan was much more so. He
+was really a charming companion; until he was killed by Saul, he nearly
+drove me crazy with laughing.”
+
+“Do you know,” said the Duke de Richelieu, “if you go on in this way
+you will drive poor Taverney crazy; he is so afraid of death, that he
+is staring at you with all his eyes, hoping you to be an immortal.”
+
+“Immortal I cannot say, but one thing I can affirm——”
+
+“What?” cried Taverney, who was the most eager listener.
+
+“That I have seen all the people and events of which I have been
+speaking to you.”
+
+“You have known Montecucully?”
+
+“As well as I know you, M. de Favras; and, indeed, much better, for
+this is but the second or third time I have had the honor of seeing
+you, while I lived nearly a year under the same tent with him of whom
+you speak.”
+
+“You knew Philip de Valois?”
+
+“As I have already had the honor of telling you, M. de Condorcet; but
+when he returned to Paris, I left France and returned to Bohemia.”
+
+“And Cleopatra.”
+
+“Yes, countess; Cleopatra, I can tell you, had eyes as black as yours,
+and shoulders almost as beautiful.”
+
+“But what do you know of my shoulders?”
+
+“They are like what Cassandra’s once were; and there is still a further
+resemblance,—she had like you, or rather, you have like her, a little
+black spot on your left side, just above the sixth rib.”
+
+“Oh, count, now you really are a sorcerer.”
+
+“No, no,” cried the marshal, laughing; “it was I who told him.”
+
+“And pray how do you know?”
+
+The marshal bit his lips, and replied, “Oh, it is a family secret.”
+
+“Well, really, marshal,” said the countess, “one should put on a double
+coat of rouge before visiting you;” and turning again to Cagliostro,
+“then, sir, you have the art of renewing your youth? For although you
+say you are three or four thousand years old, you scarcely look forty.”
+
+“Yes, madame, I do possess that secret.”
+
+“Oh, then, sir, impart it to me.”
+
+“To you, madame? It is useless; your youth is already renewed; your age
+is only what it appears to be, and you do not look thirty.”
+
+“Ah! you flatter.”
+
+“No, madame, I speak only the truth, but it is easily explained: you
+have already tried my receipt.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“You have taken my elixir.”
+
+“I?”
+
+“You, countess. Oh! you cannot have forgotten it. Do you not remember a
+certain house in the Rue St. Claude, and coming there on some business
+respecting M. de Sartines? You remember rendering a service to one of
+my friends, called Joseph Balsamo, and that this Joseph Balsamo gave
+you a bottle of elixir, recommending you to take three drops every
+morning? Do you not remember having done this regularly until the last
+year, when the bottle became exhausted? If you do not remember all
+this, countess, it is more than forgetfulness—it is ingratitude.”
+
+“Oh! M. Cagliostro, you are telling me things——”
+
+“Which were only known to yourself, I am aware; but what would be the
+use of being a sorcerer if one did not know one’s neighbor’s secrets?”
+
+“Then Joseph Balsamo has, like you, the secret of this famous elixir?”
+
+“No, madame, but he was one of my best friends, and I gave him three or
+four bottles.”
+
+“And has he any left?”
+
+“Oh! I know nothing of that; for the last two or three years, poor
+Balsamo has disappeared. The last time I saw him was in America, on the
+banks of the Ohio: he was setting off on an expedition to the Rocky
+Mountains, and since then I have heard that he is dead.”
+
+“Come, come, count,” cried the marshal; “let us have the secret, by all
+means.”
+
+“Are you speaking seriously, sir?” said Count Haga.
+
+“Very seriously, sire,—I beg pardon, I mean count;” and Cagliostro
+bowed in such a way as to indicate that his error was a voluntary one.
+
+“Then,” said the marshal, “Madame Dubarry is not old enough to be made
+young again?”
+
+“No, on my conscience.”
+
+“Well, then, I will give you another subject: here is my friend, M.
+Taverney—what do you say to him? Does he not look like a contemporary
+of Pontius Pilate? But perhaps, he, on the contrary, is too old.”
+
+Cagliostro looked at the baron. “No,” said he.
+
+“Ah! my dear count,” exclaimed Richelieu; “if you will renew his youth,
+I will proclaim you a true pupil of Medea.”
+
+“You wish it?” asked Cagliostro of the host, and looking round at the
+same time on all assembled.
+
+Every one called out, “Yes.”
+
+“And you also, M. Taverney?”
+
+“I more than any one,” said the baron.
+
+“Well, it is easy,” returned Cagliostro; and he drew from his pocket a
+small bottle, and poured into a glass some of the liquid it contained.
+Then, mixing these drops with half a glass of iced champagne, he passed
+it to the baron.
+
+All eyes followed his movements eagerly.
+
+The baron took the glass, but as he was about to drink he hesitated.
+
+Every one began to laugh, but Cagliostro called out, “Drink, baron, or
+you will lose a liquor of which each drop is worth a hundred louis
+d’ors.”
+
+“The devil,” cried Richelieu; “that is even better than tokay.”
+
+“I must then drink?” said the baron, almost trembling.
+
+“Or pass the glass to another, sir, that some one at least may profit
+by it.”
+
+“Pass it here,” said Richelieu, holding out his hand.
+
+The baron raised the glass, and decided, doubtless, by the delicious
+smell and the beautiful rose color which those few drops had given to
+the champagne, he swallowed the magic liquor. In an instant a kind of
+shiver ran through him; he seemed to feel all his old and sluggish
+blood rushing quickly through his veins, from his heart to his feet,
+his wrinkled skin seemed to expand, his eyes, half covered by their
+lids, appeared to open without his will, and the pupils to grow and
+brighten, the trembling of his hands to cease, his voice to strengthen,
+and his limbs to recover their former youthful elasticity. In fact, it
+seemed as if the liquid in its descent had regenerated his whole body.
+
+A cry of surprise, wonder, and admiration rang through the room.
+
+Taverney, who had been slowly eating with his gums, began to feel
+famished; he seized a plate and helped himself largely to a ragout, and
+then demolished a partridge, bones and all, calling out that his teeth
+were coming back to him. He ate, laughed, and cried for joy, for half
+an hour, while the others remained gazing at him in stupefied wonder;
+then little by little he failed again, like a lamp whose oil is burning
+out, and all the former signs of old age returned upon him.
+
+“Oh!” groaned he, “once more adieu to my youth,” and he gave utterance
+to a deep sigh, while two tears rolled over his cheeks.
+
+Instinctively, at this mournful spectacle of the old man first made
+young again, and then seeming to become yet older than before, from the
+contrast, the sigh was echoed all round the table.
+
+“It is easy to explain, gentlemen,” said Cagliostro; “I gave the baron
+but thirty-five drops of the elixir. He became young, therefore, for
+only thirty-five minutes.”
+
+“Oh more, more, count!” cried the old man eagerly.
+
+“No, sir, for perhaps the second trial would kill you.”
+
+Of all the guests, Madame Dubarry, who had already tested the virtue of
+the elixir, seemed most deeply interested while old Taverney’s youth
+seemed thus to renew itself; she had watched him with delight and
+triumph, and half fancied herself growing young again at the sight,
+while she could hardly refrain from endeavoring to snatch from
+Cagliostro the wonderful bottle; but now, seeing him resume his old age
+even quicker than he had lost it, “Alas!” she said sadly, “all is
+vanity and deception; the effects of this wonderful secret last for
+thirty-five minutes.”
+
+“That is to say,” said Count Haga, “that in order to resume your youth
+for two years, you would have to drink a perfect river.”
+
+Every one laughed.
+
+“Oh!” said De Condorcet, “the calculation is simple; a mere nothing of
+3,153,000 drops for one year’s youth.”
+
+“An inundation,” said La Pérouse.
+
+“However, sir,” continued Madame Dubarry; “according to you, I have not
+needed so much, as a small bottle about four times the size of that you
+hold has been sufficient to arrest the march of time for ten years.”
+
+“Just so, madame. And you alone approach this mysterious truth. The man
+who has already grown old needs this large quantity to produce an
+immediate and powerful effect; but a woman of thirty, as you were, or a
+man of forty, as I was, when I began to drink this elixir, still full
+of life and youth, needs but ten drops at each period of decay; and
+with these ten drops may eternally continue his life and youth at the
+same point.”
+
+“What do you call the periods of decay?” asked Count Haga.
+
+“The natural periods, count. In a state of nature, man’s strength
+increases until thirty-five years of age. It then remains stationary
+until forty; and from that time forward, it begins to diminish, but
+almost imperceptibly, until fifty; then the process becomes quicker and
+quicker to the day of his death. In our state of civilization, when the
+body is weakened by excess, cares, and maladies, the failure begins at
+thirty-five. The time, then, to take nature, is when she is stationary,
+so as to forestall the beginning of decay. He who, possessor as I am of
+the secret of this elixir, knows how to seize the happy moment, will
+live as I live; always young, or, at least, always young enough for
+what he has to do in the world.”
+
+“Oh, M. Cagliostro,” cried the countess; “why, if you could choose your
+own age, did you not stop at twenty instead of at forty?”
+
+“Because, madame,” said Cagliostro, smiling, “it suits me better to be
+a man of forty, still healthy and vigorous, than a raw youth of
+twenty.”
+
+“Oh!” said the countess.
+
+“Doubtless, madame,” continued Cagliostro, “at twenty one pleases women
+of thirty; at forty, we govern women of twenty, and men of sixty.”
+
+“I yield, sir,” said the countess, “for you are a living proof of the
+truth of your own words.”
+
+“Then I,” said Taverney, piteously, “am condemned; it is too late for
+me.”
+
+“M. de Richelieu has been more skilful than you,” said La Pérouse
+naïvely, “and I have always heard that he had some secret.”
+
+“It is a report that the women have spread,” laughed Count Haga.
+
+“Is that a reason for disbelieving it, duke?” asked Madame Dubarry.
+
+The old duke colored, a rare thing for him; but replied, “Do you wish,
+gentlemen, to have my receipt?”
+
+“Oh, by all means.”
+
+“Well, then, it is simply to take care of yourself.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” cried all.
+
+“But, M. Cagliostro,” continued Madame Dubarry, “I must ask more about
+the elixir.”
+
+“Well, madame?”
+
+“You said you first used it at forty years of age——”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“And that since that time, that is, since the siege of Troy——”
+
+“A little before, madame.”
+
+“That you have always remained forty years old?”
+
+“You see me now.”
+
+“But then, sir,” said De Condorcet, “you argue, not only the
+perpetuation of youth, but the preservation of life; for if since the
+siege of Troy you have been always forty, you have never died.”
+
+“True, marquis, I have never died.”
+
+“But are you, then, invulnerable, like Achilles, or still more so, for
+Achilles was killed by the arrow of Paris?”
+
+“No. I am not invulnerable, and there is my great regret,” said
+Cagliostro.
+
+“Then, sir, you may be killed.”
+
+“Alas! yes.”
+
+“How, then, have you escaped all accidents for three thousand five
+hundred years?”
+
+“It is chance, marquis, but will you follow my reasoning?”
+
+“Yes, yes,” cried all, with eagerness.
+
+Cagliostro continued: “What is the first requisite to life?” he asked,
+spreading out his white and beautiful hands covered with rings, among
+which Cleopatra’s shone conspicuously. “Is it not health!”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“And the way to preserve health is?”
+
+“Proper management,” said Count Haga.
+
+“Right, count. And why should not my elixir be the best possible method
+of treatment? And this treatment I have adopted, and with it have
+preserved my youth, and with youth, health, and life.”
+
+“But all things exhaust themselves; the finest constitution, as well as
+the worst.”
+
+“The body of Paris, like that of Vulcan,” said the countess. “Perhaps,
+you knew Paris, by the bye?”
+
+“Perfectly, madame; he was a fine young man, but really did not deserve
+all that has been said of him. In the first place, he had red hair.”
+
+“Red hair, horrible!”
+
+“Unluckily, madame, Helen was not of your opinion: but to return to our
+subject. You say, M. de Taverney, that all things exhaust themselves;
+but you also know, that everything recovers again, regenerates, or is
+replaced, whichever you please to call it. The famous knife of St.
+Hubert, which so often changed both blade and handle, is an example,
+for through every change it still remained the knife of St. Hubert. The
+wines which the monks of Heidelberg preserve so carefully in their
+cellars, remain still the same wine, although each year they pour into
+it a fresh supply; therefore, this wine always remains clear, bright,
+and delicious: while the wine which Opimus and I hid in the earthen
+jars was, when I tried it a hundred years after, only a thick dirty
+substance, which might have been eaten, but certainly could not have
+been drunk. Well, I follow the example of the monks of Heidelberg, and
+preserve my body by introducing into it every year new elements, which
+regenerate the old. Every morning a new and fresh atom replaces in my
+blood, my flesh, and my bones, some particle which has perished. I stay
+that ruin which most men allow insensibly to invade their whole being,
+and I force into action all those powers which God has given to every
+human being, but which most people allow to lie dormant. This is the
+great study of my life, and as, in all things, he who does one thing
+constantly does that thing better than others, I am becoming more
+skilful than others in avoiding danger. Thus, you would not get me to
+enter a tottering house; I have seen too many houses not to tell at a
+glance the safe from the unsafe. You would not see me go out hunting
+with a man who managed his gun badly. From Cephalus, who killed his
+wife, down to the regent, who shot the prince in the eye, I have seen
+too many unskilful people. You could not make me accept in battle the
+post which many a man would take without thinking, because I should
+calculate in a moment the chances of danger at each point. You will
+tell me that one cannot foresee a stray bullet; but the man who has
+escaped a thousand gun-shots will hardly fall a victim to one now. Ah,
+you look incredulous, but am I not a living proof? I do not tell you
+that I am immortal, only that I know better than others how to avoid
+danger; for instance, I would not remain here now alone with M. de
+Launay, who is thinking that, if he had me in the Bastile, he would put
+my immortality to the test of starvation; neither would I remain with
+M. de Condorcet, for he is thinking that he might just empty into my
+glass the contents of that ring which he wears on his left hand, and
+which is full of poison—not with any evil intent, but just as a
+scientific experiment, to see if I should die.”
+
+The two people named looked at each other, and colored.
+
+“Confess, M. de Launay, we are not in a court of justice; besides,
+thoughts are not punished. Did you not think what I said? And you, M.
+de Condorcet, would you not have liked to let me taste the poison in
+your ring, in the name of your beloved mistress, science?”
+
+“Indeed,” said M. de Launay, laughing, “I confess you are right; it was
+folly, but that folly did pass through my mind just before you accused
+me.”
+
+“And I,” said M. de Condorcet, “will not be less candid. I did think
+that if you tasted the contents of my ring, I would not give much for
+your life.”
+
+A cry of admiration burst from the rest of the party; these avowals
+confirming not the immortality, but the penetration, of Count
+Cagliostro.
+
+“You see,” said Cagliostro, quietly, “that I divined these dangers;
+well, it is the same with other things. The experience of a long life
+reveals to me at a glance much of the past and of the future of those
+whom I meet. My capabilities in this way extend even to animals and
+inanimate objects. If I get into a carriage, I can tell from the look
+of the horses if they are likely to run away; and from that of the
+coachman, if he will overturn me. If I go on board ship, I can see if
+the captain is ignorant or obstinate, and consequently likely to
+endanger me. I should then leave the coachman or captain, escape from
+those horses or that ship. I do not deny chance, I only lessen it, and
+instead of incurring a hundred chances, like the rest of the world, I
+prevent ninety-nine of them, and endeavor to guard against the
+hundredth. This is the good of having lived three thousand years.”
+
+“Then,” said La Pérouse, laughing, amidst the wonder and enthusiasm
+created by this speech of Cagliostro’s, “you should come with me when I
+embark to make the tour of the world; you would render me a signal
+service.”
+
+Cagliostro did not reply.
+
+“M. de Richelieu,” continued La Pérouse, “as the Count Cagliostro,
+which is very intelligible, does not wish to quit such good company,
+you must permit me to do so without him. Excuse me, Count Haga, and
+you, madame, but it is seven o’clock, and I have promised his majesty
+to start at a quarter past. But since Count Cagliostro will not be
+tempted to come with me, and see my ships, perhaps he can tell me what
+will happen to me between Versailles and Brest. From Brest to the Pole
+I ask nothing; that is my own business.”
+
+Cagliostro looked at La Pérouse with such a melancholy air, so full
+both of pity and kindness, that the others were struck by it. The
+sailor himself, however, did not remark it. He took leave of the
+company, put on his fur riding coat, into one of the pockets of which
+Madame Dubarry pushed a bottle of delicious cordial, welcome to a
+traveler, but which he would not have provided for himself, to recall
+to him, she said, his absent friends during the long nights of a
+journey in such bitter cold.
+
+La Pérouse, still full of gaiety, bowed respectfully to Count Haga, and
+held out his hand to the old marshal.
+
+“Adieu, dear La Pérouse,” said the latter.
+
+“No, duke, au revoir,” replied La Pérouse, “one would think I was going
+away forever; now I have but to circumnavigate the globe—five or six
+years’ absence; it is scarcely worth while to say ‘adieu’ for that.”
+
+“Five or six years,” said the marshal; “you might almost as well say
+five or six centuries; days are years at my age, therefore I say,
+adieu.”
+
+“Bah! ask the sorcerer,” returned La Pérouse, still laughing; “he will
+promise you twenty years’ more life. Will you not, Count Cagliostro?
+Oh, count, why did I not hear sooner of those precious drops of yours?
+Whatever the price, I should have shipped a tun. Madame, another kiss
+of that beautiful hand, I shall certainly not see such another till I
+return; au revoir,” and he left the room.
+
+Cagliostro still preserved the same mournful silence. They heard the
+steps of the captain as he left the house, his gay voice in the
+courtyard, and his farewells to the people assembled to see him depart.
+Then the horses shook their heads, covered with bells, the door of the
+carriage shut with some noise, and the wheels were heard rolling along
+the street.
+
+La Pérouse had started on that voyage from which he was destined never
+to return.
+
+When they could no longer hear a sound, all looks were again turned to
+Cagliostro; there seemed a kind of inspired light in his eyes.
+
+Count Haga first broke the silence, which had lasted for some minutes.
+“Why did you not reply to his question?” he inquired of Cagliostro.
+
+Cagliostro started, as if the question had roused him from a reverie.
+“Because,” said he, “I must either have told a falsehood or a sad
+truth.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“I must have said to him,—‘M. de la Pérouse, the duke is right in
+saying to you adieu, and not au revoir.’”
+
+“Oh,” said Richelieu, turning pale, “what do you mean?”
+
+“Reassure yourself, marshal, this sad prediction does not concern you.”
+
+“What,” cried Madame Dubarry, “this poor La Pérouse, who has just
+kissed my hand——”
+
+“Not only, madame, will never kiss it again, but will never again see
+those he has just left,” said Cagliostro, looking attentively at the
+glass of water he was holding up.
+
+A cry of astonishment burst from all. The interest of the conversation
+deepened every moment, and you might have thought, from the solemn and
+anxious air with which all regarded Cagliostro, that it was some
+ancient and infallible oracle they were consulting.
+
+“Pray then, count,” said Madame Dubarry, “tell us what will befall poor
+La Pérouse.”
+
+Cagliostro shook his head.
+
+“Oh, yes, let us hear!” cried all the rest.
+
+“Well, then, M. de la Pérouse intends, as you know, to make the tour of
+the globe, and continue the researches of poor Captain Cook, who was
+killed in the Sandwich Islands.”
+
+“Yes, yes, we know.”
+
+“Everything should foretell a happy termination to this voyage; M. de
+la Pérouse is a good seaman, and his route has been most skilfully
+traced by the king.”
+
+“Yes,” interrupted Count Haga, “the King of France is a clever
+geographer; is he not, M. de Condorcet?”
+
+“More skilful than is needful for a king,” replied the marquis; “kings
+ought to know things only slightly, then they will let themselves be
+guided by those who know them thoroughly.”
+
+“Is this a lesson, marquis?” said Count Haga, smiling.
+
+“Oh, no. Only a simple reflection, a general truth.”
+
+“Well, he is gone,” said Madame Dubarry, anxious to bring the
+conversation back to La Pérouse.
+
+“Yes, he is gone,” replied Cagliostro, “but don’t believe, in spite of
+his haste, that he will soon embark. I foresee much time lost at
+Brest.”
+
+“That would be a pity,” said De Condorcet; “this is the time to set
+out: it is even now rather late—February or March would have been
+better.”
+
+“Oh, do not grudge him these few months, M. de Condorcet, for, during
+them, he will at least live and hope.”
+
+“He has got good officers, I suppose?” said Richelieu.
+
+“Yes, he who commands the second ship is a distinguished officer. I see
+him—- young, adventurous, brave, unhappily.”
+
+“Why unhappily?”
+
+“A year after I look for him, and see him no more,” said Cagliostro,
+anxiously consulting his glass. “No one here is related to M. de
+Langle?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“No one knows him?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, death will commence with him.”
+
+A murmur of affright escaped from all the guests.
+
+“But he, La Pérouse?” cried several voices.
+
+“He sails, he lands, he reembarks; I see one, two years, of successful
+navigation; we hear news of him, and then——”
+
+“Then?”
+
+“Years pass——”
+
+“But at last?”
+
+“The sea is vast, the heavens are clouded, here and there appear
+unknown lands, and figures hideous as the monsters of the Grecian
+Archipelago. They watch the ship, which is being carried in a fog
+amongst the breakers, by a tempest less fearful than themselves. Oh! La
+Pérouse, La Pérouse, if you could hear me, I would cry to you. You set
+out, like Columbus, to discover a world; beware of unknown isles!”
+
+He ceased, and an icy shiver ran through the assembly.
+
+“But why did you not warn him?” asked Count Haga, who, in spite of
+himself, had succumbed to the influence of this extraordinary man.
+
+“Yes,” cried Madame Dubarry, “why not send after him and bring him
+back? The life of a man like La Pérouse is surely worth a courier, my
+dear marshal.”
+
+The marshal rose to ring the bell.
+
+Cagliostro extended his arm to stop him. “Alas!” said he, “All advice
+would be useless. I can foretell destiny, but I cannot change it. M. de
+la Pérouse would laugh if he heard my words, as the son of Priam
+laughed when Cassandra prophesied; and see, you begin to laugh
+yourself, Count Haga, and laughing is contagious: your companions are
+catching it. Do not restrain yourselves, gentlemen—I am accustomed to
+an incredulous audience.”
+
+“Oh, we believe,” said Madame Dubarry and the Duke de Richelieu; “and I
+believe,” murmured Taverney; “and I also,” said Count Haga politely.
+
+“Yes,” replied Cagliostro, “you believe, because it concerns La
+Pérouse; but, if I spoke of yourself, you would not believe.”
+
+“I confess that what would have made me believe, would have been, if
+you had said to him, ‘Beware of unknown isles;’ then he would, at
+least, have had the chance of avoiding them.”
+
+“I assure you no, count; and, if he had believed me, it would only have
+been more horrible, for the unfortunate man would have seen himself
+approaching those isles destined to be fatal to him, without the power
+to flee from them. Therefore he would have died, not one, but a hundred
+deaths, for he would have gone through it all by anticipation. Hope, of
+which I should have deprived him, is what best sustains a man under all
+trials.”
+
+“Yes,” said De Condorcet; “the veil which hides from us our future is
+the only real good which God has vouchsafed to man.”
+
+“Nevertheless,” said Count Haga, “did a man like you say to me, shun a
+certain man or a certain thing, I would beware, and I would thank you
+for the counsel.”
+
+Cagliostro shook his head, with a faint smile.
+
+“I mean it, M. de Cagliostro,” continued Count Haga; “warn me, and I
+will thank you.”
+
+“You wish me to tell you what I would not tell La Pérouse?”
+
+“Yes, I wish it.”
+
+Cagliostro opened his mouth as if to begin, and then stopped, and said,
+“No, count, no!”
+
+“I beg you.”
+
+Cagliostro still remained silent.
+
+“Take care,” said the count, “you are making me incredulous.”
+
+“Incredulity is better than misery.”
+
+“M. de Cagliostro,” said the count, gravely, “you forget one thing,
+which is, that though there are men who had better remain ignorant of
+their destiny, there are others who should know it, as it concerns not
+themselves alone, but millions of others.”
+
+“Then,” said Cagliostro, “command me; if your majesty commands, I will
+obey.”
+
+“I command you to reveal to me my destiny, M. de Cagliostro,” said the
+king, with an air at once courteous and dignified.
+
+At this moment, as Count Haga had dropped his incognito in speaking to
+Cagliostro, M. de Richelieu advanced towards him, and said, “Thanks,
+sire, for the honor you have done my house; will your majesty assume
+the place of honor?”
+
+“Let us remain as we are, marshal; I wish to hear what M. de Cagliostro
+is about to say.”
+
+“One does not speak the truth to kings, sire.”
+
+“Bah! I am not in my kingdom; take your place again, duke. Proceed, M.
+de Cagliostro, I beg.”
+
+Cagliostro looked again through his glass, and one might have imagined
+the particles agitated by this look, as they danced in, the light.
+“Sire,” said he, “tell me what you wish to know?”
+
+“Tell me by what death I shall die.”
+
+“By a gun-shot, sire.”
+
+The eyes of Gustavus grew bright. “Ah, in a battle!” said he; “the
+death of a soldier! Thanks, M. de Cagliostro, a thousand times thanks;
+oh, I foresee battles, and Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. have
+shown me how a King of Sweden should die.”
+
+Cagliostro drooped his head, without replying.
+
+“Oh!” cried Count Haga, “will not my wound then be given in battle?”
+
+“No, sire.”
+
+“In a sedition?—yes, that is possible.”
+
+“No, not in a sedition, sire.”
+
+“But, where then?”
+
+“At a ball, sire.”
+
+The king remained silent, and Cagliostro buried his head in his hands.
+
+Every one looked pale and frightened; then M. de Condorcet took the
+glass of water and examined it, as if there he could solve the problem
+of all that had been going on; but finding nothing to satisfy him,
+“Well, I also,” said he, “will beg our illustrious prophet to consult
+for me his magic mirror: unfortunately, I am not a powerful lord; I
+cannot command, and my obscure life concerns no millions of people.”
+
+“Sir,” said Count Haga, “you command in the name of science, and your
+life belongs not only to a nation, but to all mankind.”
+
+“Thanks,” said De Condorcet; “but, perhaps, your opinion on this
+subject is not shared by M. de Cagliostro.”
+
+Cagliostro raised his head. “Yes, marquis,” said he, in a manner which
+began to be excited, “you are indeed a powerful lord in the kingdom of
+intelligence; look me, then, in the face, and tell me, seriously, if
+you also wish that I should prophesy to you.”
+
+“Seriously, count, upon my honor.”
+
+“Well, marquis,” said Cagliostro, in a hoarse voice, “you will die of
+that poison which you carry in your ring; you will die——”
+
+“Oh, but if I throw it away?”
+
+“Throw it away!”
+
+“You allow that that would be easy.”
+
+“Throw it away!”
+
+“Oh, yes, marquis,” cried Madame Dubarry; “throw away that horrid
+poison! Throw it away, if it be only to falsify this prophet of evil,
+who threatens us all with so many misfortunes. For if you throw it away
+you cannot die by it, as M. de Cagliostro predicts; so there at least
+he will have been wrong.”
+
+“Madame la Comtesse is right,” said Count Haga.
+
+“Bravo, countess!” said Richelieu. “Come, marquis, throw away that
+poison, for now I know you carry it, I shall tremble every time we
+drink together; the ring might open of itself, and——”
+
+“It is useless,” said Cagliostro quietly; “M. de Condorcet will not
+throw it away.”
+
+“No,” returned De Condorcet, “I shall not throw it away; not that I
+wish to aid my destiny, but because this is a unique poison, prepared
+by Cabanis, and which chance has completely hardened, and that chance
+might never occur again; therefore I will not throw it away. Triumph if
+you will, M. de Cagliostro.”
+
+“Destiny,” replied he, “ever finds some way to work out its own ends.”
+
+“Then I shall die by poison,” said the marquis; “well, so be it. It is
+an admirable death, I think; a little poison on the tip of the tongue,
+and I am gone. It is scarcely dying: it is merely ceasing to live.”
+
+“It is not necessary for you to suffer, sir,” said Cagliostro.
+
+“Then, sir,” said M. de Favras, “we have a shipwreck, a gun-shot, and a
+poisoning which makes my mouth water. Will you not do me the favor also
+to predict some little pleasure of the same kind for me?”
+
+“Oh, marquis!” replied Cagliostro, beginning to grow warm under this
+irony, “do not envy these gentlemen, you will have still better.”
+
+“Better!” said M. de Favras, laughing; “that is pledging yourself to a
+great deal. It is difficult to beat the sea, fire, and poison!”
+
+“There remains the cord, marquis,” said Cagliostro, bowing.
+
+“The cord! what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that you will be hanged,” replied Cagliostro, seeming no more
+the master of his prophetic rage.
+
+“Hanged! the devil!” cried Richelieu.
+
+“Monsieur forgets that I am a nobleman,” said M. de Favras, coldly; “or
+if he means to speak of a suicide, I warn him that I shall respect
+myself sufficiently, even in my last moments, not to use a cord while I
+have a sword.”
+
+“I do not speak of a suicide, sir.”
+
+“Then you speak of a punishment?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You are a foreigner, sir, and therefore I pardon you.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Your ignorance, sir. In France we decapitate noblemen.”
+
+“You may arrange this, if you can, with the executioner,” replied
+Cagliostro.
+
+M. de Favras said no more. There was a general silence and shrinking
+for a few minutes.
+
+“Do you know that I tremble at last,” said M. de Launay; “my
+predecessors have come off so badly, that I fear for myself if I now
+take my turn.”
+
+“Then you are more reasonable than they; you are right. Do not seek to
+know the future; good or bad, let it rest—it is in the hands of God.”
+
+“Oh! M. de Launay,” said Madame Dubarry, “I hope you will not be less
+courageous than the others have been.”
+
+“I hope so, too, madame,” said the governor. Then, turning to
+Cagliostro, “Sir,” he said, “favor me, in my turn, with my horoscope,
+if you please.”
+
+“It is easy,” replied Cagliostro; “a blow on the head with a hatchet,
+and all will be over.”
+
+A look of dismay was once more general. Richelieu and Taverney begged
+Cagliostro to say no more, but female curiosity carried the day.
+
+“To hear you talk, count,” said Madame Dubarry, “one would think the
+whole universe must die a violent death. Here we were, eight of us, and
+five are already condemned by you.”
+
+“Oh, you understand that it is all prearranged to frighten us, and we
+shall only laugh at it,” said M. de Favras, trying to do so.
+
+“Certainly we will laugh,” said Count Haga, “be it true or false.”
+
+“Oh, I will laugh too, then,” said Madame Dubarry. “I will not dishonor
+the assembly by my cowardice; but, alas! I am only a woman, I cannot
+rank among you and be worthy of a tragical end; a woman dies in her
+bed. My death, a sorrowful old woman abandoned by every one, will be
+the worst of all. Will it not, M. de Cagliostro?”
+
+She stopped, and seemed to wait for the prophet to reassure her.
+Cagliostro did not speak; so, her curiosity obtaining the mastery over
+her fears, she went on. “Well, M. de Cagliostro, will you not answer
+me?”
+
+“What do you wish me to say, madame?”
+
+She hesitated—then, rallying her courage, “Yes,” she cried, “I will run
+the risk. Tell me the fate of Jeanne de Vaubernier, Countess Dubarry.”
+
+“On the scaffold, madame,” replied the prophet of evil.
+
+“A jest, sir, is it not?” said she, looking at him with a supplicating
+air.
+
+Cagliostro seemed not to see it. “Why do you think I jest?” said he.
+
+“Oh, because to die on the scaffold one must have committed some
+crime—stolen, or committed murder, or done something dreadful; and it
+is not likely I shall do that. It was a jest, was it not?”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu, yes,” said Cagliostro; “all I have said is but a jest.”
+
+The countess laughed, but scarcely in a natural manner. “Come, M. de
+Favras,” said she, “let us order our funerals.”
+
+“Oh, that will be needless for you, madame,” said Cagliostro.
+
+“Why so, sir?”
+
+“Because you will go to the scaffold in a car.”
+
+“Oh, how horrible! This dreadful man, marshal! for heaven’s sake choose
+more cheerful guests next time, or I will never visit you again.”
+
+“Excuse me, madame,” said Cagliostro, “but you, like all the rest,
+would have me speak.”
+
+“At least I hope you will grant me time to choose my confessor.”
+
+“It will be superfluous, countess.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“The last person who will mount the scaffold in France with a confessor
+will be the King of France.” And Cagliostro pronounced these words in
+so thrilling a voice that every one was struck with horror.
+
+All were silent.
+
+Cagliostro raised to his lips the glass of water in which he had read
+these fearful prophecies, but scarcely had he touched it, when he set
+it down with a movement of disgust. He turned his eyes to M. de
+Taverney.
+
+“Oh,” cried he, in terror, “do not tell me anything; I do not wish to
+know!”
+
+“Well, then, I will ask instead of him,” said Richelieu.
+
+“You, marshal, be happy; you are the only one of us all who will die in
+his bed.”
+
+“Coffee, gentlemen, coffee,” cried the marshal, enchanted with the
+prediction. Every one rose.
+
+But before passing into the drawing-room, Count Haga, approaching
+Cagliostro, said,—
+
+“Tell me what to beware of.”
+
+“Of a muff, sir,” replied Cagliostro.
+
+“And I?” said Condorcet.
+
+“Of an omelet.”
+
+“Good; I renounce eggs,” and he left the room.
+
+“And I?” said M. de Favras; “what must I fear?”
+
+“A letter.”
+
+“And I?” said De Launay.
+
+“The taking of the Bastile.”
+
+“Oh, you quite reassure me.” And he went away laughing.
+
+“Now for me, sir,” said the countess, trembling.
+
+“You, beautiful countess, shun the Place Louis XV.”
+
+“Alas,” said the countess, “one day already I lost myself there; that
+day I suffered much.”
+
+She left the room, and Cagliostro was about to follow her when
+Richelieu stopped him.
+
+“One moment,” said he; “there remains only Taverney and I, my dear
+sorcerer.”
+
+“M. de Taverney begged me to say nothing, and you, marshal, have asked
+me nothing.”
+
+“Oh, I do not wish to hear,” again cried Taverney.
+
+“But come, to prove your power, tell us something that only Taverney
+and I know,” said Richelieu.
+
+“What?” asked Cagliostro, smiling.
+
+“Tell us what makes Taverney come to Versailles, instead of living
+quietly in his beautiful house at Maison-Rouge, which the king bought
+for him three years ago.”
+
+“Nothing more simple, marshal,” said Cagliostro. “Ten years ago, M. de
+Taverney wished to give his daughter, Mademoiselle Andrée, to the King
+Louis XV., but he did not succeed.”
+
+“Oh!” growled Taverney.
+
+“Now, monsieur wishes to give his son Philippe de Taverney, to the
+Queen Marie Antoinette; ask him if I speak the truth.”
+
+“On my word,” said Taverney, trembling, “this man is a sorcerer; devil
+take me if he is not!”
+
+“Do not speak so cavalierly of the devil, my old comrade,” said the
+marshal.
+
+“It is frightful,” murmured Taverney, and he turned to implore
+Cagliostro to be discreet, but he was gone.
+
+“Come, Taverney, to the drawing-room,” said the marshal; “or they will
+drink their coffee without us.”
+
+But when they arrived there, the room was empty; no one had courage to
+face again the author of these terrible predictions.
+
+The wax lights burned in the candelabra, the fire burned on the hearth,
+but all for nothing.
+
+“Ma foi, old friend, it seems we must take our coffee tête-à-tête. Why,
+where the devil has he gone?” Richelieu looked all around him, but
+Taverney had vanished like the rest. “Never mind,” said the marshal,
+chuckling as Voltaire might have done, and rubbing his withered though
+still white hands; “I shall be the only one to die in my bed. Well,
+Count Cagliostro, at least I believe. In my bed! that was it; I shall
+die in my bed, and I trust not for a long time. Hola! my
+valet-de-chambre and my drops.”
+
+The valet entered with the bottle, and the marshal went with him into
+the bedroom.
+
+END OF THE PROLOGUE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+TWO UNKNOWN LADIES.
+
+
+The winter of 1784, that monster which devoured half France, we could
+not see, although he growled at the doors, while at the house of M. de
+Richelieu, shut in as we were in that warm and comfortable dining-room.
+
+A little frost on the windows seems but the luxury of nature added to
+that of man. Winter has its diamonds, its powder, and its silvery
+embroidery for the rich man wrapped in his furs, and packed in his
+carriage, or snug among the wadding and velvet of a well-warmed room.
+Hoar-frost is a beauty, ice a change of decoration by the greatest of
+artists, which the rich admire through their windows. He who is warm
+can admire the withered trees, and find a somber charm in the sight of
+the snow-covered plain. He who, after a day without suffering, when
+millions of his fellow-creatures are enduring dreadful privations,
+throws himself on his bed of down, between his fine and well-aired
+sheets, may find out that all is for the best in this best of all
+possible worlds.
+
+But he who is hungry sees none of these beauties of nature; he who is
+cold hates the sky without a sun, and consequently without a smile for
+such unfortunates. Now, at the time at which we write, that is, about
+the middle of the month of April, three hundred thousand miserable
+beings, dying from cold and hunger, groaned in Paris alone—in that
+Paris where, in spite of the boast that scarcely another city contained
+so many rich people, nothing had been prepared to prevent the poor from
+perishing of cold and wretchedness.
+
+For the last four months, the same leaden sky had driven the poor from
+the villages into the town, as it sent the wolves from the woods into
+the villages.
+
+No more bread. No more wood.
+
+No more bread for those who felt this cold—no more wood to cook it. All
+the provisions which had been collected, Paris had devoured in a month.
+The Provost, short-sighted and incapable, did not know how to procure
+for Paris, which was under his care, the wood which might have been
+collected in the neighborhood. When it froze, he said the frost
+prevented the horses from bringing it; if it thawed, he pleaded want of
+horses and conveyances. Louis XVI., ever good and humane, always ready
+to attend to the physical wants of his people, although he overlooked
+their social ones, began by contributing a sum of 200,000 francs for
+horses and carts, and insisting on their immediate use. Still the
+demand continued greater than the supply. At first no one was allowed
+to carry away from the public timber-yard more than a cart-load of
+wood; then they were limited to half this quantity. Soon the long
+strings of people might be seen waiting outside the doors, as they were
+afterwards seen at the bakers’ shops. The king gave away the whole of
+his private income in charity. He procured 3,000,000 francs by a grant
+and applied it to the relief of the sufferers, declaring that every
+other need must give way before that of cold and famine. The queen, on
+her part, gave 500 louis from her purse. The convents, the hospitals,
+and the public buildings were thrown open as places of asylum for the
+poor, who came in crowds for the sake of the fires that were kept
+there. They kept hoping for a thaw, but heaven seemed inflexible. Every
+evening the same copper-colored sky disappointed their hopes; and the
+stars shone bright and clear as funeral torches through the long, cold
+nights, which hardened again and again the snow which fell during the
+day. All day long, thousands of workmen, with spades and shovels,
+cleared away the snow from before the houses; so that on each side of
+the streets, already too narrow for the traffic, rose a high, thick
+wall, blocking up the way. Soon these masses of snow and ice became so
+large that the shops were obscured by them, and they were obliged to
+allow it to remain where it fell. Paris could do no more. She gave in,
+and allowed the winter to do its worst. December, January, February,
+and March passed thus, although now and then a few days’ thaw changed
+the streets, whose sewers were blocked up, into running streams. Horses
+were drowned, and carriages destroyed, in the streets, some of which
+could only be traversed in boats. Paris, faithful to its character,
+sang through this destruction by the thaw as it had done through that
+by famine. Processions were made to the markets to see the fisherwomen
+serving their customers with immense leathern boots on, inside which
+their trousers were pushed, and with their petticoats tucked round
+their waists, all laughing, gesticulating, and splashing each other as
+they stood in the water. These thaws, however, were but transitory; the
+frost returned, harder and more obstinate than ever, and recourse was
+had to sledges, pushed along by skaters, or drawn by roughshod horses
+along the causeways, which were like polished mirrors. The Seine,
+frozen many feet deep, was become the rendezvous for all idlers, who
+assembled there to skate or slide, until, warmed by exercise, they ran
+to the nearest fire, lest the perspiration should freeze upon them. All
+trembled for the time when, the water communications being stopped, and
+the roads impassable, provisions could no longer be sent in, and began
+to fear that Paris would perish from want. The king, in this extremity,
+called a council. They decided to implore all bishops, abbés, and monks
+to leave Paris and retire to their dioceses or convents; and all those
+magistrates and officials who, preferring the opera to their duties,
+had crowded to Paris, to return to their homes; for all these people
+used large quantities of wood in their hotels, and consumed no small
+amount of food. There were still the country gentlemen, who were also
+to be entreated to leave. But M. Lenoir, lieutenant of police, observed
+to the king that, as none of these people were criminals, and could not
+therefore be compelled to leave Paris in a day, they would probably be
+so long thinking about it, that the thaw would come before their
+departure, which would then be more hurtful than useful. All this care
+and pity of the king and queen, however, excited the ingenious
+gratitude of the people, who raised monuments to them, as ephemeral as
+the feelings which prompted them. Obelisks and pillars of snow and ice,
+engraved with their names, were to be seen all over Paris. At the end
+of March the thaw began, but by fits and starts, constant returns of
+frost prolonging the miseries of the people. Indeed, in the beginning
+of April it appeared to set in harder than ever, and the half-thawed
+streets, frozen again, became so slippery and dangerous, that nothing
+was seen but broken limbs and accidents of all kinds. The snow
+prevented the carriages from being heard, and the police had enough to
+do, from the reckless driving of the aristocracy, to preserve from the
+wheels those who were spared by cold and hunger.
+
+It was about a week after the dinner given by M. de Richelieu that four
+elegant sledges entered Paris, gliding over the frozen snow which
+covered the Cours la Reine and the extremity of the boulevards. From
+thence they found it more difficult to proceed, for the sun and the
+traffic had begun to change the snow and ice into a wet mass of dirt.
+
+In the foremost sledge were two men in brown riding coats with double
+capes. They were drawn by a black horse, and turned from time to time,
+as if to watch the sledge that followed them, and which contained two
+ladies so enveloped in furs that it was impossible to see their faces.
+It might even have been difficult to distinguish their sex, had it not
+been for the height of their coiffure, crowning which was a small hat
+with a plume of feathers. From the colossal edifice of this coiffure,
+all mingled with ribbons and jewels, escaped occasionally a cloud of
+white powder, as when a gust of wind shakes the snow from the trees.
+
+These two ladies, seated side by side, were conversing so earnestly as
+scarcely to see the numerous spectators who watched their progress
+along the boulevards. One of them taller and more majestic than the
+other, and holding up before her face a finely-embroidered cambric
+handkerchief, carried her head erect and stately, in spite of the wind
+which swept across their sledge.
+
+It had just struck five by the clock of the church St. Croix d’Antin
+and night was beginning to descend upon Paris, and with the night the
+bitter cold. They had just reached the Porte St. Denis, when the lady
+of whom we have spoken made a sign to the men in front, who thereupon
+quickened the pace of their horse, and soon disappeared among the
+evening mists, which were fast thickening around the colossal structure
+of the Bastile.
+
+This signal she then repeated to the other two sledges, which also
+vanished along the Rue St. Denis. Meanwhile, the one in which she sat,
+having arrived at the Boulevard de Menilmontant, stopped.
+
+In this place few people were to be seen; night had dispersed them.
+Besides, in this out-of-the-way quarter, not many citizens would trust
+themselves without torches and an escort, since winter had sharpened
+the wants of three or four thousand beggars who were easily changed
+into robbers.
+
+The lady touched with her finger the shoulder of the coachman who was
+driving her, and said, “Weber, how long will it take you to bring the
+cabriolet you know where?”
+
+“Madame wishes me to bring the cabriolet?” asked the coachman, with a
+strong German accent.
+
+“Yes, I shall return by the streets; and as they are still more muddy
+than the boulevard, we should not get on in the sledge; besides, I
+begin to feel the cold. Do not you, petite?” said she, turning to the
+other lady.
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Then, Weber, we will have the cabriolet.”
+
+“Very well, madame.”
+
+“What is the time, petite?”
+
+The young lady looked at her watch, which, however, she could hardly
+see, as it was growing dark, and said, “A quarter to six, madame.”
+
+“Then at a quarter to seven, Weber.”
+
+Saying these words, the lady leaped lightly from the sledge, followed
+by her friend, and walked away quickly; while the coachman murmured,
+with a kind of respectful despair, sufficiently loud for his mistress
+to hear, “Oh, mein Gott! what imprudence.”
+
+The two ladies laughed, drew their cloaks closer round them, and went
+tramping along through the snow, with their little feet.
+
+“You have good eyes, Andrée,” said the lady who seemed the elder of the
+two, although she could not have been more than thirty or thirty-two;
+“try to read the name at the corner of that street.”
+
+“Rue du Pont-aux-Choux, madame.”
+
+“Rue du Pont-aux-Choux! ah, mon Dieu, we must have come wrong. They
+told me the second street on the right;—but what a smell of hot bread!”
+
+“That is not astonishing,” said her companion, “for here is a baker’s
+shop.”
+
+“Well, let us ask there for the Rue St. Claude,” she said, moving to
+the door.
+
+“Oh! do not you go in, madame; allow me,” said Andrée.
+
+“The Rue St. Claude, my pretty ladies?” said a cheerful voice. “Are you
+asking for the Rue St. Claude?”
+
+The two ladies turned towards the voice, and saw, leaning against the
+door of the shop, a man who, in spite of the cold, had his chest and
+his legs quite bare.
+
+“Oh! a naked man!” cried the young lady, half hiding behind her
+companion; “are we among savages?”
+
+“Was not that what you asked for?” said the journeyman baker, for such
+he was, who did not understand her movement in the least, and,
+accustomed to his own costume, never dreamed of its effect upon them.
+
+“Yes, my friend, the Rue St. Claude,” said the elder lady, hardly able
+to keep from laughing.
+
+“Oh, it is not difficult to find; besides, I will conduct you there
+myself;” and, suiting the action to the words, he began to move his
+long bony legs, which terminated in immense wooden shoes.
+
+“Oh, no!” cried the elder lady, who did not fancy such a guide; “pray
+do not disturb yourself. Tell us
+the way, and we shall easily find it.”
+
+“First street to the right,” said he, drawing back again.
+
+“Thanks,” said the ladies, who ran on as fast as they could, that he
+might not hear the laughter which they could no longer restrain.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+AN INTERIOR.
+
+
+If we do not calculate too much on the memory of our readers, they
+certainly know the Rue St. Claude, which joins at one end the
+boulevard, and at the other the Rue St. Louis; this was an important
+street in the first part of our story, when it was inhabited by Joseph
+Balsamo, his sibyl, Lorenza, and his master, Althotas. It was still a
+respectable street, though badly lighted, and by no means clean, but
+little known or frequented.
+
+There was, however, at the corner of the boulevard a large house, with
+an aristocratic air; but this house, which might, from the number of
+its windows, have illuminated the whole street, had it been lighted up,
+was the darkest and most somber-looking of any. The door was never seen
+to open; and the windows were thick with dust, which seemed never
+disturbed. Sometimes an idler, attracted by curiosity, approached the
+gates and peeped through; all he could see, however, were masses of
+weeds growing between the stones of the courtyard, and green moss
+spreading itself over everything. Occasionally an enormous rat, sole
+inmate of those deserted domains, ran across the yard, on his way to
+his usual habitation in the cellars, which seemed, however, to be an
+excess of modesty, when he had the choice of so many fine
+sitting-rooms, where he need never fear the intrusion of a cat.
+
+At times, one or two of the neighbors, passing the house, might stop to
+take a survey, and one would say to the other:
+
+“Well, what do you see?”
+
+“Why,” he would reply, “I see the rat.”
+
+“Oh! let me look at him. How fat he has grown!”
+
+“That is not to be wondered at; he is never disturbed; and there must
+be some good pickings in the house. M. de Balsamo disappeared so
+suddenly, that he must have left something behind.”
+
+“But you forget that the house was half burned down.”
+
+And they would pursue their way.
+
+Opposite this ruin was a high narrow house inclosed within a garden
+wall. From the upper windows, a light was to be seen; the rest was
+shrouded in darkness. Either all the inhabitants were already asleep,
+or they were very economical of wood and candles, which certainly were
+frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only
+that we have any business.
+
+We must, in the first place, take a survey of the house, and, ascending
+the staircase, open the first door. This room is empty and dark,
+however, but it opens into another of which the furniture deserves our
+attention.
+
+The doors were gaudily painted, and it contained easy chairs covered in
+white, with yellow velvet trimming, and a sofa to match; the cushions
+of which, however, were so full of the wrinkles of old age as scarcely
+to be cushions any longer. Two portraits hanging on the walls next
+attracted attention. A candle and a lamp—one placed on a stand, about
+three feet high, and the other on the chimney-piece—threw a constant
+light on them.
+
+The first was a well-known portrait of Henry III., King of France and
+Poland; a cap on his head, surmounting his long pale face and heavy
+eyes; a pointed beard, and a ruff round his neck.
+
+Under it was the inscription, traced in black letters, on a
+badly-gilded frame, “Henri de Valois.”
+
+The other portrait, of which the gilding was newer, and the painting
+more fresh and recent, represented a young lady with black eyes, a
+straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a
+tower of hair and ribbons, to which the cap of Henry III. was in the
+proportion of a mole-hill to a pyramid.
+
+Under this portrait was inscribed, “Jeanne de Valois.”
+
+Glance at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains, and then turn
+towards a little oak table in the corner; for there, leaning on her
+elbow, and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of
+this portrait.
+
+A few steps off, in an attitude half curious, half respectful, stands a
+little old woman, apparently about sixty.
+
+“Jeanne de Valois,” says the inscription; but if this lady be indeed a
+Valois, one wonders however the portrait of Henry III., the sybarite
+king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty
+in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name.
+
+In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did no discredit
+to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to
+time she rubbed together, as if to endeavor to put some warmth into
+them; her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet
+slipper, was small and pretty.
+
+The wind whistled through all the old doors, and penetrated the
+crevices of the shaking windows; and the old servant kept glancing
+sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation,
+talking aloud as she did so.
+
+“Madame de Misery,” she murmured; “first lady of the bedchamber to her
+majesty—I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has
+already given to me once.” And she sighed. “Madame Patrick, lady’s-maid
+to her majesty, two louis; M. d’Ormesson, an audience; M. de Calonne,
+some good advice, M. de Rohan, a visit; at least, we will try to induce
+him,” said she, smiling at the thought. “Well, then, I think I may hope
+for eight louis within a week.” Then, looking up, “Dame Clotilde,” she
+said, “snuff this candle.”
+
+The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place. This kind
+of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, “Pray go
+and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me; this tallow
+is odious.”
+
+“There is none,” replied the old woman.
+
+“But just look.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In the ante-chamber.”
+
+“It is so cold there.”
+
+“There is some one ringing,” said the young lady.
+
+“Madame is mistaken,” replied the obstinate old woman.
+
+“I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde;” then, abandoning the attempt,
+she turned again to her calculations. “Eight louis! Three I owe for the
+rent, and five I have promised to M. de la Motte, to make him support
+his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched
+him as yet—but patience;” and she smiled again, and looked at herself
+in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. “Well, then,” she
+continued, “I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris
+and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the
+porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but,” said she, starting
+up, “some one is ringing!”
+
+“No, madame,” replied the old woman. “It is below, on the next floor.”
+
+“But I tell you it is not,” said she angrily, as the bell rang yet
+louder.
+
+Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open
+the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and
+seated herself on the sofa, assuming the air of a person humble and
+resigned, although suffering.
+
+It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and
+unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door.
+
+At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, “Is it
+here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives?”
+
+“Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois,” replied Clotilde.
+
+“It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home?”
+
+“Yes, madame; she is too ill to go out.”
+
+During this colloquy, the pretended invalid saw reflected in the glass
+the figure of a lady talking to Clotilde, unquestionably belonging to
+the higher ranks. She then saw her turn round, and say to some one
+behind, “We can go in—it is here.”
+
+And the two ladies we have before seen asking the way prepared to enter
+the room.
+
+“Whom shall I announce to the countess?” said Clotilde.
+
+“Announce a Sister of Charity,” said the elder lady.
+
+“From Paris?”
+
+“No; from Versailles.”
+
+Clotilde entered the room, and the strangers followed her.
+
+Jeanne de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to
+receive her visitors.
+
+Clotilde placed chairs for them, and then unwillingly withdrew.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS.
+
+
+The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte was to examine the faces of her
+visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder
+lady, who might have been, as we have said, about thirty-two years of
+age, was remarkably beautiful, although, at first sight, a great air of
+hauteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her
+carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingué that
+Jeanne could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory glance.
+
+She, however, seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from
+the light, so as to be little seen.
+
+Her companion appeared four or five years younger, and was not less
+beautiful. Her complexion was charming; her hair, drawn back from her
+temples, showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face; two large
+blue eyes, calm and serene; a well-formed mouth, indicating great
+frankness of disposition; a nose that rivaled the Venus de Medicis;
+such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne de
+Valois.
+
+She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honor of
+their visit.
+
+The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, “Madame, for
+I believe you are married——”
+
+“I have the honor to be the wife of M. le Comte de la Motte, an
+excellent gentleman.”
+
+“Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable
+institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that
+interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on
+the subject.”
+
+“Mesdames,” replied Jeanne, “you see there the portrait of Henry III.,
+that is to say, of the brother of my grandfather, for I am truly of the
+race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told.” And she waited for
+the next question, looking at her visitors with a sort of proud
+humility.
+
+“Madame,” said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, “is it
+true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a
+place called Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?”
+
+Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, “It is true, madame;
+and,” she went on, “as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of rare
+beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by
+my father that I am nobly descended; he was a St. Rémy de Valois,
+direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne.”
+
+“But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame?”
+
+“Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the
+accession of Henry IV., by which the crown passed from the house of
+Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the
+fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the
+same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably.”
+
+The two ladies made a sign of assent.
+
+“Then,” continued Jeanne, “these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in
+spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious to the reigning family,
+changed their name of Valois into that of St. Rémy, which they took
+from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my
+father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old
+branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his
+illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore
+in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the
+court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their
+ancient kings.”
+
+Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity
+and mildness which created a favorable impression.
+
+“You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame,” said the
+elder lady, with kindness.
+
+“Oh, madame,” she replied, with a bitter smile, “proofs are not
+wanting—my father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole
+legacy; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will
+recognize?”
+
+“Your father is then dead?” asked the younger lady.
+
+“Alas! yes.”
+
+“Did he die in the provinces?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“At Paris, then?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“In this room?”
+
+“No, madame; my father, Baron de Valois, great-nephew of the King Henry
+III., died of misery and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not
+in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with
+the suffering wretches in the Hôtel Dieu!”
+
+The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.
+
+“From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident,
+great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father.”
+
+“Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that
+my father’s death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes.”
+
+“How, madame! You regard as a minor evil the death of your father?”
+said the elder lady, with a frown.
+
+“Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my
+father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in
+this life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in
+the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in
+knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his
+bread.”
+
+“To beg his bread?”
+
+“Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there
+was no blame to my father or myself.”
+
+“But you do not speak of your mother?”
+
+“Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I
+blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my
+mother.”
+
+The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange
+words.
+
+“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account
+of your misfortunes?”
+
+“The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such
+a long catalogue of woes.”
+
+“Speak, madame,” said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her
+companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed,
+Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and
+stared at her with some astonishment.
+
+“I listen, madame,” she then said, in a more gentle tone; “if you will
+be good enough to inform us what we ask.”
+
+Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and fearing she felt cold,
+pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had
+discovered under one of the chairs.
+
+“Keep it yourself, my sister,” said she, pushing it back again. “You
+are more delicate than I.”
+
+“Indeed, madame,” said Jeanne, “it grieves me much to see you suffer
+from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted a
+week ago.”
+
+“You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother,” said the
+elder lady, returning to the subject.
+
+“Yes, madame. Doubtless, such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it
+not?” said Jeanne; “but hear my explanation. I have already had the
+honor to tell you that my father made a mésalliance, and married his
+housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and
+proud of the honor he had done her, began by ruining my father, which
+certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her
+own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining
+property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which
+his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped
+in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he
+possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.
+
+“His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates in the lowest ranks of the army;
+the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our
+departure, before the house of a neighboring farmer.
+
+“The journey exhausted our little resources—my father wore himself out
+in fruitless appeals—we scarcely ever saw him—our house was
+wretched—and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her
+discontent and ill-humor upon me: she even reproached me with what I
+ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The
+neighbors, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I
+experienced. He endeavored to protect me, but his interference only
+served to embitter her still more against me.
+
+“At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and
+then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext
+that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as
+I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street
+with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not
+wish to be beaten to death.”
+
+“And what was this sentence?” asked the elder lady.
+
+“It was this, madame: ‘Have pity on a little orphan, who descends in a
+direct line from Henri de Valois.’”
+
+“What a shame!” cried the ladies.
+
+“But what effect did this produce on the people?” inquired Andrée.
+
+“Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some
+kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from
+repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of
+disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped: I
+generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from
+starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious to me, that
+at last, one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a
+doorstep all the time, and returned in the evening empty-handed. My
+mother beat me so that the next day I fell ill; then my poor father,
+deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the Hôtel Dieu, where
+he died.”
+
+“Oh! what a horrible history,” cried the ladies.
+
+“What became of you after your father’s death?” asked the elder lady.
+
+“God took pity upon me a month after my father’s death, my mother ran
+away with a soldier, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves
+relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity, although we
+never begged for more than enough to eat. One day, I saw a carriage
+going slowly along the Faubourg Saint Marcel. There were four footmen
+behind, and a beautiful lady inside; I held out my hand to her for
+charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike
+her with surprise. She asked for my address, and the next day made
+inquiries, and finding that I had told her the truth, she took charge
+of my brother and myself; she placed my brother in the army, and me
+with a dressmaker.”
+
+“Was not this lady Madame de Boulainvilliers?”
+
+“It was.”
+
+“She is dead, I believe?”
+
+“Yes; and her death deprived me of my only protector.”
+
+“Her husband still lives, and is rich.”
+
+“Ah, madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown
+tall, and, as he thought, pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his
+benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile, Madame de Boulainvilliers
+died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, M. de la
+Motte, but, separated from him, I seemed more abandoned after her death
+than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, madame,
+which I have shortened as much as possible, in order not to weary you.”
+
+“Where, then, is your husband?” asked the elder lady.
+
+“He is in garrison at Bar-sur-Aube; he serves in the gendarmerie, and
+is waiting, like myself, in hopes of better times.”
+
+“But you have laid your case before the court?”
+
+“Undoubtedly.”
+
+“The name of Valois must have awakened some sympathy.”
+
+“I know not, madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have
+received no answer to any of my petitions.”
+
+“You have seen neither the ministers, the king, nor the queen?”
+
+“No one. Everywhere I have failed.”
+
+“You cannot now beg, however.”
+
+“No, madame; I have lost the habit; but I can die of hunger, like my
+poor father.”
+
+“You have no child?”
+
+“No, madame; and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his
+king, will find for himself a glorious end to all our miseries.”
+
+“Can you, madame—I beg pardon if I seem intrusive—but can you bring
+forward the proofs of your genealogy?”
+
+Jeanne rose, opened a drawer, and drew out some papers, which she
+presented to the lady, who rose to come nearer the light, that she
+might examine them; but seeing that Jeanne eagerly seized this
+opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to
+do, she turned away as if the light hurt her eyes, turning her back to
+Madame de la Motte.
+
+“But,” said she, at last, “these are only copies.”
+
+“Oh! madame, I have the originals safe, and am ready to produce them.”
+
+“If any important occasion should present itself, I suppose?” said the
+lady, smiling.
+
+“It is, doubtless, madame, an important occasion which procures me the
+honor of your visit, but these papers are so precious——”
+
+“That you cannot show them to the first comer. I understand you.”
+
+“Oh, madame!” cried the countess; “you shall see them;” and opening a
+secret drawer above the other, she drew out the originals, which were
+carefully inclosed in an old portfolio, on which were the arms of the
+Valois.
+
+The lady took them, and after examining them, said, “You are right;
+these are perfectly satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in
+readiness to produce them when called upon by proper authority.”
+
+“And what do you think I may expect, madame?” asked Jeanne.
+
+“Doubtless a pension for yourself, and advancement for M. de la Motte,
+if he prove worthy of it.”
+
+“My husband is an honorable man, madame, and has never failed in his
+military duties.”
+
+“It is enough, madame,” said the lady, drawing her hood still more over
+her face. She then put her hand in her pocket, and drew out first the
+same embroidered handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her
+face when in the sledge, then a small roll about an inch in diameter,
+and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonier,
+saying, “The treasurer of our charity authorizes me, madame, to offer
+you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better.”
+
+Madame de la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll.
+“Three-franc pieces,” thought she, “and there must be nearly a hundred
+of them; what a boon from heaven.”
+
+While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the
+outer room, where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair.
+
+The candle was burning out in the socket, and the smell which came from
+it made the ladies draw out their smelling-bottles. Jeanne woke
+Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end.
+
+“Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse,” said they.
+
+“Where may I have the honor of coming to thank you?” asked Jeanne.
+
+“We will let you know,” replied the elder lady, going quickly down the
+stairs.
+
+Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her
+rouleau, but her foot struck against something, and stooping to pick it
+up, she saw a small flat gold box.
+
+She was some time before she could open it, but having at last found
+the spring, it flew open and disclosed the portrait of a lady
+possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a
+collar like an order. An M and a T encircled by a laurel wreath
+ornamented the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt,
+from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her,
+that it was that of her mother, or some near relation.
+
+She ran to the stairs to give it back to them; but hearing the
+street-door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window,
+but arrived there only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away.
+She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present, and turned
+again to the little rouleau.
+
+When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy, “Double louis, fifty
+double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs!” and transported at
+the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life, she
+remained with clasped hands and open lips. “A hundred louis,” she
+repeated; “these ladies are then very rich. Oh! I will find them
+again.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+BELUS.
+
+
+Madame de la Motte was not wrong in thinking that the cabriolet which
+she saw driving off contained the two ladies who had just left her.
+
+They had, in fact, found it waiting for them on their exit. It was
+lightly built, open and fashionable, with high wheels, and a place
+behind for a servant to stand. It was drawn by a magnificent bay horse
+of Irish breed, short-tailed, and plump, which was driven by the same
+man whom we have already heard addressed by the name of Weber. The
+horse had become so impatient with waiting, that it was with some
+difficulty that Weber kept him stationary.
+
+When he saw the ladies, he said, “Madame, I intended to bring Scipio,
+who is gentle and easy to manage, but unluckily he received an injury
+last evening, and I was forced to bring Bélus, and he is rather
+unmanageable.”
+
+“Oh, Weber, I do not mind in the least,” said the lady; “I am well used
+to driving, and not at all timid.”
+
+“I know how well madame drives, but the roads are so bad. Where are we
+to go?”
+
+“To Versailles.”
+
+“By the boulevards then, madame?”
+
+“No, Weber; it freezes hard, and the boulevards will be dreadful; the
+streets will be better.”
+
+He held the horse for the ladies to get in, then jumped up behind, and
+they set off at a rapid pace.
+
+“Well, Andrée, what do you think of the countess?” asked the elder
+lady.
+
+“I think, madame,” she replied, “that Madame de la Motte is poor and
+unfortunate.”
+
+“She has good manners, has she not?”
+
+“Yes, doubtless.”
+
+“You are somewhat cold about her, Andrée.”
+
+“I must confess, there is a look of cunning in her face that does not
+please me.”
+
+“Oh, you are always difficult to please, Andrée; to please you, one
+must have every good quality. Now, I find the little countess
+interesting and simple, both in her pride and in her humility.”
+
+“It is fortunate for her, madame, that she has succeeded in pleasing
+you.”
+
+“Take care!” cried the lady, at the same time endeavoring to check her
+horse, which nearly ran over a street-porter at the corner of the Rue
+St. Antoine.
+
+“Gare!” shouted Weber, in the voice of the Stentor.
+
+They heard the man growling and swearing, in which he was joined by
+several people near, but Bélus soon carried them away from the sound,
+and they quickly reached the Place Baudoyer.
+
+From thence the skilful conductress continued her rapid course down the
+Rue de la Tisseranderie, a narrow unaristocratic street, always
+crowded. Thus, in spite of the reiterated warnings of herself and
+Weber, the numbers began to increase around them, many of whom cried
+fiercely, “Oh! the cabriolet! down with the cabriolet!”
+
+Bélus, however, guided by the steady hand which held the reins, kept on
+his rapid course, and not the smallest accident had yet occurred.
+
+But in spite of this skilful progress, the people seemed discontented
+at the rapid course of the cabriolet, which certainly required some
+care on their part to avoid, and the lady, perhaps half frightened at
+the murmurs, and knowing the present excited state of the people, only
+urged on her horse the faster to escape from them.
+
+Thus they proceeded until they reached the Rue du Coq St. Honoré, and
+here had been raised one of the most beautiful of those monuments in
+snow of which we have spoken.
+
+Round this a great crowd had collected, and they were obliged to stop
+until the people would make an opening for them to pass, which they did
+at last, but with great grumbling and discontent.
+
+The next obstacle was at the gates of the Palais Royal, where, in a
+courtyard, which had been thrown open, were a host of beggars crowding
+round fires which had been lighted there, and receiving soup, which the
+servants of M. le Duc d’Orleans were distributing to them in earthen
+basins; and as in Paris a crowd collects to see everything, the number
+of the spectators of this scene far exceeded that of the actors.
+
+Here, then, they were again obliged to stop, and to their dismay, began
+to hear distinctly from behind loud cries of “Down with the cabriolet!
+down with those that crush the poor!”
+
+“Can it be that those cries are addressed to us?” said the elder lady
+to her companion.
+
+“Indeed, madame, I fear so,” she replied.
+
+“Have we, do you think, run over any one?”
+
+“I am sure you have not.”
+
+But still the cries seemed to increase. A crowd soon gathered round
+them, and some even seized Bélus by the reins, who thereupon began to
+stamp and foam most furiously.
+
+“To the magistrate! to the magistrate!” cried several voices.
+
+The two ladies looked at each other in terror. Curious heads began to
+peep under the apron of the cabriolet.
+
+“Oh, they are women,” cried some; “Opera girls, doubtless,” said
+others, “who think they have a right to crush the poor because they
+receive ten thousand francs a month.”
+
+A general shout hailed these words, and they began again to cry, “To
+the magistrate!”
+
+The younger lady shrank back trembling with fear; the other looked
+around her with wonderful resolution, though with frowning brows and
+compressed lips.
+
+“Oh, madame,” cried her companione, “for heaven’s sake, take care!”
+
+“Courage, Andrée, courage!” she replied.
+
+“But they will recognize you, madame.”
+
+“Look through the windows, if Weber is still behind the cabriolet.”
+
+“He is trying to get down, but the mob surrounds him. Ah! here he
+comes.”
+
+“Weber,” said the lady in German, “we will get out.”
+
+The man vigorously pushed aside those nearest the carriage, and opened
+the door. The ladies jumped out, and the crowd instantly seized on the
+horse and cabriolet, which would evidently soon be in pieces.
+
+“What in heaven’s name does it all mean? Do you understand it, Weber?”
+said the lady, still in German.
+
+“Ma foi, no, madame,” he replied, struggling to free a passage for them
+to pass.
+
+“But they are not men, they are wild beasts,” continued the lady; “with
+what do they possibly reproach me?”
+
+She was answered by a voice, whose polite and gentlemanly tone
+contrasted strangely with the savage murmurs of the people, and which
+said in excellent German, “They reproach you, madame, with having
+braved the police order, which appeared this morning, and which
+prohibited all cabriolets, which are always dangerous, and fifty times
+more so in this frost, when people can hardly escape fast enough, from
+driving through the streets until the spring.”
+
+The lady turned, and saw she was addressed by a young officer, whose
+distinguished and pleasing air, and fine figure, could not but make a
+favorable impression.
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu, monsieur,” she said, “I was perfectly ignorant of this
+order.”
+
+“You are a foreigner, madame?” inquired the young officer.
+
+“Yes, sir; but tell me what I must do? they are destroying my
+cabriolet.”
+
+“You must let them destroy it, and take advantage of that time to
+escape. The people are furious just now against all the rich, and on
+the pretext of your breaking this regulation would conduct you before
+the magistrate.”
+
+“Oh, never!” cried Andrée.
+
+“Then,” said the officer, laughing, “profit by the space which I shall
+make in the crowd, and vanish.”
+
+The ladies gathered from his manner that he shared the opinion of the
+people as to their station, but it was no time for explanations.
+
+“Give us your arm to a cab-stand,” said the elder lady, in a voice full
+of authority.
+
+“I was going to make your horse rear, and thereby clear you a passage,”
+said the young man, who did not much wish to take the charge of
+escorting them through the crowd; “the people will become yet more
+enraged, if they hear us speaking in a language unknown to them.”
+
+“Weber,” cried the lady, in a firm voice, “make Bélus rear to disperse
+the crowd.”
+
+“And then, madame?”
+
+“Remain till we are gone.”
+
+“But they will destroy the carriage.”
+
+“Let them; what does that matter? save Bélus if you can, but yourself
+above all.”
+
+“Yes, madame;” and a slight touch to the horse soon produced the
+desired effect of dispersing the nearest part of the crowd, and
+throwing down those who held by his reins.
+
+“Your arm, sir!” again said the lady to the officer; “come on, petite,”
+turning to Andrée.
+
+“Let us go then, courageous woman,” said the young man, giving his arm,
+with real admiration, to her who asked for it.
+
+In a few minutes he had conducted them to a cab-stand, but the men were
+all asleep on their seats.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+THE ROAD TO VERSAILLES.
+
+
+The ladies were free from the crowd for the present, but there was some
+danger that they might be followed and recognized, when the same tumult
+would doubtless be renewed and escape a second time be more difficult.
+The young officer knew this, and therefore hastened to awaken one of
+the half-frozen and sleepy men. So stupefied, however, did they seem,
+that he had great difficulty in rousing one of them. At last he took
+him by the collar and shook him roughly.
+
+“Gently, gently!” cried the man, sitting up.
+
+“Where do you wish to go, ladies?” asked the officer.
+
+“To Versailles,” said the elder lady, still speaking German.
+
+“Oh, to Versailles!” repeated the coachman; “four miles and a half over
+this ice. No, I would rather not.”
+
+“We will pay well,” said the lady.
+
+This was repeated to the coachman in French by the young officer.
+
+“But how much?” said the coachman; “you see it is not only going, I
+must come back again.”
+
+“A louis; is that enough?” asked the lady of the officer, who, turning
+to the coachman, said,—
+
+“These ladies offer you a louis.”
+
+“Well, that will do, though I risk breaking my horses’ legs.”
+
+“Why, you rascal, you know that if you were paid all the way there and
+back, it would be but twelve francs, and we offer you twenty-four.”
+
+“Oh, do not stay to bargain,” cried the lady; “he shall have twenty
+louis if he will only set off at once.”
+
+“One is enough, madame.”
+
+“Come down, sir, and open the door.”
+
+“I will be paid first,” said the man.
+
+“You will!” said the officer fiercely.
+
+“Oh! let us pay,” said the lady, putting her hand in her pocket. She
+turned pale. “Oh! mon Dieu, I have lost my purse! Feel for yours,
+Andrée.”
+
+“Oh! madame, it is gone too.”
+
+They looked at each other in dismay, while the young officer watched
+their proceedings, and the coachman sat grinning, and priding himself
+on his caution.
+
+The lady was about to offer her gold chain as a pledge, when the young
+officer drew out a louis, and offered it to the man, who thereupon got
+down and opened the door.
+
+The ladies thanked him warmly and got in.
+
+“And now, sir, drive these ladies carefully and honestly.”
+
+The ladies looked at each other in terror; they could not bear to see
+their protector leave them.
+
+“Oh! madame,” said Andrée, “do not let him go away.”
+
+“But why not? we will ask for his address, and return him his louis
+to-morrow, with a little note of thanks, which you shall write.”
+
+“But, madame, suppose the coachman should not keep faith with us, and
+should turn us out half way, what would become of us?”
+
+“Oh! we will take his number.”
+
+“Yes, madame, I do not deny that you could have him punished
+afterwards; but meanwhile, you would not reach Versailles, and what
+would they think?”
+
+“True,” replied her companion.
+
+The officer advanced to take leave.
+
+“Monsieur,” said Andrée, “one word more, if you please.”
+
+“At your orders, madame,” he said politely, but somewhat stiffly.
+
+“Monsieur, you cannot refuse us one more favor, after serving us so
+much?”
+
+“What is it, madame?”
+
+“We are afraid of the coachman, who seems so unwilling to go.”
+
+“You need not fear,” replied he; “I have his number, and if he does not
+behave well, apply to me.”
+
+“To you, sir?” said Andrée in French, forgetting herself; “we do not
+even know your name.”
+
+“You speak French,” exclaimed the young man, “and you have been
+condemning me all this time to blunder on in German!”
+
+“Excuse us, sir,” said the elder lady, coming to Andrée’s rescue, “but
+you must see, that though not perhaps foreigners, we are strangers in
+Paris, and above all, out of our places in a hackney coach. You are
+sufficiently a man of the world to see that we are placed in an awkward
+position. I feel assured you are generous enough to believe the best of
+us, and to complete the service you have rendered, and above all, to
+ask us no questions.”
+
+“Madame,” replied the officer, charmed with her noble, yet pleasing
+manner, “dispose of me as you will.”
+
+“Then, sir, have the kindness to get in, and accompany us to
+Versailles.”
+
+The officer instantly placed himself opposite to them, and directed the
+man to drive on.
+
+After proceeding in silence for some little time, he began to feel
+himself surrounded with delicate and delicious perfumes, and gradually
+began to think better of the ladies’ position. “They are,” thought he,
+“ladies who have been detained late at some rendezvous, and are now
+anxious to regain Versailles, much frightened, and a little ashamed;
+still, two ladies, driving themselves in a cabriolet! However,”
+recollected he, “there was a servant behind; but then again, no money
+on either of them, but probably the footman carried the purse; and the
+carriage was certainly a very elegant one, and the horse could not have
+been worth less than one hundred and fifty louis; therefore they must
+be rich, so that the accidental want of money proves nothing. But why
+speak a foreign language when they must be French? However, that at
+least shows a good education, and they speak both languages with
+perfect purity; besides, there is an air of distinction about them. The
+supplication of the younger one was touching, and the request of the
+other was noble and imposing; indeed, I begin to feel it dangerous to
+pass two or three hours in a carriage with two such pretty women,
+pretty and discreet also; for they do not speak, but wait for me to
+begin.”
+
+On their parts, the ladies were doubtless thinking of him, for just as
+he had arrived at these conclusions, the elder lady said to her
+companion, but this time in English:
+
+“Really, this coachman crawls along; we shall never reach Versailles; I
+fear our poor companion must be terribly ennuyé.”
+
+“Particularly,” answered Andrée, smiling, “as our conversation has not
+been very amusing.”
+
+“Do you not think he has a most distinguished air?”
+
+“Yes, certainly.”
+
+“Besides, he wears the uniform of a naval officer, and all naval
+officers are of good family. He looks well in it, too, for he is very
+handsome.”
+
+Here the young man interrupted them. “Your pardon, ladies,” said he, in
+excellent English, “but I must tell you that I understand English
+perfectly; I do not, however, know Spanish; therefore, if you can and
+like to speak in that language, you are safe from my understanding
+you.”
+
+“Oh, monsieur,” replied the lady, laughing, “we had no harm to say of
+you, as you must have heard; therefore we will content ourselves with
+French for the remainder of the time.”
+
+“Thanks, madame, but if my presence be irksome to you——”
+
+“You cannot suppose that, sir, as it was we who begged you to accompany
+us.”
+
+“Exacted it, even,” said Andrée.
+
+“Oh, madame, you overwhelm me; pray pardon me my momentary hesitation;
+but Paris is so full of snares and deceptions.”
+
+“You then took us for——”
+
+“Monsieur took us for snares, that is all.”
+
+“Oh! ladies,” said the young man, quite humiliated, “I assure you, I
+did not.”
+
+“But what is the matter? The coach stops.”
+
+“I will see, madame.”
+
+“Oh! I think we are overturning; pray take care, sir.”
+
+And Andrée, in her terror, laid her hand on the young man’s shoulder.
+
+He, yielding to an impulse, attempted to seize her little hand; but she
+had in a moment thrown herself back again in the carriage. He therefore
+got out, and found the coachman engaged in raising one of his horses,
+which had fallen on the ice.
+
+The horse, with his aid, was soon on its legs again, and they pursued
+their way.
+
+It seemed, however, that this little interruption had destroyed the
+intimacy which had begun to spring up, for after the ladies had asked
+and been told the cause of their detention, all relapsed into silence.
+
+The young man, however, who had derived some pleasure from the touch of
+that little hand, thought he would at least have a foot in exchange; he
+therefore stretched out his, and endeavored to touch hers, which, was,
+however, quickly withdrawn; and when he did just touch that of the
+elder lady, she said, with great sang-froid,——
+
+“I fear, sir, I am dreadfully in your way.”
+
+He colored up to the ears, and felt thankful to the darkness, which
+prevented it from being seen. After this, he desisted, and remained
+perfectly still, fearing even to renew the conversation, lest he should
+seem impertinent to these ladies, to whom, at first, he had thought
+himself rather condescending in his politeness.
+
+Still, in spite of himself, he felt more and more strongly attracted
+towards them, and an increasing interest in them. From time to time he
+heard them speak softly to each other, and he caught these words:
+
+“So late an hour! what excuse for being out?”
+
+At last the coach stopped again, but this time it was no accident, but
+simply that they had arrived at Versailles.
+
+The young man thought the time had passed with marvelous quickness.
+
+“We are at Versailles,” said the coachman.
+
+“Where must he stop, ladies?” asked the officer.
+
+“At the Place d’Armes.”
+
+“At the Place d’Armes, coachman,” said the officer; “go on.—I must say
+something to them,” thought he, “or they will now think me a stupid, as
+they must before have thought me impertinent.”
+
+“Mesdames,” said he, “you are at length arrived.”
+
+“Thanks to your generous assistance.”
+
+“What trouble we have given you,” added Andrée.
+
+“Oh, madame, do not speak of it!”
+
+“Well, sir, we shall not forget; will you tell us your name?”
+
+“My name?”
+
+“Certainly, sir; you do not wish to make us a present of a louis, I
+hope.”
+
+“Oh, madame, if that is it,” said the young man, rather piqued, “I
+yield; I am the Comte de Charney, and as madame has already remarked, a
+naval officer.”
+
+“Charney,” repeated the elder lady, “I shall not forget.”
+
+“Yes, madame, Georges de Charney.”
+
+“And you live——?”
+
+“Hôtel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu.”
+
+The coach stopped. The elder lady opened the door and jumped out
+quickly, holding out a hand to her companion.
+
+“But pray, ladies,” said he, preparing to follow them, “take my arm;
+you are not yet at your own home.”
+
+“Oh, sir, do not move.”
+
+“Not move?”
+
+“No; pray remain in the coach.”
+
+“You cannot walk alone at this time of night; it is impossible.”
+
+“Now, you see,” said the elder lady, gaily, “after almost refusing to
+oblige us, you wish to be too obliging.”
+
+“But, madame——”
+
+“Sir, remain to the end a loyal and gallant cavalier; we thank you, M.
+de Charney, with all our hearts, and will not even ask your word——”
+
+“To do what, madame?”
+
+“To shut the door, and order the man to drive back to Paris, without
+even looking where we go, which you will do, will you not?”
+
+“I will obey you, madame; coachman, back again.” And he put a second
+louis into the man’s hand, who joyfully set off on his return.
+
+The young man sighed, as he took his place on the cushions which the
+unknown ladies had just occupied.
+
+They remained motionless till the coach was out of sight, and then took
+their way towards the castle.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+LAURENT.
+
+
+At this moment our heroines heard the clock strike from the church of
+St. Louis.
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu! a quarter to twelve,” they cried, in terror.
+
+“See, all the doors are shut,” said Andrée.
+
+“Oh, that is nothing; for, if they were open, we would not go in here.
+Let us go round by the reservoirs.” And they turned to the right, where
+there was a private entrance.
+
+When they arrived there, “The door is shut, Andrée,” said the elder
+lady, rather uneasily.
+
+“Let us knock, madame.”
+
+“No, we will call; Laurent must be waiting for me, for I told him
+perhaps I should return late.”
+
+“I will call,” said Andrée, approaching the door.
+
+“Who is there?” said a voice from inside.
+
+“Oh, it is not Laurent!” said she, terrified.
+
+“Is it not?” and the other lady advanced, and called softly, “Laurent.”
+
+No answer.
+
+“Laurent?” again she called, louder.
+
+“There is no Laurent here,” replied the voice, rudely.
+
+“But,” said Andrée, “whether he be here or not, open the door.”
+
+“I cannot open it.”
+
+“But Laurent would have opened it immediately.”
+
+“I have my orders,” was all the reply.
+
+“Who are you, then?”
+
+“Rather, who are you?”
+
+Rude as the question was, it was no time to find fault, so they
+answered, “We are ladies of her majesty’s suite, we lodge in the
+castle, and we wish to get home.”
+
+“Well, I, mesdames, am a Suisse of the Salischamade company, and I
+shall do just the contrary of Laurent, for I shall leave you at the
+door.”
+
+“Oh!” murmured the ladies, in terror and anger.
+
+Then, making an effort over herself, the elder lady said, “My friend, I
+understand that you are obeying orders, and I do not quarrel with you
+for that—it is a soldier’s duty; only do me the favor to call
+Laurent—he cannot be far distant.”
+
+“I cannot quit my post.”
+
+“Then send some one.”
+
+“I have no one to send.”
+
+“For pity’s sake!”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu, sleep in the town, that is no great thing; if I were
+shut out of the barracks, I would soon find a bed.”
+
+“Listen,” said the lady again; “you shall have twenty louis, if you
+open this door.”
+
+“And twelve years at the galleys: no, thank you. Forty-eight francs a
+year is not sufficient pay for that.”
+
+“I will get you made a sergeant.”
+
+“Yes, and he who gave me the order will have me shot.”
+
+“And who did give you the order?”
+
+“The king.”
+
+“The king!” cried they; “oh, we are lost!”
+
+“Is there no other door?”
+
+“Oh! madame, if this one is closed, be sure all the others will be so
+also,” said Andrée.
+
+“You are right, Andrée. ’Tis a horrible trick of the king,” she said,
+with a contempt almost menacing.
+
+There was a sort of bank outside the door, which they sank down upon in
+despair. They could see the light under the door, and could hear the
+steps of the sentinel as he paced to and fro.
+
+Within this little door was salvation; without, shame and scandal.
+
+“Oh! to-morrow, to-morrow, when they will find out,” murmured the elder
+lady.
+
+“You will tell the truth, madame.”
+
+“But shall I be believed?”
+
+“Oh! we can prove it; besides, the soldier will not stay all night; he
+will be relieved, and perhaps his successor will be more complacent.”
+
+“Yes, but the patrol will pass directly, and will find me here, waiting
+outside. It is infamous; I am suffocated with rage.”
+
+“Oh, take courage, madame! you, who are always so brave.”
+
+“It is a plot, Andrée, in order to ruin me. This door is never closed.
+Oh, I shall die!”
+
+At this moment they heard a step approaching, and then the voice of a
+young man, singing gaily as he went along.
+
+“That voice,” cried the lady, “I know it, I am sure.”
+
+“Oh, yes, madame, he will save us.”
+
+A young man, wrapped up in a fur riding-coat, came quickly up, and
+without noticing them, knocked at the door, and called, “Laurent.”
+
+“Brother,” said the elder lady, touching him on the shoulder.
+
+“The queen,” cried he, taking off his hat.
+
+“Hush,” said she.
+
+“You are not alone?”
+
+“No, I am with Mademoiselle Andrée de Taverney.”
+
+“Oh, good evening, mademoiselle.”
+
+“Good evening, monseigneur.”
+
+“Are you going out, madame?” asked he.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then you are going in.”
+
+“We wished to do so.”
+
+“Have you not called Laurent?”
+
+“Yes, we have, but——”
+
+“But what?”
+
+“You call Laurent, and you will see.”
+
+The young man, whom the reader has, perhaps, already recognized as the
+Comte d’Artois, approached and again called “Laurent.”
+
+“I warn you,” answered from within the voice of the Suisse, “that if
+you torment me any more I will go and fetch my commanding officer.”
+
+“Who is this?” asked the count, turning round in astonishment to the
+queen.
+
+“A Swiss who has been substituted for Laurent.”
+
+“By whom?”
+
+“By the king.”
+
+“The king?”
+
+“Yes, he told us so himself.”
+
+“And with orders?”
+
+“Most strict, apparently.”
+
+“Diable! we must capitulate.”
+
+“What do you mean?” she asked.
+
+“Offer him money.”
+
+“I have already done so, and he has refused it.”
+
+“Offer him promotion.”
+
+“I have offered that also, but he would not listen.”
+
+“Then there is but one way.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“To make a noise.”
+
+“My dear Charles, you will compromise us.”
+
+“Not the least in the world; you keep in the background, I will knock
+like thunder, and shout like a madman; they will open at last, and you
+can slide in with me.”
+
+“Try, then.”
+
+The young prince began calling Laurent, knocking at the door and
+striking with his sword, till at last the Swiss said, “Ah, well! I will
+call my officer.”
+
+“Go and call him, that is just what I want.”
+
+They soon heard other steps approaching. The queen and Andrée kept
+close, ready to slip in if the door should open; then they heard the
+Swiss say, “It is a gentleman, lieutenant, who insists on coming in.”
+
+“Well, I suppose that is not astonishing, as we belong to the castle,”
+said the count.
+
+“It is no doubt a natural wish, but a forbidden one,” replied the
+officer.
+
+“Forbidden—by whom? morbleu!”
+
+“By the king.”
+
+“But the king would not wish an officer of the castle to sleep
+outside.”
+
+“Sir, I am not the judge of that; I have only to obey orders.”
+
+“Come, lieutenant, open the door; we cannot talk through this oak.”
+
+“Sir, I repeat to you that my orders are to keep it shut; and if you
+are an officer, as you say, you know that I must obey.”
+
+“Lieutenant, you speak to the colonel of a regiment.”
+
+“Excuse me, then, colonel, but my orders are positive.”
+
+“But they cannot concern a prince. Come, sir, a prince cannot be kept
+out.”
+
+“My prince, I am in despair, but the king has ordered——”
+
+“The king has ordered you to turn away his brother like a beggar or a
+robber? I am the Comte d’Artois, sir. Mordieu! you keep me here
+freezing at the door.”
+
+“Monseigneur, God is my witness that I would shed my blood for your
+royal highness. But the king gave me his orders in person, and
+confiding to me the charge of this door, ordered me not to open to any
+one, should it be even himself, after eleven o’clock. Therefore,
+monseigneur, I ask your pardon humbly for disobeying you, but I am a
+soldier, and were it her majesty the queen who asked admittance, I
+should be forced most unwillingly to refuse.”
+
+Having said this, the officer turned away and left the place.
+
+“We are lost,” said the queen.
+
+“Do they know that you are out?” asked the count.
+
+“Alas, I know not!”
+
+“Perhaps, then, this order is leveled against me; the king knows I
+often go out at night, and stay late. Madame la Comtesse d’Artois must
+have heard something, and complained to him, and hence this tyrannical
+order.”
+
+“Ah, no, brother, I thank you for trying to reassure me, but I feel
+that it is against me these precautions are taken.”
+
+“Impossible, sister! the king has too much esteem——”
+
+“Meanwhile, I am left at the door, and to-morrow a frightful scandal
+will be the result. I know well I have an enemy near the king.”
+
+“It is possible; however, I have an idea.”
+
+“What? only be quick. If you can but save us from the ridicule of this
+position, it is all I care for.”
+
+“Oh, I will save you; I am not more foolish than he, for all his
+learning.”
+
+“Than whom?”
+
+“Ah, pardieu, the Comte de Provence.”
+
+“Ah, then, you also know my enemy.”
+
+“Is he not the enemy of all that are young and beautiful, of all who
+are better than himself?”
+
+“Count, I believe you know something about this order.”
+
+“Perhaps, but do not let us stop here. Come with me, dear sister.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“You shall see, somewhere where at least you will be warm, and en route
+I will tell you all I know about this. Take my arm, sister, and you the
+other, Madlle. de Taverney, and let us turn to the right.”
+
+“Well, but now go on,” said the queen.
+
+“This evening after the king’s supper, he came to his cabinet. He had
+been talking all day to Count Haga, you had not been seen——”
+
+“No, at two o’clock I left to go to Paris.”
+
+“I know it. The king, allow me to tell you, dear sister, was thinking
+no more about you than about Haroun-al-Raschid, or his Vizier Giaffar,
+and was talking geography. I listened with some impatience, for I also
+wanted to go out; probably not with the same object as you.”
+
+“Where are we going?” interrupted the queen.
+
+“Oh, close by; take care, there is a snow-heap. Madlle. de Taverney, if
+you leave my arm you will certainly fall. But to return to the king: he
+was thinking of nothing but latitude and longitude, when M. de Provence
+said to him, ‘I should like to pay my respects to the queen.’
+
+“‘The queen sups at home,’ replied the king.
+
+“‘Oh, I believed her at Paris.’
+
+“‘No, she is at home,’ said the king, quietly.
+
+“‘I have just come from there, and been denied to her,’ said M. de
+Provence.
+
+“Then I saw the king frown. He dismissed us, and doubtless went to make
+inquiries. Louis is jealous by fits, you know; he must have asked to
+see you, and being refused, become suspicious.”
+
+“Yes, Madame de Misery had orders to do so.”
+
+“Then, to know whether you were out or not, he has given these strict
+orders.”
+
+“Oh, it is shameful treatment. Confess, is it not?”
+
+“Indeed, I think so; but here we are.”
+
+“This house?”
+
+“Does it displease you?”
+
+“No, I do not say that—it is charming. But your servants?”
+
+“Well!”
+
+“If they see me.”
+
+“Come in, sister, and I will guarantee that no one sees you, not even
+whoever opens the door.”
+
+“Impossible!”
+
+“We will try,” said he, laughing; and laying his hand on one of the
+panels, the door flew open.
+
+“Enter, I pray you,” said he, “there is no one near.”
+
+The queen looked at Andrée, then, making up her mind, went in, and the
+door shut behind them.
+
+She found herself in a vestibule, small, but ornamented in perfect
+taste. The floor was mosaic work, representing bouquets of flowers,
+while numerous rose-trees on marble brackets scented the air with a
+perfume equally delicious as rare at that time of the year.
+
+It looked all so charming, that the ladies began to forget their fears
+and scruples.
+
+“So far well,” said the queen; “we have a shelter, at all events, and
+seemingly a very charming one; but you had better see to one thing—that
+is, to keep off your servants.”
+
+“Oh, nothing more easy;” and the prince, seizing a little bell which
+hung on one of the pillars, rang one clear stroke.
+
+“Oh!” cried the queen, frightened, “is that the way to keep them off? I
+should have thought it would bring them.”
+
+“If I had rung again, it would have done so, but when I only ring once,
+they know they are not wanted.”
+
+“Oh, you are a man of precaution!” said the queen laughing.
+
+“Now, dear sister, take the trouble to go up-stairs.”
+
+“Let us obey,” said the queen, “the genius of this place appears not
+disagreeable;” and they went up, their steps making no sound on the
+thick Aubusson carpet.
+
+At the top, the prince rang another bell, which gave them a fresh start
+of surprise, and their astonishment increased when they saw the doors
+open of themselves.
+
+“Really, Andrée,” said the queen, “I begin to tremble, do not you?”
+
+“Oh, madame, I shall follow fearlessly wherever your majesty goes.”
+
+“Enter,” said the prince, “for here is your apartment;” and he ushered
+them into a charming little room, furnished ‘en buhl,’ with a painted
+ceiling and walls, and a rosewood floor. It opened into a boudoir,
+fitted up with white cashmere, beautifully embroidered with groups of
+flowers, and hung with tapestry of exquisite workmanship. Beyond the
+boudoir was a bedroom, painted blue, hung with curtains of silk and
+lace, and with a sumptuous bed in an alcove. A fire burned on the
+hearth, and a dozen perfumed wax-lights in candelabra.
+
+Such were the marvels which presented themselves to the eyes of the
+wondering ladies. No living being was to be seen; fire and lights
+seemed to have come without hands.
+
+The queen stopped on the threshold of the bedroom, looking half afraid
+to enter.
+
+“Sister,” said the count, “these are my bachelor apartments; here I
+come alone.”
+
+“Always?” asked the queen.
+
+“Doubtless,” answered he.
+
+“I understand now,” said the queen, “why Madame la Comtesse is
+sometimes unquiet.”
+
+“Confess, however, that if she is unquiet to-night, it Will be without
+reason.”
+
+“To-night, I do not say, but other nights.” Then, sitting down; “I am
+dreadfully tired,” she said; “are not you, Andrée?”
+
+“I can scarcely stand, and if your majesty permits——”
+
+“Indeed you look ill, mademoiselle,” said the count.
+
+“You must go to bed,” said the queen. “M. le Comte gives us up this
+room; do you not, Charles?”
+
+“Entirely, madame.”
+
+“One moment, count. If you go away, how can we recall you?”
+
+“You will not need me; you are mistress of this house.”
+
+“But there are other rooms.”
+
+“Certainly, there is a dining-room, which I advise you to visit.”
+
+“With a table ready spread, no doubt.”
+
+“Oh, yes, and Mademoiselle de Taverney, who seems to me to need it
+much, will find there jellies or chicken, and wine, and you, sister,
+plenty of those fruits you are so fond of.”
+
+“And no servants?”
+
+“None.”
+
+“We will see; but how to return?”
+
+“You must not think of returning to-night. At six o’clock the gates
+will be opened, go out a quarter before, you will find in these drawers
+mantles of all colors and all shapes, if you wish to disguise
+yourselves. Go therefore to the château, regain your rooms, go to bed,
+and all will be right.”
+
+“But you, what will you do?”
+
+“Oh, I am going away.”
+
+“We turn you out, my poor brother!”
+
+“It is better for me not to remain in the same house with you.”
+
+“But you must sleep somewhere.”
+
+“Do not fear; I have three other houses like this.”
+
+The queen laughed. “And he pretends Madame la Comtesse has no cause to
+be anxious; oh, I will tell her!”
+
+“You dare not.”
+
+“It is true, we are dependent upon you. Then, to go away to-morrow
+morning without seeing any one?”
+
+“You must ring once, as I did below, and the door will open.”
+
+“By itself?”
+
+“By itself.”
+
+“Then good night, brother.”
+
+“Good night, sister.” He bowed and disappeared.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+THE QUEEN’S BED-CHAMBER.
+
+
+The next day, or rather the same morning, for our last chapter brought
+us to two o’clock, the King Louis XVI., in a violet-colored morning
+dress, in some disorder, and with no powder in his hair, knocked at the
+door of the queen’s ante-chamber.
+
+It was opened by one of her women.
+
+“The queen?” asked Louis, in a brusque manner.
+
+“Her majesty is asleep, sire.”
+
+The king made a movement, as though to pass in but the woman did not
+move.
+
+“Do you not see,” he said, “that I wish to come in.”
+
+“But the queen is asleep, sire,” again she said timidly.
+
+“I told you to let me pass,” answered the king, going in as he spoke.
+
+When he reached the door of the bedroom, the king saw Madame de Misery,
+the first lady-in-waiting, who was sitting reading from her mass book.
+
+She rose on seeing him. “Sire,” she said, in a low voice, and with a
+profound reverence, “her majesty has not yet called for me.”
+
+“Really?” said the king, in an ironical tone.
+
+“But, sire, it is only half-past six, and her majesty never rings
+before seven.”
+
+“And you are sure that her majesty is asleep in bed?”
+
+“I cannot affirm that she is asleep, sire, but I can that she is in
+bed.”
+
+The king could contain himself no longer, but went straight to the
+door, which he opened with some noise. The room was in complete
+darkness, the shutters closed, and the curtains drawn. A night lamp
+burned on a bracket, but it only gave a dim and feeble light.
+
+The king walked rapidly towards the bed.
+
+“Oh, Madame de Misery,” said the queen, “how noisy you are—you have
+disturbed me!”
+
+The king remained stupefied. “It is not Madame de Misery,” he murmured.
+
+“What, is it you, sire?” said Marie Antoinette, raising herself up.
+
+“Good morning, madame,” said the king, in a surly tone.
+
+“What good wind blows you here, sire? Madame de Misery, come and open
+the shutters.”
+
+She came in instantly, as usual, opened all the doors and windows, to
+let in light and fresh air.
+
+“You sleep well, madame,” said the king, seating himself, and casting
+scrutinizing glances round the room.
+
+“Yes, sire, I read late, and had your majesty not disturbed me, might
+have slept for some time longer.”
+
+“How was it that you did not receive visitors yesterday?” asked the
+king.
+
+“Whom do you mean?—M. de Provence,” said the queen, with great presence
+of mind.
+
+“Yes, exactly; he wished to pay his respects to you, and was refused.”
+
+“Well!”
+
+“They said you were out.”
+
+“Did they say that?” asked the queen carelessly. “Madame de Misery——”
+
+The lady appeared, bringing in with her a number of letters on a gold
+salver. “Did your majesty call?” she asked.
+
+“Yes. Did they tell M. de Provence yesterday that I was out? Will you
+tell the king, for really I forget.”
+
+“Sire,” said Madame de Misery, while the queen took her letters and
+began to read, “I told Monseigneur le Comte de Provence that her
+majesty did not receive.”
+
+“And by whose orders?”
+
+“By the queen’s, sire.”
+
+Meanwhile, the queen had opened one of the letters, and read these
+lines: “You returned from Paris yesterday, and entered the château at
+eight o’clock in the evening; Laurent saw you.”
+
+Madame de Misery left the room.
+
+“Pardon, sire,” said the queen, “but will you answer me one question?”
+
+“What, madame?”
+
+“Am I, or am I not, at liberty to see M. de Provence only when it
+pleases me?”
+
+“Oh, perfectly at liberty, madame, but——”
+
+“Well, his conversation wearies me; besides, he does not love me, and I
+like him no better. I expected his visit, and went to bed at eight
+o’clock to avoid it. But you look disturbed, sire.”
+
+“I believed you to be in Paris yesterday.”
+
+“At what time?”
+
+“At the time at which you pretend to have gone to bed.”
+
+“Doubtless, I went to Paris; but what of that?”
+
+“All, madame, depends on what time you returned.”
+
+“Oh, you wish to know at what time exactly I returned?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“It is easy. Madame de Misery——”
+
+The Lady reappeared.
+
+“What time was it when I returned from Paris yesterday?”
+
+“About eight o’clock, your majesty.”
+
+“I do not believe it,” said the king, “you make a mistake, Madame de
+Misery.”
+
+The lady walked to the door, and called, “Madame Dural!”
+
+“Yes, madame,” replied a voice.
+
+“At what time did her majesty return from Paris yesterday?”
+
+“About eight o’clock, madame,” replied the other.
+
+“The king thinks we are mistaken.”
+
+Madame Dural put her head out of the window, and cried, “Laurent!”
+
+“Who is Laurent?” asked the king.
+
+“The porter at the gate where her majesty entered,” said Madame de
+Misery.
+
+“Laurent,” said Madame Dural, “what time was it when her majesty came
+home last evening?”
+
+“About eight o’clock,” answered Laurent.
+
+Madame de Misery then left the room, and the king and queen remained
+alone.
+
+He felt ashamed of his suspicions.
+
+The queen, however, only said coldly, “Well, sire, is there anything
+else you wish to know?”
+
+“Oh, nothing!” cried he, taking her hands in his; “forgive me; I do not
+know what came into my head—my joy is as great as my repentance. You
+will not be angry, will you? I am in despair at having annoyed you.”
+
+The queen withdrew her hand, and said; “Sire, a queen of France must
+not tell a falsehood.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that I did not return at eight o’clock last evening.”
+
+The king drew back in surprise.
+
+“I mean,” continued the queen in the same cold manner, “that I only
+returned at six o’clock this morning.”
+
+“Madame!”
+
+“And that, but for the kindness of M. le Comte d’Artois, who gave me an
+asylum, and lodged me out of pity in one of his houses, I should have
+been left all night at the door of the château like a beggar.”
+
+“Ah! you had not then returned?” said the king, gloomily; “then I was
+right.”
+
+“Sire, you have not behaved towards me as a gentleman should.”
+
+“In what, madame?”
+
+“In this—that if you wish to know whether I return late or early, you
+have no need to close the gates, with orders not to open them, but
+simply to come to me and ask, ‘Madame, at what time did you return?’
+You have no more reason to doubt, sire. Your spies have been deceived,
+your precautions nullified, and your suspicions dissipated. I saw you
+ashamed of the part you had played, and I might have continued to
+triumph in my victory, but I think your proceedings shameful for a
+king, and unworthy of a gentleman; and I would not refuse myself the
+satisfaction of telling you so.
+
+“It is useless, sire,” she continued, seeing the king about to speak;
+“nothing can excuse your conduct towards me.”
+
+“On the contrary, madame,” replied he, “nothing is more easy. Not a
+single person in the château suspected that you had not already
+returned; therefore no one could think that my orders referred to you.
+Probably they were attributed to the dissipations of M. le Comte
+d’Artois—for that I care nothing. Therefore, madame, appearances were
+saved, as far as you were concerned. I wished simply to give you a
+secret lesson, from which the amount of irritation you show leads me to
+hope you will profit. Therefore, I still think I was in the right, and
+do not repent what I have done.”
+
+The queen listened, and seemed to calm herself, by an effort, to
+prepare for the approaching contest. “Then, sire,” she said, “you think
+you need no excuse for keeping at the door of your castle the daughter
+of Maria Theresa, your wife, and the mother of your children? No! it is
+in your eyes a pleasantry worthy of a king, and of which the morality
+doubles the value. It is nothing to you, to have forced the Queen of
+France to pass the night in this ‘petite maison,’ where the Comte
+d’Artois receives the ladies of the Opera and the ‘femmes galantes’ of
+your court. Oh no! that is nothing. A philosopher king is above all
+such considerations. Only, on this occasion, I have reason to thank
+heaven that my brother-in-law is a dissipated man, as his dissipation
+has saved me from disgrace, and his vices have sheltered my honor.”
+
+The king colored, and moved uneasily on his chair.
+
+“Oh yes!” continued the queen, with a bitter laugh, “I know that you
+are a moral king, but your morality produces strange effects. You say
+that no one knew that I was out. Will you tell me that M. de Provence,
+your instigator, did not know it; or M. le Comte d’Artois—or my women?
+who, by my orders, told you falsehoods this morning; or Laurent—bought
+by M. d’Artois and by me? Let us continue this habit, sire; you, to set
+spies and Swiss guards; and I, to buy them over and cheat you; and in a
+month we will calculate together how much the dignity of the throne and
+our marriage has gained by it.”
+
+It was evident that her words had made a great impression on him to
+whom they were addressed.
+
+“You know,” said he, in an altered voice, “that I am always sincere,
+and willing to acknowledge if I have been wrong. Will you prove to me
+that you were right to go into Paris in sledges, accompanied by a gay
+party, which, in the present unhappy state of things, is likely to give
+offense? Will you prove to me, that you were right to disappear in
+Paris, like maskers at a ball, and only to reappear scandalously late
+at night, when every one else was asleep? You have spoken of the
+dignity of the throne, and of marriage; think you that it befits a
+queen, a wife, and a mother, to act thus?”
+
+“I will reply in a few words, sire; for it seems to me, that such
+accusations merit nothing but contempt. I left Versailles in a sledge,
+because it is the quickest way of getting to Paris at present. I went
+with Madlle. de Taverney, whose reputation is certainly one of the
+purest in our court. I went to Paris, I repeat, to verify the fact that
+the King of France, the great upholder of morality—he who takes care of
+poor strangers, warms the beggars, and earns the gratitude of the
+people by his charities, leaves dying of hunger, exposed to every
+attack of vice and misery, one of his own family—one who is as much as
+himself a descendant of the kings who have reigned in France.”
+
+“What!” cried the king in surprise.
+
+“I mounted,” continued the queen, “into a garret, and there saw,
+without fire, almost without light, and without money, the
+granddaughter of a great prince, and I gave one hundred louis to this
+victim of royal forgetfulness and neglect. Then, as I was detained late
+there, and as the frost was severe, and horses go slowly over ice,
+particularly hackney-coach horses——”
+
+“Hackney-coach horses!” cried the king. “You returned in a
+hackney-coach?”
+
+“Yes, sire—No. 107.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” said the king, with every sign of vexation.
+
+“Yes, and only too happy to get it,” said the queen.
+
+“Madame!” interrupted he, “you are full of noble feelings; but this
+impetuous generosity becomes a fault. Remember,” continued he, “that I
+never suspected you of anything that was not perfectly pure and honest:
+it is only your mode of acting and adventurous spirit that displease
+me. You have, as usual, been doing good, but the way you set about it
+makes it injurious to yourself. This is what I reproach you with. You
+say that I have faults to repair—that I have failed in my duty to a
+member of my own family. Tell me who the unfortunate is, and he shall
+no longer have reason to complain.”
+
+“The name of Valois, sire, is sufficiently illustrious not to have
+escaped your memory.”
+
+“Ah!” cried Louis, with a shout of laughter, “I know now whom you mean.
+La petite Valois, is it not?—a countess of something or other.”
+
+“De la Motte, sire.”
+
+“Precisely, De la Motte; her husband is a gendarme.”
+
+“Yes, sire.”
+
+“And his wife is an intrigante. Oh! you need not trouble yourself about
+her: she is moving heaven and earth; she worries my ministers, she
+teases my aunts, and overwhelms me with supplications, memorials, and
+genealogies.”
+
+“And all this uselessly, sire.”
+
+“I must confess it.”
+
+“Is she, or is she not, a Valois?”
+
+“I believe she is.”
+
+“Well, then, I ask an honorable pension for her and a regiment for her
+husband. In fact, a decent position for this branch of the royal
+family.”
+
+“An honorable pension? Mon Dieu! how you run on, madame. Do you know
+what a terrible hole this winter has made in my funds? A regiment for
+this little gendarme, who speculated in marrying a Valois? Why, I have
+no regiments to give, even to those who deserve them, or who can pay
+for them. An income befitting a Valois for these people? when we,
+monarch as we are, have not one befitting a rich gentleman. Why, M.
+d’Orleans has sent his horses and mules to England for sale, and has
+cut off a third of his establishment. I have put down my wolf-hounds,
+and given up many other things. We are all on the privation list, great
+and small.”
+
+“But these Valois must not die of hunger.”
+
+“Have you not just given them one hundred louis?”
+
+“And what is that?”
+
+“A royal gift.”
+
+“Then give such another.”
+
+“Yours will do for us both.”
+
+“No, I want a pension for them.”
+
+“No, I will not bind myself to anything fixed; they will not let me
+forget them, and I will give when I have money to spare. I do not think
+much of this little Valois.”
+
+Saying these words, Louis held out his hand to the queen, who, however,
+turned from him and said, “No, you are not good to me, and I am angry.”
+
+“You bear malice,” said the king “and I——”
+
+“Oh, you shut the gates against me; you come at half-past six to my
+room, and force open the door in a passion.”
+
+“I was not in a passion,” said the king.
+
+“You are not now, you mean.”
+
+“What will you give me if I prove that I was not, even when I came in?”
+
+“Let me see the proof.”
+
+“Oh, it is very easy; I have it in my pocket.”
+
+“Bah!” said the queen; but adding, with curiosity, “You have brought
+something to give me, but I warn you I shall not believe you, unless
+you show it me at once.”
+
+Then, with a smile full of kindness, the king began searching in his
+pockets, with that slowness which makes the child doubly impatient for
+his toy, the animal for his food, and the woman for her present: at
+last he drew out a box of red morocco leather, artistically ornamented
+in gold.
+
+“A jewel box!” cried the queen.
+
+The king laid it on the bed.
+
+She opened it impatiently, and then called out, “Oh, mon Dieu! how
+beautiful!”
+
+The king smiled with delight. “Do you think so?” said he.
+
+The queen could not answer—she was breathless with admiration. Then she
+drew out of the box a necklace of diamonds, so large, so pure, so
+glittering, and so even, that, with sparkling eyes, she cried again,
+“Oh! it is magnificent.”
+
+“Then you are content?” said the king.
+
+“Enchanted, sire; you make me too happy.”
+
+“Really?”
+
+“See this first row; the diamonds are as large as filberts, and so
+even, you could not tell one from the other; then how beautifully the
+gradation of the rows is managed; the jeweler who made this necklace is
+an artist.”
+
+“They are two.”
+
+“Then I wager it is Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“You have guessed right.”
+
+“Indeed, no one but they would risk making such a thing.”
+
+“Madame, take care,” said the king; “you will have to pay too dear for
+this necklace.”
+
+“Oh, sire!” cried the queen, all the delight fading from her
+countenance.
+
+“You must pay the price of letting me be the first to put it on:” and
+he approached her, holding in his hands the two ends of the magnificent
+necklace, of which the clasp was one great diamond.
+
+She stopped him, saying, “But, sire, is it very dear?”
+
+“Have I not told you the price?”
+
+“Ah, Louis, we must not jest. Put the necklace back again.”
+
+“You refuse to allow me to put it on?”
+
+“Oh no, sire, if I were going to wear it.”
+
+“What?” said the king, surprised.
+
+“No,” she said; “no one shall see a necklace of this price round my
+neck.”
+
+“You will not wear it?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“You refuse me.”
+
+“I refuse to wear a million or a million and a half of francs round my
+neck, for this necklace must cost that.”
+
+“I do not deny it,” said the king.
+
+“Then I do refuse to wear such a necklace while the king’s coffers are
+empty, when he is forced to stint his charities, and to say to the
+poor, ‘God help you, for I have no more to give.’”
+
+“Are you serious in saying this?”
+
+“Listen, sire; M. de Sartines told me a short time since that with that
+sum we could build a ship of the line; and in truth, sire, the king has
+more need of a ship than the queen of a necklace.”
+
+“Oh!” cried the king, joyfully, and with his eyes full of tears, “what
+you do is sublime. Thanks, Antoinette; you are a good wife!” and he
+threw his arms round her neck and kissed her. “Oh! how France will
+bless you,” continued he; “and it shall hear what you have done.”
+
+The queen sighed.
+
+“You regret,” said he: “it is not too late.”
+
+“No, sire; shut this case, and return it to the jewelers.”
+
+“But listen, first; I have arranged the terms of payment, and I have
+the money.”
+
+“No, I have decided. I will not have the necklace; but I want something
+else.”
+
+“Diable! then my 1,600,000 francs are gone, after all.”
+
+“What! it would have cost that?”
+
+“Indeed it would.”
+
+“Reassure yourself; what I ask is much cheaper.”
+
+“What do you wish for?”
+
+“To go to Paris once more.”
+
+“Oh! that is easy enough, and not dear.”
+
+“But wait——”
+
+“Diable!”
+
+“To the Place Vendôme, to see M. Mesmer.”
+
+“Diable!” again said the king; but added: “Well, as you have denied
+yourself the necklace, I suppose I must let you go; but, on one
+condition.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“You must be accompanied by a princess of the blood.”
+
+“Shall it be Madame de Lamballe?”
+
+“Yes, if you like.”
+
+“I promise.”
+
+“Then I consent.”
+
+“Thanks, sire.”
+
+“And, now,” said the king, “I shall order my ship of the line, and call
+it the ‘Queen’s Necklace.’ You shall stand godmother, and then I will
+send it out to La Pérouse;” and, kissing his wife’s hand, he went away
+quite joyful.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+THE QUEEN’S PETITE LEVEE.
+
+
+No sooner was the king gone than the queen rose, and went to the
+window. The morning was lovely, and had the charming feeling of the
+commencement of spring, while the sun seemed almost warm. The wind had
+gone round to the west, and if it remained in that quarter this
+terrible winter was probably at an end.
+
+The snow was beginning to drip from the trees, under the influence of
+this genial morning.
+
+“If we wish to profit by the ice,” cried the queen, “I believe we must
+make haste; for look, Madame de Misery, the spring seems to have begun.
+I much wish to make up a party on the Swiss lake, and will go to-day,
+for to-morrow it may be too late.”
+
+“Then at what hour will your majesty wish to dress?”
+
+“Immediately; I will breakfast and then go.”
+
+“Are there any other orders, madame?”
+
+“See if Madlle. de Taverney has risen, and tell her I wish to speak to
+her.”
+
+“She is already waiting for you in the boudoir, madame.”
+
+“Already?” said the queen, who knew at what time she had gone to bed.
+
+“She has been there for twenty minutes, madame.”
+
+“Ask her to come in.”
+
+Andrée soon entered, dressed with her usual care, and smiling, though
+rather unquiet.
+
+The queen’s answering smile quite reassured her.
+
+“Go, my good Misery, and send me Leonard.”
+
+When she was gone, “The king has been charming,” said the queen to
+Andrée; “he has laughed, and is quite disarmed.”
+
+“But does he know, madame?”
+
+“You understand, Andrée, that a woman does not tell falsehoods when she
+has done no wrong and is the Queen of France.”
+
+“Certainly, madame.”
+
+“Still, my dear Andrée, it seems we have been wrong——”
+
+“Doubtless, madame, but how?”
+
+“Why, in pitying Madame de la Motte; the king dislikes her, but I
+confess she pleased me.”
+
+“Here is Leonard,” said Madame de Misery, returning.
+
+The queen seated herself before her silver-gilt toilet-table, and the
+celebrated hair-dresser commenced his operations.
+
+She had the most beautiful hair in the world, and was fond of looking
+at it; Leonard knew this, and therefore with her was always tardy in
+his movements, that she might have time to admire it.
+
+Marie Antoinette was looking beautiful that morning: she was pleased
+and happy.
+
+Her hair finished, she turned again to Andrée.
+
+“You have not been scolded,” she said; “you are free: besides, they say
+every one is afraid of you, because, like Minerva, you are too wise.”
+
+“I, madame?”
+
+“Yes, you; but, oh, mon Dieu! how happy you are to be unmarried, and,
+above all, to be content to be so.”
+
+Andrée blushed, and tried to smile.
+
+“It is a vow that I have made,” said she.
+
+“And which you will keep, beautiful vestal?”
+
+“I hope so.”
+
+“Apropos,” said the queen, “I remember, that although unmarried, you
+have a master since yesterday morning.”
+
+“A master, madame?”
+
+“Yes, your dear brother; what do you call him?—Philippe, is it not?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Has he arrived?”
+
+“He came yesterday.”
+
+“And you have not yet seen him? I took you away to Paris, selfish that
+I was; it was unpardonable.”
+
+“Oh, madame! I pardon you willingly, and Philippe also.”
+
+“Are you sure?”
+
+“I answer for both of us.”
+
+“How is he?”
+
+“As usual, beautiful and good, madame.”
+
+“How old is he now?”
+
+“Thirty-two.”
+
+“Poor Philippe! do you know that it is fourteen years since I first met
+him! But I have not seen him now for nine or ten.”
+
+“Whenever your majesty pleases to receive him he will be but too happy
+to assure you that this long absence has not altered the sentiment of
+respectful devotion which he has ever felt for his queen.”
+
+“I will see him at once.”
+
+“In a quarter of an hour he will be at your majesty’s feet.”
+
+Scarcely was Andrée gone, when the queen saw reflected in the glass an
+arch and laughing face. “My brother D’Artois,” cried the queen; “how
+you frightened me!”
+
+“Good morning, your majesty,” said the young prince; “how did your
+majesty pass the night?”
+
+“Very badly, brother.”
+
+“And the morning?”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“That is the most important; I guessed that all had gone right, for I
+have just met the king, and he was smiling most graciously.”
+
+The queen laughed, and he echoed it.
+
+The queen had just cast off her dressing-gown of India muslin, and put
+on her morning dress, when the door opened and Andrée entered, leading
+by the hand a handsome man with a brown complexion, noble black eyes,
+profoundly imbued with melancholy, and a soldier-like carriage. He
+looked like one of Coypel’s or Gainsborough’s beautiful portraits.
+
+He was dressed in a dark gray coat, embroidered in silver, a white
+cravat, and a dark waistcoat; and this rather somber style of dress
+seemed to suit the manly character of his beauty.
+
+“Your majesty,” said Andrée, “here is my brother.”
+
+Philippe bowed gravely.
+
+The queen, who had until now been looking at his figure reflected in
+her mirror, turned round and saluted him. She was beautiful, with that
+royal beauty which made all around her not only partisans of the
+throne, but adorers of the woman. She possessed the power of beauty;
+and, if we may make use of the inversion, the beauty of power.
+Philippe, seeing her smile, and feeling those limpid eyes, at once soft
+and proud, fixed upon him, turned pale, and could hardly restrain his
+emotion.
+
+“It appears, M. de Taverney,” said she, “that you pay me your first
+visit; I thank you for it.”
+
+“Your majesty deigns to forget that it is I who should give thanks.”
+
+“How many years have passed since we last met, monsieur? Alas! the most
+beautiful part of our lives.”
+
+“For me, madame, but not for your majesty, to whom all days are alike
+charming.”
+
+“You were then pleased with America, M. de Taverney, as you remained
+there so long?”
+
+“Madame,” answered Philippe, “M. de la Fayette, when he left the New
+World, had need of an officer in whom he could place confidence to take
+the command of the French auxiliaries. He proposed me, therefore, to
+General Washington, who accepted me.”
+
+“It seems,” said the queen, “that this new country sends us home many
+heroes.”
+
+“Your majesty does not mean that for me?” asked Philippe, laughing.
+
+“Why not?” Then turning to the Comte d’Artois, “See, brother,” she
+said; “has not M. de Taverney the look of a hero?”
+
+Philippe, seeing himself thus introduced to the young prince, bowed
+low. He returned it, and said, “I am most happy to make the
+acquaintance of such a gentleman. What are your intentions in returning
+to France, sir?”
+
+“Monseigneur,” answered Philippe, “my sister is my first consideration;
+whatever she wishes, I shall do.”
+
+“But she has a father, I believe,” said the count.
+
+“Never mind him,” said the queen, quickly, “I prefer Andrée under her
+brother’s protection, and he under yours, count. You will take charge
+of M. de Taverney, will you not?”
+
+The count bowed an assent.
+
+“For, do you know,” continued she, “that a very strong link binds me to
+M. de Taverney?”
+
+“What do you mean, sister?”
+
+“That he was the first Frenchman who presented himself to my eyes when
+I arrived in this country; and I had taken a very sincere vow to
+promote the happiness of the first Frenchman I should meet.”
+
+Philippe felt the blood rush to his face, and Andrée looked at him
+rather sadly.
+
+The queen observed these looks of the brother and sister, and fancied
+she divined the cause. “Why,” she thought, “should not Monsieur de
+Taverney have partaken the epidemic passion which pervaded all France
+for the dauphiness in 1774?” Marie Antoinette therefore attributed
+these looks to some confidence of this kind which the brother had made
+to the sister; and in consequence, she smiled still more upon him, and
+redoubled her kindness towards Andrée.
+
+The queen was a true woman, and gloried in being loved.
+
+It was an innocent coquetry, and the most generous souls have the most
+strongly these aspirations for the love of all who surround them.
+
+Alas! a time is coming for thee, poor queen, when those smiles towards
+those who love thee, with which thou hast been reproached, thou shalt
+vainly bestow on those that love thee not!
+
+The Comte d’Artois approached Philippe while the queen was talking to
+Andrée, and said, “Do you think Washington so very great a general?”
+
+“Certainly a great man, monseigneur.”
+
+“And what effect did our French produce out there?”
+
+“As much good as the English did harm.”
+
+“Ah, you are a partisan of the new ideas, my dear M. Philippe de
+Taverney; but have you reflected on one thing?”
+
+“What, monseigneur? I assure you that out there, encamped in the
+fields, and in the savannahs on the borders of the great lakes, I had
+plenty of time for reflection.”
+
+“On this, that in making war out there, it was neither on the Indians
+nor on the English, but on us.”
+
+“Ah, monseigneur, I do not deny that that is possible.”
+
+“Therefore I do not admire so much these victories of M. de la Fayette
+and Washington. It is egotism, perhaps, but it is not egotism for
+myself alone.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur!”
+
+“But do you know why I will still support you with all my power?”
+
+“Whatever be the reason, I shall be truly grateful.”
+
+“It is, because you are not one of those whose names have been blazoned
+forth. You have done your duty bravely, but you have not thrust
+yourself forward; you are not known in Paris.”
+
+The young prince then kissed the queen’s hand, and bowing to Andrée,
+left the room.
+
+Then the queen turned again to Philippe, saying, “Have you seen your
+father, sir?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“Why did you not go to see him first?”
+
+“I had sent home my valet, and my luggage, but my father sent the
+servant back again, with orders to present myself first to you, or the
+king.”
+
+“It is a lovely morning,” said the queen; “to-morrow the ice will begin
+to melt. Madame de Misery, order my sledge and send my chocolate in
+here.”
+
+“Will not your majesty take something to eat? You had no supper last
+night.”
+
+“You mistake, my good Misery, we had supper. Had we not, Andrée?”
+
+“A very good one, madame.”
+
+“So I will only have my chocolate. Quick, Madame de Misery; this fine
+weather tempts me, and the Swiss lake will be full of company.”
+
+“Your majesty is going to skate?” asked Philippe.
+
+“Ah, you will laugh at us, M. l’Américain; you, who have traversed
+lakes where there are more miles than we have feet here.”
+
+“Madame,” replied Philippe, “here you amuse yourself with the cold, but
+there they die of it.”
+
+“Ah, here is my chocolate; Andrée, take a cup with me.”
+
+Andrée bowed, coloring with pleasure.
+
+“You see, M. de Taverney, I am always the same, hating all etiquette,
+as in old times. Do you remember those old days? Are you changed since
+then, M. Philippe?”
+
+“No, madame,” replied the young man, “I am not changed—at least, not in
+heart.”
+
+“Well, I am glad to hear that, for it was a good one. A cup for M. de
+Taverney, Madame de Misery.”
+
+“Oh, madame!” cried Philippe, “you cannot mean it; such an honor for a
+poor obscure soldier like me.”
+
+“An old friend,” said the queen; “this day seems to remind me of my
+youth; I seem again happy, free, proud and yet foolish. This day
+recalls to me that happy time at my dear Trianon, and all our frolics
+there, Andrée and I together. This day brings back to my memory my
+roses, my strawberries, and my birds, that I was so fond of, all, even
+to my good gardeners, whose happy faces often announced to me a new
+flower or a delicious fruit; and M. de Jussieu and that original old
+Rousseau, who is since dead. But come,” continued she, herself pouring
+the chocolate into his cup, “you are a soldier, and accustomed to fire,
+so burn yourself gloriously with this chocolate, for I am in a hurry.”
+
+She laughed, but Philippe, taking it seriously, drank it off most
+heroically.
+
+The queen saw him, and laughing still more, said, “You are indeed a
+perfect hero, M. de Taverney.” She then rose, and her woman brought her
+bonnet, ermine mantle, and gloves.
+
+Philippe took his hat under his arm, and followed her and Andrée out.
+
+“M. de Taverney, I do not mean you to leave me,” said the queen. “Come
+round to my right.”
+
+They went down the great staircase; the drums were beating, the
+clarions of the body-guard were playing, and this whole scene, and the
+enthusiasm everywhere shown towards that beautiful queen by whose side
+he was walking, completed the intoxication of the young man. The change
+was too sudden, after so many years of exile and regret, to such great
+joy and honor.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+THE SWISS LAKE.
+
+
+Every one knows this piece of water, which still goes by the same name.
+An avenue of linden trees skirts each bank, and these avenues were on
+this day thronged with pedestrians, of all ranks and ages, who had come
+to enjoy the sight of the sledges and the skating. The toilets of the
+ladies presented a brilliant spectacle of luxury and gaiety, their high
+coiffures, gay bonnets with the veils half down, fur mantles, and
+brilliant silks with deep flounces, were mingled with the orange or
+blue coats of the gentlemen.
+
+Gay lackeys also, in blue and red, passed among the crowd, looking like
+poppies and cornflowers blown about by the wind.
+
+Now and then a cry of admiration burst from the crowd, as St. George,
+the celebrated skater, executed some circle so perfect, that a
+mathematician could scarcely have found a fault in it.
+
+While the banks of the lake were thus crowded, the ice itself presented
+a scene not less gay, and still more animated: sledges flew about in
+all directions. Several dogs, clothed in embroidered velvet, and with
+plumes of feathers on their heads, looking like fabulous animals, drew
+a sledge in which sat M. de Lauzun, who was wrapped up in a tiger skin.
+Here you might see a lady masked, doubtless on account of the cold, in
+some sledge of a quieter character, while a handsome skater, in a
+velvet riding-coat, hangs over the back, to assist and direct her
+progress; whatever they may be saying to each other is quite inaudible,
+amidst this busy hum of voices; but who can blame a rendezvous which
+takes place in the open air, and under the eyes of all Versailles? and
+whatever they may be saying matters to no one else: it is evident that
+in the midst of this crowd their life is an isolated one; they think
+only of each other.
+
+All at once a general movement in the crowd announces that they have
+recognized the queen, who is approaching the lake. A general cry of
+“Vive la reine!” is heard, and all endeavor to approach as nearly as
+possible to the place where she has stationed herself. One person alone
+does not appear to share this feeling, for on her approach he
+disappears with all his suite as fast as possible in the opposite
+direction.
+
+“Do you see,” said the Comte d’Artois to the queen, whom he had
+hastened to join, “how my brother Provence flies from you?”
+
+“He fears that I should reproach him.”
+
+“Oh, no; it is not that that makes him fly.”
+
+“It is his conscience, then.”
+
+“Not even that, sister.”
+
+“What then?”
+
+“I will tell you. He had just heard that M. de Suffren, our glorious
+commander, will arrive this evening; and as the news is important, he
+wishes to leave you in ignorance of it.”
+
+“But is the Minister of Marine ignorant of this arrival?”
+
+“Ah, mon Dieu, sister, have you not learned enough of ministers, during
+the fourteen years you have passed here, as dauphiness and queen, to
+know that they are always ignorant of precisely what they ought to
+know? However, I have told him about this, and he is deeply grateful.”
+
+“I should think so,” said the queen.
+
+“Yes, and I have need of his gratitude, for I want a loan.”
+
+“Oh,” cried the queen, laughing, “how disinterested you are.”
+
+“Sister,” said he, “you must want money; I offer you half of what I am
+going to receive.”
+
+“Oh no, brother, keep it for yourself; I thank you, but I want nothing
+just now.”
+
+“Diable! do not wait too long to claim my promise, because if you do, I
+may not be in a condition to fulfil it.”
+
+“In that case I must endeavor to find out some state secret for
+myself.”
+
+“Sister, you begin to look cold.”
+
+“Well, here is M. de Taverney returning with my sledge.”
+
+“Then you do not want me any longer?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then send me away, I beg.”
+
+“Why? do you imagine you will be in my way?”
+
+“No; it is I who want my liberty.”
+
+“Adieu, then.”
+
+“Au revoir, dear sister.”
+
+“Till when?”
+
+“Till this evening.”
+
+“Is there anything to take place to-night, then?”
+
+“Yes; this evening the minister will bring M. de Suffren to the jeu du
+roi.”
+
+“Very well, then, till this evening.”
+
+And the young prince, bowing with his habitual elegance, disappeared
+among the crowd.
+
+Old Taverney, who was one of the nearest spectators of all this, had
+been watching his son eagerly, and felt almost chagrined at this
+conversation between the queen and her brother-in-law, as it
+interrupted the familiar intercourse which his son had before been
+enjoying; therefore, when the young man returned with the queen’s
+sledge, and, seeing his father, whom he had not met for ten years,
+advanced towards him, he motioned him away, saying, “We will talk
+afterwards, when you have left the queen.”
+
+Philippe, therefore, returned to the queen, who was getting into the
+sledge with Andrée. Two attendants approached to push it, but she said,
+“No; I do not wish to go like that; you skate, M. de Taverney? Does he
+not, Andrée?”
+
+“Philippe used to skate remarkably well,” replied she.
+
+“And now I dare say he rivals St. George,” said the queen.
+
+“I will do my best to justify your majesty’s opinion,” said he; and
+putting on his skates, he placed himself behind her sledge, and they
+commenced their course.
+
+St. George, seeing the queen on the ice, began to execute his most
+skilful maneuvers, and finished off by going in circles round her
+sledge, making the most elegant bows each time he passed her.
+
+Then Philippe, moved to emulation, began to push along the sledge with
+such wonderful rapidity that St. George found no little difficulty in
+keeping pace with it.
+
+Several people, however, seeing the queen move at this marvelous rate,
+uttered cries of terror.
+
+“If your majesty desires,” said Philippe, “I will stop, or go slower.”
+
+“Oh no!” said she, with that enthusiasm which she carried into
+everything; “oh no! I am not at all afraid; quicker still, chevalier,
+if you can.”
+
+“Oh yes, madame, and you are quite safe; you may trust to me;” and his
+vigorous arm propelled them at a still increased pace. He emulated the
+circles of St. George, and flew round as fast with the sledge as could
+even that experienced skater without it.
+
+Then, leaving these evolutions, he pushed the sledge straight before
+him, and with such force that he himself remained behind.
+
+St. George, seeing this, made a tremendous effort to gain the sledge
+before him, but was distanced by Philippe, who once more seized it,
+turned it, and flew in a new direction.
+
+The air now rang with such acclamations, that Philippe began to feel
+ashamed.
+
+Then the queen, who had joined the applause with her hands, turned
+round and said to him, “And now, M. de Taverney, that you have gained
+the victory, stop, I beg, or you will kill me.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+THE TEMPTER.
+
+
+Philippe, at this request of the queen, made a strong effort, and
+stopped the sledge abruptly.
+
+“And now, rest yourself,” said she, coming out of it all trembling.
+“Indeed, I never could have believed the delight of going so fast, but
+you have made me quite tremble;” and she took Philippe’s arm to support
+herself, until a general murmur reminded her that she was once more
+committing a breach of etiquette.
+
+As for Philippe, overwhelmed by this great honor, he felt more ashamed
+than if his sovereign had insulted him publicly; he lowered his eyes,
+and his heart beat as though it would burst.
+
+The queen, however, withdrew her arm almost immediately, and asked for
+a seat. They brought her one.
+
+“Thanks, M. de Taverney,” said she; then, in a lower tone, “Mon Dieu,
+how disagreeable it is to be always surrounded by spying fools!”
+
+A number of ladies and gentlemen soon crowded round her, and all looked
+with no little curiosity at Philippe, who, to hide his confusion,
+stooped to take off his skates, and then fell into the background.
+
+After a short time, however, the queen said, “I shall take cold if I
+sit here, I must take another turn;” and she remounted her sledge.
+
+Philippe waited, but in vain, for another order.
+
+Twenty gentlemen soon presented themselves, but she said, “No, I thank
+you, I have my attendants;” and she moved slowly off, while Philippe
+remained alone.
+
+He looked about for St. George, to console him for his defeat by some
+compliment, but he had received a message from his patron, the duke
+d’Orleans, and had left the place.
+
+Philippe, therefore, rather tired, and half frightened at all that had
+passed, remained stationary, following with his eyes the queen’s
+sledge, which was now at some distance, when he felt some one touch
+him; he turned round and saw his father.
+
+The little old man, more shrunk than ever, enveloped in furs like a
+Laplander, had touched his son with his elbow, that he might not be
+obliged to take his hands out of the muff that hung from his neck.
+
+“You do not embrace me, my son,” said he.
+
+“My dear father, I do it with all my heart.”
+
+“And now,” said the old man, “go quickly;” and he pushed him away.
+
+“Where do you wish me to go, sir?”
+
+“Why, morbleu, over there.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“To the queen.”
+
+“No, I thank you, father.”
+
+“How? No, I thank you! are you mad? You will not go after the queen?”
+
+“My dear father, it is impossible!”
+
+“Impossible to join the queen, who is expecting you?”
+
+“Who is expecting me!”
+
+“Yes, who wishes for you.”
+
+“Wishes for me? Indeed, father,” added he, coldly, “I think you forget
+yourself.”
+
+“It is astonishing!” said the old man, stamping his foot. “Where on
+earth do you spring from?”
+
+“Monsieur,” said his son, sadly, “you will make me conclude one of two
+things.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Either that you are laughing at me, or else, excuse me, that you are
+losing your senses.”
+
+The old man seized his son by the arm so energetically that he made him
+start. “Listen, M. Philippe,” said he; “America is, I know, a country a
+long way from this, and where there is neither king nor queen.”
+
+“Nor subjects.”
+
+“Nor subjects, M. Philosopher; I do not deny it; that point does not
+interest me; but what does so is that I fear also to have to come to a
+conclusion——”
+
+“What, father?”
+
+“That you are a simpleton, my son; just trouble yourself to look over
+there.”
+
+“Well, sir!”
+
+“Well, the queen looks back, and it is the third time she has done so;
+there! she turns again, and who do you think she is looking for but for
+you, M. Puritan?”
+
+“Well, sir,” said the young man; “if it were true, which it probably is
+not, that the queen was looking for——”
+
+“Oh!” interrupted the old man, angrily, “this fellow is not of my
+blood; he cannot be a Taverney. Sir, I repeat to you that the queen is
+looking for you.”
+
+“You have good sight, sir,” said his son, dryly.
+
+“Come,” said the old man, more gently, and trying to moderate his
+impatience, “trust my experience: are you, or are you not, a man?”
+
+Philippe made no reply.
+
+His father ground his teeth with anger, to see himself opposed by this
+steadfast will; but making one more effort, “Philippe, my son,” said
+he, still more gently, “listen to me.”
+
+“It seems to me, sir, that I have been doing nothing else for the last
+quarter of an hour.”
+
+“Oh,” thought the old man, “I will draw you down from your stilts. I
+will find out your weak side.” Then aloud, “You have overlooked one
+thing, Philippe.”
+
+“What, sir?”
+
+“When you left for America, there was a king, but no queen, if it were
+not the Dubarry; hardly a respectable sovereign. You come back and see
+a queen, and you think you must be very respectful.”
+
+“Doubtless.”
+
+“Poor child!” said his father, laughing.
+
+“How, sir? You blame me for respecting the monarchy—you, a Taverney
+Maison-Rouge, one of the best names in France.”
+
+“I do not speak of the monarchy, but only of the queen.”
+
+“And you make a difference?”
+
+“Pardieu, I should think so. What is royalty? a crown that is
+unapproachable. But what is a queen? a woman, and she, on the contrary,
+is very approachable.”
+
+Philippe made a gesture of disgust.
+
+“You do not believe me,” continued the old man, almost fiercely; “well,
+ask M. de Coigny, ask M. de Lauzun, or M. de Vaudreuil.”
+
+“Silence, father!” cried Philippe; “or for these three blasphemies, not
+being able to strike you three blows with my sword, I shall strike them
+on myself.”
+
+The old man stepped back, murmuring, “Mon Dieu, what a stupid animal!
+Good evening, son; you rejoice me; I thought I was the father, the old
+man, but now I think it is I who must be the young Apollo, and you the
+old man;” and he turned away.
+
+Philippe stopped him: “You did not speak seriously, did you, father? It
+is impossible that a gentleman of good blood like you should give ear
+to these calumnies, spread by the enemies, not only of the queen, but
+of the throne.”
+
+“He will not believe, the double mule!” said the old man.
+
+“You speak to me as you would speak before God?”
+
+“Yes, truly.”
+
+“Before God, whom you approach every day?”
+
+“It seems to me, my son,” replied he, “that I am a gentleman, and that
+you may believe my word.”
+
+“It is, then, your opinion that the queen has had lovers?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Those whom you have named?”
+
+“And others, for what I know. Ask all the town and the court. One must
+be just returned from America to be ignorant of all they say.”
+
+“And who say this, sir? some vile pamphleteers!”
+
+“Oh! do you, then, take me for an editor?”
+
+“No, and there is the mischief, when men like you repeat such
+calumnies, which, without that, would melt away like the unwholesome
+vapors which sometimes obscure the most brilliant sunshine; but people
+like you, repeating them, give them a terrible stability. Oh! monsieur,
+for mercy’s sake do not repeat such things.”
+
+“I do repeat them, however.”
+
+“And why do you repeat them?” cried Philippe, fiercely.
+
+“Oh!” said the old man with his satanic laugh, “to prove to you that I
+was not wrong when I said, ‘Philippe, the queen looks back; she is
+looking for you. Philippe, the queen wishes for you; run to her.’”
+
+“Oh! father, hold your tongue, or you will drive me mad.”
+
+“Really, Philippe, I do not understand you. Is it a crime to love? It
+shows that one has a heart; and in the eyes of this woman, in her
+voice, in everything, can you not read her heart? She loves; is it you?
+or is it another? I know not, but believe in my own experience: at this
+moment she loves, or is beginning to love, some one. But you are a
+philosopher, a Puritan, a Quaker, an American; you do not love; well,
+then, let her look; let her turn again and again; despise her,
+Philippe, I should say Joseph de Taverney.”
+
+The old man hurried away, satisfied with the effect he had produced,
+and fled like the serpent who was the first tempter into crime.
+
+Philippe remained alone, his heart swelling and his blood boiling. He
+remained fixed in his place for about half an hour, when the queen,
+having finished her tour, returned to where he stood, and called out to
+him:
+
+“You must be rested now, M. de Taverney; come, then, for there is no
+one like you to guide a queen royally.”
+
+Philippe ran to her, giddy, and hardly knowing what he did. He placed
+his hand on the back of the sledge, but started as though he had burned
+his fingers; the queen had thrown herself negligently back in the
+sledge, and the fingers of the young man touched the locks of Marie
+Antoinette.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+M. DE SUFFREN.
+
+
+Contrary to the usual habits of a court, the secret had been faithfully
+confined to Louis XVI. and the Comte d’Artois. No one knew at what time
+or hour M. de Suffren would arrive.
+
+The king had announced his jeu du roi for the evening; and at seven
+o’clock he entered, with ten princes and princesses of his family. The
+queen came holding the princess royal, now about seven years old, by
+the hand. The assembly was numerous and brilliant. The Comte d’Artois
+approached the queen, and said, “Look around you, madame.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“What do you see?”
+
+The queen looked all around, and then said, “I see nothing but happy
+and friendly faces.”
+
+“Rather, then, whom do you not see?”
+
+“Oh! I understand; I wonder if he is always going to run away from me.”
+
+“Oh no! only this is a good joke; M. de Provence has gone to wait at
+the barrier for M. de Suffren.”
+
+“Well, I do not see why you laugh at that; he has been the most
+cunning, after all, and will be the first to receive and pay his
+compliments to this gentleman.”
+
+“Come, dear sister,” replied the young prince, laughing, “you have a
+very mean opinion of our diplomacy. M. de Provence has gone to meet him
+at Fontainebleau; but we have sent some one to meet him at Villejuif,
+so that my brother will wait by himself at Fontainebleau, while our
+messenger will conduct M. de Suffren straight to Versailles, without
+passing through Paris at all.”
+
+“That is excellently imagined.”
+
+“It is not bad, I flatter myself; but it is your turn to play.”
+
+The king had noticed that M. d’Artois was making the queen laugh, and
+guessing what it was about, gave them a significant glance, to show
+that he shared their amusement.
+
+The saloon where they played was full of persons of the highest rank—M.
+de Condé, M. de Penthièvre, M. de Tremouille, etc. The news of the
+arrival of M. de Suffren had, as we have said, been kept quiet, but
+there had been a kind of vague rumor that some one was expected, and
+all were somewhat preoccupied and watchful. Even the king, who was in
+the habit of playing six-franc pieces in order to moderate the play of
+the court, played gold without thinking of it.
+
+The queen, however, to all appearances entered, as usual, eagerly into
+the game.
+
+Philippe, who, with his sister, was admitted to the party, in vain
+endeavored to shake from his mind his father’s words. He asked himself
+if indeed this old man, who had seen so much of courts, was not right;
+and if his own ideas were indeed those of a Puritan, and belonging to
+another land. This queen, so charming, so beautiful, and so friendly
+towards him, was she indeed only a terrible coquette, anxious to add
+one lover more to her list, as the entomologist transfixes a new insect
+or butterfly, without thinking of the tortures of the poor creature
+whose heart he is piercing? “Coigny, Vaudreuil,” repeated he to
+himself, “they loved the queen, and were loved by her. Oh, why does
+this calumny haunt me so, or why will not some ray of light discover to
+me the heart of this woman?”
+
+Then Philippe turned his eyes to the other end of the table, where, by
+a strange chance, these gentlemen were sitting side by side, and both
+seemingly equally forgetful of, and insensible to, the queen; and he
+thought that it was impossible that these men could have loved and be
+so calm, or that they could have been loved and seem so forgetful. From
+them he turned to look at Marie Antoinette herself and interrogated
+that pure forehead, that haughty mouth, and beautiful face; and the
+answer they all seemed to give him was: calumnies, all calumnies, these
+rumors, originating only in the hates and jealousies of a court.
+
+While he was coming to these conclusions the clock struck a quarter to
+eight, and at that moment a great noise of footsteps and the sound of
+many voices were heard on the staircase. The king, hearing it, signed
+to the queen, and they both rose and broke up the game. She then passed
+into the great reception-hall, and the king followed her.
+
+An aide-de-camp of M. de Castries, Minister of Marine, approached the
+king and said something in a low tone, when M. de Castries himself
+entered, and said aloud, “Will your majesty receive M. de Suffren, who
+has arrived from Toulon?”
+
+At this name a general movement took place in the assembly.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the king, “with great pleasure;” and M. de Castries
+left the room.
+
+To explain this interest for M. de Suffren, and why king, queen,
+princes, and ministers contended who should be the first to receive
+him, a few words will suffice.
+
+Suffren is a name essentially French, like Turenne or Jean Bart. Since
+the last war with England, M. de Suffren had fought seven great naval
+battles without sustaining a defeat. He had taken Trincomalee and
+Gondeleur, scoured the seas, and taught the Nabob Hyder Ali that France
+was the first Power in Europe. He had carried into his profession all
+the skill of an able diplomatist, all the bravery and all the tactics
+of a soldier, and all the prudence of a wise ruler. Hardy,
+indefatigable, and proud when the honor of the French nation was in
+question, he had harassed the English, by land and by sea, till even
+these fierce islanders were afraid of him.
+
+But after the battle, in which he risked his life like the meanest
+sailor, he ever showed himself humane, generous, and compassionate. He
+was now about fifty-six years of age, stout and short, but with an eye
+of fire and a noble carriage, and, like a man accustomed to surmount
+all difficulties, he had dressed in his traveling-carriage.
+
+He wore a blue coat embroidered with gold, a red waistcoat, and blue
+trousers.
+
+All the guards through whom he had passed, when he was named to them by
+M. de Castries, had saluted him as they would have done a king.
+
+“M. de Suffren,” said the king when he entered, “welcome to Versailles;
+you bring glory with you.”
+
+M. de Suffren bent his knee to the king, who, however, raised him and
+embraced him cordially; then, turning to the queen, “Madame,” said he,
+“here is M. de Suffren, the victor of Trincomalee and Gondeleur, and
+the terror of the English.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said the queen, “I wish you to know that you have not fired
+a shot for the glory of France but my heart has beaten with admiration
+and gratitude.”
+
+When she ceased, the Comte d’Artois approached with his son, the Duc
+d’Angoulême.
+
+“My son,” said he, “you see a hero; look at him well, for it is a rare
+sight.”
+
+“Monseigneur,” replied the young prince, “I have read about the great
+men in Plutarch, but I could not see them; I thank you for showing me
+M. de Suffren.”
+
+The king now took the arm of M. de Suffren, in order to lead him to his
+study, and talk to him of his travels; but he made a respectful
+resistance.
+
+“Sire,” said he, “will your majesty permit me——”
+
+“Oh! whatever you wish, sir.”
+
+“Then, sire, one of my officers has committed so grave a fault against
+discipline, that I thought your majesty ought to be sole judge of the
+offense.”
+
+“Oh, M. de Suffren, I had hoped your first request would have been a
+favor, and not a punishment.”
+
+“Your majesty, as I have had the honor to say, shall judge what ought
+to be done. In the last battle the officer of whom I speak was on board
+_La Sévère_.”
+
+“Oh, the ship that struck her flag!” cried the king, frowning.
+
+“Yes, sire. The captain of _La Sévère_ had indeed struck his flag, and
+already Sir Hugh, the English admiral, had despatched a boat to take
+possession of his prize, when the lieutenant in command of the guns of
+the middle deck, perceiving that the firing above had ceased, and
+having received orders to stop his own fire, went on deck, saw the flag
+lowered, and the captain ready to surrender. At this sight, sir, all
+his French blood revolted, he took the flag which lay there, and,
+seizing a hammer, ordered the men to recommence the fire, while he
+nailed it to the mast. It was by this action, sire, that _La Sévère_
+was preserved to your majesty.”
+
+“A splendid action!” cried the king and queen simultaneously.
+
+“Yes, sire—yes, madame, but a grave fault against discipline. The order
+had been given by the captain, and the lieutenant ought to have obeyed.
+I, however, ask for the pardon of the officer, and the more so as he is
+my own nephew.”
+
+“Your nephew!” cried the king; “and you have never mentioned him!”
+
+“Not to you, sire; but I made my report to the ministers, begging them
+to say nothing about it until I had obtained his pardon from your
+majesty.”
+
+“It is granted,” said the king. “I promise beforehand my protection to
+all who may violate discipline in such a cause. You must present this
+officer to me, M. de Suffren.”
+
+M. de Suffren turned. “Approach, M. de Charny,” he said.
+
+The queen started at the sound of this name, which she had so recently
+heard. A young officer advanced from the crowd, and presented himself
+before the king.
+
+The queen and Andrée looked anxiously at each other; but M. de Charny
+bowed before the king almost without raising his eyes, and, after
+kissing his hand, retired again, without seeming to have observed the
+queen.
+
+“Come now, M. de Suffren,” said the king, “and let us converse; I am
+impatient to hear all your adventures.” But before leaving the room he
+turned to the queen and said. “Apropos, madame, I am going to have
+built, as you know, a ship of one hundred guns, and I think of changing
+the name we had destined for it, and of calling it instead——”
+
+“Oh yes!” cried Marie Antoinette, catching his thought, “we will call
+it _Le Suffren_, and I will still stand sponsor.”
+
+“Vive le roi! vive la reine!” cried all.
+
+“And vive M. de Suffren!” added the king, and then left the room with
+him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+M. DE CHARNY.
+
+
+M. de Suffren had requested his nephew to wait his return, and he
+therefore remained in the group as before.
+
+The queen, speaking low to Andrée, and glancing towards him, said: “It
+is he, there is no doubt.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! yes, madame, it is he indeed.”
+
+At this moment the door opened, and a gentleman dressed in the robes of
+a cardinal, and followed by a long train of officers and prelates,
+entered the room.
+
+The queen immediately recognized M. de Rohan, and turned away her head,
+without taking the trouble to hide the frown which overspread her face.
+
+He crossed the room without stopping to speak to any one, and, coming
+straight up to her, bowed to her more as a man of the world bows to a
+lady than as a subject to a queen, and then addressed some rather
+high-flown compliments to her; but she scarcely looked at him, and,
+after murmuring a few cold words in reply, began to talk to Madame de
+Lamballe.
+
+The cardinal did not seem to notice this chilling reception, but bowed
+again, and retired without appearing in the least disconcerted.
+
+He then turned to the king’s aunts, from whom he met with a reception
+as cordial as the queen’s had been the reverse. The Cardinal Louis de
+Rohan was a man in the prime of life, and of an imposing figure and
+noble bearing; his eyes shone with intelligence, his mouth was well cut
+and handsome, and his hands were beautiful. A premature baldness
+indicated either a man of pleasure or a studious one—and he was both.
+He was a man no little sought after by the ladies, and was noted for
+his magnificent style of living; indeed, he had found the way to feel
+himself poor with an income of 1,600,000 francs.
+
+The king liked him for his learning, but the queen hated him. The
+reasons for this hate were twofold: first, when ambassador to Vienna,
+he had written to Louis XV. letters so full of sarcasm on Maria
+Theresa, that her daughter had never forgiven him; and he had also
+written letters opposing her marriage, which had been read aloud by
+Louis XV. at a supper at Madame Dubarry’s. The embassy at Vienna had
+been taken from M. de Breteuil and given to M. de Rohan; the former
+gentleman, not strong enough to revenge himself alone, had procured
+copies of these letters, which he had laid before the dauphiness, thus
+making her the eternal enemy of M. de Rohan.
+
+This hatred rendered the cardinal’s position at court not a little
+uncomfortable. Every time he presented himself before the queen, he met
+with the same discouraging reception. In spite of this, he neglected no
+occasion of being near her, for which he had frequent opportunities, as
+he was chaplain to the court; and he never complained of the treatment
+he received. A circle of friends, among whom the Baron de Planta was
+the most intimate, helped to console him for these royal rebuffs; not
+to speak of the ladies of the court, who by no means imitated the
+severity of the queen towards him.
+
+When he was gone, Marie Antoinette recovered her serenity, and said to
+Madame de Lamballe:
+
+“Do you not think that this action of the nephew of M. de Suffren is
+one of the most remarkable of the war? What is his name, by the bye?”
+
+“M. de Charny, I believe,” replied the princess. “Was it not?” she
+said, turning to Andrée.
+
+“Yes, your highness.”
+
+“M. de Charny shall describe it to us himself,” said the queen. “Is he
+still here? Let him be sought for.”
+
+An officer who stood near hastened to obey her, and immediately
+returned with M. de Charny, and the circle round the queen made way for
+him to approach.
+
+He was a young man, about eight-and-twenty, tall and well made; his
+face, animated and yet sweet, took a character of singular energy when
+he spoke, and dilated his large blue eyes; and he was, strange to say,
+for one who had been fighting in India, as fair as Philippe was dark.
+
+When he had approached the place where the queen sat, with Madlle. de
+Taverney standing near her, he did not betray his surprise in any way,
+although it must have been great, in recognizing the ladies of the
+evening before. He did not look up until she addressed him, saying:
+
+“M. de Charny, these ladies experience the natural desire, which I
+share with them, to hear from yourself all the details of this action
+of your ship.”
+
+“Madame,” replied the young officer, “I beg your majesty to spare me
+the recital, not from modesty, but from humanity. What I did as
+lieutenant, a dozen other officers doubtless wished to do, only I was
+the first to put it in execution; and it is not worthy being made the
+subject of a narration to your majesty. Besides, the captain of _La
+Sévère_ is a brave officer, who on that day lost his presence of mind.
+Alas, madame, we all know that the most courageous are not always
+equally brave. He wanted but ten minutes to recover himself; my
+determination not to surrender gave him the breathing time, his natural
+courage returned to him, and he showed himself the bravest of us all.
+Therefore I beg your majesty not to exaggerate the merit of my action,
+and thereby crush this deserving officer, who deplores incessantly the
+failing of a few moments.”
+
+“Right!” said the queen, touched by these generous words; “you are a
+true gentleman, M. de Charny, and such I already know you to be.”
+
+The young man colored crimson, and looked almost frightened at Andrée,
+fearing what the queen’s rash generosity might lead her to say.
+
+“For,” continued the intrepid queen, “I must tell you all, that this is
+not the first time I have heard of M. de Charny, who deserves to be
+known and admired by all ladies; and to show you that he is as
+indulgent to our sex as he is merciless to his enemies, I will relate a
+little history of him which does him the greatest honor.”
+
+“Oh, madame!” stammered the young man, who felt as if he would have
+given a year of his life to be back in the West Indies.
+
+“This, then, is it,” continued the queen, to her eager listeners: “two
+ladies, whom I know, were detained out late and became embarrassed in a
+crowd; they ran a great risk, a real danger awaited them; M. de Charny
+happily passed by at the moment: he dispersed the crowd, and, although
+they were unknown to him, and it was impossible to recognize their
+rank, took them under his protection, and escorted them a long way, ten
+miles from Paris, I believe.”
+
+“Oh! your majesty exaggerates,” said M. de Charny, laughing, and now
+quite reassured.
+
+“Well, we will call it five,” said the Count d’Artois, suddenly joining
+in the conversation.
+
+“Let it be five, then, brother,” said the queen; “but the most
+admirable part of the story is, that M. de Charny did not seek even to
+know the names of these ladies whom he had served, but left them at the
+place where they wished to stop, and went away without even looking
+back, so that they escaped from his protection without even a moment’s
+disquietude.”
+
+All expressed their admiration.
+
+“A knight of the round table could not have acted better,” her majesty
+went on; “and so, M. de Charny, as the king will doubtless take upon
+himself to reward M. de Suffren, I, for my part, wish to do something
+for the nephew of this great man.”
+
+As she spoke, she held out her hand to him, and Charny, pale with joy,
+pressed his lips to this beautiful hand, while Philippe looked on from
+an obscure corner, pale with an opposite emotion.
+
+The voice of M. d’Artois interrupted this scene, saying loudly, “Ah,
+Provence! you come too late! you have missed a fine sight, the
+reception of M. de Suffren. Really, it was one that a Frenchman can
+never forget. How the devil did it happen that you were not here—you
+who are generally the punctual man par excellence?”
+
+M. de Provence bit his lips with vexation, and whispered to M. de
+Favras, his captain of the guards, “How does it come to pass that he is
+here?”
+
+“Ah! monseigneur, I have been asking myself that question for the last
+hour, and have not yet found an answer.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+THE ONE HUNDRED LOUIS OF THE QUEEN.
+
+
+Now we have introduced the principal characters of this history to our
+readers, and have taken them both into the “petite maison” of the Comte
+d’Artois and into the king’s palace at Versailles, we will return to
+that house in the Rue St. Claude where we saw the queen enter incognito
+with Mademoiselle Andrée de Taverney.
+
+We left Madame de la Motte counting over and delighted with her fifty
+double louis; next to the pleasure of having them, she knew no greater
+than that of displaying them, and having no one else, she called Dame
+Clotilde, who was still in the ante-chamber.
+
+When she entered, “Come and look here!” said her mistress.
+
+“Oh, madame!” cried the old woman, clasping her hands in astonishment.
+
+“You were uneasy about your wages,” said the countess.
+
+“Oh, madame! I never said that; I only asked madame if she could pay
+me, as I had received nothing for three months.”
+
+“Do you think there is enough there to pay you?”
+
+“Oh! madame, if I had all that, I should be rich for the rest of my
+life. But in what will madame spend all that?”
+
+“In everything.”
+
+“The first thing, I think, madame, will be to furnish the kitchen, for
+you will have good dinners cooked now.”
+
+“Listen!” said Madame de la Motte; “someone knocks.”
+
+“I did not hear it,” said the old woman.
+
+“But I tell you that I did; so go at once.” She hastily gathered up her
+money, and put it into a drawer, murmuring, “Oh! if Providence will but
+send me another such a visitor.” Then she heard the steps of a man
+below, but could not distinguish what he said. Soon however, the door
+opened, and Clotilde came in with a letter.
+
+The countess examined it attentively, and asked, “Was this brought by a
+servant?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“In livery?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“I know these arms, surely,” said Jeanne to herself. “Who can it be
+from? but the letter will soon show for itself;” and opening it, she
+read: “Madame, the person to whom you wrote will see you to-morrow
+evening, if it be agreeable to you to remain at home for that purpose;”
+and that was all. “I have written to so many people,” thought the
+countess. “Is this a man or a woman? The writing is no guide, nor is
+the style; it might come from either. Who is it that uses these arms?
+Oh! I remember now—the arms of the Rohans. Yes, I wrote to M. de
+Guémenée, and to M. de Rohan; it is one of them: but the shield is not
+quartered—it is therefore the cardinal. Ah! Monsieur de Rohan, the man
+of gallantry, the fine gentleman, and the ambitious one; he will come
+to see Jeanne de la Motte, if it be agreeable to her. Oh, yes! M. de
+Rohan, it is very agreeable. A charitable lady who gives a hundred
+louis may be received in a garret, freeze in my cold room, and suffer
+on my hard chair; but a clerical prince, a lady’s man, that is quite
+another thing. We must have luxury to greet him.”
+
+Then, turning to Clotilde, who was getting her bed ready, she said: “Be
+sure to call me early to-morrow morning;” and when she did retire to
+rest, so absorbed was she in her expectations and plans, that it was
+nearly three o’clock before she fell asleep; nevertheless, she was
+quite ready when Dame Clotilde called her according to her directions
+early in the morning, and had finished her toilet by eight o’clock,
+although this day it consisted of an elegant silk dress, and her hair
+was elaborately dressed.
+
+She sent Clotilde for a coach, and ordered the man to drive to the
+Place Royale, where, under one of the arcades, was the shop of M.
+Fingret, an upholsterer and decorator, and who had furniture always
+ready for sale or hire.
+
+She entered his immense show-rooms, of which the walls were hung with
+different tapestries, and the ceiling completely hidden by the number
+of chandeliers and lamps that hung from it. On the ground were
+furniture, carpets, and cornices of every fashion and description.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+M. FINGRET.
+
+
+Madame de la Motte, looking at all this, began to perceive how much she
+wanted. She wanted a drawing-room to hold sofas and lounging-chairs; a
+dining-room for tables and sideboards; and a boudoir for Persian
+curtains, screens, and knick-knacks; above all, she wanted the money to
+buy all these things. But in Paris, whatever you cannot afford to buy,
+you can hire; and Madame de la Motte set her heart on a set of
+furniture covered in yellow silk, with gilt nails, which she thought
+would be very becoming to her dark complexion. But this furniture she
+felt sure would never go into her rooms on the fifth story; it would be
+necessary to hire the third, which was composed of an ante-chamber, a
+dining-room, small drawing-room, and bedroom, so that she might, she
+thought, receive on this third story the visits of the cardinal, and on
+the fifth those of ladies of charity—that is to say, receive in luxury
+those who give from ostentation, and in poverty those who only desire
+to give when it is needed.
+
+The countess, having made all these reflections, turned to where M.
+Fingret himself stood, with his hat in his hand, waiting for her
+commands.
+
+“Madame?” said he in a tone of interrogation, advancing towards her.
+
+“Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois,” said Jeanne.
+
+At this high-sounding name M. Fingret bowed low, and said: “But there
+is nothing in this room worthy Madame la Comtesse’s inspection. If
+madame will take the trouble to step into the next one, she will see
+what is new and beautiful.”
+
+Jeanne colored. All this had seemed so splendid to her, too splendid
+even to hope to possess it; and this high opinion of M. Fingret’s
+concerning her perplexed her not a little. She regretted that she had
+not announced herself as a simple bourgeoise; but it was necessary to
+speak, so she said, “I do not wish for new furniture.”
+
+“Madame has doubtless some friend’s apartments to furnish?”
+
+“Just so,” she replied.
+
+“Will madame, then, choose?” said M. Fingret, who did not care whether
+he sold new or old, as he gained equally by both.
+
+“This set,” said Jeanne, pointing to the yellow silk one.
+
+“That is such a small set, madame.”
+
+“Oh, the rooms are small.”
+
+“It is nearly new, as madame may see.”
+
+“But the price?”
+
+“Eight hundred francs.”
+
+The price made the countess tremble; and how was she to confess that a
+countess was content with second-hand things, and then could not afford
+to pay eight hundred francs for them? She therefore thought the best
+thing was to appear angry, and said: “Who thinks of buying, sir? Who do
+you think would buy such old things? I only want to hire.”
+
+Fingret made a grimace; his customer began gradually to lose her value
+in his eyes. She did not want to buy new things, only to hire old ones,
+“You wish it for a year?” he asked.
+
+“No, only for a month. It is for some one coming from the country.”
+
+“It will be one hundred francs a month.”
+
+“You jest, surely, monsieur; why, in eight months I should have paid
+the full price of it.”
+
+“Granted, Madame la Comtesse.”
+
+“Well, is not that too bad?”
+
+“I shall have the expense of doing it up again when you return it.”
+
+Madame de la Motte reflected. “One hundred francs a month is very dear,
+certainly; but either I can return it at the end of that time and say
+it is too dear, or I shall then perhaps be in a situation to buy.”
+
+“I will take it,” she said, “with curtains to match.”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“And carpets.”
+
+“Here they are.”
+
+“What can you give me for another room?”
+
+“These oak chairs, this table with twisted legs, and green damask
+curtains.”
+
+“And for a bedroom?”
+
+“A large and handsome bed, a counterpane of velvet embroidered in
+rose-color and silver, an excellent couch, and blue curtains.”
+
+“And for my dressing-room?”
+
+“A toilet-table hung with Mechlin lace; chest of drawers with
+marqueterie; sofa and chairs of tapestry. The whole came from the
+bedroom of Madame de Pompadour at Choisy.”
+
+“All this for what price?”
+
+“For a month?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Four hundred francs.”
+
+“Come, Monsieur Fingret, do not take me for a grisette who is dazzled
+by your fine descriptions. Please to reflect that you are asking at the
+rate of four thousand eight hundred francs a year, and for that I can
+take a whole furnished house. You disgust me with the Place Royale.”
+
+“I am very sorry, madame.”
+
+“Prove it, then; I will only give half that price.” Jeanne pronounced
+these words with so much authority that the merchant began again to
+think she might be worth conciliating.
+
+“So be it, then, madame.”
+
+“And on one condition, M. Fingret.”
+
+“What, madame?”
+
+“That everything be arranged in its proper place by three o’clock.”
+
+“But consider, madame, it is now ten.”
+
+“Can you do it or not?”
+
+“Where must they go to?”
+
+“Rue St. Claude.”
+
+“Close by?”
+
+“Precisely.”
+
+The upholsterer opened a door, and called, “Sylvain! Landry! Rémy!”
+
+Three men answered to the call.
+
+“The carts and the trucks instantly. Rémy, you shall take this yellow
+furniture; Sylvain, you take that for the dining-room; and you, Landry,
+that for the bedroom. Here is the bill, madame; shall I receipt it?”
+
+“Here are six double louis,” she said, “and you can give the change to
+these men if the order is completed in time;” and, having given her
+address, she reentered her coach.
+
+On her return she engaged the third floor, and in a few hours all was
+in order.
+
+The lodgings thus transformed, the windows cleaned, and the fires
+lighted, Jeanne went again to her toilet, which she made as recherché
+as possible, and then took a last look at all the delights around her.
+Nothing had been forgotten: there were gilded branches from the walls
+for wax-lights, and glass lusters on each side of the mirror; Jeanne
+had also added flowers, to complete the embellishment of the paradise
+in which she intended to receive his eminence. She took care even to
+leave the door of the bedroom a little open, through which the light of
+a bright fire gave a glimpse of the luxuries within.
+
+All these preparations completed, she seated herself in a chair by the
+fire, with a book in her hand, listening eagerly to the sound of every
+carriage that passed; but nine, ten, and eleven o’clock struck, and no
+one came. Still she did not despair; it was not too late for a gallant
+prelate, who had probably been first to some supper, and would come to
+her from there. But at last twelve struck; no one appeared, the lights
+were burning low, and the old servant, after many lamentations over her
+new cap, had fallen asleep in her chair.
+
+At half-past twelve Jeanne rose furious from her chair, looked out of
+window for the hundredth time, and, seeing no one near, undressed
+herself and went to bed, refusing supper, or to answer any of the
+remarks made to her by Clotilde; and on her sumptuous bed, under her
+beautiful curtains, she experienced no better rest than she had on the
+previous night. At last, however, her anger began a little to abate,
+and she commenced framing excuses for the cardinal. He had so much to
+occupy him, he must have been detained, and, most potent of all, he had
+not yet seen her. She would not have been so easily consoled if he had
+broken the promise of a second visit.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.
+
+
+The next evening Jeanne, not discouraged, renewed all her preparations
+of the night before; and on this occasion she had no time to grow
+impatient, for at seven o’clock a carriage drove up to the door, from
+which a gentleman got out. At the sound of the door-bell Jeanne’s heart
+beat so loud that you might almost have heard it; however, she composed
+herself as well as she could, and in a few minutes Clotilde opened the
+door, and announced the person who had written the day before
+yesterday.
+
+“Let him come in,” said Jeanne; and a gentleman dressed in silk and
+velvet, and with a lofty carriage, entered the room.
+
+Jeanne made a step forward, and said: “To whom have I the honor of
+speaking?”
+
+“I am the Cardinal de Rohan,” he replied; at which Madame de la Motte,
+feigning to be overwhelmed with the honor, courtesied, as though he
+were a king. Then she advanced an armchair for him, and placed herself
+in another.
+
+The cardinal laid his hat on the table, and, looking at Jeanne, began:
+“It is, then, true, mademoiselle——”
+
+“Madame,” interrupted Jeanne.
+
+“Pardon me; I forgot.”
+
+“My husband is called De la Motte, monseigneur.”
+
+“Oh, yes; a gendarme, is he not?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“And you, madame, are a Valois?”
+
+“I am, monseigneur.”
+
+“A great name,” said the cardinal, “but rare—believed extinct.”
+
+“Not extinct, sir, since I bear it, and as I have a brother, Baron de
+Valois.”
+
+“Recognized?”
+
+“That has nothing to do with it. Recognized or unrecognized, rich or
+poor, he is still Baron de Valois.”
+
+“Madame, explain to me this descent; it interests me; I love heraldry.”
+
+Jeanne repeated all that the reader already knows.
+
+The cardinal listened and looked. He did not believe either her story
+or her merit; but she was poor and pretty.
+
+“So that,” he said carelessly, when she had finished, “you have really
+been unfortunate.”
+
+“I do not complain, monseigneur.”
+
+“Indeed, I had heard a most exaggerated account of the difficulties of
+your position; this lodging is commodious and well furnished.”
+
+“For a grisette, no doubt,” replied Jeanne.
+
+“What! do you call these rooms fit for a grisette?”
+
+“I do not think you can call them fit for a princess,” replied Jeanne.
+
+“And you are a princess?” said he, in an ironical tone.
+
+“I was born a Valois, monseigneur, as you were a Rohan,” said Jeanne,
+with so much dignity that he felt a little touched by it.
+
+“Madame,” said he, “I forgot that my first words should have been an
+apology. I wrote to you that I would come yesterday, but I had to go to
+Versailles to assist at the reception of M. de Suffren.”
+
+“Monseigneur does me too much honor in remembering me to-day; and my
+husband will more than ever regret the exile to which poverty compels
+him, since it prevents him from sharing this favor with me.”
+
+“You live alone, madame?” asked the cardinal.
+
+“Absolutely alone. I should be out of place in all society but that
+from which my poverty debars me.”
+
+“The genealogists do not contest your claim?”
+
+“No; but what good does it do me?”
+
+“Madame,” continued the cardinal, “I shall be glad to know in what I
+can serve you.”
+
+“In nothing, monseigneur,” she said.
+
+“How! in nothing? Pray be frank.”
+
+“I cannot be more frank than I am.”
+
+“You were complaining just now.”
+
+“Certainly, I complain.”
+
+“Well, then?”
+
+“Well, then, monseigneur, I see that you wish to bestow charity on me.”
+
+“Oh, madame!”
+
+“Yes, sir, I have taken charity, but I will do so no more. I have borne
+great humiliation.”
+
+“Madame, you are wrong, there is no humiliation in misfortune.”
+
+“Not even with the name I bear? Would you beg, M. de Rohan?”
+
+“I do not speak of myself,” said he, with an embarrassment mingled with
+hauteur.
+
+“Monseigneur, I only know two ways of begging: in a carriage, or at a
+church door in velvet or in rags. Well, just now, I did not expect the
+honor of this visit; I thought you had forgotten me.”
+
+“Oh, you knew, then, that it was I who wrote?”
+
+“Were not your arms on the seal?”
+
+“However, you feigned not to know me.”
+
+“Because you did not do me the honor to announce yourself.”
+
+“This pride pleases me,” said the cardinal.
+
+“I had then,” continued Jeanne, “despairing of seeing you, taken the
+resolution of throwing off all this flimsy parade, which covers my real
+poverty, and of going in rags, like other mendicants, to beg my bread
+from the passers-by.”
+
+“You are not at the end of your resources, I trust, madame?”
+
+Jeanne did not reply.
+
+“You have some property, even if it be mortgaged? Some family jewels?
+This, for example,” and he pointed to a box, with which the delicate
+fingers of the lady had been playing. “A singular box, upon my word!
+Will you permit me to look? Oh, a portrait!” he continued, with a look
+of great surprise. “Do you know the original of this portrait?” asked
+Jeanne.
+
+“It is that of Maria Theresa.”
+
+“Of Maria Theresa?”
+
+“Yes, the Empress of Austria.”
+
+“Really!” cried Jeanne. “Are you sure, monseigneur?”
+
+“Where did you get it?” he asked.
+
+“From a lady who came the day before yesterday.”
+
+“To see you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+The cardinal examined the box with minute attention.
+
+“There were two ladies,” continued Jeanne.
+
+“And one of them gave you this box?” said he, with evident suspicion.
+
+“No; she dropped it here.”
+
+The cardinal remained thoughtful for some time, and then said, “What
+was the name of this lady? I beg pardon for being inquisitive.”
+
+“Indeed, it is a somewhat strange question.”
+
+“Indiscreet, perhaps, but not strange.”
+
+“Yes, very strange; for if I had known her name, I should have returned
+it long before this.”
+
+“Then, you know not who she is?”
+
+“I only know she is the head of some charitable house.”
+
+“In Paris?”
+
+“No; in Versailles.”
+
+“From Versailles; the head of a charitable house!”
+
+“Monseigneur, I accept charity from ladies; that does not so much
+humiliate a poor woman; and this lady, who had heard of my wants, left
+a hundred louis on my table when she went away.”
+
+“A hundred louis!” said the cardinal in surprise; then, fearing to
+offend, he added, “I am not astonished, madame, that they should give
+you such a sum. You merit, on the contrary, all the solicitude of
+charitable people, and your name makes it a duty to help you. It is
+only the title of the Sister of Charity that surprised me, they are not
+in the habit of giving such donations. Could you describe this lady to
+me?”
+
+“Not easily, sir.”
+
+“How so, since she came here?”
+
+“Yes, but she probably did not wish to be recognized, for she hid her
+face as much as possible in her hood, and was besides, enveloped in
+furs.”
+
+“Well, but you saw something?”
+
+“My impressions were, that she had blue eyes, and a small mouth, though
+the lips were rather thick.”
+
+“Tall or short?”
+
+“Of middle height.”
+
+“Her hands?”
+
+“Perfect.”
+
+“Her throat?”
+
+“Long and slender.”
+
+“Her expression?”
+
+“Severe and noble. But you, perhaps, know this lady, monseigneur?”
+
+“Why should you think so, madame?”
+
+“From the manner in which you question me; besides, there is a sympathy
+between the doers of good works.”
+
+“No, madame, I do not know her.”
+
+“But, sir, if you had some suspicion.”
+
+“How should I?”
+
+“Oh, from this portrait, perhaps.”
+
+“Yes, certainly, the portrait,” said the cardinal, rather uneasily.
+
+“Well, sir, this portrait you still believe to be that of Maria
+Theresa?”
+
+“I believe so, certainly.”
+
+“Then you think——?”
+
+“That you have received a visit from some German lady who has founded
+one of these houses!” But it was evident that the cardinal doubted, and
+he was pondering how this box, which he had seen a hundred times in the
+hands of the queen, came into the possession of this woman. Had the
+queen really been to see her? If she had been, was she indeed unknown
+to Jeanne? Or, if not, why did she try to hide the knowledge from him.
+If the queen had really been there, it was no longer a poor woman he
+had to deal with, but a princess succored by a queen, who bestowed her
+gifts in person.
+
+Jeanne saw that the cardinal was thoughtful, and even suspicious of
+her. She felt uneasy, and knew not what to say.
+
+At last, however, he broke the silence by saying, “And the other lady?”
+
+“Oh, I could see her perfectly; she is tall and beautiful, with a
+determined expression, and a brilliant complexion.”
+
+“And the other lady did not name her?”
+
+“Yes, once; but by her Christian name.”
+
+“What was it?”
+
+“Andrée.”
+
+“Andrée!” repeated the cardinal, with a start.
+
+This name put an end to all his doubts. It was known that the queen had
+gone to Paris on that day with Mademoiselle de Taverney. It was
+evident, also, that Jeanne had no intention of deceiving him; she was
+telling all she knew. Still, he would try one more proof.
+
+“Countess,” he said, “one thing astonishes me, that you have not
+addressed yourself to the king.”
+
+“But, sir, I have sent him twenty petitions.”
+
+“Without result?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, then, the princes of the blood; M. le Duc d’Orleans is
+charitable, and often likes to do what the king refuses.”
+
+“I have tried him, equally fruitlessly.”
+
+“That astonishes me.”
+
+“Oh, when one is poor, and not supported by any one——”
+
+“There is still the Comte d’Artois; sometimes dissipated men do more
+generous actions than charitable ones.”
+
+“It is the same story with him.”
+
+“But the princesses, the aunts of the king, Madame Elizabeth
+particularly, would refuse assistance to no one.”
+
+“It is true, monseigneur, her royal highness, to whom I wrote, promised
+to receive me; but, I know not why, after having received my husband, I
+could never get any more notice from her.”
+
+“It is strange, certainly,” said the cardinal; then, as if the thought
+had just struck him, he cried, “Ah! mon Dieu! but we are forgetting the
+person to whom you should have addressed yourself first of all.”
+
+“Whom do you mean?”
+
+“To the dispenser of all favors, she who never refuses help where it is
+deserved—to the queen. Have you seen her?”
+
+“No,” answered Jeanne.
+
+“You have never presented your petition to the queen?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“You have not tried to obtain an audience of her?”
+
+“I have tried, but failed.”
+
+“Have you tried to throw yourself in her way, that she might remark
+you?”
+
+“No, monseigneur.”
+
+“But that is very strange.”
+
+“I have only been twice to Versailles, and then saw but two persons
+there; one was Doctor Louis, who had attended my poor father at the
+Hôtel Dieu, and the other was M. le Baron de Taverney, to whom I had an
+introduction.”
+
+“What did M. de Taverney say to you? He might have brought you to the
+queen.”
+
+“He told me that I was very foolish to bring forward as a claim to the
+benevolence of the king a relationship which would be sure to displease
+him, as nobody likes poor relations.”
+
+“I recognize the egotistical and rude old baron. Well,” continued he,
+“I will conduct you myself to Versailles, and will open the doors for
+you.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, how good you are,” cried Jeanne, overwhelmed with
+joy.
+
+The cardinal approached her, and said, “It is impossible but that
+before long all must interest themselves in you.”
+
+“Alas! monseigneur,” said Jeanne, with a sigh, “do you think so?”
+
+“I am sure of it.”
+
+“I fear you flatter me,” she said, looking earnestly at him, for she
+could hardly believe in his sudden change of manner, he had been so
+cold and suspicious at first.
+
+This look had no small effect on the cardinal; he began to think he had
+never met a woman prettier or more attractive. “Ah, ma foi!” said he to
+himself, with the eternally scheming spirit of a man used to diplomacy,
+“it would be too extraordinary and too fortunate if I have met at once
+an honest woman with the attractions of a scheming one, and found in
+this poverty an able coadjutrix to my desires.”
+
+“Monseigneur, the silence you keep every now and then disquiets me.”
+
+“Why so, countess?”
+
+“Because a man like you only fails in politeness to two kinds of
+women.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! countess, you frighten me. What are you about to say?” and
+he took her hand.
+
+“I repeat it,” said she, “with women that you love too much, or with
+women whom you do not esteem enough to be polite to.”
+
+“Countess, you make me blush. Have I, then, failed in politeness
+towards you?”
+
+“Rather so, monseigneur; and yet you cannot love me too much, and I
+have given you no cause to despise me.”
+
+“Oh, countess, you speak as if you were angry with me.”
+
+“No, monseigneur; you have not yet merited my anger.”
+
+“And I never will, madame. From this day, in which I have had the
+pleasure of making your acquaintance, my solicitude for you will not
+cease.”
+
+“Oh, sir, do not speak to me of your protection.”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu! I should humiliate myself, not you, in mentioning such a
+thing;” and he pressed her hand, which he continued to hold, to his
+lips.
+
+She tried to withdraw it; but he said, “Only politeness, madame,” and
+she let it remain.
+
+“To know,” said she, “that I shall occupy a place, however small, in
+the mind of a man so eminent and so busy, would console me for a year.”
+
+“Let us hope the consolation will last longer than that, countess.”
+
+“Well, perhaps so, monseigneur; I have confidence in you, because I
+feel that you are capable of appreciating a mind like mine,
+adventurous, brave, and pure, in spite of my poverty, and of the
+enemies which my position has made me. Your eminence will, I am sure,
+discover all the good that is in me, and be indulgent to all the rest.”
+
+“We, are, then, warm friends, madame;” and he advanced towards her, but
+his arms were a little more extended than the occasion required. She
+avoided him, and said, laughing:
+
+“It must be a friendship among three, cardinal.”
+
+“Among three?”
+
+“Doubtless, for there exists an exile, a poor gendarme, who is called
+M. de la Motte.”
+
+“Oh, countess, what a deplorably good memory you have!”
+
+“I must speak to you of him, that you may not forget him.”
+
+“Do you know why I do not speak of him, countess?”
+
+“No; pray tell me.”
+
+“Because he will speak enough for himself: husbands never let
+themselves be forgotten. We shall hear that M. le Comte de la Motte
+found it good, or found it bad, that the Cardinal de Rohan came two,
+three, or four times a week to visit his wife.”
+
+“Ah! but will you come so often, monseigneur?”
+
+“Without that, where would be our friendship? Four times! I should have
+said six or seven.”
+
+Jeanne laughed, “I should not indeed wonder in that case if people did
+talk of it.”
+
+“Oh! but we can easily prevent them.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Quite easily. The people know me——”
+
+“Certainly, monseigneur.”
+
+“But you they have the misfortune not to know.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Therefore, if you would——”
+
+“What, sir?”
+
+“Come out instead of me.”
+
+“Come to your hotel, monseigneur?”
+
+“You would go to see a minister.”
+
+“Oh! a minister is not a man.”
+
+“You are adorable, countess. But I did not speak of my hotel; I have a
+house——”
+
+“Oh! a petite maison?”
+
+“No; a house of yours.”
+
+“A house of mine, cardinal! Indeed, I did not know it.”
+
+“To-morrow, at ten o’clock, you shall have the address.”
+
+The countess blushed; the cardinal took her hand again, and imprinted
+another kiss upon it, at once bold, respectful, and tender. They then
+bowed to each other.
+
+“Light monseigneur down,” said the countess; and he went away.
+
+“Well,” thought she, “I have made a great step in the world.”
+
+“Come,” said the cardinal to himself as he drove off, “I think I have
+killed two birds with one stone; this woman has too much talent not to
+catch the queen as she has caught me?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+MESMER AND ST. MARTIN.
+
+
+The fashionable study in Paris at this time, and that which engrossed
+most of those who had no business to attend to, was Mesmerism—a
+mysterious science, badly defined by its discoverers, who did not wish
+to render it too plain to the eyes of the people. Dr. Mesmer, who had
+given to it his own name, was then in Paris, as we have already heard
+from Marie Antoinette.
+
+This Doctor Mesmer deserves a few words from us, as his name was then
+in all mouths.
+
+He had brought this science from Germany, the land of mysteries, in
+1777. He had previously made his début there, by a theory on the
+influence of the planets. He had endeavored to establish that these
+celestial bodies, through the same power by which they attract each
+other, exercised an influence over living bodies, and particularly over
+the nervous system, by means of a subtle fluid with which the air is
+impregnated. But this first theory was too abstract: one must, to
+understand it, be initiated into all the sciences of Galileo or Newton;
+and it would have been necessary, for this to have become popular, that
+the nobility should have been transformed into a body of savants. He
+therefore abandoned this system, and took up that of the loadstone,
+which was then attracting great attention, people fancying that this
+wonderful power was efficacious in curing illnesses.
+
+Unhappily for him, however, he found a rival in this already
+established in Vienna; therefore he once more announced that he
+abandoned mineral magnetism, and intended to effect his cures through
+animal magnetism.
+
+This, although a new name, was not in reality a new science; it was as
+old as the Greeks and Egyptians, and had been preserved in traditions,
+and revived every now and then by the sorcerers of the thirteenth,
+fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, many of whom had paid for their
+knowledge with their lives. Urbain Grandier was nothing but an animal
+magnetizer; and Joseph Balsamo we have seen practising it. Mesmer only
+condensed this knowledge into a science, and gave it a name. He then
+communicated his system to the scientific academies of Paris, London,
+and Berlin. The two first did not answer him, and the third said that
+he was mad. He came to France, and took out of the hands of Dr. Storck,
+and of the oculist Wenzel, a young girl seventeen years old, who had a
+complaint of the liver and gutta serena, and after three months of his
+treatment, restored her health and her sight.
+
+This cure convinced many people, and among them a doctor called Deslon,
+who, from his enemy, became his pupil. From this time his reputation
+gradually increased; the academy declared itself against him, but the
+court for him. At last the government offered him, in the king’s name,
+an income for life of twenty thousand francs to give lectures in
+public, and ten thousand more to instruct three persons, who should be
+chosen by them, in his system.
+
+Mesmer, however, indignant at the royal parsimony, refused, and set out
+for the Spa waters with one of his patients; but while he was gone,
+Deslon, his pupil, possessor of the secret which he had refused to sell
+for thirty thousand francs a year, opened a public establishment for
+the treatment of patients. Mesmer was furious, and exhausted himself in
+complaints and menaces. One of his patients, however, M. de Bergasse,
+conceived the idea of forming a company. They raised a capital of
+340,000 francs, on the condition that the secret should be revealed to
+the shareholders. It was a fortunate time: the people, having no great
+public events to interest them, entered eagerly into every new
+amusement and occupation; and this mysterious theory possessed no
+little attraction, professing, as it did, to cure invalids, restore
+mind to the fools, and amuse the wise.
+
+Everywhere Mesmer was talked of. What had he done? On whom had he
+performed these miracles? To what great lord had he restored sight? To
+what lady worn out with dissipation had he renovated the nerves? To
+what young girl had he shown the future in a magnetic trance? The
+future! that word of ever-entrancing interest and curiosity.
+
+Voltaire was dead; there was no one left to make France laugh, except
+perhaps Beaumarchais, who was still more bitter than his master;
+Rousseau was dead, and with him the sect of religious philosophers. War
+had generally occupied strongly the minds of the French people, but now
+the only war in which they were engaged was in America, where the
+people fought for what they called independence, and what the French
+called liberty; and even this distant war in another land, and
+affecting another people, was on the point of termination. Therefore
+they felt more interest just now in M. Mesmer, who was near, than in
+Washington or Lord Cornwallis, who were so far off. Mesmer’s only rival
+in the public interest was St. Martin, the professor of spiritualism,
+as Mesmer was of materialism, and who professed to cure souls, as he
+did bodies.
+
+Imagine an atheist with a religion more attractive than religion
+itself; a republican full of politeness and interest for kings; a
+gentleman of the privileged classes tender and solicitous for the
+people, endowed with the most startling eloquence, attacking all the
+received religions of the earth.
+
+Imagine Epicurus in white powder, embroidered coat, and silk stockings,
+not content with endeavoring to overturn a religion in which he did not
+believe, but also attacking all existing governments, and promulgating
+the theory that all men are equal, or, to use his own words, that all
+intelligent beings are kings.
+
+Imagine the effect of all this in society as it then was, without fixed
+principles or steady guides, and how it was all assisting to light the
+fire with which France not long after began to consume herself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+THE BUCKET.
+
+
+We have endeavored to give an idea in the last chapter of the interest
+and enthusiasm which drew such crowds of the people to see M. Mesmer
+perform publicly his wonderful experiments.
+
+The king, as we know, had given permission to the queen to go and see
+what all Paris was talking of, accompanied by one of the princesses. It
+was two days after the visit of M. de Rohan to the countess. The
+weather was fine, and the thaw was complete, and hundreds of sweepers
+were employed in cleaning away the snow from the streets. The clear
+blue sky was just beginning to be illumined by its first stars, when
+Madame de la Motte, elegantly dressed, and presenting every appearance
+of opulence, arrived in a coach, which Clotilde had carefully chosen as
+the best looking at the Place Vendôme, and stopped before a
+brilliantly-lighted house.
+
+It was that of Doctor Mesmer. Numbers of other carriages were waiting
+at the door, and a crowd of people had collected to see the patients
+arrive and depart, who seemed to derive much pleasure when they saw
+some rich invalid, enveloped in furs and satins, carried in by footmen,
+from the evident proof it afforded that God made men healthy or
+unhealthy, without reference to their purses or their genealogies. A
+universal murmur would arise when they recognized some duke paralyzed
+in an arm or leg; or some marshal whose feet refused their office, less
+in consequence of military fatigues and marches than from halts made
+with the ladies of the Opera, or of the Comédie Italienne. Sometimes it
+was a lady carried in by her servants with drooping head and languid
+eye, who, weakened by late hours and an irregular life, came to demand
+from Doctor Mesmer the health she had vainly sought to regain
+elsewhere.
+
+Many of these ladies were as well known as the gentlemen, but a great
+many escaped the public gaze, especially on this evening, by wearing
+masks; for there was a ball at the Opera that night, and many of them
+intended to drive straight there when they left the doctor’s house.
+
+Through this crowd Madame de la Motte walked erect and firm, also with
+a mask on, and elicited only the exclamation, “This one does not look
+ill, at all events.”
+
+Ever since the cardinal’s visit, the attention with which he had
+examined the box and portrait had been on Jeanne’s mind; and she could
+not but feel that all his graciousness commenced after seeing it, and
+she therefore felt proportionate curiosity to learn more about it.
+
+First she had gone to Versailles to inquire at all the houses of
+charity about German ladies; but there were there, perhaps, a hundred
+and fifty or two hundred, and all Jeanne’s inquiries about the two
+ladies who had visited her had proved fruitless. In vain she repeated
+that one of them was called Andrée; no one knew a German lady of that
+name, which indeed was not German. Baffled in this, she determined to
+try elsewhere, and having heard much of M. Mesmer, and the wonderful
+secrets revealed through him, determined upon going there. Many were
+the stories of this kind in circulation. Madame de Duras had recovered
+a child who had been lost; Madame de Chantoué, an English dog, not much
+bigger than her fist, for which she would have given all the children
+in the world; and M. de Vaudreuil a lock of hair, which he would have
+bought back with half his fortune. All these revelations had been made
+by clairvoyants after the magnetic operations of Doctor Mesmer.
+
+Those who came to see him, after traversing the ante-chambers, were
+admitted into a large room, from which the darkened and hermetically
+closed windows excluded light and air. In the middle of this room,
+under a luster which gave but a feeble light, was a vast unornamented
+tank, filled with water impregnated with sulphur, and to the cover of
+which was fastened an iron ring; attached to this ring was a long
+chain, the object of which we shall presently see.
+
+All the patients were seated round the room, men and women
+indiscriminately; then a valet, taking the chain, wound it round the
+limbs of the patients, so that they might all feel, at the same time,
+the effects of the electricity contained in the tank; they were then
+directed to touch each other in some way, either by the shoulder, the
+elbow, or the feet, and each was to take in his hand a bar of iron,
+which was also connected with the tank, and to place it to the heart,
+head, or whatever was the seat of the malady. When they were all ready,
+a soft and pleasing strain of music, executed by invisible performers,
+was heard. Among the most eager of the crowd, on the evening of which
+we speak, was a young, distinguished-looking, and beautiful woman, with
+a graceful figure, and rather showily dressed, who pressed the iron to
+her heart with wonderful energy, rolling her beautiful eyes, and
+beginning to show, in the trembling of her hands, the first effects of
+the electric fluid.
+
+As she constantly threw back her head, resting it on the cushions of
+her chair, all around could see perfectly her pale but beautiful face,
+and her white throat. Many seemed to look at her with great
+astonishment, and a general whispering commenced among those who
+surrounded her.
+
+Madame de la Motte was one of the most curious of the party; and of all
+she saw around her, nothing attracted her attention so much as this
+young lady, and after gazing earnestly at her for some time, she at
+last murmured, “Oh! it is she, there is no doubt. It is the lady who
+came to see me the other day.” And convinced that she was not mistaken,
+she advanced towards her, congratulating herself that chance had
+effected for her what she had so long been vainly trying to accomplish;
+but at this moment the young lady closed her eyes, contracted her
+mouth, and began to beat the air feebly with her hands, which hands,
+however, did not seem to Jeanne the white and beautiful ones she had
+seen in her room a few days before.
+
+The patients now began to grow excited under the influence of the
+fluid. Men and women began to utter sighs, and even cries, moving
+convulsively their heads, arms, and legs. Then a man suddenly made his
+appearance; no one had seen him enter; you might have fancied he came
+out of the tank. He was dressed in a lilac robe, and held in his hand a
+long wand, which he several times dipped into the mysterious tank; then
+he made a sign, the doors opened, and twenty robust servants entered,
+and seizing such of the patients as began to totter on their seats,
+carried them into an adjoining room.
+
+While this was going on Madame de la Motte heard a man who had
+approached near to the young lady before-mentioned, and who was in a
+perfect paroxysm of excitement, say in a loud voice, “It is surely
+she!” Jeanne was about to ask him who she was, when her attention was
+drawn to two ladies who were just entering, followed by a man, who,
+though disguised as a bourgeois, had still the appearance of a servant.
+
+The tournure of one of these ladies struck Jeanne so forcibly that she
+made a step towards them, when a cry from the young woman near her
+startled every one. The same man whom Jeanne had heard speak before now
+called out, “But look, gentlemen, it is the queen.”
+
+“The queen!” cried many voices, in surprise. “The queen here! The queen
+in that state! Impossible!”
+
+“But look,” said he again; “do you know the queen, or not?”
+
+“Indeed,” said many, “the resemblance is incredible.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said Jeanne to the speaker, who was a stout man, with quick
+observant eyes, “did you say the queen?”
+
+“Oh! madame, there is no doubt of it.”
+
+“And where is she?”
+
+“Why, that young lady that you see there, on the violet cushions, and
+in such a state that she cannot moderate her transports, is the queen.”
+
+“But on what do you found such an idea, monsieur?”
+
+“Simply because it is the queen.” And he left Jeanne to go and spread
+his news among the rest.
+
+She turned from the almost revolting spectacle, and going near to the
+door, found herself face to face with the two ladies she had seen
+enter. Scarcely had she seen the elder one than she uttered a cry of
+surprise.
+
+“What is the matter?” asked the lady.
+
+Jeanne took off her mask, and asked, “Do you recognize me, madame?”
+
+The lady made, but quickly suppressed, a movement of surprise, and
+said, “No, madame.”
+
+“Well, madame, I recognize you, and will give you a proof;” and she
+drew the box from her pocket, saying, “you left this at my house.”
+
+“But supposing this to be true, what makes you so agitated?”
+
+“I am agitated by the danger that your majesty is incurring here.”
+
+“Explain yourself.”
+
+“Not before you have put on this mask;” and she offered hers to the
+queen, who, however, did not take it.
+
+“I beg your majesty; there is not an instant to lose.”
+
+The queen put on the mask. “And now, pray come away,” added Jeanne.
+
+“But why?” said the queen.
+
+“Your majesty has not been seen by any one?”
+
+“I believe not.”
+
+“So much the better.”
+
+The queen mechanically moved to the door, but said again, “Will you
+explain yourself?”
+
+“Will not your majesty believe your humble servant for the present,
+that you were running a great risk?”
+
+“But what risk?”
+
+“I will have the honor to tell your majesty whenever you will grant me
+an hour’s audience; but it would take too long now;” and seeing that
+the queen looked displeased, “Pray, madame,” said she, turning to the
+Princess Lamballe, “join your petitions to mine that the queen should
+leave this place immediately.”
+
+“I think we had better, madame,” said the princess.
+
+“Well, then, I will,” answered the queen; then, turning to Madame de la
+Motte, “You ask for an audience?” she said.
+
+“I beg for that honor, that I may explain this conduct to your
+majesty.”
+
+“Well, bring this box with you, and you shall be admitted; Laurent, the
+porter, shall have orders to do so.” Then going into the street, she
+called in German, “Kommen sie da, Weber.”
+
+A carriage immediately drove up, they got in, and were immediately out
+of sight.
+
+When they were gone, Madame de la Motte said to herself, “I have done
+right in this—for the rest, I must consider.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+MADEMOISELLE OLIVA.
+
+
+During this time, the man who had pointed out the fictitious queen to
+the people touched on the shoulder another man who stood near him, in a
+shabby dress, and said. “For you, who are a journalist, here is a fine
+subject for an article.”
+
+“How so?” replied the man.
+
+“Shall I tell you?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“The danger of being governed by a king who is governed by a queen who
+indulges in such paroxysms as these.”
+
+The journalist laughed. “But the Bastile?” he said.
+
+“Pooh, nonsense! I do not mean you to write it out plainly. Who can
+interfere with you if you relate the history of Prince Silou and the
+Princess Etteniotna, Queen of Narfec? What do you say to that?”
+
+“It is an admirable idea!” said the journalist.
+
+“And I do not doubt that a pamphlet called ‘The Paroxysms of the
+Princess Etteniotna at the house of the Fakeer Remsem’ would have a
+great success.”
+
+“I believe it also.”
+
+“Then go and do it.”
+
+The journalist pressed the hand of the unknown. “Shall I send you some
+copies, sir? I will with pleasure if you will give me your name.”
+
+“Certainly; the idea pleases me. What is the usual circulation of your
+journal?”
+
+“Two thousand.”
+
+“Then do me a favor: take these fifty louis, and publish six thousand.”
+
+“Oh, sir, you overwhelm me. May I not know the name of such a generous
+patron of literature?”
+
+“You shall know, when I call for one thousand copies—at two francs
+each, are they not? Will they be ready in a week?”
+
+“I will work night and day, monsieur.”
+
+“Let it be amusing.”
+
+“It shall make all Paris die with laughing, except one person.”
+
+“Who will weep over it. Apropos, date the publication from London.”
+
+“Sir, I am your humble servant.” And the journalist took his leave,
+with his fifty louis in his pocket, highly delighted.
+
+The unknown again turned to look at the young woman, who had now
+subsided into a state of exhaustion, and looked beautiful as she lay
+there. “Really,” he said to himself, “the resemblance is frightful. God
+had his motives in creating it, and has no doubt condemned her to whom
+the resemblance is so strong.”
+
+While he made these reflections, she rose slowly from the midst of the
+cushions, assisting herself with the arm of an attendant, and began to
+arrange her somewhat disordered toilet, and then traversed the rooms,
+confronting boldly the looks of the people. She was somewhat
+astonished, however, when she found herself saluted with deep and
+respectful bows by a group which had already been assembled by the
+indefatigable stranger, who kept whispering, “Never mind, gentlemen,
+never mind, she is still the Queen of France; let us salute her.” She
+next entered the courtyard, and looked about for a coach or chair, but,
+seeing none, was about to set off on foot, when a footman approached
+and said, “Shall I call madame’s carriage?”
+
+“I have none,” she replied.
+
+“Madame came in a coach?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“From the Rue Dauphine?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I will take madame home.”
+
+“Do so, then,” said she, although somewhat surprised at the offer.
+
+The man made a sign, and a carriage drove up. He opened the door for
+her, and then said to the coachman, “To the Rue Dauphine.” They set
+off, and the young woman, who much approved of this mode of transit,
+regretted she had not further to go. They soon stopped, however; the
+footman handed her out, and immediately drove off again.
+
+“Really,” said she to herself, “this is an agreeable adventure; it is
+very gallant of M. Mesmer. Oh, I am very tired, and he must have
+foreseen that. He is a great doctor.”
+
+Saying these words, she mounted to the second story, and knocked at a
+door, which was quickly opened by an old woman.
+
+“Is supper ready, mother?”
+
+“Yes, and growing cold.”
+
+“Has he come?”
+
+“No, not yet, but the gentleman has.”
+
+“What gentleman?”
+
+“He who was to speak to you this evening.”
+
+“To me?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+This colloquy took place in a kind of ante-chamber opening into her
+room, which was furnished with old curtains of yellow silk, chairs of
+green Utrecht velvet, not very new, and an old yellow sofa.
+
+She opened the door, and, going in, saw a man seated on the sofa whom
+she did not know in the least, although we do, for it was the same man
+whom we have seen taking so much interest in her at Mesmer’s.
+
+She had not time to question him, for he began immediately: “I know all
+that you are going to ask, and will tell you without asking. You are
+Mademoiselle Oliva, are you not?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“A charming person, highly nervous, and much taken by the system of M.
+Mesmer.”
+
+“I have just left there.”
+
+“All this, however, your beautiful eyes are saying plainly, does not
+explain what brings me here.”
+
+“You are right, sir.”
+
+“Will you not do me the favor to sit down, or I shall be obliged to get
+up also, and that is an uncomfortable way of talking.”
+
+“Really, sir, you have very extraordinary manners.”
+
+“Mademoiselle, I saw you just now at M. Mesmer’s, and found you to be
+all I could wish.”
+
+“Sir!”
+
+“Do not alarm yourself, mademoiselle. I do not tell you that I found
+you charming—that would seem like a declaration of love, and I have no
+such intention. I know that you are accustomed to have yourself called
+beautiful, but I, who also think so, have other things to talk to you
+about.”
+
+“Really, sir, the manner in which you speak to me——”
+
+“Do not get angry before you have heard me. Is there any one that can
+overhear us?”
+
+“No, sir, no one. But still——”
+
+“Then, if no one can hear, we can converse at our ease. What do you say
+to a little partnership between us?”
+
+“Really, sir——”
+
+“Do not misunderstand; I do not say ‘liaison’—I say partnership; I am
+not talking of love, but of business.”
+
+“What kind of business?” said Oliva, with growing curiosity.
+
+“What do you do all day?”
+
+“Why, I do nothing, or, at least, as little as possible.”
+
+“You have no occupation—so much the better. Do you like walking?”
+
+“Very much.”
+
+“To see sights, and go to balls?”
+
+“Excessively.”
+
+“To live well?”
+
+“Above all things.”
+
+“If I gave you twenty-five louis a month, would you refuse me?”
+
+“Sir!”
+
+“My dear Mademoiselle Oliva, now you are beginning to doubt me again,
+and it was agreed that you were to listen quietly. I will say fifty
+louis if you like.”
+
+“I like fifty louis better than twenty-five, but what I like better
+than either is to be able to choose my own lover.”
+
+“Morbleu! but I have already told you that I do not desire to be your
+lover. Set your mind at ease about that.”
+
+“Then what am I to do to earn my fifty louis?”
+
+“You must receive me at your house, and always be glad to see me. Walk
+out with me whenever I desire it, and come to me whenever I send for
+you.”
+
+“But I have a lover, sir.”
+
+“Well, dismiss him.”
+
+“Oh, Beausire cannot be sent away like that!”
+
+“I will help you.”
+
+“No; I love him.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“A little.”
+
+“That is just a little too much.”
+
+“I cannot help it.”
+
+“Then he may stop.”
+
+“You are very obliging.”
+
+“Well—but do my conditions suit you?”
+
+“Yes, if you have told me all.”
+
+“I believe I have said all I wish to say now.”
+
+“On your honor?”
+
+“On my honor.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“Then that is settled; and here is the first month in advance.”
+
+He held out the money, and, as she still seemed to hesitate a little,
+slipped it himself into her pocket.
+
+Scarcely had he done so, when a knock at the door made Oliva run to the
+window. “Good God!” she cried; “escape quickly; here he is!”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Beausire, my lover. Be quick, sir!”
+
+“Nonsense!”
+
+“He will half murder you.”
+
+“Bah!”
+
+“Do you hear how he knocks?”
+
+“Well, open the door.” And he sat down again on the sofa, saying to
+himself, “I must see this fellow, and judge what he is like.”
+
+The knocks became louder, and mingled with oaths.
+
+“Go, mother, and open the door,” cried Oliva. “As for you, sir, if any
+harm happens to you, it is your own fault.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE.
+
+
+Oliva ran to meet a man, who came in swearing furiously, and in a
+frightful passion.
+
+“Come, Beausire,” said she, apparently not at all frightened.
+
+“Let me alone!” cried he, shaking her off brutally. “Ah! I see, it was
+because there is a man here that the door was not opened!” And as the
+visitor remained perfectly still, he advanced furiously towards him,
+saying, “Will you answer me, sir?”
+
+“What do you want to know, my dear M. Beausire?”
+
+“What are you doing here, and who are you?”
+
+“I am a very quiet man, and I was simply talking to madame.”
+
+“That was all,” said Oliva.
+
+“Will you hold your tongue?” bawled Beausire.
+
+“Now,” said the visitor, “do not be so rude to madame, who has done
+nothing to deserve it; and if you are in a bad temper——”
+
+“Yes, I am.”
+
+“He must have lost at cards,” murmured Oliva.
+
+“I am cleaned out, mort de diable!” cried Beausire. “But you, sir, will
+do me the favor to leave this room.”
+
+“But, M. Beausire——”
+
+“Diable! if you do not go immediately it will be the worse for you.”
+
+“You did not tell me, mademoiselle, that he was troubled with these
+fits. Good heavens! what ferocity!”
+
+Beausire, exasperated, drew his sword, and roared, “If you do not move,
+I will pin you to the sofa!”
+
+“Really, it is impossible to be more disagreeable,” said the visitor,
+also drawing a small sword, which they had not before seen.
+
+Oliva uttered piercing shrieks.
+
+“Oh, mademoiselle, pray be quiet,” said he, “or two things will happen:
+first, you will stun M. Beausire, and he will get killed; secondly, the
+watch will come up and carry you straight off to St. Lazare.”
+
+Oliva ceased her cries.
+
+The scene that ensued was curious. Beausire, furious with rage, was
+making wild and unskilful passes at his adversary, who, still seated on
+the sofa, parried them with the utmost ease, laughing immoderately all
+the time.
+
+Beausire began to grow tired and also frightened, for he felt that if
+this man, who was now content to stand on the defensive, were to attack
+him in his turn, he should be done for in a moment. Suddenly, however,
+by a skilful movement, the stranger sent Beausire’s sword flying across
+the room; it went through an open window, and fell into the street.
+
+“Oh, M. Beausire,” said he, “you should take more care; if your sword
+falls on any one, it will kill him.”
+
+Beausire ran down at his utmost speed to fetch his sword, and
+meanwhile, Oliva, seizing the hand of the victor, said:
+
+“Oh, sir, you are very brave; but as soon as you are gone, Beausire
+will beat me.”
+
+“Then I will remain.”
+
+“Oh, no; when he beats me, I beat him in return, and I always get the
+best of it, because I am not obliged to take any care; so if you would
+but go, sir——”
+
+“But, my dear, if I go now, I shall meet M. Beausire on the stairs;
+probably the combat will recommence, and as I shall not feel inclined
+to stand on the staircase, I shall have to kill M. Beausire.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! it is true.”
+
+“Well, then, to avoid that I will remain here.”
+
+“No, sir, I entreat; go up to the next story, and as soon as he returns
+to this room I will lock the door and take the key, and you can walk
+away while we fight it out.”
+
+“You are a charming girl. Au revoir!”
+
+“Till when?”
+
+“To-night, if you please.”
+
+“To-night! are you mad?”
+
+“Not at all; but there is a ball at the Opera to-night.”
+
+“But it is now midnight.”
+
+“That does not matter.”
+
+“I should want a domino.”
+
+“Beausire will fetch it when you have beaten him.”
+
+“You are right,” said Oliva, laughing.
+
+“And here are ten louis to buy it with.”
+
+“Adieu! and thanks.” And she pushed him out, saying, “Quick! he is
+coming back.”
+
+“But if by chance he should beat you, how will you let me know?”
+
+She reflected a moment. “You have a servant?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Send him here, and let him wait under the window till I let a note
+fall.”
+
+“I will. Adieu!” And he went up-stairs.
+
+Oliva drowned the sound of his footsteps by calling loudly to Beausire,
+“Are you coming back, madman?” for he did not seem in much hurry to
+reencounter his formidable adversary. At last, however, he came up.
+Oliva was standing outside the door; she pushed him in, locked it, and
+put the key in her pocket.
+
+Before the stranger left the house, he heard the noise of the combat
+begin, and both voices loud and furious. “There is no doubt,” said he
+to himself, “that this woman knows how to take care of herself.” His
+carriage was waiting for him at the corner of the street, but before
+getting in he spoke to the footman, who thereupon stationed himself
+within view of Mademoiselle Oliva’s windows.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+GOLD.
+
+
+We must now return to the interior of the room. Beausire was much
+surprised to see Oliva lock the door, and still more so not to see his
+adversary. He began to feel triumphant, for if he was hiding from him
+he must, he thought, be afraid of him. He therefore began to search for
+him; but Oliva talked so loud and fast that he advanced towards her to
+try and stop her, but was received with a box on the ear, which he
+returned in kind. Oliva replied by throwing a china vase at his head,
+and his answer was a blow with a cane. She, furious, flew at him and
+seized him by the throat, and he, trying to free himself, tore her
+dress.
+
+Then, with a cry, she pushed him from her with such force that he fell
+in the middle of the room.
+
+He began to get tired of this, so he said, without commencing another
+attack, “You are a wicked creature; you ruin me.”
+
+“On the contrary, it is you who ruin me.”
+
+“Oh, I ruin her!—she who has nothing!”
+
+“Say that I have nothing now, say that you have eaten, and drank, and
+played away all that I had.”
+
+“You reproach me with my poverty.”
+
+“Yes, for it comes from your vices.”
+
+“Do not talk of vices; it only remained for you to take a lover.”
+
+“And what do you call all those wretches who sit by you in the
+tennis-court, where you play?”
+
+“I play to live.”
+
+“And nicely you succeed; we should die of hunger from your industry.”
+
+“And you, with yours, are obliged to cry if you get your dress torn,
+because you have nothing to buy another with.”
+
+“I do better than you, at all events;” and, putting her hand in her
+pocket, she drew out some gold and threw it across the room.
+
+When Beausire saw this, he remained stupefied.
+
+“Louis!” cried he at last.
+
+She took out some more, and threw them in his face.
+
+“Oh!” cried he, “Oliva has become rich!”
+
+“This is what my industry brings in,” said she, pushing him with her
+foot as he kneeled down to pick up the gold.
+
+“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” counted he, joyfully.
+
+“Miserable wretch!” said Oliva.
+
+“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.”
+
+“Coward!”
+
+“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”
+
+“Infamous wretch!”
+
+He got up. “And so, mademoiselle, you have been saving money when you
+kept me without necessaries. You let me go about in an old hat, darned
+stockings, and patched clothes, while you had all this money! Where
+does it come from! From the sale of my things?”
+
+“Scoundrel!” murmured Oliva, looking at him with contempt.
+
+“But I pardon your avarice,” continued he.
+
+“You would have killed me just now,” said Oliva.
+
+“Then I should have been right; now I should be wrong to do it.”
+
+“Why, if you please?”
+
+“Because now you contribute to our ménage.”
+
+“You are a base wretch.’”
+
+“My little Oliva!”
+
+“Give me back my money.”
+
+“Oh, my darling!”
+
+“If you do not, I will pass your own sword through your body!”
+
+“Oliva!”
+
+“Will you give it?”
+
+“Oh, you would not take it away?”
+
+“Ah, coward! you beg, you solicit for the fruits of my bad conduct—that
+is what they call a man! I have always despised you.”
+
+“I gave to you when I could, Nicole.”
+
+“Do not call me Nicole.”
+
+“Pardon, then, Oliva. But is it not true?”
+
+“Fine presents, certainly: some silver buckles, six louis d’or, two
+silk dresses, and three embroidered handkerchiefs.”
+
+“It is a great deal for a soldier.”
+
+“Hold your tongue! The buckles you stole from some one else, the louis
+d’or you borrowed and never returned, the silk dresses——”
+
+“Oliva! Oliva!”
+
+“Give me back my money.”
+
+“What shall I give you instead?”
+
+“Double the quantity.”
+
+THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE Dumas. Vol. Eight
+
+“Well,” said the rogue, gravely, “I will go to the Rue de Bussy and
+play with it, and bring you back, not the double, but the quintuple;”
+and he made two steps to the door.
+
+She caught him by the coat.
+
+“There,” said he, “you have torn my coat.”
+
+“Never mind; you shall have a new one.”
+
+“That will be six louis, Oliva. Luckily, at the Rue de Bussy they are
+not particular about dress.”
+
+Oliva seized hold of the other tail, and tore it right off.
+
+Beausire became furious.
+
+“Mort de tous les diables!” cried he, “you will make me kill you at
+last! You are tearing me to bits! Now I cannot go out.”
+
+“On the contrary, you must go out immediately.”
+
+“Without a coat?”
+
+“Put on your great-coat.”
+
+“It is all in holes.”
+
+“Then do not put it on; but you must go out.”
+
+“I will not.”
+
+She took out of her pocket another handful of gold, and put it into his
+hands.
+
+Beausire kneeled at her feet and cried, “Order, and I will obey!”
+
+“Go quickly to the Capucin, Rue de Seine, where they sell dominoes for
+the bal masque, and buy me one complete, mask and all.”
+
+“Good.”
+
+“And one for yourself—black, but mine white; and I only give you twenty
+minutes to do it in.”
+
+“Are we going to the ball?”
+
+“Yes, if you are obedient.”
+
+“Oh, always.”
+
+“Go, then, and show your zeal.”
+
+“I run; but the money?”
+
+“You have twenty-five louis, that you picked up.”
+
+“Oh, Oliva, I thought you meant to give me those.”
+
+“You shall have more another time, but if I give you them now, you will
+stop and play.”
+
+“She is right,” said he to himself; “that is just what I intended to
+do;” and he set off.
+
+As soon as he was gone, Oliva wrote rapidly these words: “The peace is
+signed, and the ball decided on; at two o’clock we shall be at the
+Opera. I shall wear a white domino, with a blue ribbon on my left
+shoulder.” Then, rolling this round a bit of the broken vase, she went
+to the window and threw it out.
+
+The valet picked it up, and made off immediately.
+
+In less than half an hour M. Beausire returned, followed by two men,
+bringing, at the cost of eighteen louis, two beautiful dominoes, such
+as were only turned out at the Capucin, makers to her majesty and the
+maids of honor.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+LA PETITE MAISON.
+
+
+We left Madame de la Motte at M. Mesmer’s door, watching the queen’s
+carriage as it drove off. Then she went home; for she also intended to
+put on a domino, and indulge herself by going to the Opera. But a
+contretemps awaited her: a man was waiting at her door with a note from
+the Cardinal de Rohan. She opened it, and read as follows:
+
+“Madame la Comtesse, you have doubtless not forgotten that we have
+business together; even if you have a short memory, I never forget what
+has pleased me. I shall have the honor to wait for you where my
+messenger will conduct you, if you please to come.”
+
+Jeanne, although rather vexed, immediately reentered the coach, and
+told the footman to get on the box with the coachman. Ten minutes
+sufficed to bring her to the entrance of the Faubourg St. Antoine,
+where, in a hollow and completely hidden by great trees, was one of
+those pretty houses built in the time of Louis XV., with all the taste
+of the sixteenth, with the comfort of the eighteenth, century.
+
+“Oh, oh! a petite maison!” said she to herself. “It is very natural on
+the part of M. de Rohan, but very humiliating for Valois. But,
+patience.”
+
+She was led from room to room till she came to a small dining-room,
+fitted up with exquisite taste. There she found the cardinal waiting
+for her. He was looking over some pamphlets, but rose immediately on
+seeing her.
+
+“Ah, here you are. Thanks, Madame la Comtesse,” and he approached to
+kiss her hand; but she drew back with a reproachful and indignant air.
+
+“What is the matter, madame?” he asked.
+
+“You are, doubtless, not accustomed, monseigneur, to receive such a
+greeting from the women whom your eminence is in the habit of summoning
+here.”
+
+“Oh! madame.”
+
+“We are in your petite maison, are we not, sir?” continued she, looking
+disdainfully around her.
+
+“But, madame——”
+
+“I had hoped that your eminence would have deigned to remember in what
+rank I was born. I had hoped that you would have been pleased to
+consider, that if God has made me poor, He has at least left me the
+pride of my race.”
+
+“Come, come, countess, I took you for a woman of intellect.”
+
+“You call a woman of intellect, it appears, monseigneur, every one who
+is indifferent to, and laughs at, everything, even dishonor. To these
+women, pardon me, your eminence, I have been in the habit of giving a
+different name.”
+
+“No, countess, you deceive yourself; I call a woman of intellect one
+who listens when you speak to her, and does not speak before having
+listened.”
+
+“I listen, then.”
+
+“I had to speak to you of serious matters, countess.”
+
+“Therefore you receive me in a dining-room.”
+
+“Why, would you have preferred my receiving you in a boudoir?”
+
+“The distinction is nice,” said she.
+
+“I think so, countess.”
+
+“Then I am simply to sup with you?”
+
+“Nothing else.”
+
+“I trust your eminence is persuaded that I feel the honor as I ought.”
+
+“You are quizzing, countess.”
+
+“No, I only laugh; would you rather I were angry? You are difficult to
+please, monseigneur.”
+
+“Oh; you are charming when you laugh, and I ask nothing better than to
+see you always doing so; but at this moment you are not laughing; oh,
+no! there is anger in that smile which shows your beautiful teeth.”
+
+“Not the least in the world, monseigneur.”
+
+“That is good.”
+
+“And I hope you will sup well.”
+
+“I shall sup well, and you?”
+
+“Oh, I am not hungry.”
+
+“How, madame, you refuse to sup with me—you send me away?”
+
+“I do not understand you, monseigneur.”
+
+“Listen, dear countess; if you were less in a passion, I would tell you
+that it is useless to behave like this—you are always equally charming;
+but as at each compliment I fear to be dismissed, I abstain.”
+
+“You fear to be dismissed? Really, I beg pardon of your eminence, but
+you become unintelligible.”
+
+“It is, however, quite clear, what I say. The other day, when I came to
+see you, you complained that you were lodged unsuitably to your rank. I
+thought, therefore, that to restore you to your proper place would be
+like restoring air to the bird whom the experimenter has placed under
+his air-pump. Consequently, beautiful countess, that you might receive
+me with pleasure, and that I, on my part, might visit you without
+compromising either you or myself——” He stopped and looked at her.
+
+“Well!” she said.
+
+“I hoped that you would deign to accept this small residence; you
+observe, I do not call it ‘petite maison.’”
+
+“Accept! you give me this house, monseigneur?” said Jeanne, her heart
+beating with eagerness.
+
+“A very small gift, countess; but if I had offered you more, you would
+have refused.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, it is impossible for me to accept this.”
+
+“Impossible, why? Do not say that word to me, for I do not believe in
+it. The house belongs to you, the keys are here on this silver plate;
+do you find out another humiliation in this?”
+
+“No, but——”
+
+“Then accept.”
+
+“Monseigneur, I have told you.”
+
+“How, madame? you write to the ministers for a pension, you accept a
+hundred louis from an unknown lady——”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, it is different.”
+
+“Come, I have waited for you in your dining-room. I have not yet seen
+the boudoir, nor the drawing-room, nor the bedrooms, for I suppose
+there are all these.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, forgive me; you force me to confess that you the most
+delicate of men,” and she blushed with the pleasure she had been so
+long restraining. But checking herself, she sat down and said, “Now,
+will your eminence give me my supper?”
+
+The cardinal took off his cloak, and sat down also.
+
+Supper was served in a few moments. Jeanne put on her mask before the
+servants came in.
+
+“It is I who ought to wear a mask,” said the cardinal, “for you are at
+home, among your own people.”
+
+Jeanne laughed, but did not take hers off. In spite of her pleasure and
+surprise, she made a good supper. The cardinal was a man of much
+talent, and from his great knowledge of the world and of women, he was
+a man difficult to contend with, and he thought that this country girl,
+full of pretension, but who, in spite of her pride, could not conceal
+her greediness, would be an easy conquest, worth undertaking on account
+of her beauty, and of a something piquant about her, very pleasing to a
+man “blasé” like him. He therefore never took pains to be much on his
+guard with her; and she, more cunning than he thought, saw through his
+opinion of her, and tried to strengthen it by playing the provincial
+coquette, and appearing silly, that her adversary might be in reality
+weak in his over-confidence.
+
+The cardinal thought her completely dazzled by the present he had made
+her—and so, indeed, she was; but he forgot that he himself was below
+the mark of the ambition of a woman like Jeanne.
+
+“Come,” said he, pouring out for her a glass of cyprus wine, “as you
+have signed your contract with me, you will not be unfriendly any more,
+countess.”
+
+“Oh no!”
+
+“You will receive me here sometimes without repugnance?”
+
+“I shall never be so ungrateful as to forget whose house this really
+is.”
+
+“Not mine.”
+
+“Oh yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“Do not contradict me, I advise you, or I shall begin to impose
+conditions.”
+
+“You take care on your part——”
+
+“Of what?”
+
+“Why, I am at home here, you know, and if your conditions are
+unreasonable, I shall call my servants——”
+
+The cardinal laughed.
+
+“Ah, you laugh, sir; you think if I call they will not come.”
+
+“Oh, you quite mistake, countess. I am nothing here, only your guest.
+Apropos,” continued he, as if it had just entered his head, “have you
+heard anything more of the ladies who came to see you?”
+
+“The ladies of the portrait?” said Jeanne, who, now knowing the queen,
+saw through the artifice.
+
+“Yes, the ladies of the portrait.”
+
+“Monseigneur, you know them as well and even better than I do, I feel
+sure.”
+
+“Oh, countess, you do me wrong. Did you not express a wish to learn who
+they were?”
+
+“Certainly; it is natural to desire to know your benefactors.”
+
+“Well, if knew, I should have told you.”
+
+“M. le Cardinal, you do know them.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“If you repeat that ‘no,’ I shall have to call you a liar.”
+
+“I shall know how to avenge that insult.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“With a kiss.”
+
+“You know the portrait of Maria Theresa?”
+
+“Certainly, but what of that?”
+
+“That, having recognized this portrait, you must have had some
+suspicion of the person to whom it belonged.”
+
+“And why?”
+
+“Because it was natural to think that the portrait of a mother would
+only be in the hands of her daughter.”
+
+“The queen!” cried the cardinal, with so truthful a tone of surprise
+that it duped even Jeanne. “Do you really think the queen came to see
+you?”
+
+“And you did not suspect it?”
+
+“Mon Dieu, no! how should I? I, who speak to you, am neither son,
+daughter, nor even relation of Maria Theresa, yet I have a portrait of
+her about me at this moment. Look,” said he—and he drew out a snuff-box
+and showed it to her; “therefore you see that if I, who am in no way
+related to the imperial house, carry about such a portrait, another
+might do the same, and yet be a stranger.”
+
+Jeanne was silent—she had nothing to answer.
+
+“Then it is your opinion,” he went on, “that you have had a visit from
+the queen, Marie Antoinette.”
+
+“The queen and another lady.”
+
+“Madame de Polignac?”
+
+“I do not know.”
+
+“Perhaps Madame de Lamballe?”
+
+“A young lady, very beautiful and very serious.”
+
+“Oh, perhaps Mademoiselle de Taverney.”
+
+“It is possible; I do not know her.”
+
+“Well, if her majesty has really come to visit you, you are sure of her
+protection. It is a great step towards your fortune.”
+
+“I believe it, monseigneur.”
+
+“And her majesty was generous to you?”
+
+“She gave me a hundred louis.”
+
+“And she is not rich, particularly now.”
+
+“That doubles my gratitude.”
+
+“Did she show much interest in you?”
+
+“Very great.”
+
+“Then all goes well,” said the prelate; “there only remains one thing
+now—to penetrate to Versailles.”
+
+The countess smiled.
+
+“Ah, countess, it is not so easy.”
+
+She smiled again, more significantly than before.
+
+“Really, you provincials,” said he, “doubt nothing; because you have
+seen Versailles with the doors open, and stairs to go up, you think any
+one may open these doors and ascend these stairs. Have you seen the
+monsters of brass, of marble, and of lead, which adorn the park and the
+terraces?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Griffins, gorgons, ghouls, and other ferocious beasts. Well, you will
+find ten times as many, and more wicked, living animals between you and
+the favor of sovereigns.”
+
+“Your eminence will aid me to pass through the ranks of these
+monsters.”
+
+“I will try, but it will be difficult. And if you pronounce my name, if
+you discover your talisman, it will lose all its power.”
+
+“Happily, then, I am guarded by the immediate protection of the queen,
+and I shall enter Versailles with a good key.”
+
+“What key, countess?”
+
+“Ah, Monsieur le Cardinal, that is my secret—or rather it is not, for
+if it were mine, I should feel bound to tell it to my generous
+protector.”
+
+“There is, then, an obstacle, countess?”
+
+“Alas! yes, monseigneur. It is not my secret, and I must keep it. Let
+it suffice you to know that to-morrow I shall go to Versailles; that I
+shall be received, and, I have every reason to hope, well received.”
+
+The cardinal looked at her with wonder. “Ah, countess,” said he,
+laughing, “I shall see if you will get in.”
+
+“You will push your curiosity so far as to follow me?”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“Really, countess, you are a living enigma.”
+
+“One of those monsters who inhabit Versailles.”
+
+“Oh, you believe me a man of taste, do you not?”
+
+“Certainly, monseigneur.”
+
+“Well, here I am at your knees, and I take your hand and kiss it.
+Should I do that if I thought you a monster?”
+
+“I beg you, sir, to remember,” said Jeanne coldly, “that I am neither a
+grisette nor an opera girl; that I am my own mistress, feeling myself
+the equal of any man in this kingdom. Therefore I shall take freely and
+spontaneously, when it shall please me, the man who will have gained my
+affections. Therefore, monseigneur, respect me a little, and, in me,
+the nobility to which we both belong.”
+
+The cardinal rose. “I see,” said he, “you wish me to love you
+seriously.”
+
+“I do not say that; but I wish to be able to love you. When that day
+comes—if it does comes—you will easily find it out, believe me. If you
+do not, I will let you know it; for I feel young enough and attractive
+enough not to mind making the first advances, nor to fear a repulse.”
+
+“Countess, if it depends upon me, you shall love me.”
+
+“We shall see.”
+
+“You have already a friendship for me, have you not?”
+
+“More than that.”
+
+“Oh! then we are at least half way. And you are a woman that I should
+adore, if——” He stopped and sighed.
+
+“Well,” said she, “if——”
+
+“If you would permit it.”
+
+“Perhaps I shall, when I shall be independent of your assistance, and
+you can no longer suspect that I encourage you from interested
+motives.”
+
+“Then you forbid me to pay my court now?”
+
+“Not at all; but there are other ways besides kneeling and kissing
+hands.”
+
+“Well, countess, let us hear; what will you permit?”
+
+“All that is compatible with my tastes and duties.”
+
+“Oh, that is vague indeed.”
+
+“Stop! I was going to add—my caprices.”
+
+“I am lost!”
+
+“You draw back?”
+
+“No,” said the cardinal, “I do not.”
+
+“Well, then, I want a proof.”
+
+“Speak.”
+
+“I want to go to the ball at the Opera.”
+
+“Well, countess, that only concerns yourself. Are you not free as air
+to go where you wish?”
+
+“Ah, but you have not heard all. I want you to go with me.”
+
+“I to the Opera, countess!” said he, with a start of horror.
+
+“See already how much your desire to please me is worth.”
+
+“A cardinal cannot go to a ball at the Opera, countess. It is as if I
+proposed to you to go into a public-house.”
+
+“Then a cardinal does not dance, I suppose?”
+
+“Oh no!”
+
+“But I have read that M. le Cardinal de Richelieu danced a saraband.”
+
+“Yes, before Anne of Austria.”
+
+“Before a queen,” repeated Jeanne. “Perhaps you would do as much for a
+queen?”
+
+The cardinal could not help blushing, dissembler as he was.
+
+“Is it not natural,” she continued, “that I should feel hurt when,
+after all your protestations, you will not do as much for me as you
+would for a queen?—especially when I only ask you to go concealed in a
+domino and a mask; besides, a man like you, who may do anything with
+impunity!”
+
+The cardinal yielded to her flattery and her blandishments. Taking her
+hand, he said, “For you I will do anything, even the impossible.”
+
+“Thanks, monseigneur; you are really amiable. But now you have
+consented, I will let you off.”
+
+“No, no! he who does the work can alone claim the reward. Countess, I
+will attend you, but in a domino.”
+
+“We shall pass through the Rue St. Denis, close to the Opera,” said the
+countess. “I will go in masked, buy a domino and a mask for you, and
+you can put them on in the carriage.”
+
+“That will do delightfully.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, you are very good! But, now I think of it, perhaps at
+the Hôtel Rohan you might find a domino more to your taste than the one
+I should buy.”
+
+“Now, countess, that is unpardonable malice. Believe me if I go to the
+Opera, I shall be as surprised to find myself there as you were to find
+yourself supping tête-à-tête with a man not your husband.”
+
+Jeanne had nothing to reply to this. Soon a carriage without arms drove
+up; they both got in, and drove off at a rapid pace.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+SOME WORDS ABOUT THE OPERA.
+
+
+The Opera, that temple of pleasure at Paris, was burned in the month of
+June, 1781. Twenty persons had perished in the ruins; and as it was the
+second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it created a
+prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the Palais Royal,
+and the king had ordered its removal to a less central spot. The place
+chosen was La Porte St. Martin.
+
+The king, vexed to see Paris deprived for so long of its Opera, became
+as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread had risen
+to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. It was melancholy to see the
+nobility, the army, and the citizens without their after-dinner
+amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with the unemployed
+divinities, from the chorus-singers to the prima donnas.
+
+An architect was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who
+promised so perfect a ventilation, that even in case of fire no one
+could be smothered. He would make eight doors for exit, besides five
+large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. In the
+place of the beautiful hall of Moreau he was to erect a building with
+ninety-six feet of frontage towards the boulevard, ornamented with
+eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance-doors, a bas-relief
+above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. The stage was to
+be thirty-six feet wide, the theater seventy-two feet deep and eighty
+across, from one wall to the other. He asked only seventy-five days and
+nights before he opened it to the public.
+
+This appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. The
+king, however, concluded the agreement with him. Lenoir set to work,
+and kept his word. But the public feared that a building so quickly
+erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go.
+
+Even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation of
+“Adéle de Ponthieu” made their wills first. The architect was in
+despair. He came to the king to consult him as to what was to be done.
+
+It was just after the birth of the dauphin; all Paris was full of joy.
+The king advised him to announce a gratuitous performance in honor of
+the event, and give a ball after. Doubtless plenty would come, and if
+the theater stood, its safety was established.
+
+“Thanks, sire,” said the architect.
+
+“But reflect, first,” said the king, “if there be a crowd, are you sure
+of your building?”
+
+“Sire, I am sure, and shall go there myself.”
+
+“I will go to the second representation,” said the king.
+
+The architect followed this advice. They played “Adéle de Ponthieu” to
+three thousand spectators, who afterwards danced. After this there
+could be no more fear. It was three years afterwards that Madame de la
+Motte and the cardinal went to the ball.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+THE BALL AT THE OPERA.
+
+
+The ball was at its height when they glided in quietly, and were soon
+lost in the crowd. A couple had taken refuge from the pressure under
+the queen’s box; one of them wore a white domino and the other a black
+one. They were talking with great animation. “I tell you, Oliva,” said
+the black domino, “that I am sure you are expecting some one. Your head
+is no longer a head, but a weather cock, and turns round to look after
+every newcomer.”
+
+“Well, is it astonishing that I should look at the people, when that is
+what I came here for?”
+
+“Oh, that is what you came for!”
+
+“Well, sir, and for what do people generally come?”
+
+“A thousand things.”
+
+“Men perhaps, but women only for one—to see and be seen by as many
+people as possible.”
+
+“Mademoiselle Oliva!”
+
+“Oh, do not speak in that big voice, it does so frighten me; and above
+all, do not call me by name; it is bad taste to let every one here know
+who you are.”
+
+The black domino made an angry gesture; it was interrupted by a blue
+domino who approached them.
+
+“Come, monsieur,” said he, “let madame amuse herself; it is not every
+night one comes to a ball at the Opera.”
+
+“Meddle with your own affairs,” replied Beausire, rudely.
+
+“Monsieur, learn once for all that a little courtesy is never out of
+place.”
+
+“I do not know you,” he replied, “and do not want to have anything to
+do with you.”
+
+“No, you do not know me; but I know you, M. Beausire.”
+
+At hearing his name thus pronounced, Beausire visibly trembled.
+
+“Oh, do not be afraid, M. Beausire; I am not what you take me for.”
+
+“Pardieu! sir, do you guess thoughts, as well as names?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Then tell me what I thought. I have never seen a sorcerer, and should
+find it amusing.”
+
+“Oh, what you ask is not difficult enough to entitle me to that name.”
+
+“Never mind—tell.”
+
+“Well, then! you took me for an agent of M. de Crosne.”
+
+“M. de Crosne!” he repeated.
+
+“Yes; the lieutenant of police.”
+
+“Sir!”
+
+“Softly, M. de Beausire, you really look as if you were feeling for
+your sword.”
+
+“And so I was, sir.”
+
+“Good heavens! what a warlike disposition; but I think, dear M.
+Beausire, you left your sword at home, and you did well. But to speak
+of something else, will you relinquish to me madame for a time?”
+
+“Give you up madame?”
+
+“Yes, sir; that is not uncommon, I believe, at a ball at the Opera.”
+
+“Certainly not, when it suits the gentleman.”
+
+“It suffices sometimes that it should please the lady.”
+
+“Do you ask it for a long time?”
+
+“Really, M. Beausire, you are too curious. Perhaps for ten
+minutes—perhaps for an hour—perhaps for all the evening.”
+
+“You are laughing at me, sir.”
+
+“Come, reply; will you or not?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Come, come, do not be ill-tempered, you who were so gentle just now.”
+
+“Just now?”
+
+“Yes; at the Rue Dauphine.”
+
+Oliva laughed.
+
+“Hold your tongue, madame,” said Beausire.
+
+“Yes,” continued the blue domino, “where you were on the point of
+killing this poor lady, but stopped at the sight of some louis.”
+
+“Oh, I see; you and she have an understanding together.”
+
+“How can you say such a thing?” cried Oliva.
+
+“And if it were so,” said the stranger, “it is all for your benefit.”
+
+“For my benefit! that would be curious.”
+
+“I will prove to you that your presence here is as hurtful as your
+absence would be profitable. You are a member of a certain academy, not
+the Académie Française, but in the Rue du Pôt au Fer, in the second
+story, is it not, my dear M. Beausire?”
+
+“Hush!” said Beausire.
+
+The blue domino drew out his watch, which was studded with diamonds
+that made Beausire’s eyes water to look at them. “Well!” continued he,
+“in a quarter of an hour they are going to discuss there a little
+project, by which, they hope to secure 2,000,000 francs among the
+twelve members, of whom you are one, M. Beausire.”
+
+“And you must be another; if you are not——”
+
+“Pray go on.”
+
+“A member of the police.”
+
+“Oh, M. Beausire, I thought you had more sense. If I were of the
+police, I should have taken you long ago, for some little affairs less
+honorable than this speculation.”
+
+“So, sir, you wish to send me to the Rue du Pôt au Fer: but I know
+why—that I may be arrested there: I am not such a fool.”
+
+“Now, you are one. If I wanted to arrest you, I had only to do it, and
+I am rid of you at once; but gentleness and persuasion are my maxims.”
+
+“Oh, I know now,” said Beausire, “you are the man that was on the sofa
+two hours ago.”
+
+“What sofa?”
+
+“Never mind; you have induced me to go, and if you are sending a
+gallant man into harm, you will pay for it some day.”
+
+“Be tranquil,” said the blue domino, laughing; “by sending you there, I
+give you 100,000 francs at least, for you know the rule of this society
+is, that whoever is absent loses his share.”
+
+“Well, then, good-by!” said Beausire, and vanished.
+
+The blue domino took possession of Oliva’s arm, left at liberty by
+Beausire.
+
+“Now!” said she, “I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but
+I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find
+something pretty to say to me, or——”
+
+“I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle
+Nicole,” said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman,
+who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering
+herself with marvelous quickness, said:
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole? If so, you
+are wrong, for that is not my name.”
+
+“At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk
+afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you
+forgotten the time when you bore that name? I do not believe it, my
+dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one
+enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take
+another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!”
+
+“Why do you say ‘Poor Oliva’? do you not think me happy?”
+
+“It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire.”
+
+Oliva sighed and said, “Indeed I am not.”
+
+“You love him, however.”
+
+“A little.”
+
+“If you do not love him much, leave him.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because I should no sooner have done so than I should regret it.”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+“I am afraid I should.”
+
+“What could you have to regret in a drunkard; a gambler, a man who
+beats you, and a black-leg, who will one day come to the gallows?”
+
+“You would not understand me if I told you.”
+
+“Try.”
+
+“I should regret the excitement he keeps me in.”
+
+“I ought to have guessed it; that comes of passing your youth with such
+silent people.”
+
+“You know about my youth?”
+
+“Perfectly.”
+
+Oliva laughed and shook her head.
+
+“You doubt it?”
+
+“Really I do.”
+
+“Then we will talk a little about it, Mademoiselle Nicole.”
+
+“Very well; but I warn you, I will tell nothing.”
+
+“I do not wish it. I do not mean your childhood. I begin from the time
+when you first perceived that you had a heart capable of love.”
+
+“Love for whom?”
+
+“For Gilbert.”
+
+At this name Oliva trembled.
+
+“Ah, mon Dieu!” she cried. “How do you know?” Then with, a sigh said,
+“Oh, sir! you have pronounced a name indeed fertile in remembrances.
+You knew Gilbert?”
+
+“Yes; since I speak to you of him.”
+
+“Alas!”
+
+“A charming lad, upon my word. You loved him?”
+
+“He was handsome. No, perhaps not; but I thought him so; he was full of
+mind, my equal in birth, but Gilbert thought no woman his equal.”
+
+“Not even Mademoiselle de Ta——”
+
+“Oh, I know whom you mean, sir. You are well instructed. Yes, Gilbert
+loved higher than the poor Nicole: you are possessed of terrible
+secrets, sir; tell me, if you can,” she continued, looking earnestly at
+him, “what has become of him?”
+
+“You should know best.”
+
+“Why, in heaven’s name?”
+
+“Because if he followed you from Taverney to Paris, you followed him
+from Paris to Trianon.”
+
+“Yes, that is true, but that is ten years ago; and I wished to know
+what had passed since the time I ran away, and since he disappeared.
+When Gilbert loved Mademoiselle de——”
+
+“Do not pronounce names aloud,” said he.
+
+“Well, then, when he loved her so much that each tree at Trianon was
+witness to his love——”
+
+“You loved him no more.”
+
+“On the contrary, I loved him more than ever; and this love was my
+ruin. I am beautiful, proud, and, when I please, insolent; and would
+lay my head on the scaffold rather than confess myself despised.”
+
+“You have a heart, Nicole?”
+
+“I had then,” she said, sighing.
+
+“This conversation makes you sad.”
+
+“No, it does me good to speak of my youth. But tell me why Gilbert fled
+from Trianon.”
+
+“Do you wish me to confirm a suspicion, or to tell you something you do
+not know.”
+
+“Something I do not know.”
+
+“Well, I cannot tell you this. Have you not heard that he is dead?”
+
+“Yes, I have, but——”
+
+“Well, he is dead.”
+
+“Dead!” said Nicole, with an air of doubt. Then, with a sudden start,
+“Grant me one favor!” she cried.
+
+“As many as you like.”
+
+“I saw you two hours ago; for it was you, was it not?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“You did not, then, try to disguise yourself?”
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“But I was stupid; I saw you, but I did not observe you.”
+
+“I do not understand.”
+
+“Do you know what I want?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Take off your mask.”
+
+“Here! impossible!”
+
+“Oh, you cannot fear other people seeing you. Here, behind this column,
+you will be quite hidden. You fear that I should recognize you.”
+
+“You!”
+
+“And that I should cry, ‘It is you—it is Gilbert!’”
+
+“What folly!”
+
+“Take off your mask.”
+
+“Yes, on one condition—that you will take off yours, if I ask it.”
+
+“Agreed.” The unknown took off his immediately.
+
+Oliva looked earnestly at him, then sighed, and said:
+
+“Alas! no, it is not Gilbert.”
+
+“And who am I?”
+
+“Oh, I do not care, as you are not he.”
+
+“And if it had been Gilbert?” said he, as he put on his mask again.
+
+“Ah! if it had been,” cried she passionately, “and he had said to me,
+‘Nicole, do you remember Taverney Maison-Rouge?’ then there would have
+been no longer a Beausire in the world for me.”
+
+“But I have told you, my dear child, that Gilbert is dead.”
+
+“Ah! perhaps, then, it is for the best,” said Oliva, with a sigh.
+
+“Yes; he would never have loved you, beautiful as you are.”
+
+“Do you, then, think he despised me?”
+
+“No; he rather feared you.”
+
+“That is possible.”
+
+“Then you think it better he is dead?”
+
+“Do not repeat my words; in your mouth they wound me.”
+
+“But it is better for Mademoiselle Oliva. You observe, I abandon
+Nicole, and speak to Oliva. You have before you a future, happy, rich,
+and brilliant.”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+“Yes, if you make up your mind to do anything to arrive at this end.”
+
+“I promise you.”
+
+“But you must give up sighing, as you were doing just now.”
+
+“Very well. I sighed for Gilbert, and as he is dead, and there are not
+two Gilberts in the world, I shall sigh no more. But enough of him.”
+
+“Yes; we will speak of yourself. Why did you run away with Beausire?”
+
+“Because I wished to quit Trianon, and I was obliged to go with some
+one; I could no longer remain a ‘pis aller,’ rejected by Gilbert.”
+
+“You have, then, been faithful for ten years through pride? You have
+paid dearly for it.”
+
+Oliva laughed.
+
+“Oh, I know what you are laughing at. To hear a man, who pretends to
+know everything, accuse you of having been ten years faithful, when you
+think you have not rendered yourself worthy of such a ridiculous
+reproach. However, I know all about you. I know that you went to
+Portugal with Beausire, where you remained two years; that you then
+left him, and went to the Indies with the captain of a frigate, who hid
+you in his cabin, and who left you at Chandernagor when he returned to
+Europe. I know that you had two millions of rupees to spend in the
+house of a nabob who kept you shut up; that you escaped through the
+window on the shoulders of a slave. Then, rich—for you had carried away
+two beautiful pearl bracelets, two diamonds, and three large rubies—you
+came back to France. When landing at Brest, your evil genius made you
+encounter Beausire on the quay, who recognized you immediately, bronzed
+and altered as you were, while you almost fainted at the sight of him.”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Oliva, “who are you, then, who know all this?”
+
+“I know, further, that Beausire carried you off again, persuaded you
+that he loved you, sold your jewels, and reduced you to poverty. Still,
+you say you love him, and, as love is the root of all happiness, of
+course you ought to be happy.”
+
+Oliva hung her head, and covered her eyes with her hands, but two large
+tears might be seen forcing their way through her fingers—liquid
+pearls, more precious, though not so marketable, as those Beausire had
+sold.
+
+“And this woman,” at last she said, “whom you describe as so proud and
+so happy, you have bought to-day for fifty louis.”
+
+“I am aware it is too little, mademoiselle.”
+
+“No, sir; on the contrary, I am surprised that a woman like me should
+be worth so much.”
+
+“You are worth more than that, as I will show you; but just now I want
+all your attention.”
+
+“Then I will be silent.”
+
+“No; talk, on the contrary, of anything, it does not matter what, so
+that we seem occupied.”
+
+“You are very odd.”
+
+“Take hold of my arm, and let us walk.”
+
+They walked on among the various groups. In a minute or two, Oliva
+asked a question.
+
+“Talk as much as you like, only do not ask questions at present,” said
+her companion, “for I cannot answer now; only, as you speak, disguise
+your voice, hold your head up, and scratch your neck with your fan.”
+
+She obeyed.
+
+In a minute, they passed a highly perfumed group, in the center of
+which a very elegant-looking man was talking fast to three companions,
+who were listening respectfully.
+
+“Who is that young man in that beautiful gray domino?” asked Oliva.
+
+“M. le Comte d’Artois; but pray do not speak just now!” At this moment
+two other dominoes passed them, and stood in a place near, which was
+rather free from people.
+
+“Lean on this pillar, countess,” said one of them in a low voice, but
+which was overheard by the blue domino, who started at its sound.
+
+Then a yellow domino, passing through the crowd, came up to the blue
+one, and said, “It is he.”
+
+“Very good,” replied the other, and the yellow domino vanished.
+
+“Now, then,” said Oliva’s companion, turning to her, “we will begin to
+enjoy ourselves a little.”
+
+“I hope so, for you have twice made me sad: first by taking away
+Beausire, and then by speaking of Gilbert.”
+
+“I will be both Gilbert and Beausire to you,” said the unknown.
+
+“Oh!” sighed Oliva.
+
+“I do not ask you to love me, remember; I only ask you to accept the
+life I offer you—that is, the accomplishment of all your desires,
+provided occasionally you give way to mine. Just now I have one.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“That black domino that you see there is a German of my acquaintance,
+who refused to come to the ball with me, saying he was not well; and
+now he is here, and a lady with him.”
+
+“Who is she?”
+
+“I do not know. We will approach them; I will pretend that you are a
+German, and you must not speak, for fear of being found out. Now,
+pretend to point him out to me with the end of your fan.”
+
+“Like that?”
+
+“Yes; very well. Now whisper to me.”
+
+Oliva obeyed with a docility which charmed her companion.
+
+The black domino, who had his back turned to them, did not see all
+this; but his companion did. “Take care, monseigneur,” said she; “there
+are two masks watching us.”
+
+“Oh, do not be afraid, countess; they cannot recognize us. Do not mind
+them; but let me assure you that never form was so enchanting as yours,
+never eyes so brilliant, never——”
+
+“Hush! the spies approach.”
+
+“Spies!” said the cardinal, uneasily. “Disguise your voice if they make
+you speak, and I will do the same.”
+
+Oliva and her blue domino indeed approached; he came up to the
+cardinal, and said, “Mask——”
+
+“What do you want?” said the cardinal, in a voice as unlike his natural
+one as he could make it.
+
+“The lady who accompanies me desires me to ask you some questions.”
+
+“Ask,” said M. de Rohan.
+
+“Are they very indiscreet?” said Madame de la Motte.
+
+“So indiscreet that you shall not hear them;” and he pretended to
+whisper to Oliva, who made a sign in answer. Then, in irreproachable
+German, he said to the cardinal, “Monseigneur, are you in love with the
+lady who accompanies you?”
+
+The cardinal trembled.
+
+“Did you say monseigneur?” he asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You deceive yourself; I am not the person you think.”
+
+“Oh, M. le Cardinal, do not deny it; it is useless. If even I did not
+know you, the lady who accompanies me assures me she knows you
+perfectly.” And he again whispered to Oliva, “Make a sign for ‘yes.’ Do
+so each time I press your arm.”
+
+She did so.
+
+“You astonish me!” said the cardinal. “Who is this lady?”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, I thought you would have known; she soon knew you. It
+is true that jealousy——”
+
+“Madame is jealous of me!” cried the cardinal.
+
+“We do not say that,” replied the unknown, rather haughtily.
+
+“What are you talking about?” asked Madame de la Motte, who did not
+like this conversation in German.
+
+“Oh, nothing, nothing!”
+
+“Madame,” said the cardinal to Oliva, “one word from you, and I promise
+to recognize you instantly.”
+
+Oliva, who saw him speaking to her, but did not understand a word,
+whispered to her companion.
+
+All this mystery piqued the cardinal.
+
+“One single German word,” he said, “could not much compromise madame.”
+
+The blue domino again pretended to take her orders, and then said: “M.
+le Cardinal, these are the words of madame, ‘He whose thoughts are not
+ever on the alert, he whose imagination does not perpetually suggest
+the presence of the loved one, does not love, however much he may
+pretend it.’”
+
+The cardinal appeared struck with these words; all his attitude
+expressed surprise, respect and devotion.
+
+“It is impossible!” he murmured in French.
+
+“What is impossible?” asked Madame de la Motte, who seized eagerly on
+these few words she could understand.
+
+“Nothing, madame, nothing!”
+
+“Really, cardinal, you are making me play but a sorry part,” said she,
+withdrawing her arm angrily.
+
+He did not even seem to notice it, so great was his preoccupation with
+the German lady.
+
+“Madame,” said he to her, “these words that your companion has repeated
+to me in your name are some German lines which I read in a house which
+is perhaps known to you.”
+
+The blue domino pressed Oliva’s arm, who thereupon bowed an assent.
+
+“That house,” said the cardinal, hesitatingly, “is it not called
+Schoenbrunn?”
+
+She again made a gesture of assent.
+
+“They were written on a table of cherry-wood, with a gold bodkin, by an
+august hand.”
+
+“Yes,” bowed Oliva again.
+
+The cardinal stopped, he tottered, and leaned against a pillar for
+support. Madame de la Motte stood by, watching this strange scene. Then
+the cardinal, touching the blue domino, said: “This is the conclusion
+of the quotation—‘But he who sees everywhere the loved object, who
+recognizes her by a flower, by a perfume, through the thickest veils,
+he can still be silent—his voice is in his heart—and if one other
+understands him, he is happy.’”
+
+“Oh, they are speaking German here,” said a young voice from an
+approaching group; “let us listen. Do you speak German, marshal?”
+
+“No, monseigneur.”
+
+“You, Charny?”
+
+“Yes, your highness.”
+
+“Here is M. le Comte d’Artois,” said Oliva softly to her companion.
+
+A crowd followed them, and many were passing round.
+
+“Take care, gentlemen!” said the blue domino.
+
+“Monsieur,” replied the prince, “the people are pushing us.”
+
+At this moment some invisible hand pulled Oliva’s hood from behind, and
+her mask fell. She replaced it as quickly as possible, with a
+half-terrified cry, which was echoed by one of affected disquiet from
+her companion.
+
+Several others around looked no little bewildered.
+
+The cardinal nearly fainted, and Madame de la Motte supported him. The
+pressure of the crowd separated the Comte d’Artois and his party from
+them. Then the blue domino approached the cardinal, and said:
+
+“This is indeed an irreparable misfortune; this lady’s honor is at your
+mercy.”
+
+“Oh, monsieur!” murmured the cardinal, who was much agitated.
+
+“Let us go quickly,” said the blue domino to Oliva; and they moved
+away.
+
+“Now I know,” said Madame de la Motte to herself, “what the cardinal
+meant was impossible: he took this woman for the queen. But what an
+effect it has had on him?”
+
+“Would you like to leave the ball?” asked M. de Rohan, in a feeble
+voice.
+
+“As you please, monseigneur,” replied Jeanne.
+
+“I do not find much interest here, do you?”
+
+“None at all.”
+
+They pushed their way through the crowd. The cardinal, who was tall,
+looked all around him, to try and see again the vision which had
+disappeared; but blue, white, and gray dominoes were everywhere, and he
+could distinguish no one. They had been some time in the carriage, and
+he had not yet spoken to Jeanne.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+THE EXAMINATION.
+
+
+At last Jeanne said, “Where is this carriage taking me to, cardinal?”
+
+“Back to your own house, countess.”
+
+“My house—in the faubourg?”
+
+“Yes, countess. A very small house to contain so many charms.”
+
+They soon stopped. Jeanne alighted, and he was preparing to follow her,
+but she stopped him, and said, “It is very late, cardinal.”
+
+“Adieu, then,” said he; and he drove away, absorbed with the scene at
+the ball.
+
+Jeanne entered alone into her new house. Six lackeys waited for her in
+the hall, and she looked at them as calmly as though she had been used
+to it all her life.
+
+“Where are my femmes de chambre?” said she.
+
+One of the men advanced respectfully.
+
+“Two women wait for madame in her room.”
+
+“Call them.” The valet obeyed.
+
+“Where do you usually sleep?” said Jeanne to them, when they entered.
+
+“We have no place as yet,” said one of them; “we can sleep wherever
+madame pleases.”
+
+“Where are the keys?”
+
+“Here, madame.”
+
+“Well, for this night you shall sleep out of the house.”
+
+The women looked at her in surprise.
+
+“You have some place to go to?” said Jeanne.
+
+“Certainly, madame; but it is late. Still, if madame wishes——”
+
+“And these men can accompany you,” she continued, dismissing the valets
+also, who seemed rather pleased.
+
+“When shall we return?” asked one of them.
+
+“To-morrow at noon.”
+
+They seemed more astonished than ever, but Jeanne looked so imperious
+that they did not speak.
+
+“Is there any one else here?” she asked.
+
+“No one, madame. It is impossible for madame to remain like this;
+surely you must have some one here.”
+
+“I want no one.”
+
+“The house might take fire; madame might be ill.”
+
+“Go, all of you,” said Jeanne; “and take this,” added she, giving them
+money from her purse.
+
+They all thanked her, and disappeared, saying to each other that they
+had found a strange mistress.
+
+Jeanne then locked the doors and said triumphantly, “Now I am alone
+here, in my own house.” She now commenced an examination, admiring each
+thing individually. The ground-floor contained a bath-room,
+dining-room, three drawing-rooms, and two morning-rooms. The furniture
+of these rooms was handsome, though not new. It pleased Jeanne better
+than if it had been furnished expressly for her. All the rich antiques
+disdained by fashionable ladies, the marvelous pieces of carved ebony,
+the glass lusters, the gothic clocks; chefs-d’œuvre of carving and
+enamel, the screens with embroidered Chinese figures, and the immense
+vases, threw Jeanne into indescribable raptures. Here on a
+chimney-piece two gilded tritons were bearing branches of coral, upon
+which were hung jeweled fruits. In another place, on a gilded console
+table, was an enormous elephant, with sapphires hanging from his ears,
+supporting a tower filled with little bottles of scent. Books in gilt
+bindings were on rosewood shelves. One room was hung with Gobelin
+tapestry, and furnished in gray and gold; another, paneled in paintings
+by Vernet. The small rooms contained pictures. The whole was evidently
+the collection of years.
+
+Jeanne examined it all with delight. Then, as her domino was
+inconvenient, she went into her room to put on a dressing-gown of
+wadded silk; and, secure of meeting no one, she wandered from room to
+room, continuing her examination, till at last, her light nearly
+exhausted, she returned to her bedroom, which was hung with embroidered
+blue satin.
+
+She had seen everything, and admired everything: there only remained
+herself to be admired; and she thought, as she undressed before the
+long mirror, that she was not the object least worthy of admiration in
+the place. At last, wearied out with pleasurable excitement, she went
+to bed, and soon sank to sleep.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+THE ACADEMY OF M. BEAUSIRE.
+
+
+Beausire had followed the advice of the blue domino, and repaired to
+the place of meeting in the Rue du Pôt au Fer. He was frightened by the
+apparent exclusion which his companions had seemed to meditate, in not
+communicating their plans to him; and he knew none of them to be
+particularly scrupulous. He had acquired the reputation among them of a
+man to be feared; it was not wonderful, as he had been a soldier, and
+worn a uniform. He knew how to draw his sword, and he had a habit of
+looking very fierce at the slightest word that displeased him—all
+things which appear rather terrifying to those of doubtful courage,
+especially when they have reason to shun the éclat of a duel and the
+curiosity of the police.
+
+Beausire counted, therefore, on revenging himself by frightening them a
+little. It was a long way, but Beausire had money in his pocket; so he
+took a coach, promised the driver an extra franc to go fast, and, to
+make up for the absence of his sword, he assumed as fierce a look as he
+could on entering the room.
+
+It was a large hall, full of tables, at which were seated about twenty
+players, drinking beer or syrups, and smiling now and then on some
+highly rouged women who sat near them. They were playing faro at the
+principal table, but the stakes were low, and the excitement small in
+proportion.
+
+On the entrance of the domino, all the women smiled on him, half in
+raillery, and half in coquetry, for M. Beausire was a favorite among
+them. However, he advanced in silence to the table without noticing any
+one.
+
+One of the players, who was a good-humored looking fellow, said to him,
+“Corbleu, chevalier, you come from the ball looking out of sorts.”
+
+“Is your domino uncomfortable?” said another.
+
+“No, it is not my domino,” replied Beausire, gruffly.
+
+“Oh!” said the banker, “he has been unfaithful to us; he has been
+playing somewhere else and lost.”
+
+“It is not I who am unfaithful to my friends; I am incapable of it. I
+leave that to others.”
+
+“What do you mean, dear chevalier?”
+
+“I know what I mean,” replied he; “I thought I had friends here.”
+
+“Certainly,” replied several voices.
+
+“Well, I was deceived.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“You plan things without me.”
+
+Several of the members began to protest it was not true.
+
+“I know better,” said Beausire; “and these false friends shall be
+punished.” He put his hand to his side to feel for his sword, but, as
+it was not there, he only shook his pocket, and the gold rattled.
+
+“Oh, oh!” said the banker, “M. Beausire has not lost. Come, will you
+not play?”
+
+“Thanks,” said Beausire; “I will keep what I have got.”
+
+“Only one louis,” said one of the women, caressingly.
+
+“I do not play for miserable louis,” said he. “We play for millions
+here to-night—yes, gentlemen, millions.”
+
+He had worked himself up into a great state of excitement, and was
+losing sight of all prudence, when a blow from behind made him turn,
+and he saw by him a great dark figure, stiff and upright, and with two
+shining black eyes. He met Beausire’s furious glance with a ceremonious
+bow.
+
+“The Portuguese!” said Beausire.
+
+“The Portuguese!” echoed the ladies, who abandoned Beausire to crowd
+round the newcomer, he being their especial pet, as he was in the habit
+of bringing them sweetmeats, sometimes wrapped up in notes of forty or
+fifty francs. This man was one of the twelve associates.
+
+He was used as a bait at their society. It was agreed that he should
+lose a hundred louis a week as an inducement to allure strangers to
+play. He was, therefore, considered a useful man. He was also an
+agreeable one, and was held in much consideration.
+
+Beausire became silent on seeing him.
+
+The Portuguese took his place at the table, and put down twenty louis,
+which he soon lost, thereby making some of those who had been stripped
+before forget their losses.
+
+All the money received by the banker was dropped into a well under the
+table, and he was forbidden to wear long sleeves, lest he should
+conceal any within them, although the other members generally took the
+liberty of searching both sleeves and pockets before they left.
+
+Several now put on their great-coats and took leave—some happy enough
+to escort the ladies.
+
+A few, however, after making a feint to go, returned into another room;
+and here the twelve associates soon found themselves united.
+
+“Now we will have an explanation,” said Beausire.
+
+“Do not speak so loud,” said the Portuguese in good French. Then they
+examined the doors and windows to make certain that all was secure,
+drew the curtain close, and seated themselves.
+
+“I have a communication to make,” said the Portuguese; “it was lucky,
+however, I arrived when I did, for M. Beausire was seized this evening
+with a most imprudent flow of eloquence.”
+
+Beausire tried to speak.
+
+“Silence,” said the Portuguese; “let us not waste words: you know my
+ideas beforehand very well; you are a man of talent, and may have
+guessed it, but I think ‘amour propre’ should never overcome
+self-interest.”
+
+“I do not understand.”
+
+“M. Beausire hoped to be the first to make this proposition.”
+
+“What proposition?” cried the rest.
+
+“Concerning the two million francs,” said Beausire.
+
+“Two million francs!” cried they.
+
+“First,” said the Portuguese, “you exaggerate; it is not as much as
+that.”
+
+“We do not know what you are talking of,” said the banker.
+
+“But are not the less all ears,” said another.
+
+The Portuguese drank off a large glass of Orgeat, and then began: “The
+necklace is not worth more than 1,500,000 francs.”
+
+“Oh, then it concerns a necklace?” said Beausire.
+
+“Yes, did you not mean the same thing?”
+
+“Perhaps.”
+
+“Now he is going to be discreet after his former folly,” said the
+Portuguese; “but time presses, for the ambassador will arrive in eight
+days.”
+
+“This matter becomes complicated,” said the banker; “a necklace!
+1,500,000 francs! and an ambassador! Pray explain.”
+
+“In a few words,” said the Portuguese; “MM. Bœhmer and Bossange offered
+to the queen a necklace worth that sum. She refused it, and now they do
+not know what to do with it, for none but a royal fortune could buy it.
+Well, I have found the royal personage who will buy this necklace, and
+obtain the custody of it from MM. Bœhmer and Bossange; and that is my
+gracious sovereign the Queen of Portugal.”
+
+“We understand it less than ever,” said the associates.
+
+“And I not at all,” thought Beausire; then he said aloud, “Explain
+yourself clearly, dear M. Manoël; our private differences should give
+place to the public interests. I acknowledge you the author of the
+idea, and renounce all right to its paternity. Therefore speak on.”
+
+“Willingly,” said Manoël, drinking a second glass of Orgeat; “the
+embassy is vacant just now; the new ambassador, M. de Souza, will not
+arrive for a week. Well, he may arrive sooner.”
+
+They all looked stupefied but Beausire, who said, “Do you not see some
+ambassador, whether true or false?”
+
+“Exactly,” said Manoël; “and the ambassador who arrives may desire to
+buy this necklace for the Queen of Portugal, and treat accordingly with
+MM. Bœhmer and Bossange; that is all.”
+
+“But,” said the banker, “they would not allow such a necklace to pass
+into the hands of M. de Souza himself without good security.”
+
+“Oh, I have thought of all that; the ambassador’s house is vacant, with
+the exception of the chancellor, who is a Frenchman, and speaks bad
+Portuguese, and who is therefore delighted when the Portuguese speak
+French to him, as he does not then betray himself; but who likes to
+speak Portuguese to the French, as it sounds grand. Well, we will
+present ourselves to this chancellor with all the appearances of a new
+legation.”
+
+“Appearances are something,” said Beausire: “but the credentials are
+much more.”
+
+“We will have them,” replied Manoël.
+
+“No one can deny that Don Manoël is an invaluable man,” said Beausire.
+
+“Well, our appearances, and the credentials having convinced the
+chancellor of our identity, we will establish ourselves at the house.”
+
+“That is pretty bold,” said Beausire.
+
+“It is necessary, and quite easy,” said Manoël; “the chancellor will be
+convinced, and if he should afterwards become less credulous, we will
+dismiss him. I believe an ambassador has the right to change his
+chancellor.”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Then, when we are masters of the hotel, our first operation will be to
+wait on MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“But you forget one thing,” said Beausire; “our first act should be to
+ask an audience of the king, and then we should break down. The famous
+Riza Bey, who was presented to Louis XIV. as ambassador from the Shah
+of Persia, spoke Persian at least, and there were no savants here
+capable of knowing how well; but we should be found out at once. We
+should be told directly that our Portuguese was remarkably French, and
+we should be sent to the Bastile.”
+
+“We will escape this danger by remaining quietly at home.”
+
+“Then M. Bœhmer will not believe in our ambassadorship.”
+
+“M. Bœhmer will be told that we are sent merely to buy the necklace. We
+will show him our order to do this, as we shall before have shown it to
+the chancellor, only we must try to avoid showing it to the ministers,
+for they are suspicious, and might find a host of little flaws.”
+
+“Oh yes,” cried they all, “let us avoid the ministers.”
+
+“But if MM. Bœhmer and Bossange require money on account?” asked
+Beausire.
+
+“That would complicate the affair, certainly.”
+
+“For,” continued Beausire, “it is usual for an ambassador to have
+letters of credit, at least, if not ready money; and here we should
+fail.”
+
+“You find plenty of reasons why it should fail,” said Manoël, “but
+nothing to make it succeed.”
+
+“It is because I wish it to succeed that I speak of the difficulties.
+But stop—a thought strikes me: in every ambassador’s house there is a
+strong box.”
+
+“Yes; but it may be empty.”
+
+“Well! if it be, we must ask MM. Bœhmer and Bossange who are their
+correspondents at Lisbon, and we will sign and stamp for them letters
+of credit for the sum demanded.”
+
+“That will do,” said Manoël, “I was engrossed with the grand idea, but
+had not sufficiently considered the details.”
+
+“Now, let us think of arranging the parts,” said Beausire. “Don Manoël
+will be ambassador.”
+
+“Certainly,” they all said.
+
+“And M. Beausire my secretary and interpreter,” said Manoël.
+
+“Why so?” said Beausire, rather uneasily.
+
+“I am M. de Souza, and must not speak a word of French; for I know that
+that gentleman speaks nothing but Portuguese, and very little of that.
+You, on the contrary, M. Beausire, who have traveled, and have acquired
+French habits, who speak Portuguese also——”
+
+“Very badly,” said Beausire.
+
+“Quite enough to deceive a Parisian; and then, you know, the most
+useful agents will have the largest shares.”
+
+“Assuredly,” said the others.
+
+“Well! it is agreed; I am secretary and interpreter. Then as to the
+money?”
+
+“It shall be divided into twelve parts; but I as ambassador and author
+of the scheme shall have a share and a half; M. Beausire the same, as
+interpreter, and because he partly shared my idea; and also a share and
+a half to him who sells the jewels.”
+
+“So far, then, it is settled! we will arrange the minor details
+to-morrow, for it is very late,” said Beausire, who was thinking of
+Oliva, left at the ball with the blue domino, towards whom, in spite of
+his readiness in giving away louis d’or, he did not feel very friendly.
+
+“No, no; we will finish at once,” said the others. “What is to be
+prepared?”
+
+“A traveling carriage, with the arms of M. de Souza,” said Beausire.
+
+“That would take too long to paint and to dry,” said Manoël.
+
+“Then we must say that the ambassador’s carriage broke down on the way,
+and he was forced to use that of the secretary: I must have a carriage,
+and my arms will do for that. Besides, we will have plenty of bruises
+and injuries on the carriage, and especially round the arms, and no one
+will think of them.”
+
+“But the rest of the embassy?”
+
+“We will arrive in the evening; it is the best time to make a début,
+and you shall all follow next day, when we have prepared the way.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“But every ambassador, besides a secretary, must have a valet de
+chambre. You, captain,” said Don Manoël, addressing one of the gang,
+“shall take this part.”
+
+The captain bowed.
+
+“And the money for the purchases?” said Manoël. “I have nothing.”
+
+“I have a little,” said Beausire, “but it belongs to my mistress. What
+have we in our fund?”
+
+“Your keys, gentlemen,” said the banker.
+
+Each drew out a key, which opened one of twelve locks in the table; so
+that none of these honest associates could open it without all the
+others. They went to look.
+
+“One hundred and ninety-eight louis, besides the reserve fund,” said
+the banker.
+
+“Give them to M. Beausire and me. It is not too much,” said Manoël.
+
+“Give us two-thirds, and leave the rest,” said Beausire, with a
+generosity which won all their hearts.
+
+Don Manoël and Beausire received, therefore, one hundred and thirty-two
+louis and sixty-six remained for the others.
+
+They then separated, having fixed a rendezvous for the next day.
+
+Beausire rolled up his domino under his arm, and hastened to the Rue
+Dauphine, where he hoped to find Oliva in possession of some new louis
+d’or.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+THE AMBASSADOR.
+
+
+On the evening of the next day a traveling-carriage passed through the
+Barrière d’Enfer, so covered with dust and scratches that no one could
+discern the arms. The four horses that drew it went at a rapid pace,
+until it arrived before an hotel of handsome appearance, in the Rue de
+la Jussienne, at the door of which two men, one of whom was in full
+dress, were waiting. The carriage entered the courtyard of the hotel,
+and one of the persons waiting approached the door, and commenced
+speaking in bad Portuguese.
+
+“Who are you?” said a voice from the inside, speaking the language
+perfectly.
+
+“The unworthy chancellor of the embassy, your excellency.”
+
+“Very well. Mon Dieu! how badly you speak our language, my dear
+chancellor! But where are we to go?”
+
+“This way, monseigneur.”
+
+“This is a poor reception,” said Don Manoël, as he got out of the
+carriage, leaning on the arms of his secretary and valet.
+
+“Your excellency must pardon me,” said the chancellor, “but the courier
+announcing your arrival only reached the hotel at two o’clock to-day. I
+was absent on some business, and when I returned, found your
+excellency’s letter; I have only had time to have the rooms opened and
+lighted.”
+
+“Very good.”
+
+“It gives me great pleasure to see the illustrious person of our
+ambassador.”
+
+“We desire to keep as quiet as possible,” said Don Manoël, “until we
+receive further orders, from Lisbon. But pray show me to my room, for I
+am dying with fatigue; my secretary will give you all necessary
+directions.”
+
+The chancellor bowed respectfully to Beausire, who returned it, and
+then said, “We will speak French, sir; I think it will be better for
+both of us.”
+
+“Yes,” murmured the chancellor, “I shall be more at my ease; for I
+confess that my pronunciation——”
+
+“So I hear,” interrupted Beausire.
+
+“I will take the liberty to say to you, sir, as you seem so amiable,
+that I trust M. de Souza will not be annoyed at my speaking such bad
+Portuguese.”
+
+“Oh, not at all, as you speak French.”
+
+“French!” cried the chancellor; “I was born in the Rue St. Honoré.”
+
+“Oh, that will do,” said Beausire. “Your name is Ducorneau, is it not?”
+
+“Yes, monsieur; rather a lucky one, as it has a Spanish termination. It
+is very flattering to me that monsieur knew my name.”
+
+“Oh, you are well known; so well that we did not bring a chancellor
+from Lisbon with us.”
+
+“I am very grateful, monsieur; but I think M. de Souza is ringing.”
+
+“Let us go and see.”
+
+They found Manoël attired in a magnificent dressing-gown. Several boxes
+and dressing-cases, of rich appearance, were already unpacked and lying
+about.
+
+“Enter,” said he to the chancellor.
+
+“Will his excellency be angry if I answer in French?” said Ducorneau,
+in a low voice, to Beausire.
+
+“Oh, no; I am sure of it.”
+
+M. Ducorneau, therefore, paid the compliments in French.
+
+“Oh, it is very convenient that you speak French so well, M. Ducorno,”
+said the ambassador.
+
+“He takes me for a Portuguese,” thought the chancellor, with joy.
+
+“Now,” said Manoël, “can I have supper?”
+
+“Certainly, your excellency. The Palais Royal is only two steps from
+here, and I know an excellent restaurant, from which your excellency
+can have a good supper in a very short time.”
+
+“Order it in your own name, if you please, M. Ducorno.”
+
+“And if your excellency will permit me, I will add to it some bottles
+of capital wine.”
+
+“Oh, our chancellor keeps a good cellar, then?” said Beausire,
+jokingly.
+
+“It is my only luxury,” replied he. And now, by the wax-lights, they
+could remark his rather red nose and puffed cheeks.
+
+“Very well, M. Ducorno; bring your wine, and sup with us.”
+
+“Such an honor——”
+
+“Oh, no etiquette to-night; I am only a traveler. I shall not begin to
+be ambassador till to-morrow; then we will talk of business.”
+
+“Monseigneur will permit me to arrange my toilet.”
+
+“Oh, you are superb already,” said Beausire.
+
+“Yes, but this is a reception dress, and not a gala one.”
+
+“Remain as you are, monsieur, and give the time to expediting our
+supper.”
+
+Ducorneau, delighted, left the room to fulfil his orders. Then the
+three rogues, left together, began to discuss their affairs.
+
+“Does this chancellor sleep here?” said Manoël.
+
+“No; the fellow has a good cellar, and, I doubt not, a snug lodging
+somewhere or other. He is an old bachelor.”
+
+“There is a Suisse.”
+
+“We must get rid of him; and there are a few valets, whom we must
+replace to-morrow with our own friends.”
+
+“Who is in the kitchen department?”
+
+“No one. The old ambassador did not live here; he had a house in the
+town.”
+
+“What about the strong-box?”
+
+“Oh, on that point we must consult the chancellor; it is a delicate
+matter.”
+
+“I charge myself with it,” said Beausire; “we are already capital
+friends.”
+
+“Hush! here he comes.”
+
+Ducorneau entered, quite out of breath. He had ordered the supper, and
+fetched six bottles of wine from his cellar, and was looking quite
+radiant at the thoughts of the coming repast.
+
+“Will your excellency descend to the dining-room?”
+
+“No, we will sup up here.”
+
+“Here is the wine, then,” said Ducorneau.
+
+“It sparkles like rubies,” said Beausire, holding it to the light.
+
+“Sit down, M. Ducorneau; my valet will wait upon us. What day did the
+last despatches arrive?”
+
+“Immediately after the departure of your excellency’s predecessor.”
+
+“Are the affairs of the embassy in good order?”
+
+“Oh yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“No money difficulties? no debts?”
+
+“Not that I know of.”
+
+“Because, if there are, we must begin by paying them.”
+
+“Oh, your excellency will have nothing of that sort to do. All the
+accounts were paid up three weeks ago; and the day after the departure
+of the late ambassador one hundred thousand francs arrived here.”
+
+“One hundred thousand francs?” said Beausire.
+
+“Yes, in gold.”
+
+“So,” said Beausire, “the box contains——”
+
+“100,380 francs, monsieur.”
+
+“It is not much,” said Manoël, coldly; “but, happily, her majesty has
+placed funds at my disposal. I told you,” continued he, turning to
+Beausire, “that I thought we should need it at Paris.”
+
+“Your excellency took wise precautions,” said Beausire, respectfully.
+
+From the time of this important communication the hilarity of the party
+went on increasing. A good supper, consisting of salmon, crabs, and
+sweets, contributed to their satisfaction. Ducorneau, quite at his
+ease, ate enough for ten, and did not fail, either, in demonstrating
+that a Parisian could do honor to port and sherry.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+MESSRS. BŒHMER AND BOSSANGE.
+
+
+M. Ducorneau blessed heaven repeatedly for sending an ambassador who
+preferred his speaking French to Portuguese, and liked Portuguese wines
+better than French ones. At last, Manoël expressed a wish to go to bed;
+Ducorneau rose and left the room, although, it must be confessed, he
+found some difficulty in the operation.
+
+It was now the turn of the valet to have supper, which he did with
+great good-will.
+
+The next day the hotel assumed an air of business; all the bureaux were
+opened, and everything indicated life in the recently deserted place.
+
+The report soon spread in the neighborhood that some great personages
+had arrived from Portugal during the night. This, although what was
+wanted to give them credit, could not but inspire the conspirators with
+some alarm; for the police had quick ears and Argus eyes. Still, they
+thought that by audacity, combined with prudence, they might easily
+keep them from becoming suspicious, until they had had time to complete
+their business.
+
+Two carriages containing the other nine associates arrived, as agreed
+upon, and they were soon installed in their different departments.
+
+Beausire induced Ducorneau himself to dismiss the porter, on the ground
+that he did not speak Portuguese. They were, therefore, in a good
+situation to keep off all unwelcome visitors.
+
+About noon, Don Manoël, gaily dressed, got into a carriage, which they
+had hired for five hundred francs a month, and set out, with his
+secretary, for the residence of MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.
+
+Their servant knocked at the door, which was secured with immense
+locks, and studded with great nails, like that of a prison. A servant
+opened it. “His Excellency the Ambassador of Portugal desires to speak
+to MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+They got out, and M. Bœhmer came to them in a few moments, and received
+them with a profusion of polite speeches, but, seeing that the
+ambassador did not deign even a smile in reply, looked somewhat
+disconcerted.
+
+“His excellency does not speak or understand French, sir, and you must
+communicate to him through me, if you do not speak Portuguese,” said
+Beausire.
+
+“No, monsieur, I do not.”
+
+Manoël then spoke in Portuguese to Beausire, who, turning to M. Bœhmer,
+said:
+
+“His excellency M. le Comte de Souza, ambassador from the Queen of
+Portugal, desires me to ask you if you have not in your possession a
+beautiful diamond necklace?”
+
+Bœhmer looked at him scrutinizingly.
+
+“A beautiful diamond necklace!” repeated he.
+
+“The one which you offered to the Queen of France, and which our
+gracious queen has heard of.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said Bœhmer, “is an officer of the ambassador’s?”
+
+“His secretary, monsieur.”
+
+Don Manoël was seated with the air of a great man, looking carelessly
+at the pictures which hung round the room.
+
+“M. Bœhmer,” said Beausire abruptly, “do you not understand what I am
+saying to you?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” answered Bœhmer, rather startled by the manner of the
+secretary.
+
+“Because I see his excellency is becoming impatient.”
+
+“Excuse me, sir,” said Bœhmer, coloring, “but I dare not show the
+necklace, except in my partner’s presence.”
+
+“Well, sir, call your partner.”
+
+Don Manoël approached Beausire, and began again talking to him in
+Portuguese.
+
+“His excellency says,” interpreted he, “that he has already waited ten
+minutes, and that he is not accustomed to be kept waiting.”
+
+Bœhmer bowed, and rang the bell. A minute afterwards M. Bossange
+entered.
+
+Bœhmer explained the matter to him, who, after looking scrutinizingly
+at the Portuguese, left the room with a key given him by his partner,
+and soon returned with a case in one hand; the other was hidden under
+his coat, but they distinctly saw the shining barrel of a pistol.
+
+“However well we may look,” said Manoël gravely, in Portuguese, to his
+companion, “these gentlemen seem to take us for pickpockets rather than
+ambassadors.”
+
+M. Bossange advanced, and put the case into the hands of Manoël. He
+opened it, and then cried angrily to his secretary:
+
+“Monsieur, tell these gentlemen that they tire my patience! I ask for a
+diamond necklace, and they bring me paste. Tell them I will complain to
+the ministers, and will have them thrown into the Bastile, impertinent
+people, who play tricks upon an ambassador.” And he threw down the case
+in such a passion that they did not need an interpretation of his
+speech, but began explaining most humbly that in France it was usual to
+show only the models of diamonds, so as not to tempt people to robbery,
+were they so inclined.
+
+Manoël, with an indignant gesture, walked towards the door.
+
+“His excellency desires me to tell you,” said Beausire, “that he is
+sorry that people like MM. Bœhmer and Bossange, jewelers to the queen,
+should not know better how to distinguish an ambassador from a rogue,
+and that he will return to his hotel.”
+
+The jewelers began to utter most respectful protestations, but Manoël
+walked on, and Beausire followed him.
+
+“To the ambassador’s hotel, Rue de la Jussienne,” said Beausire to the
+footman.
+
+“A lost business,” groaned the valet, as they set off.
+
+“On the contrary, a safe one; in an hour these men will follow us.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+THE AMBASSADOR’S HOTEL.
+
+
+On returning to their hotel, these gentlemen found Ducorneau dining
+quietly in his bureau. Beausire desired him, when he had finished, to
+go up and see the ambassador, and added:
+
+“You will see, my dear chancellor, that M. de Souza is not an ordinary
+man.”
+
+“I see that already.”
+
+“His excellency,” continued Beausire, “wishes to take a distinguished
+position in Paris, and this residence will be insupportable to him. He
+will require a private house.”
+
+“That will complicate the diplomatic business,” said Ducorneau; “we
+shall have to go so often to obtain his signature.”
+
+“His excellency will give you a carriage, M. Ducorneau.”
+
+“A carriage for me!”
+
+“Certainly; every chancellor of a great ambassador should have a
+carriage. But we will talk of that afterwards. His excellency wishes to
+know where the strong-box is.”
+
+“Up-stairs, close to his own room.”
+
+“So far from you?”
+
+“For greater safety, sir. Robbers would find greater difficulty in
+penetrating there, than here on the ground-floor.”
+
+“Robbers!” said Beausire, disdainfully, “for such a little sum?”
+
+“One hundred thousand francs!” said Ducorneau. “It is easy to see M. de
+Souza is rich, but there is not more kept in any ambassador’s house in
+Europe.”
+
+“Shall we examine it now?” said Beausire. “I am rather in a hurry to
+attend to my own business.”
+
+“Immediately, monsieur.”
+
+They went up and the money was found all right.
+
+Ducorneau gave his key to Beausire, who kept it for some time,
+pretending to admire its ingenious construction, while he cleverly took
+the impression of it in wax. Then he gave it back, saying, “Keep it, M.
+Ducorneau; it is better in your hands than in mine. Let us now go to
+the ambassador.”
+
+They found Don Manoël drinking chocolate, and apparently much occupied
+with a paper covered with ciphers.
+
+“Do you understand the ciphers used in the late correspondence?” said
+he to the chancellor.
+
+“No, your excellency.”
+
+“I should wish you to learn it; it will save me a great deal of
+trouble. What about the box?” said he to Beausire.
+
+“Perfectly correct, like everything else with which M. Ducorneau has
+any connection.”
+
+“Well, sit down, M. Ducorneau; I want you to give me some information.
+Do you know any honest jewelers in Paris?”
+
+“There are MM. Bœhmer and Bossange, jewelers to the queen.”
+
+“But they are precisely the people I do not wish to employ. I have just
+quitted them, never to return.”
+
+“Have they had the misfortune to displease your excellency?”
+
+“Seriously, M. Ducorneau.”
+
+“Oh, if I dared speak.”
+
+“You may.”
+
+“I would ask how these people, who bear so high a name——”
+
+“They are perfect Jews, M. Ducorneau, and their bad behavior will make
+them lose a million or two. I was sent by her gracious majesty to make
+an offer to them for a diamond necklace.”
+
+“Oh! the famous necklace which had been ordered by the late king for
+Madame Dubarry?”
+
+“You are a valuable man, sir—you know everything. Well, now, I shall
+not buy it.”
+
+“Shall I interfere?”
+
+“M. Ducorneau!”
+
+“Oh, only as a diplomatic affair.”
+
+“If you knew them at all.”
+
+“Bossange is a distant relation of mine.”
+
+At this moment a valet opened the door, and announced MM. Bœhmer and
+Bossange. Don Manoël rose quickly, and said in any angry tone, “Send
+those people away!”
+
+The valet made a step forward. “No; you do it,” said he to his
+secretary.
+
+“I beg you to allow me,” said Ducorneau; and he advanced to meet them.
+
+“There! this affair is destined to fail,” said Manoël.
+
+“No; Ducorneau will arrange it.”
+
+“I am convinced he will embroil it. You said at the jewelers that I did
+not understand French, and Ducorneau will let out that I do.”
+
+“I will go,” said Beausire.
+
+“Perhaps that is equally dangerous.”
+
+“Oh, no; only leave me to act.”
+
+Beausire went down. Ducorneau had found the jewelers much more disposed
+to politeness and confidence since entering the hotel; also, on seeing
+an old friend, Bossange was delighted.
+
+“You here!” said he; and he approached to embrace him.
+
+“Ah! you are very amiable to-day, my rich cousin,” said Ducorneau.
+
+“Oh,” said Bossange, “if we have been a little separated, forgive, and
+render me a service.”
+
+“I came to do it.”
+
+“Thanks. You are, then, attached to the embassy?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I want advice.”
+
+“On what?”
+
+“On this embassy.”
+
+“I am the chancellor.”
+
+“That is well; but about the ambassador?”
+
+“I come to you, on his behalf, to tell you that he begs you to leave
+his hotel as quickly as possible.”
+
+The two jewelers looked at each other, disconcerted.
+
+“Because,” continued Ducorneau, “it seems you have been uncivil to
+him.”
+
+“But listen——”
+
+“It is useless,” said Beausire, who suddenly appeared; “his excellency
+told you to dismiss them—do it.”
+
+“But, monsieur——”
+
+“I cannot listen,” said Beausire.
+
+The chancellor took his relation by the shoulder, and pushed him out,
+saying, “You have spoiled your fortune.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! how susceptible these foreigners are!”
+
+“When one is called Souza, and has nine hundred thousand francs a year,
+one has a right to be anything,” said Ducorneau.
+
+“Ah!” sighed Bossange, “I told you, Bœhmer, you were too stiff about
+it.”
+
+“Well,” replied the obstinate German, “at least, if we do not get his
+money, he will not get our necklace.”
+
+Ducorneau laughed. “You do not understand either a Portuguese or an
+ambassador, bourgeois that you are. I will tell you what they are: one
+ambassador, M. de Potemkin, bought every year for his queen, on the
+first of January, a basket of cherries which cost one hundred thousand
+crowns—one thousand francs a cherry. Well, M. de Souza will buy up the
+mines of Brazil till he finds a diamond as big as all yours put
+together. If it cost him twenty years of his income, what does he
+care?—he has no children.”
+
+And he was going to shut the door, when Bossange said:
+
+“Arrange this affair, and you shall have——”
+
+“I am incorruptible,” said he, and closed the door.
+
+That evening the ambassador received this letter:
+
+“Monseigneur,—A man who waits for your orders, and desires to present
+you our respectful excuses, is at the door of your hotel, and at a word
+from your excellency he will place in the hands of one of your people
+the necklace of which you did us the honor to speak. Deign to receive,
+monseigneur, the assurances of our most profound respect.
+
+“Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“Well,” said Manoël, on reading this note, “the necklace is ours.”
+
+“Not so,” said Beausire; “it will only be ours when we have bought it.
+We must buy it; but remember, your excellency does not know French.”
+
+“Yes, I know; but this chancellor?”
+
+“Oh, I will send him away on some diplomatic mission.”
+
+“You are wrong; he will be our security with these men.”
+
+“But he will say that you know French.”
+
+“No, he will not; I will tell him not to do so.”
+
+“Very well, then; we will have up the man.”
+
+The man was introduced: it was Bœhmer himself, who made many bows and
+excuses, and offered the necklace for examination.
+
+“Sit down,” said Beausire; “his excellency pardons you.”
+
+“Oh, how much trouble to sell!” sighed Bœhmer.
+
+“How much trouble to steal!” thought Beausire.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+THE BARGAIN.
+
+
+Then the ambassador consented to examine the necklace in detail. M.
+Bœhmer showed each individual beauty.
+
+“On the whole,” said Beausire, interpreting for Manoël, “his excellency
+sees nothing to complain of in the necklace, but there are ten of the
+diamonds rather spotted.”
+
+“Oh!” said Bœhmer.
+
+“His excellency,” interrupted Beausire, “understands diamonds
+perfectly. The Portuguese nobility play with the diamonds of Brazil, as
+children do here with glass beads.”
+
+“Whatever it may be, however,” said Bœhmer, “this necklace is the
+finest collection of diamonds in all Europe.”
+
+“That is true,” said Manoël.
+
+Then Beausire went on: “Well, M. Bœhmer, her majesty the Queen of
+Portugal has heard of this necklace, and has given M. de Souza a
+commission to buy it, if he approved of the diamonds, which he does.
+Now, what is the price?”
+
+“1,600,000 francs.”
+
+Beausire repeated this to the ambassador.
+
+“It is 100,000 francs too much,” replied Manoël.
+
+“Monseigneur,” replied the jeweler, “one cannot fix the exact price of
+the diamonds on a thing like this. It has been necessary, in making
+this collection, to undertake voyages, and make searches and inquiries
+which no one would believe but myself.”
+
+“100,000 francs too dear,” repeated Manoël.
+
+“And if his excellency says this,” said Beausire, “it must be his firm
+conviction, for he never bargains.”
+
+Bœhmer was shaken. Nothing reassures a suspicious merchant so much as a
+customer who beats down the price. However, he said, after a minute’s
+thought, “I cannot consent to a deduction which will make all the
+difference of loss or profit to myself and my partner.”
+
+Don Manoël, after hearing this translated, rose, and Beausire returned
+the case to the jeweler.
+
+“I will, however, speak to M. Bossange about it,” contained Bœhmer. “I
+am to understand that his excellency offers 1,500,000 francs for the
+necklace.”
+
+“Yes, he never draws back from what he has said.”
+
+“But, monsieur, you understand that I must consult with my partner.”
+
+“Certainly, M. Bœhmer.”
+
+“Certainly,” repeated Don Manoël, after hearing this translated; “but I
+must have a speedy answer.”
+
+“Well, monseigneur, if my partner will accept the price, I will.”
+
+“Good.”
+
+“It then only remains, excepting the consent of M. Bossange, to settle
+the mode of payment.”
+
+“There will be no difficulty about that,” said Beausire. “How do you
+wish to be paid?”
+
+“Oh,” said Bœhmer, laughing, “if ready money be possible——”
+
+“What do you call ready money?” said Beausire coldly.
+
+“Oh, I know no one has a million and a half of francs ready to pay
+down,” said Bœhmer, sighing.
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“Still, I cannot consent to dispense with some ready money.”
+
+“That is but reasonable.” Then, turning to Manoël: “How much will your
+excellency pay down to M. Bœhmer?”
+
+“100,000 francs.” Beausire repeated this.
+
+“And when the remainder?” asked Bœhmer.
+
+“When we shall have had time to send to Lisbon.”
+
+“Oh!” said Bœhmer, “we have a correspondent there, and by writing to
+him——”
+
+“Yes,” said Beausire, laughing ironically, “write to him, and ask if M.
+de Souza is solvent, and if her majesty be good for 1,400,000 francs.”
+
+“We cannot, sir, let this necklace leave France forever without
+informing the queen; and our respect and loyalty demand that we should
+once more give her the refusal of it.”
+
+“It is just,” said Manoël, with dignity. “I should wish a Portuguese
+merchant to act in the same way.”
+
+“I am very happy that monseigneur approves of my conduct. Then all is
+settled, subject only to the consent of M. Bossange, and the reiterated
+refusal of her majesty. I ask three days to settle these two points.”
+
+“On one side,” said Beausire, “100,000 francs down, the necklace to be
+placed in my hands, who will accompany you to Lisbon, to the honor of
+your correspondents, who are also our bankers. The whole of the money
+to be paid in three months.”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur,” said Bœhmer, bowing.
+
+Manoël returned it, and the jeweler took leave.
+
+When they were alone, Manoël said angrily to Beausire, “Please to
+explain what the devil you mean by this journey to Portugal? Are you
+mad? Why not have the jewels here in exchange for our money?”
+
+“You think yourself too really ambassador,” replied Beausire; “you are
+not yet quite M. de Souza to this jeweler.”
+
+“If he had not thought so he would not have treated.”
+
+“Agreed; but every man in possession of 1,500,000 francs holds himself
+above all the ambassadors in the world; and every one who gives that
+value in exchange for pieces of paper wishes first to know what the
+papers are worth.”
+
+“Then you mean to go to Portugal—you, who cannot speak Portuguese
+properly? I tell you, you are mad.”
+
+“Not at all; you shall go yourself, if you like.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Don Manoël. “There are reasons why I would rather not
+return to Portugal.”
+
+“Well, I tell you, M. Bœhmer would never give up the diamonds for mere
+papers.”
+
+“Papers signed Souza?”
+
+“I said you thought yourself a real Souza.”
+
+“Better say at once that we have failed,” said Manoël.
+
+“Not at all. Come here, captain,” said Beausire to the valet; “you know
+what we are talking of?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You have listened to everything?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Very well; do you think I have committed a folly?”
+
+“I think you perfectly right.”
+
+“Explain why.”
+
+“M. Bœhmer would, on the other plan, have been incessantly watching us,
+and all connected with us. Now, with the money and the diamonds both in
+his hands, he can have no suspicion, but will set out quietly for
+Portugal, which, however, he will never reach. Is it not so, M.
+Beausire?”
+
+“Ah, you are a lad of discernment!”
+
+“Explain your plan,” said Manoël.
+
+“About fifty leagues from here,” said Beausire, “this clever fellow
+here will come and present two pistols at the heads of our postilions,
+will steal from us all we have, including the diamonds, and will leave
+M. Bœhmer half dead with blows.”
+
+“Oh, I did not understand exactly that,” said the valet. “I thought you
+would embark for Portugal.”
+
+“And then——”
+
+“M. Bœhmer, like all Germans, will like the sea, and walk on the deck.
+One day he may slip and fall over, and the necklace will be supposed to
+have perished with him.”
+
+“Oh, I understand,” said Manoël.
+
+“That is lucky at last.”
+
+“Only,” replied Manoël, “for stealing diamonds one is simply sent to
+the Bastile, but for murder one is hanged.”
+
+“But for stealing diamonds one may be taken; for a little push to M.
+Bœhmer we should never even be suspected.”
+
+“Well, we will settle all this afterwards,” said Beausire.
+
+“At present let us conduct our business in style, so that they may say,
+‘If he was not really ambassador, at least he seemed like one.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+THE JOURNALIST’S HOUSE.
+
+
+It was the day after the agreement with M. Bœhmer, and three days after
+the ball at the Opera. In the Rue Montorgueil, at the end of a
+courtyard, was a high and narrow house. The ground floor was a kind of
+shop, and here lived a tolerably well-known journalist. The other
+stories were occupied by quiet people, who lived there for cheapness.
+M. Reteau, the journalist, published his paper weekly. It was issued on
+the day of which we speak; and when M. Reteau rose at eight o’clock,
+his servant brought him a copy, still wet from the press. He hastened
+to peruse it, with the care which a tender father bestows on the
+virtues or failings of his offspring. When he had finished it:
+
+“Aldegonde,” said he to the old woman, “this is a capital number; have
+you read it?”
+
+“Not yet; my soup is not finished.”
+
+“It is excellent,” repeated the journalist.
+
+“Yes,” said she; “but do you know what they say of it in the
+printing-office?”
+
+“What?”
+
+“That you will certainly be sent to the Bastile.”
+
+“Aldegonde,” replied Reteau, calmly, “make me a good soup, and do not
+meddle with literature.”
+
+“Always the same,” said she, “rash and imprudent.”
+
+“I will buy you some buckles with what I make to-day. Have many copies
+been sold yet?”
+
+“No, and I fear my buckles will be but poor. Do you remember the number
+against M. de Broglie? We sold one hundred before ten o’clock;
+therefore this cannot be as good.”
+
+“Do you know the difference, Aldegonde? Now, instead of attacking an
+individual, I attack a body; and instead of a soldier, I attack a
+queen.”
+
+“The queen! Oh, then there is no fear; the numbers will sell, and I
+shall have my buckles.”
+
+“Some one rings,” said Reteau.
+
+The old woman ran to the shop, and returned a minute after, triumphant.
+
+“One thousand copies!” said she, “there is an order!”
+
+“In whose name?” asked Reteau, quickly.
+
+“I do not know.”
+
+“But I want to know; run and ask.”
+
+“Oh, there is plenty of time; they cannot count a thousand copies in a
+minute.”
+
+“Yes, but be quick; ask the servant—is it a servant?”
+
+“It is a porter.”
+
+“Well, ask him where he is to take them to.”
+
+Aldegonde went, and the man replied that he was to take them to the Rue
+Neuve St. Gilles, to the house of the Count de Cagliostro.
+
+The journalist jumped with delight, and ran to assist in counting off
+the numbers.
+
+They were not long gone when there was another ring.
+
+“Perhaps that is for another thousand copies,” cried Aldegonde. “As it
+is against the Austrian, every one will join in the chorus.”
+
+“Hush, hush, Aldegonde! do not speak so loud, but go and see who it
+is.”
+
+Aldegonde opened the door to a man, who asked if he could speak to the
+editor of the paper.
+
+“What do you want to say to him?” asked Aldegonde, rather suspiciously.
+
+The man rattled some money in his pocket, and said:
+
+“I come to pay for the thousand copies sent for by M. le Comte de
+Cagliostro.”
+
+“Oh, come in!”
+
+A young and handsome man, who had advanced just behind him, stopped him
+as he was about to shut the door, and followed him in.
+
+Aldegonde ran to her master. “Come,” said she, “here is the money for
+the thousand copies.”
+
+He went directly, and the man, taking out a small bag, paid down one
+hundred six-franc pieces.
+
+Reteau counted them and gave a receipt, smiling graciously on the man,
+and said, “Tell the Count de Cagliostro that I shall always be at his
+orders, and that I can keep a secret.”
+
+“There is no need,” replied the man; “M. de Cagliostro is independent.
+He does not believe in magnetism, and wishes to make people laugh at M.
+Mesmer—that is all.”
+
+“Good!” replied another voice; “we will see if we cannot turn the laugh
+against M. de Cagliostro;” and M. Reteau, turning, saw before him the
+young man we mentioned.
+
+His glance was menacing; he had his left hand on the hilt of his sword,
+and a stick in his right.
+
+“What can I do for you, sir?” said Reteau, trembling.
+
+“You are M. Reteau?” asked the young man.
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Journalist, and author of this article?” said the visitor, drawing the
+new number from his pocket.
+
+“Not exactly the author, but the publisher,” said Reteau.
+
+“Very well, that comes to the same thing; for if you had not the
+audacity to write it, you have had the baseness to give it publicity. I
+say baseness, for, as I am a gentleman, I wish to keep within bounds
+even with you. If I expressed all I think, I should say that he who
+wrote this article is infamous, and that he who published it is a
+villain!”
+
+“Monsieur!” said Reteau, growing pale.
+
+“Now listen,” continued the young man; “you have received one payment
+in money, now you shall have another in caning.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Reteau, “we will see about that.”
+
+“Yes, we will see,” said the young man, advancing towards him; but
+Reteau was used to these sort of affairs, and knew the conveniences of
+his own house. Turning quickly round, he gained a door which shut after
+him, and which opened into a passage leading to a gate, through which
+there was an exit into the Rue Vieux Augustins. Once there, he was
+safe; for in this gate the key was always left, and he could lock it
+behind him.
+
+But this day was an unlucky one for the poor journalist, for, just as
+he was about to turn the key, he saw coming towards him another young
+man, who, in his agitation, appeared to him like a perfect Hercules. He
+would have retreated, but he was now between two fires, as his first
+opponent had by this time discovered him, and was advancing upon him.
+
+“Monsieur, let me pass, if you please,” said Reteau to the young man
+who guarded the gate.
+
+“Monsieur,” cried the one who followed him, “stop the fellow, I beg!”
+
+“Do not be afraid, M. de Charny; he shall not pass.”
+
+“M. de Taverney!” cried Charny; for it was really he who was the first
+comer.
+
+Both these young men, on reading the article that morning, had
+conceived the same idea, because they were animated with the same
+sentiments, and, unknown to each other, had hastened to put it in
+practise. Each, however, felt a kind of displeasure at seeing the
+other, divining a rival in the man who had the same idea as himself.
+Thus it was that with a rather disturbed manner Charny had called out,
+“You, M. de Taverney!”
+
+“Even so,” replied the other, in the same way; “but it seems I am come
+too late, and can only look on, unless you will be kind enough to open
+the gate.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Reteau, “do you want to murder me, gentlemen?”
+
+“No,” said Charny, “we do not want to murder you; but first we will ask
+a few questions, then we will see the end. You permit me to speak, M.
+de Taverney?”
+
+“Certainly, sir; you have the precedence, having arrived first.”
+
+Charny bowed; then, turning to Reteau, said:
+
+“You confess, then, that you have published against the queen the
+playful little tale, as you call it, which appeared this morning in
+your paper?”
+
+“Monsieur, it is not against the queen.”
+
+“Good! it only wanted that.”
+
+“You are very patient, sir!” cried Philippe, who was boiling with rage
+outside the gate.
+
+“Oh, be easy, sir,” replied Charny; “he shall lose nothing by waiting.”
+
+“Yes,” murmured Philippe; “but I also am waiting.”
+
+Charny turned again to Reteau. “Etteniotna is Antoinette transposed—oh,
+do not lie, sir, or instead of beating, or simply killing you, I shall
+burn you alive! But tell me if you are the sole author of this?”
+
+“I am not an informer,” said Reteau.
+
+“Very well; that means that you have an accomplice; and, first, the man
+who bought a thousand copies of this infamy, the Count de Cagliostro;
+but he shall pay for his share, when you have paid for yours.”
+
+“Monsieur, I do not accuse him,” said Reteau, who feared that he should
+encounter the anger of Cagliostro after he had done with these two.
+
+Charny raised his cane.
+
+“Oh, if I had a sword!” cried Reteau.
+
+“M. Philippe, will you lend your sword to this man?”
+
+“No, M. de Charny, I cannot lend my sword to a man like that; but I
+will lend you my cane, if yours does not suffice.”
+
+“Corbleu! a cane!” cried Reteau. “Do you know that I am a gentleman?”
+
+“Then lend me your sword, M. de Taverney; he shall have mine, and I
+will never touch it again!” cried Charny.
+
+Philippe unsheathed his sword, and passed it through the railings.
+
+“Now,” said Charny, throwing down his sword at the feet of Reteau, “you
+call yourself a gentleman, and you write such infamies against the
+Queen of France; pick up that sword, and let us see what kind of a
+gentleman you are.”
+
+But Reteau did not stir; he seemed as afraid of the sword at his feet
+as he had been of the uplifted cane.
+
+“Morbleu!” cried Philippe, “open the gate to me!”
+
+“Pardon, monsieur,” said Charny, “but you acknowledged my right to be
+first.”
+
+“Then be quick, for I am in a hurry to begin.”
+
+“I wished to try other methods before resorting to this, for I am not
+much more fond of inflicting a caning than M. Reteau is of receiving
+one; but as he prefers it to fighting, he shall be satisfied;” and a
+cry from Reteau soon announced that Charny had begun.
+
+The noise soon attracted old Aldegonde, who joined her voice to her
+master’s.
+
+Charny minded one no more than the other; at last, however, he stopped,
+tired with his work.
+
+“Now have you finished, sir?” said Philippe.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then pray return me my sword, and let me in.”
+
+“Oh, no, monsieur!” implored Reteau, who hoped for a protector in the
+man who had finished with him.
+
+“I cannot leave monsieur outside the door,” said Charny.
+
+“Oh, it is a murder!” cried Reteau. “Kill me right off, and have done
+with it!”
+
+“Be easy,” said Charny; “I do not think monsieur will touch you.”
+
+“You are right,” said Philippe; “you have been beaten—let it suffice;
+but there are the remaining numbers, which must be destroyed.”
+
+“Oh yes!” cried Charny. “You see, two heads are better than one; I
+should have forgotten that. But how did you happen to come to this
+gate, M. de Taverney?”
+
+“I made some inquiries in the neighborhood about this fellow, and
+hearing that he had this mode of escape, I thought by coming in here,
+and locking the gate after me, I should cut off his retreat, and make
+sure of him. The same idea of vengeance struck you, only more in a
+hurry, you came straight to his house without any inquiries, and he
+would have escaped you if I had not luckily been here.”
+
+“I am rejoiced that you were, M. de Taverney. Now, fellow, lead us to
+your press.”
+
+“It is not here,” said Reteau.
+
+“A lie!” said Charny.
+
+“No, no,” cried Philippe, “we do not want the press; the numbers are
+all printed and here, except those sold to M. de Cagliostro.”
+
+“Then he shall burn them before our eyes!”
+
+And they pushed Reteau into his shop.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+HOW TWO FRIENDS BECAME ENEMIES.
+
+
+Aldegonde, however, had gone to fetch the guard; but before she
+returned they had had time to light a fire with the first numbers, and
+were throwing them in, one after another, as quickly as possible, when
+the guard appeared, followed by a crowd of ragged men, women, and boys.
+
+Happily, Philippe and Charny knew Reteau’s secret exit, so when they
+caught sight of the guard they made their escape through it, carrying
+the key with them.
+
+Then Reteau began crying “Murder!” while Aldegonde, seeing the flames
+through the window, cried “Fire!”
+
+The soldiers arrived, but finding the young men gone, and the house not
+on fire, went away again, leaving Reteau to bathe his bruises. But the
+crowd lingered about all day, hoping to see a renewal of the fun.
+
+When Taverney and Charny found themselves in the Rue Vieux Augustins,
+“Monsieur,” said Charny, “now we have finished that business, can I be
+of any use to you?”
+
+“Thanks, sir, I was about to ask you the same question.”
+
+“Thank you, but I have private business which will probably keep me in
+Paris all day.”
+
+“Permit me, then, to take leave of you; I am happy to have met you.”
+
+“And I you, sir;” and the two young men bowed, but it was easy to see
+that all this courtesy went no further than the lips.
+
+Philippe went towards the boulevards, while Charny turned to the river;
+each turned two or three times till he thought himself quite out of
+sight, but after walking for some time Charny entered the Rue Neuve St.
+Gilles, and there once more found himself face to face with Philippe.
+
+Each had again the same idea of demanding satisfaction from the Count
+de Cagliostro. They could not now doubt each other’s intentions, so
+Philippe said:
+
+“I left you the seller, leave me the buyer; I left you the cane, leave
+me the sword.”
+
+“Sir,” replied Charny, “you left it to me simply because I came first,
+and for no other reason.”
+
+“Well,” replied Taverney, “here we arrive both together, and I will
+make no concession.”
+
+“I did not ask you for any, sir; only I will defend my right.”
+
+“And that, according to you, M. de Charny, is to make M. de Cagliostro
+burn his thousand copies.”
+
+“Remember, sir, that it was my idea to burn the others.”
+
+“Then I will have these torn.”
+
+“Monsieur, I am sorry to tell you that I wish to have the first turn
+with M. de Cagliostro.”
+
+“All that I can agree to, sir, is to take our chance. I will throw up a
+louis, and whoever guesses right shall be first.”
+
+“Thanks, sir, but I am not generally lucky, and should probably lose,”
+and he stepped towards the door.
+
+Charny stopped him.
+
+“Stay, sir, we will soon understand each other.”
+
+“Well, sir?” answered Philippe, turning back.
+
+“Then, before asking satisfaction of M. de Cagliostro, suppose we take
+a turn in the Bois de Boulogne: it will be out of our way, but perhaps
+we can settle our dispute there. One of us will probably be left
+behind, and the other be uninterrupted.”
+
+“Really, monsieur,” said Philippe, “you echo my own thoughts—where
+shall we meet?”
+
+“Well, if my society be not insupportable to you, we need not part. I
+ordered my carriage to wait for me in the Place Royale, close by here.”
+
+“Then you will give me a seat?” said Philippe.
+
+“With the greatest pleasure;” and they walked together to the carriage,
+and getting in, set off for the Champs Elysées.
+
+First, however, Charny wrote a few words on his tablets, and gave them
+to the footman to take to his hotel.
+
+In less than half an hour they reached the Bois de Boulogne. The
+weather was lovely, and the air delightful, although the power of the
+sun was already felt: the fresh leaves were appearing on the trees, and
+the violets filled the place with their perfume.
+
+“It is a fine day for our promenade, is it not, M. de Taverney?” said
+Charny.
+
+“Beautiful, sir.”
+
+“You may go,” said Charny to his coachman.
+
+“Are you not wrong, sir, to send away your carriage?—one of us may need
+it.”
+
+“No, sir,” replied Charny; “in this affair secrecy before everything,
+and once in the knowledge of a servant, we risk it being talked of all
+over Paris to-morrow.”
+
+“As you please, but do you think the fellow does not know what he came
+here for? These people know well what brings two gentlemen to the Bois
+de Boulogne, and even if he did not feel sure now, he will perhaps
+afterwards see one of us wounded, and will have no doubts left then. Is
+it not then better to keep him here to take back either who shall need
+him, than to be left, or leave me here, wounded and alone?”
+
+“You are right, monsieur,” replied Charny; and, turning to the
+coachman, he said, “No, stop, Dauphin; you shall wait here.”
+
+Dauphin remained accordingly, and as he perfectly guessed what was
+coming, he arranged his position, so as to see through the still
+leafless trees all that passed.
+
+They walked on a little way, then Philippe said, “I think, M. de
+Charny, this is a good place.”
+
+“Excellent, monsieur,” said Charny, and added: “Chevalier, if it were
+any one but you, I would say one word of courtesy, and we were friends
+again; but to you, coming from America, where they fight so well, I
+cannot.”
+
+“And I, sir, to you, who the other evening gained the admiration of an
+entire court by a glorious feat of arms, can only say, M. le Comte, do
+me the honor to draw your sword.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said Charny, “I believe we have neither of us touched on
+the real cause of quarrel.”
+
+“I do not understand you, comte.”
+
+“Oh! you understand me perfectly, sir; and you blush while you deny
+it.”
+
+“Defend yourself,” cried Philippe; their swords crossed. Philippe soon
+perceived that he was superior to his adversary, and therefore became
+as calm as though he had been only fencing, and was satisfied with
+defending himself without attacking.
+
+“You spare me, sir,” said Charny; “may I ask why?”
+
+Philippe went on as before; Charny grew warm, and wished to provoke him
+from this sang froid, therefore he said:
+
+“I told you, sir, that we had not touched on the real cause of the
+quarrel.”
+
+Philippe did not reply.
+
+“The true cause,” continued Charny, “why you sought a quarrel, for it
+was you who sought it, was, that you were jealous of me.”
+
+Still Philippe remained silent.
+
+“What is your intention?” again said Charny. “Do you wish to tire my
+arm? that is a calculation unworthy of you. Kill me if you can, but do
+not dally thus.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” replied Philippe at last, “your reproach is just; the
+quarrel did begin with me, and I was wrong.”
+
+“That is not the question now. You have your sword in your hand; use it
+for something more than mere defense.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said Philippe, “I have the honor to tell you once more I
+was wrong, and that I apologize.”
+
+But Charny was by this time too excited to appreciate the generosity of
+his adversary. “Oh!” said he, “I understand; you wish to play the
+magnanimous with me; that is it, is it not, chevalier? You wish to
+relate to the ladies this evening how you brought me here, and then
+spared my life.”
+
+“Count,” said Philippe, “I fear you are losing your senses.”
+
+“You wish to kill M. de Cagliostro to please the queen; and, for the
+same reason, you wish to turn me into ridicule.”
+
+“Ah! this is too much,” cried Philippe, “and proves to me that you have
+not as generous a heart as I thought.”
+
+“Pierce it then,” cried Charny, exposing himself as Philippe made
+another pass.
+
+The sword glanced along his ribs, and the blood flowed rapidly.
+
+“At last,” cried Charny, “I am wounded. Now I may kill you if I can.”
+
+“Decidedly,” said Philippe, “you are mad. You will not kill me—you will
+only be disabled without cause, and without profit; for no one will
+ever know for what you have fought;” and as Charny made another pass,
+he dexterously sent his sword flying from his hand; then, seizing it,
+he broke it across his foot. “M. de Charny,” said he, “you did not
+require to prove to me that you were brave; you must therefore detest
+me very much when you fight with such fury.”
+
+Charny did not reply, but grew visibly pale, and then tottered.
+
+Philippe advanced to support him, but he repulsed him, saying, “I can
+reach my carriage.”
+
+“At least take this handkerchief to stop the blood.”
+
+“Willingly.”
+
+“And my arm, sir; at the least obstacle you met you would fall, and
+give yourself unnecessary pain.”
+
+“The sword has only penetrated the skin. I hope soon to be well.”
+
+“So much the better, sir; but I warn you, that you will find it
+difficult to make me your adversary again.”
+
+Charny tried to reply, but the words died on his lips. He staggered,
+and Philippe had but just time to catch him in his arms, and bear him
+half fainting to his carriage.
+
+Dauphin, who had seen what had passed, advanced to meet him, and they
+put Charny in.
+
+“Drive slowly,” said Philippe, who then took his way back to Paris,
+murmuring to himself, with a sigh, “She will pity him.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. GILLES.
+
+
+Philippe jumped into the first coach he saw, and told the man to drive
+to the Rue St. Gilles, where he stopped at the house of M. de
+Cagliostro.
+
+A large carriage, with two good horses, was standing in the courtyard;
+the coachman was asleep, wrapped in a greatcoat of fox-skins, and two
+footmen walked up and down before the door.
+
+“Does the Count Cagliostro live here?” asked Philippe.
+
+“He is just going out.”
+
+“The more reason to be quick, for I wish to speak to him first.
+Announce the Chevalier Philippe de Taverney;” and he followed the men
+up-stairs.
+
+“Ask him to walk in,” said, from within, a voice at once manly and
+gentle.
+
+“Excuse me, sir,” said the chevalier to a man whom we have already
+seen, first at the table of M. de Richelieu, then at the exhibition of
+M. Mesmer, in Oliva’s room, and with her at the Opera ball.
+
+“For what, sir?” replied he.
+
+“Because I prevent you from going out.”
+
+“You would have needed an excuse had you been much later, for I was
+waiting for you.”
+
+“For me?”
+
+“Yes, I was forewarned of your visit.”
+
+“Of my visit?”
+
+“Yes; two hours ago. It is about that time, is it not, since you were
+coming here before, when an interruption caused you to postpone the
+execution of your project?”
+
+Philippe began to experience the same strange sensation with which this
+man inspired every one.
+
+“Sit down, M. de Taverney,” continued he; “this armchair was placed for
+you.”
+
+“A truce to pleasantry, sir,” said Philippe, in a voice which he vainly
+tried to render calm.
+
+“I do not jest, sir.”
+
+“Then a truce to charlatanism. If you are a sorcerer, I did not come to
+make trial of your skill; but if you are, so much the better, for you
+must know what I am come to say to you.”
+
+“Oh, yes, you are come to seek a quarrel.”
+
+“You know that? perhaps you also know why?”
+
+“On account of the queen. Now, sir, I am ready to listen;” and these
+last words were no longer pronounced in the courteous tones of a host,
+but in the hard and dry ones of an adversary.
+
+“Sir, there exists a certain publication.”
+
+“There are many publications,” said Cagliostro.
+
+“Well, this publication to-day was written against the queen.”
+
+Cagliostro did not reply.
+
+“You know what I refer to, count?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“You have bought one thousand copies of it?”
+
+“I do not deny it.”
+
+“Luckily, they have not reached your hands.”
+
+“What makes you think so, sir?”
+
+“Because I met the porter, paid him, and sent him with them to my
+house; and my servant, instructed by me, will destroy them.”
+
+“You should always finish yourself the work you commence, sir. Are you
+sure these thousand copies are at your house?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“You deceive yourself, sir; they are here. Ah, you thought that I,
+sorcerer that I am, would let myself be foiled in that way. You thought
+it a brilliant idea to buy off my messenger. Well, I have a steward,
+and you see it is natural for the steward of a sorcerer to be one also.
+He divined that you would go to the journalist, and that you would meet
+my messenger, whom he afterwards followed, and threatened to make him
+give back the gold you had given him, if he did not follow his original
+instructions, instead of taking them to you. But I see you doubt.”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“Look, then, and you will believe;” and, opening an oak cabinet, he
+showed the astonished chevalier the thousand copies lying there.
+
+Philippe approached the count in a menacing attitude, but he did not
+stir. “Sir,” said Philippe, “you appear a man of courage; I call upon
+you to give me immediate satisfaction.”
+
+“Satisfaction for what?”
+
+“For the insult to the queen, of which you render yourself an
+accomplice while you keep one number of this vile paper.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said Cagliostro, “you are in error; I like novelties,
+scandalous reports, and other amusing things, and collect them, that I
+may remember at a later day what I should otherwise forget.”
+
+“A man of honor, sir, does not collect infamies.”
+
+“But, if I do not think this an infamy?”
+
+“You will allow at least that it is a lie.”
+
+“You deceive yourself, sir. The queen was at M. Mesmer’s.”
+
+“It is false, sir.”
+
+“You mean to tell me I lie?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“Well, I will reply in a few words—I saw her there.”
+
+“You saw her!”
+
+“As plainly as I now see you.”
+
+Philippe looked full at Cagliostro. “I still say, sir, that you lie.”
+
+Cagliostro shrugged his shoulders, as though he were talking to a
+madman.
+
+“Do you not hear me, sir?” said Philippe.
+
+“Every word.”
+
+“And do you not know what giving the lie deserves?”
+
+“Yes, sir; there is a French proverb which says it merits a box on the
+ears.”
+
+“Well, sir, I am astonished that your hand has not been already raised
+to give it, as you are a French gentleman, and know the proverb.”
+
+“Although a French gentleman, I am a man, and love my brother.”
+
+“Then you refuse me satisfaction?”
+
+“I only pay what I owe.”
+
+“Then you will compel me to take satisfaction in another manner.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“I exact that you burn the numbers before my eyes, or I will proceed
+with you as with the journalist.”
+
+“Oh! a beating,” said Cagliostro, laughing.
+
+“Neither more nor less, sir. Doubtless you can call your servants.”
+
+“Oh, I shall not call my servants; it is my own business. I am stronger
+than you, and if you approach me with your cane, I shall take you in my
+arms and throw you across the room, and shall repeat this as often as
+you repeat your attempt.”
+
+“Well, M. Hercules, I accept the challenge,” said Philippe, throwing
+himself furiously upon Cagliostro, who, seizing him round the neck and
+waist with a grasp of iron, threw him on a pile of cushions, which lay
+some way off, and then remained standing as coolly as ever.
+
+Philippe rose as pale as death. “Sir,” said he, in a hoarse voice, “you
+are in fact stronger than I am, but your logic is not as strong as your
+arm; and you forgot, when you treated me thus, that you gave me the
+right to say, ‘Defend yourself, count, or I will kill you.’”
+
+Cagliostro did not move.
+
+“Draw your sword, I tell you, sir, or you are a dead man.”
+
+“You are not yet sufficiently near for me to treat you as before, and I
+will not expose myself to be killed by you, like poor Gilbert.”
+
+“Gilbert!” cried Philippe, reeling back. “Did you say Gilbert?”
+
+“Happily you have no gun this time, only a sword.”
+
+“Monsieur,” cried Philippe, “you have pronounced a name——”
+
+“Which has awakened a terrible echo in your remembrance, has it not? A
+name that you never thought to hear again, for you were alone with the
+poor boy, in the grotto of Açores, when you assassinated him.”
+
+“Oh!” said Philippe, “will you not draw?”
+
+“If you knew,” said Cagliostro, “how easily I could make your sword fly
+from your hand!”
+
+“With your sword?”
+
+“Yes, with my sword, if I wished.”
+
+“Then try.”
+
+“No, I have a still surer method.”
+
+“For the last time, defend yourself,” said Philippe, advancing towards
+him.
+
+Then the count took from his pocket a little bottle, which he uncorked,
+and threw the contents in Philippe’s face. Scarcely had it touched him,
+when he reeled, let his sword drop, and fell senseless.
+
+Cagliostro picked him up, put him on a sofa, waited for his senses to
+return, and then said, “At your age, chevalier, we should have done
+with follies; cease, therefore, to act like a foolish boy, and listen
+to me.”
+
+Philippe made an effort to shake off the torpor which still held
+possession of him, and murmured, “Oh, sir, do you call these the
+weapons of a gentleman?”
+
+Cagliostro shrugged his shoulders. “You repeat forever the same word,”
+he said; “when we of the nobility have opened our mouths wide enough to
+utter the word gentleman, we think we have said everything. What do you
+call the weapons of a gentleman? Is it your sword, which served you so
+badly against me, or is it your gun, which served you so well against
+Gilbert? What makes some men superior to others? Do you think that it
+is that high-sounding word gentleman? No; it is first reason, then
+strength, most of all, science. Well, I have used all these against
+you. With my reason I braved your insults, with my strength I conquered
+yours, and with my science I extinguished at once your moral and
+physical powers. Now I wish to show you that you have committed two
+faults in coming here with menaces in your mouth. Will you listen to
+me?”
+
+“You have overpowered me,” replied Philippe; “I can scarcely move. You
+have made yourself master of my muscles and of my mind, and then you
+ask me if I will listen!”
+
+Then Cagliostro took down from the chimney-piece another little gold
+phial. “Smell this, chevalier,” said he.
+
+Philippe obeyed, and it seemed to him that the cloud which hung over
+him dispersed. “Oh, I revive!” he cried.
+
+“And you feel free and strong?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“With your full powers and memory of the past?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then this memory gives me an advantage over you.”
+
+“No,” said Philippe, “for I acted in defense of a vital and sacred
+principle.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I defended the monarchy.”
+
+“You defended the monarchy!—you, who went to America to defend a
+republic. Ah, mon Dieu! be frank; it is not the monarchy you defend.”
+
+Philippe colored.
+
+“To love those who disdain you,” continued Cagliostro, “who deceive and
+forget you, is the attribute of great souls. It is the law of the
+Scriptures to return good for evil. You are a Christian, M. de
+Taverney.”
+
+“Monsieur,” cried Philippe, “not a word more; if I did not defend the
+monarchy, I defended the queen, that is to say, an innocent woman, and
+to be respected even if she were not so, for it is a divine law not to
+attack the weak.”
+
+“The weak! the queen—you call a feeble being her to whom twenty-eight
+million human beings bow the knee!”
+
+“Monsieur, they calumniate her.”
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“I believe it.”
+
+“Well, I believe the contrary; we have each the right to think as we
+please.”
+
+“But you act like an evil genius.”
+
+“Who tells you so?” cried Cagliostro, with sparkling eyes. “How, have
+you the temerity to assume that you are right, and that I am wrong? You
+defend royalty; well, I defend the people. You say, render to Cæsar the
+things which are Cæsar’s; and I say, render to God the things that are
+God’s. Republican of America, I recall you to the love of the people,
+to the love of equality. You trample on the people to kiss the hands of
+a queen; I would throw down a queen to elevate a people. I do not
+disturb you in your adoration; leave me in peace at my work. You say to
+me, die, for you have offended the object of my worship; and I say to
+you, who combat mine, live, for I feel myself so strong in my
+principles, that neither you nor any one else can retard my progress
+for an instant.”
+
+“Sir, you frighten me,” said Philippe; “you show me the danger in which
+our monarchy is.”
+
+“Then be prudent, and shun the opening gulf.”
+
+“You know,” replied Philippe, “that I would sooner entomb myself in it,
+than see those whom I defend in danger.”
+
+“Well, I have warned you.”
+
+“And I,” said Philippe, “I, who am but a feeble individual, will use
+against you the arms of the weak. I implore you, with tearful eyes and
+joined hands, to be merciful towards those whom you pursue. I ask you
+to spare me the remorse of knowing you were acting against this poor
+queen, and not preventing you. I beg you to destroy this publication,
+which would make a woman shed tears. I ask you, by the love which you
+have guessed, or I swear that with this sword, which has proved so
+powerless against you, I will pierce myself before your eyes!”
+
+“Ah!” murmured Cagliostro, “why are they not all like you? Then I would
+join them, and they should not perish.”
+
+“Monsieur, monsieur, I pray you to reply to me!”
+
+“See, then,” said Cagliostro, “if all the thousand numbers be there,
+and burn them yourself.”
+
+Philippe ran to the cabinet, took them out, and threw them on the fire.
+“Adieu, monsieur!” then he said; “a hundred thanks for the favor you
+have granted me.”
+
+“I owed the brother,” said Cagliostro, when he had gone, “some
+compensation for all I made the sister endure.”
+
+Then he called for his carriage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+THE HEAD OF THE TAVERNEY FAMILY.
+
+
+While this was passing in the Rue St. Gilles, the elder M. Taverney was
+walking in his garden, followed by two footmen, who carried a chair,
+with which they approached him every five minutes, that he might rest.
+While doing so, a servant came to announce the chevalier.
+
+“My son,” said the old man, “come, Philippe, you arrive àpropos—my
+heart is full of happy thoughts; but how solemn you look!”
+
+“Do I, sir?”
+
+“You know already the results of that affair?”
+
+“What affair?”
+
+The old man looked to see that no one was listening, then said, “I
+speak of the ball.”
+
+“I do not understand.”
+
+“Oh, the ball at the Opera.”
+
+Philippe colored.
+
+“Sit down,” continued his father; “I want to talk to you. It seems that
+you, so timid and delicate at first, now compromise her too much.”
+
+“Whom do you mean, sir?”
+
+“Pardieu! do you think I am ignorant of your escapade, both together at
+the Opera ball? It was pretty.”
+
+“Sir, I protest——”
+
+“Oh, do not be angry; I only mean to warn you for your good. You are
+not careful enough; you were seen there with her.”
+
+“I was seen?”
+
+“Pardieu! had you, or not, a blue domino?”
+
+Philippe was about to explain that he had not, and did not know what
+his father meant, but he thought to himself, “It is of no use to
+explain to him; he never believes me. Besides, I wish to learn more.”
+
+“You see,” continued the old man, triumphantly, “you were recognized.
+Indeed, M. de Richelieu, who was at the ball in spite of his
+eighty-four years, wondered who the blue domino could be with whom the
+queen was walking, and he could only suspect you, for he knew all the
+others.”
+
+“And pray how does he say he recognized the queen?”
+
+“Not very difficult, when she took her mask off. Such audacity as that
+surpasses all imagination; she must really be mad about you. But take
+care, chevalier; you have jealous rivals to fear; it is an envied post
+to be favorite of the queen, when the queen is the real king. Pardon my
+moralizing, but I do not wish that the breath of chance should blow
+down what you have reared so skilfully.”
+
+Philippe rose; the conversation was hateful to him, but a kind of
+savage curiosity impelled him to hear everything.
+
+“We are already envied,” continued the old man; “that is natural, but
+we have not yet attained the height to which we shall rise. To you will
+belong the glory of raising our name; and now you are progressing so
+well, only be prudent, or you will fail after all. Soon, however, you
+must ask for some high post, and obtain for me a lord-lieutenancy not
+too far from Paris. Then you can have a peerage, and become a duke and
+lieutenant-general. In two years, if I am still alive——”
+
+“Enough, enough!” groaned Philippe.
+
+“Oh, if you are satisfied with that, I am not. You have a whole life
+before you; I, perhaps, only a few months. However, I do not complain;
+God gave me two children, and if my daughter has been useless in
+repairing our fortunes, you will make up for it. I see in you the great
+Taverney, and you inspire me with respect, for your conduct has been
+admirable; you show no jealousy, but leave the field apparently open to
+every one, while you really hold it alone.”
+
+“I do not understand you,” replied Philippe.
+
+“Oh, no modesty; it was exactly the conduct of M. Potemkin, who
+astonished the world with his fortunes. He saw that Catherine loved
+variety in her amours; that, if left free, she would fly from flower to
+flower, returning always to the sweetest and most beautiful; but that,
+if pursued, she would fly right away. He took his part, therefore; he
+even introduced new favorites to his sovereign, to weary her out with
+their number; but through and after the quickly succeeding reigns of
+the twelve Cæsars, as they were ironically called, Potemkin in reality
+was supreme.”
+
+“What incomprehensible infamies!” murmured poor Philippe. But the old
+man went on:
+
+“According to his system, however, you have been still a little wrong.
+He never abandoned his surveillance, and you are too lax in this.”
+
+Philippe replied only by shrugging his shoulders. He really began to
+think his father was crazy.
+
+“Ah! you thought I did not see your game. You are already providing a
+successor, for you have divined that there is no stability in the
+queen’s amours, and in the event of her changing, you wish not to be
+quite thrown aside; therefore you make friends with M. de Charny, who
+might otherwise, when his turn comes, exile you, as you now might MM.
+de Coigny, Vaudreuil, and others.”
+
+Philippe, with an angry flush, said:
+
+“Once more, enough; I am ashamed to have listened so long. Those who
+say that the Queen of France is a Messalina are criminal calumniators.”
+
+“I tell you,” said the old man, “no one can hear, and I approve your
+plan. M. de Charny will repay your kindness some day.”
+
+“Your logic is admirable, sir; and M. de Charny is so much my favorite
+that I have just passed my sword through his ribs.”
+
+“What!” cried the old man, somewhat frightened at his son’s flashing
+eyes, “you have not been fighting?”
+
+“Yes, sir; that is my method of conciliating my successors. And he
+turned to go away.
+
+“Philippe, you jest.”
+
+“I do not, sir.”
+
+The old man rose, and tottered off to the house.
+
+“Quick,” said he to the servant; “let a man on horseback go at once and
+ask after M. de Charny, who has been wounded, and let him be sure to
+say he comes from me.” Then he murmured to himself, “Mine is still the
+only head in the family.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+THE STANZAS OF M. DE PROVENCE.
+
+
+While these events were passing in Paris and in Versailles, the king,
+tranquil as usual, sat in his study, surrounded by maps and plans, and
+traced new paths for the vessels of La Pérouse.
+
+A slight knock at his door roused him from his study, and a voice said,
+“May I come in, brother?”
+
+“The Comte de Provence,” growled the king, discontentedly. “Enter.”
+
+A short person came in.
+
+“You did not expect me, brother?” he said.
+
+“No, indeed.”
+
+“Do I disturb you?”
+
+“Have you anything particular to say?”
+
+“Such a strange report——”
+
+“Oh, some scandal?”
+
+“Yes, brother.”
+
+“Which has amused you?”
+
+“Because it is so strange.”
+
+“Something against me?”
+
+“Should I laugh if it were?”
+
+“Then against the queen?”
+
+“Sire, imagine that I was told quite seriously that the queen slept out
+the other night.”
+
+“That would be very sad if it were true,” replied the king.
+
+“But it is not true, is it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Nor that the queen was seen waiting outside the gate at the
+reservoirs?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“The day, you know, that you ordered the gates to be shut at eleven
+o’clock?”
+
+“I do not remember.”
+
+“Well, brother, they pretend that the queen was seen arm-in-arm with M.
+d’Artois at half-past twelve that night.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Going to a house which he possesses behind the stables. Has not your
+majesty heard this report?”
+
+“Yes, you took care of that.”
+
+“How, sire?—what have I done?”
+
+“Some verses which were printed in the _Mercury_.”
+
+“Some verses!” said the count, growing red.
+
+“Oh, yes; you are a favorite of the Muses.”
+
+“Not I, sire.”
+
+“Oh, do not deny it; I have the manuscript in your writing! Now, if you
+had informed yourself of what the queen really did that day, instead of
+writing these lines against her, and consequently against me, you would
+have written an ode in her favor. Perhaps the subject does not inspire
+you; but I should have liked a bad ode better than a good satire.”
+
+“Sire, you overwhelm me; but I trust you will believe I was deceived,
+and did not mean harm.”
+
+“Perhaps.”
+
+“Besides, I did not say I believed it; and then, a few verses are
+nothing. Now, a pamphlet like one I have just seen——”
+
+“A pamphlet?”
+
+“Yes, sire; and I want an order for the Bastile for the author of it.”
+
+The king rose. “Let me see it,” he said.
+
+“I do not know if I ought.”
+
+“Certainly you ought. Have you got it with you?”
+
+“Yes, sire;” and he drew from his pocket “The History of the Queen
+Etteniotna,” one of the fatal numbers which had escaped from Philippe
+and Charny.
+
+The king glanced over it rapidly. “Infamous!” he cried.
+
+“You see, sire, they pretend the queen went to M. Mesmer’s.”
+
+“Well, she did go.”
+
+“She went?”
+
+“Authorized by me.”
+
+“Oh, sire!”
+
+“That is nothing against her; I gave my consent.”
+
+“Did your majesty intend that she should experimentalize on herself?”
+
+The king stamped with rage as the count said this; he was reading one
+of the most insulting passages—the history of her contortions,
+voluptuous disorder, and the attention she had excited.
+
+“Impossible!” he cried, growing pale; and he rang the bell. “Oh, the
+police shall deal with this! Fetch M. de Crosne.”
+
+“Sire, it is his day for coming here, and he is now waiting.”
+
+“Let him come in.”
+
+“Shall I go, brother?” said the count.
+
+“No; remain. If the queen be guilty, you are one of the family, and
+must know it; if innocent, you, who have suspected her, must hear it.”
+
+M. de Crosne entered, and bowed, saying, “The report is ready, sire.”
+
+“First, sir,” said the king, “explain how you allow such infamous
+publications against the queen.”
+
+“Etteniotna?” asked M. de Crosne.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, sire, it is a man called Reteau.”
+
+“You know his name, and have not arrested him!”
+
+“Sire, nothing is more easy. I have an order already prepared in my
+portfolio.”
+
+“Then why is it not done?”
+
+M. de Crosne looked at the count.
+
+“I see, M. de Crosne wishes me to leave,” said he.
+
+“No,” replied the king, “remain. And you, M. de Crosne, speak freely.”
+
+“Well, sire, I wished first to consult your majesty whether you would
+not rather give him some money, and send him away to be hanged
+elsewhere.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because, sire, if these men tell lies, the people are glad enough to
+see them whipped, or even hanged; but if they chance upon a truth——”
+
+“A truth! It is true that the queen went to M. Mesmer’s, but I gave her
+permission.”
+
+“Oh, sire!” cried M. de Crosne.
+
+His tone of sincerity struck the king more than anything M. de Provence
+had said; and he answered, “I suppose, sir, that was no harm.”
+
+“No, sire; but her majesty has compromised herself.”
+
+“M. de Crosne, what have your police told you?”
+
+“Sire, many things, which, with all possible respect for her majesty,
+agree in many points with this pamphlet.”
+
+“Let me hear.”
+
+“That the queen went in a common dress, in the middle of this crowd,
+and alone.”
+
+“Alone!” cried the king.
+
+“Yes, sire.”
+
+“You are deceived, M. de Crosne.”
+
+“I do not think so, sire.”
+
+“You have bad reporters, sir.”
+
+“So exact, that I can give your majesty a description of her dress, of
+all her movements, of her cries——”
+
+“Her cries!”
+
+“Even her sighs were observed, sire.”
+
+“It is impossible she could have so far forgotten what is due to me and
+to herself.”
+
+“Oh, yes,” said the Comte de Provence; “her majesty is surely
+incapable——”
+
+Louis XVI. interrupted him. “Sir,” said he, to M. de Crosne, “you
+maintain what you have said?”
+
+“Unhappily, yes, sire.”
+
+“I will examine into it further,” said the king, passing his
+handkerchief over his forehead, on which the drops hung from anxiety
+and vexation. “I did permit the queen to go, but I ordered her to take
+with her a person safe, irreproachable, and even holy.”
+
+“Ah,” said M. de Crosne, “if she had but done so——”
+
+“Yes,” said the count; “if a lady like Madame de Lamballe for
+instance——”
+
+“It was precisely she whom the queen promised to take.”
+
+“Unhappily, sire, she did not do so.”
+
+“Well,” said the king, with agitation; “if she has disobeyed me so
+openly I ought to punish, and I will punish; only some doubts still
+remain on my mind; these doubts you do not share; that is natural; you
+are not the king, husband, and friend of her whom they accuse. However,
+I will proceed to clear the affair up.” He rang. “Let some one see,”
+said he to the person who came, “where Madame de Lamballe is.”
+
+“Sire, she is walking in the garden with her majesty and another lady.”
+
+“Beg her to come to me. Now, gentlemen, in ten minutes we shall know
+the truth.”
+
+All were silent.
+
+M. de Crosne was really sad, and the count put on an affectation of it
+which might have solemnized Momus himself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE.
+
+
+The Princesse de Lamballe entered beautiful and calm. Her hair drawn
+back from her noble forehead, her dark penciled eyebrows, her clear
+blue eyes and beautiful lips, and her unrivaled figure, formed a lovely
+tout ensemble. She seemed always surrounded by an atmosphere of virtue
+and grace.
+
+The king looked at her with a troubled expression, dreading what he was
+about to hear; then bowing, said, “Sit down, princess.”
+
+“What does your majesty desire?” asked she, in a sweet voice.
+
+“Some information, princess: what day did you last go with the queen to
+Paris?”
+
+“Wednesday, sire.”
+
+“Pardon me, cousin,” said Louis XVI.; “but I wish to know the exact
+truth.”
+
+“You will never hear anything else from me, sire.”
+
+“What did you go there for?”
+
+“I went to M. Mesmer’s, Place Vendôme.”
+
+The two witnesses trembled. The king colored with delight.
+
+“Alone?” asked the king.
+
+“No, sire; with the queen.”
+
+“With the queen?” cried Louis, seizing her hand.
+
+“Yes, sire.”
+
+M. de Provence and M. de Crosne looked stupefied.
+
+“Your majesty had authorized the queen to go; at least, so she told
+me,” continued the princess.
+
+“It was true, cousin: gentlemen, I breathe again; Madame de Lamballe
+never tells a falsehood.”
+
+“Never, sire.”
+
+“Oh, never, sire,” said M. de Crosne, with perfect sincerity. “But will
+you permit me, sire?”
+
+“Certainly, monsieur; question, search as much as you please; I place
+the princess at your disposal.”
+
+Madame de Lamballe smiled. “I am ready,” she said.
+
+“Madame,” said the lieutenant of police, “have the goodness to tell his
+majesty what you did there, and how the queen was dressed.”
+
+“She had on a dress of gray taffeta, a mantle of embroidered muslin, an
+ermine muff, and a rose-colored velvet bonnet, trimmed with black.”
+
+M. de Crosne looked astonished. It was a totally different dress from
+that which he had had described to him. The Comte de Provence bit his
+lips with vexation, and the king rubbed his hands.
+
+“What did you do on entering?” asked he.
+
+“Sire, you are right to say on entering, for we had hardly entered the
+room——”
+
+“Together?”
+
+“Yes, sire; and we could scarcely have been seen, for every one was
+occupied with the experiments going on, when a lady approached the
+queen, and, offering her a mask, implored her to turn back.”
+
+“And you stopped?”
+
+“Yes, sire.”
+
+“You never went through the rooms?” asked M. de Crosne.
+
+“No, monsieur.”
+
+“And you never quitted the queen?” asked the king.
+
+“Not for a moment, sire. Her majesty never left my arm.”
+
+“Now!” cried the king, “what do you say, M. de Crosne? and you,
+brother?”
+
+“It is extraordinary, quite supernatural,” said the count, who affected
+a gaiety which could not conceal his disappointment.
+
+“There is nothing supernatural,” said M. de Crosne, who felt real
+remorse: “what Madame de Lamballe says is undoubtedly true; therefore
+my informants must have been mistaken.”
+
+“Do you speak seriously, sir?” asked the count.
+
+“Perfectly, monseigneur. Her majesty did what Madame de Lamballe
+states, and nothing more, I feel convinced; my agents were, somehow or
+other, deceived. As for this journalist, I will immediately send the
+order for his imprisonment.”
+
+Madame de Lamballe looked from one to the other with an expression of
+innocent curiosity.
+
+“One moment,” said the king; “you spoke of a lady who came to stop you;
+tell us who she was?”
+
+“Her majesty seemed to know her, sire.”
+
+“Because, cousin, I must speak to this person; then we shall learn the
+key to this mystery.”
+
+“That is my opinion also, sire,” said M. de Crosne.
+
+“Did the queen tell you that she knew this person?” said the count.
+
+“She told me so, monseigneur.”
+
+“My brother means to say that you probably know her name.”
+
+“Madame de la Motte Valois.”
+
+“That intriguer!” cried the king.
+
+“Diable!” said the count; “she will be difficult to interrogate: she is
+cunning.”
+
+“We will be as cunning as she,” said M. de Crosne.
+
+“I do not like such people about the queen,” said Louis; “she is so
+good that all the beggars crowd round her.”
+
+“Madame de la Motte is a true Valois,” said the princess.
+
+“However that may be, I will not see her here. I prefer depriving
+myself of the pleasure of hearing the queen’s innocence confirmed, to
+doing that.”
+
+“But you must see her, sire,” said the queen, entering at that moment,
+pale with anger, beautiful with a noble indignation. “It is not now for
+you to say, ‘I do, or I do not wish to see her.’ She is a witness from
+whom the intelligence of my accusers,” said she, looking at her
+brother-in-law, “and the justice of my judges,” turning to the king and
+M. de Crosne, “must draw the truth. I, the accused, demand that she be
+heard.”
+
+“Madame,” said the king, “we will not do Madame de la Motte the honor
+of sending for her to give evidence either for or against you. I cannot
+stake your honor against the veracity of this woman.”
+
+“You need not send for her, she is here.”
+
+“Here!” cried the king.
+
+“Sire, you know I went to see her one day; that day of which so many
+things were said,” and she looked again at the Comte de Provence, who
+felt ready to sink through the ground; “and I then dropped at her house
+a box, containing a portrait, which she was to return to me to-day, and
+she is here.”
+
+“No, no,” said the king; “I am satisfied, and do not wish to see her.”
+
+“But I am not satisfied, and shall bring her in. Besides, why this
+repugnance? What has she done? If there be anything, tell me; you, M.
+de Crosne? you know everything.”
+
+“I know nothing against this lady,” replied he.
+
+“Really?”
+
+“Certainly not; she is poor, and perhaps ambitious, but that is all.”
+
+“If there be no more than that against her, the king can surely admit
+her.”
+
+“I do not know why,” said Louis; “but I have a presentiment that this
+woman will be the cause of misfortune to me.”
+
+“Oh! sire, that is superstition; pray fetch her, Madame de Lamballe.”
+
+Five minutes after, Jeanne, with a timid air, although with a
+distinguished appearance, entered the room.
+
+Louis XVI., strong in his antipathies, had turned his back towards her,
+and was leaning his head on his hands, seeming to take no longer a part
+in the conversation. The Comte de Provence cast on her a look which,
+had her modesty been real, would have increased her confusion; but it
+required much more than that to trouble Jeanne.
+
+“Madame,” said the queen, “have the goodness to tell the king exactly
+what passed the other day at M. Mesmer’s.”
+
+Jeanne did not speak.
+
+“It requires no consideration,” continued the queen; “we want nothing
+but the simple truth.”
+
+Jeanne understood immediately that the queen had need of her, and knew
+that she could clear her in a moment by speaking the simple truth; but
+she felt inclined to keep her secret.
+
+“Sire,” said she, “I went to see M. Mesmer from curiosity, like the
+rest of the world. The spectacle appeared to me rather a coarse one; I
+turned and suddenly saw her majesty entering, whom I had already had
+the honor of seeing, but without knowing her till her generosity
+revealed her rank. It seemed to me that her majesty was out of place in
+this room, where much suffering and many ridiculous exhibitions were
+going on. I beg pardon for having taken it on myself to judge; it was a
+woman’s instinct, but I humbly beg pardon if I passed the bounds of
+proper respect.” She seemed overcome with emotion as she concluded.
+
+Every one but the king was pleased.
+
+Madame de Lamballe thought her conduct delicate, and herself timid,
+intelligent, and good.
+
+The queen thanked her by a look.
+
+“Well,” she said, “you have heard, sire.”
+
+He did not move, but said, “I did not need her testimony.”
+
+“I was told to speak,” said Jeanne timidly, “and I obeyed.”
+
+“It is enough,” answered he; “when the queen says a thing she needs no
+witnesses to confirm her; and when she has my approbation, and she has
+it, she need care for that of no one else.”
+
+He cast an overwhelming look on his brother, and kissing the hands of
+the queen and the princess, and begging pardon of the latter for having
+disturbed her for nothing, made a very slight bow to Jeanne.
+
+The ladies then left the room.
+
+“Brother,” said Louis to the count, “now I will detain you no longer; I
+have work to do with M. de Crosne. You have heard your sister’s
+complete justification, and it is easy to see you are as pleased as
+myself. Pray sit down, M. de Crosne.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+THE QUEEN.
+
+
+The queen, after leaving the king, felt deeply the danger she had been
+so nearly incurring. She was therefore pleased with Jeanne, who had
+been the means of preventing it, and said to her, with a gracious
+smile:
+
+“It is really fortunate, madame, that you prevented my prolonging my
+stay at M. Mesmer’s, for only think, they have taken advantage of my
+being there to say that I was under the influence of the magnetism.”
+
+“But,” said Madame de Lamballe, “it is very strange that the police
+should have been so deceived, and have affirmed that they saw the queen
+in the inner room.”
+
+“It is strange,” said the queen; “and M. de Crosne is an honest man,
+and would not willingly injure me; but his agents may have been bought.
+I have enemies, dear Lamballe. Still there must have been some
+foundation for this tale. This infamous libel represents me as
+intoxicated, and overcome to such a degree by the magnetic fluid, that
+I lost all control over myself, and all womanly reserve. Did any such
+scene take place, Madame la Comtesse? Was there any one who behaved
+like this?”
+
+Jeanne colored; the secret once told, she lost all the fatal influence
+which she could now exercise over the queen’s destiny; therefore she
+again resolved to keep silent on this point.
+
+“Madame,” said she, “there was a woman much agitated who attracted
+great attention by her contortions and cries.”
+
+“Probably some actress or loose character.”
+
+“Possibly, madame.”
+
+“Countess, you replied very well to the king, and I will not forget
+you. How have you advanced in your own affairs?”
+
+At this moment Madame de Misery came in, to say that Mademoiselle de
+Taverney wished to know if her majesty would receive her.
+
+“Assuredly,” said the queen. “How ceremonious you always are, Andrée;
+why do you stand so much upon etiquette?”
+
+“Your majesty is too good to me.”
+
+Madame de Lamballe now availed herself of Andrée’s entrance to take
+leave.
+
+“Well, Andrée,” the queen then said, “here is this lady whom we went to
+see the other day.”
+
+“I recognize madame,” said Andrée, bowing.
+
+“Do you know what they have been saying of me?”
+
+“Yes, madame; M. de Provence has been repeating the story.”
+
+“Oh! no doubt; therefore we will leave that subject. Countess, we were
+speaking of you—who protects you now?”
+
+“You, madame,” replied Jeanne, boldly, “since you permit me to come and
+kiss your hand. Few people,” she continued, “dared to protect me when I
+was in obscurity; now that I have been seen with your majesty, every
+one will be anxious to do so.”
+
+“Then,” said the queen, “no one has been either brave enough or corrupt
+enough to protect you for yourself?”
+
+“I had first Madame de Boulainvilliers, a brave protector; then her
+husband, a corrupt one; but since my marriage no one. Oh yes, I forget
+one brave man—a generous prince.”
+
+“Prince, countess! who is it?”
+
+“Monsieur the Cardinal de Rohan.”
+
+“My enemy,” said the queen, smiling.
+
+“Your enemy! Oh, madame!”
+
+“It seems you are astonished that a queen should have an enemy. It is
+evident you have not lived at court.”
+
+“But, madame, he adores you. The devotion of the cardinal equals his
+respect for you.”
+
+“Oh, doubtless,” said the queen, with a hearty laugh; “that is why he
+is my enemy.”
+
+Jeanne looked surprised.
+
+“And you are his protégée,” continued the queen; “tell me all about
+it.”
+
+“It is very simple; his eminence has assisted me in the most generous,
+yet the most considerate, manner.”
+
+“Good; Prince Louis is generous; no one can deny that. But do you not
+think, Andrée, that M. le Cardinal also adores this pretty countess a
+little? Come, countess, tell us.” And Marie Antoinette laughed again in
+her frank, joyous manner.
+
+“All this gaiety must be put on,” thought Jeanne. So she answered, in a
+grave tone, “Madame, I have the honor to affirm to your majesty that M.
+de Rohan——”
+
+“Well, since you are his friend, ask him what he did with some hair of
+mine which he bribed a certain hair-dresser to steal; and which trick
+cost the poor man dear, for he lost my custom.”
+
+“Your majesty surprises me; M. de Rohan did that?”
+
+“Oh, yes; all his adoration, you know. After having hated me at Vienna,
+and having employed every means to try and prevent my marriage, he at
+last began to perceive that I was a woman, and his queen, and that he
+had offended me forever. Then this dear prince began to fear for his
+future, and, like all of his profession, who seem most fond of those
+whom they most fear, and as he knew me young and believed me foolish
+and vain, he turned—he became a professed admirer, and began with sighs
+and glances. He adores me, does he not, Andrée?”
+
+“Madame!”
+
+“Oh! Andrée will not compromise herself, but I say what I please; at
+least I may have that advantage from being a queen. So it is a settled
+thing that the cardinal adores me, and you may tell him, countess, that
+he has my permission.”
+
+Jeanne, instead of seeing in all this only the angry disdain of a noble
+character, which she was incapable of appreciating, thought it all
+pique against M. de Rohan, hiding another feeling for him, and
+therefore began to defend him with all her eloquence.
+
+The queen listened.
+
+“Good! she listens,” thought Jeanne, and did not again understand that
+she listened through generosity, and through pleasure at anything so
+novel as to hear any person defend one of whom the sovereign chose to
+speak ill, and felt pleased with her, thinking she saw a heart where
+none was placed.
+
+All at once a joyous voice was heard near, and the queen said, “Here is
+the Comte d’Artois.”
+
+When he entered, the queen introduced the countess to him.
+
+“Pray do not let me send you away, Madame la Comtesse,” said he, as
+Jeanne made a move to depart.
+
+The queen also requested her to stay. “You have returned from the
+wolf-hunt, then?” she said.
+
+“Yes, sister, and have had good sport; I have killed seven. I am not
+sure,” continued he, laughing, “but they say so. However, do you know I
+have gained seven hundred francs?”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Why, they pay a hundred francs a head for these beasts. It is dear,
+but I would give two hundred of them just now for the head of a certain
+journalist.”
+
+“Ah! you know the story?”
+
+“M. de Provence told me.”
+
+“He is indefatigable. But tell me how he related it.”
+
+“So as to make you whiter than snow, or Venus Aphroditus. It seems you
+came out of it gloriously; you are fortunate.”
+
+“Oh, you call that fortunate. Do you hear him, Andrée?”
+
+“Yes, for you might have gone alone, without Madame de Lamballe; and
+you might not have had Madame de la Motte there to stop your entrance.”
+
+“Ah! you know that too?”
+
+“Oh yes; the count told everything. Then you might not have had Madame
+de la Motte at hand to give her testimony. You will tell me, doubtless,
+that virtue and innocence are like the violet which does not require to
+be seen in order to be recognized; but still I say you are fortunate.”
+
+“Badly proved.”
+
+“I will prove it still better. Saved so well from the unlucky scrape of
+the cabriolet, saved from this affair, and then the ball,” whispered he
+in her ear.
+
+“What ball?”
+
+“The ball at the Opera.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean the ball at the Opera; but I beg pardon, I should not have
+mentioned it.”
+
+“Really, brother, you puzzle me; I know nothing about the ball at the
+Opera.”
+
+The words “ball” and “Opera” caught Jeanne’s ear, and she listened
+intently.
+
+“I am dumb,” said the prince.
+
+“But, count, I insist on knowing what it means.”
+
+“Oh, pray allow me to let it drop.”
+
+“Do you want to disoblige me?”
+
+“No, sister; but I have said quite enough for you to understand.”
+
+“You have told me nothing.”
+
+“Oh, sister, it is needless with me.”
+
+“But really I am in earnest.”
+
+“You wish me to speak?”
+
+“Immediately.”
+
+“Not here,” said he, looking at the others.
+
+“Yes, here; there cannot be too many at such an explanation.”
+
+“Then you mean to say you were not at the last ball?”
+
+“I!” cried the queen, “at the ball at the Opera?”
+
+“Hush, I beg.”
+
+“No, I will not hush; I will speak it aloud. You say I was at the
+ball?”
+
+“Certainly I do.”
+
+“Perhaps you saw me?” she said ironically.
+
+“Yes, I did.”
+
+“Me?”
+
+“Yes, you.”
+
+“Oh, it is too much! Why did you not speak to me?”
+
+“Ma foi! I was just going to do so, when the crowd separated us.”
+
+“You are mad!”
+
+“I should not have spoken of it. I have been very foolish.”
+
+The queen rose, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.
+
+Andrée trembled with fear and disquietude, and Jeanne could hardly keep
+from laughing.
+
+Then the queen stopped, and said:
+
+“My friend, do not jest any more; you see, I am so passionate that I
+have lost my temper already. Tell me at once that you were joking with
+me.”
+
+“I will, if you please, sister.”
+
+“Be serious, Charles. You have invented all this, have you not?”
+
+He winked at the ladies, and said, “Oh, yes, of course.”
+
+“You do not understand me, brother!” cried the queen vehemently. “Say
+yes or no. Do not tell falsehoods; I only want the truth!”
+
+“Well, then, sister,” said he, in a low voice, “I have told the truth,
+but I am sorry I spoke.”
+
+“You saw me there?”
+
+“As plain as I see you now; and you saw me.”
+
+The queen uttered a cry, and, running up to Andrée and Jeanne, cried,
+“Ladies, M. le Comte d’Artois affirms that he saw me at the ball at the
+Opera; let him prove it.”
+
+“Well,” said he, “I was with M. de Richelieu and others, when your mask
+fell off.”
+
+“My mask!”
+
+“I was about to say, ‘This is too rash, sister,’ but the gentleman with
+you drew you away so quickly.”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu! you will drive me mad! What gentleman?”
+
+“The blue domino.”
+
+The queen passed her hand over her eyes.
+
+“What day was this?” she asked.
+
+“Saturday. The next day I set off to hunt, before you were up.”
+
+“What time do you say you saw me?”
+
+“Between two and three.”
+
+“Decidedly one of us is mad!”
+
+“Oh, it is I. It is all a mistake. Do not be so afraid; there is no
+harm done. At first I thought you were with the king; but the blue
+domino spoke German, and he does not.”
+
+“Well, brother, on Saturday I went to bed at eleven.”
+
+The count bowed, with an incredulous smile.
+
+The queen rang. “Madame de Misery shall tell you.”
+
+“Why do you not call Laurent also?” said he, laughing.
+
+“Oh!” cried the queen in a rage, “not to be believed!”
+
+“My dear sister, if I believed you, others would not.”
+
+“What others?”
+
+“Those who saw you as well as myself.”
+
+“Who were they?”
+
+“M. Philippe de Taverney, for instance.”
+
+“My brother?” cried Andrée.
+
+“Yes; shall we ask him?”
+
+“Immediately.”
+
+“Mon Dieu!” murmured Andrée, “my brother a witness!”
+
+“Yes; I wish it;” and she went to seek him at his father’s.
+
+He was just leaving, after the scene we have described with his father,
+when the messenger met him. He came quickly, and Marie Antoinette
+turned to him at once.
+
+“Sir,” said she, “are you capable of speaking the truth?”
+
+“Incapable of anything else, madame.”
+
+“Well, then, say frankly, have you seen me at any public place within
+the last week?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+All hearts beat so that you might have heard them.
+
+“Where?” said the queen, in a terrible voice.
+
+Philippe was silent.
+
+“Oh, no concealment, sir! My brother says you saw me at the ball of the
+Opera.”
+
+“I did, madame.”
+
+The queen sank on a sofa; then, rising furiously, she said:
+
+“It is impossible, for I was not there! Take care, M. de Taverney!”
+
+“Your majesty,” said Andrée, pale with anger, “if my brother says he
+saw you, he did see you.”
+
+“You also!” cried Marie Antoinette; “it only remains now for you to
+have seen me. Pardieu! my enemies overwhelm me.”
+
+“When I saw that the blue domino was not the king,” said the Comte
+d’Artois, “I believed him to be that nephew of M. de Suffren whom you
+received so well here the other night.”
+
+The queen colored.
+
+“Did it not look something like his tournure, M. de Taverney?”
+continued the count.
+
+“I did not remark, monseigneur,” said he, in a choking voice.
+
+“But I soon found out that it was not he; for suddenly I saw him before
+me, and he was close by you when your mask fell off.”
+
+“So he saw me too?”
+
+“If he were not blind, he did.”
+
+The queen rang.
+
+“What are you about to do?”
+
+“Send for him also, and ask. I will drain this cup to the dregs!”
+
+“I do not think he can come,” said Philippe.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because I believe he is not well.”
+
+“Oh, he must come, monsieur! I am not well either, but I would go to
+the end of the world barefoot to prove——”
+
+All at once Andrée, who was near the window, uttered an exclamation.
+
+“What is it?” cried the queen.
+
+“Oh, nothing; only here comes M. de Charny.”
+
+The queen, in her excitement, ran to the window, opened it, and cried,
+“M. de Charny!”
+
+He, full of astonishment, hastened to enter.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII.
+AN ALIBI.
+
+
+M. de Charny entered, a little pale, but upright, and not apparently
+suffering.
+
+“Take care, sister,” said the Comte d’Artois; “what is the use of
+asking so many people?”
+
+“Brother, I will ask the whole world, till I meet some one who will
+tell you you are deceived.”
+
+Charny and Philippe bowed courteously to each other, and Philippe said
+in a low voice, “You are surely mad to come out wounded; one would say
+you wished to die.”
+
+“One does not die from the scratch of a thorn in the Bois de Boulogne,”
+replied Charny.
+
+The queen approached, and put an end to this conversation. “M. de
+Charny,” said she, “these gentlemen say that you were at the ball at
+the Opera?”
+
+“Yes, your majesty.”
+
+“Tell us what you saw there.”
+
+“Does your majesty mean whom I saw there?”
+
+“Precisely; and no complaisant reserve, M. de Charny.”
+
+“Must I say, madame?”
+
+The cheeks of the queen assumed once more that deadly paleness, which
+had many times that morning alternated with a burning red.
+
+“Did you see me?” she asked.
+
+“Yes, your majesty, at the moment when your mask unhappily fell off.”
+
+Marie Antoinette clasped her hands.
+
+“Monsieur,” said she, almost sobbing, “look at me well; are you sure of
+what you say?”
+
+“Madame, your features are engraved in the hearts of your subjects; to
+see your majesty once is to see you forever.”
+
+“But, monsieur,” said she, “I assure you I was not at the ball at the
+Opera.”
+
+“Oh, madame,” said the young man, bowing low, “has not your majesty the
+right to go where you please?”
+
+“I do not ask you to find excuses for me; I only ask you to believe.”
+
+“I will believe all your majesty wishes me to believe,” cried he.
+
+“Sister, sister, it is too much,” murmured the count.
+
+“No one believes me!” cried she, throwing herself on the sofa, with
+tears in her eyes.
+
+“Sister, pardon me,” said the count tenderly, “you are surrounded by
+devoted friends; this secret, which terrifies you so, we alone know. It
+is confined to our hearts, and no one shall drag it from us while we
+have life.”
+
+“This secret! oh, I want nothing but to prove the truth.”
+
+“Madame,” said Andrée, “some one approaches.”
+
+The king was announced.
+
+“The king! oh, so much the better. He is my only friend; he would not
+believe me guilty even if he thought he saw me.”
+
+The king entered with an air of calmness, in strange contrast to the
+disturbed countenances of those present.
+
+“Sire,” said the queen, “you come àpropos; there is yet another
+calumny, another insult to combat.”
+
+“What is it?” said Louis, advancing.
+
+“An infamous report. Aid me, sire, for now it is no longer my enemies
+that accuse me, but my friends.”
+
+“Your friends!”
+
+“Yes, sire; M. le Comte d’Artois, M. de Taverney, and M. de Charny
+affirm that they saw me at the ball at the Opera.”
+
+“At the ball at the Opera!” cried the king.
+
+A terrible silence ensued.
+
+Madame de la Motte saw the mortal paleness of the queen, the terrible
+disquietude of the king and of all the others, and with one word she
+could have put an end to all this, and saved the queen, not only now,
+but in the future, from much distress. But she said to herself that it
+was too late; that they would see, if she spoke now, that she had
+deceived them before when the simple truth would have been of such
+advantage to the queen, and she should forfeit her newly-acquired
+favor. So she remained silent.
+
+The king repeated, with an air of anguish, “At the ball at the Opera!
+Does M. de Provence know this?”
+
+“But, sire, it is not true. M. le Comte d’Artois is deceived; M. de
+Taverney is deceived; M. de Charny, you are deceived, one may be
+mistaken.”
+
+All bowed.
+
+“Come,” continued she, “call all my people, ask every one. You say it
+was Saturday?”
+
+“Yes, sister.”
+
+“Well, what did I do on Saturday? Let some one tell me, for I think I
+am going mad, and shall begin at last to believe that I did go to this
+infamous ball. But, gentlemen, if I had been there I would have
+confessed it.”
+
+At this moment the king approached her, every cloud gone from his brow.
+“Well, Marie,” said he, “if it was Saturday, there is no need to call
+your women, or only to ask them at what hour I came to your room. I
+believe it was past eleven.”
+
+“Oh!” cried the queen, joyfully, “you are right, sire.” And she threw
+herself into his arms; then, blushing and confused, she hid her face on
+his shoulder, while he kissed her tenderly.
+
+“Well,” said the Comte d’Artois, full of both surprise and joy, “I will
+certainly buy spectacles. But on my word, I would not have lost this
+scene for a million of money. Would you, gentlemen?”
+
+Philippe was leaning against the wainscot as pale as death. Charny
+wiped the burning drops from his forehead.
+
+“Therefore, gentlemen,” said the king, turning towards them, “I know it
+to be impossible that the queen was that night at the ball at the
+Opera. Believe it or not, as you please. The queen I am sure is content
+that I know her to be innocent.”
+
+“Well,” said M. d’Artois, “Provence may say what he pleases, but I defy
+his wife to prove an alibi in the same way, if she should be accused of
+passing the night out.”
+
+“Charles!”
+
+“Pardon, sire, now I will take my leave.”
+
+“Well, I will go with you.” And once more kissing the queen’s hand,
+they left the room.
+
+“M. de Taverney,” said the queen severely, when they were gone, “do you
+not accompany M. d’Artois?”
+
+Philippe started, all the blood rushed to his head, and he had hardly
+strength to bow and leave the room.
+
+Andrée was to be pitied also. She knew that Philippe would have given
+the world to have taken M. de Charny away with him, but she felt as
+though she could not follow to comfort him, leaving Charny alone with
+the queen, or only with Madame de la Motte, who, she instinctively
+felt, was worse than no one. But why this feeling? She could not love
+Charny; that, she told herself, was impossible. So slight and recent an
+acquaintance, and she who had vowed to love no one. Why then did she
+suffer so much when Charny addressed words of such respectful devotion
+to the queen? Was not this jealousy? “Yes,” she thought, but only
+jealousy that this woman should draw all hearts towards her, while the
+whole world of gallantry and love passed her coldly by. It was no
+attraction to be a living problem, ever cold and reserved like Andrée;
+they felt it, turned from her beauty and her intellect, and contented
+themselves with mere politeness. Andrée felt this deeply; but on the
+night when they first met Charny, he showed towards her nothing of this
+coldness or reserve; she was to him as interesting as any other
+beautiful woman, and she felt cheered and warmed by it. But now the
+queen absorbed his every look and thought, and left her lonely again;
+therefore she did not follow her brother, although she suffered in his
+sufferings, and almost idolized him. She did not, however, attempt to
+mingle in the conversation, but sat down by the fire almost with her
+back to the queen and Charny, while Madame de la Motte stood in one of
+the deep windows, nearly out of sight, although she could observe all
+that passed.
+
+The Queen remained silent for some minutes, then she said, almost to
+herself, “Would any one believe that such things pass here?” Then,
+turning to Charny, said, “We hear, sir, of the dangers of the sea and
+of the fury of tempests, but you have doubtless encountered all their
+assaults, and you are still safe and honored.”
+
+“Madame——”
+
+“Then the English, our enemies, have attacked you with their guns and
+their power, but still you are safe; and on account of the enemies you
+have conquered, the king felicitates and admires you, and the people
+bless and love you; therefore, blessed are such enemies who menace us
+only with death. Our enemies do not endanger existence, it is true, but
+they add years to our lives; they make us bow the head, fearing, though
+innocent, to meet, as I have done, the double attacks of friends and
+enemies. And then, sir, if you knew how hard it is to be hated!”
+
+Andrée listened anxiously for his reply, but he only leaned against the
+wall, and grew pale.
+
+The queen looked at him, and said, “It is too hot here; Madame de la
+Motte, open the window; monsieur is accustomed to the fresh
+sea-breezes; he would stifle in our boudoirs.”
+
+“It is not that, madame; but I am on duty at two o’clock, and unless
+your majesty wishes me to remain——”
+
+“Oh! no, monsieur; we know what duty is. You are free,” said the queen,
+in a tone of slight pique.
+
+Charny bowed, and disappeared like a man in haste; but in a minute they
+heard from the ante-chamber the sound of a groan, and people hurrying
+forward. The queen, who was near the door, opened it, and uttered an
+exclamation; and was going out, when Andrée rose quickly, saying, “Oh
+no! madame.”
+
+Then they saw through the open door the guards assisting M. de Charny,
+who had fainted. The queen closed the door, and sat down again, pensive
+and thoughtful. At last, she said, “It is an odd thing, but I do not
+believe M. de Charny was convinced!”
+
+“Oh, madame! in spite of the king’s word—impossible!”
+
+“He may have thought the king said it for his own sake.”
+
+“My brother was not so incredulous,” said Andrée.
+
+“It would be very wrong,” continued the queen, not heeding her; “he
+could not have as noble a heart as I thought. But, after all, why
+should he believe? He thought he saw me. They all thought so. There is
+something in all this; something which I must clear up. Andrée, I must
+find out what it all means.”
+
+“Your majesty is right; you must investigate it.”
+
+“For,” continued the queen, “people said they saw me at M. Mesmer’s.”
+
+“But your majesty was there,” said Madame de la Motte.
+
+“Yes; but I did not do what they insist they saw me do. And they saw me
+at the Opera, and I was not there. Oh!” cried she, “at last I guess the
+truth.”
+
+“The truth!” stammered the countess.
+
+“Oh! I hope so,” said Andrée.
+
+“Send for M. de Crosne,” said the queen, joyously.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+M. DE CROSNE.
+
+
+M. de Crosne had felt himself in no slight degree embarrassed since his
+interview with the king and queen. It was no light matter to have the
+care of the interests of a crown and of the fame of a queen; and he
+feared that he was about to encounter all the weight of a woman’s anger
+and a queen’s indignation. He knew, however, that he had but done his
+duty, and he entered, therefore, tranquilly, with a smile on his face.
+
+“Now, M. de Crosne,” said the queen, “it is our turn for an
+explanation.”
+
+“I am at your majesty’s orders.”
+
+“You ought to know the cause of all that has happened to me, sir.”
+
+M. de Crosne looked round him rather frightened.
+
+“Never mind these ladies,” said the queen; “you know them both; you
+know every one.”
+
+“Nearly,” said the magistrate; “and I know the effects, but not the
+cause, of what has happened to your majesty.”
+
+“Then I must enlighten you, although it is a disagreeable task. I might
+tell you in private, but my thoughts and words are always open as the
+day; all the world may know them. I attribute the attacks that have
+been made upon me to the misconduct of some one who resembles me, and
+who goes everywhere; and thus your agents have made these mistakes.”
+
+“A resemblance!” cried M. de Crosne, too much occupied with the idea to
+observe the unquiet look which Jeanne could not for a moment prevent
+appearing.
+
+“Well, sir, do you think this impossible; or do you prefer to think
+that I am deceiving you?”
+
+“Oh no, madame! but surely, however strong a resemblance may be, there
+must be some points of difference to prevent people being so deceived.”
+
+“It seems not, sir; some are deceived.”
+
+“Oh! and I remember,” said Andrée, “when we lived at Taverney Maison
+Rouge, we had a servant who very strongly——”
+
+“Resembled me?”
+
+“Most wonderfully, your majesty.”
+
+“And what became of her?”
+
+“We did not then know the great generosity of your majesty’s mind, and
+my father feared that this resemblance might be disagreeable to you;
+and when we were at Trianon we kept her out of sight.”
+
+“You see, M. de Crosne. Ah! this interests you.”
+
+“Much, madame.”
+
+“Afterwards, dear Andrée?”
+
+“Madame, this girl, who was of an ambitious disposition and troublesome
+temper, grew tired of this quiet life, and had doubtless made bad
+acquaintances, for one night when I went to bed I was surprised not to
+see her; we sought her in vain, she had disappeared.”
+
+“Did she steal anything?”
+
+“Nothing, madame.”
+
+“You did not know all this, M. de Crosne?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“Thus, then, there is a woman whose resemblance to me is striking, and
+you do not know her. I fear your police is badly organized.”
+
+“No, madame; a police magistrate is but a man, and though the vulgar
+may rate his power as something almost superhuman, your majesty is more
+reasonable.”
+
+“Still, sir, when a man has secured all possible powers for penetrating
+secrets, when he pays agents and spies, and to such an extent as to
+know every movement I make, he might prevent this sort of thing.”
+
+“Madame, when your majesty passed the night out, I knew it, the day you
+went to see madame at the Rue St. Claude; therefore my police is not
+bad. When you went to M. Mesmer’s, my agents saw you. When you went to
+the Opera——”
+
+The queen started.
+
+“Pardon me, madame, if I saw you; but if your own brother-in-law
+mistook you, surely an agent at a crown a day may be pardoned for
+having done so. They thought they saw you, and reported accordingly;
+therefore my police is not bad. They also knew this affair of the
+journalist, so well punished by M. de Charny.”
+
+“M. de Charny!” cried the queen and Andrée in a breath.
+
+“Yes, madame: his blows are yet fresh on the shoulders of the
+journalist.”
+
+“M. de Charny committed himself with this fellow!”
+
+“I know it by my calumniated police, madame; and also, which was more
+difficult, the duel which followed.”
+
+“A duel! M. de Charny fought?”
+
+“With the journalist?” asked Andrée.
+
+“No, madame; the journalist was too well beaten to give M. de Charny
+the sword-thrust which made him faint here just now.”
+
+“Wounded!” cried the queen; “how and when? He was here just now.”
+
+“Oh!” said Andrée, “I saw that he suffered.”
+
+“What do you say?” cried the queen, almost angrily; “you saw that he
+suffered, and did not mention it!”
+
+Andrée did not reply.
+
+Jeanne, who wished to make a friend of her, came to her aid, saying, “I
+also, madame, saw that M. de Charny had difficulty in standing up while
+your majesty spoke to him.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said the queen again to M. de Crosne, “with whom and why
+did M. de Charny fight?”
+
+“With a gentleman who—— But really, madame, it is useless now. The two
+adversaries are friends again, for they spoke just now in your
+majesty’s presence.”
+
+“In my presence!”
+
+“Yes, madame; the conqueror left about twenty minutes ago.”
+
+“M. de Taverney!” cried the queen.
+
+“My brother!” murmured Andrée.
+
+“I believe,” said M. de Crosne, “that it was he with whom M. de Charny
+fought.”
+
+The queen made an angry gesture. “It is not right,” she said; “these
+are American manners brought to Versailles. It is not because one has
+fought under M. Lafayette and Washington that my court should be
+disgraced by such proceedings. Andrée, did you know your brother had
+fought?”
+
+“Not till this moment, madame.”
+
+“Why did he fight?”
+
+“If my brother fought,” said Andrée, “it was in your majesty’s
+service.”
+
+“That is to say, that M. de Charny fought against me.”
+
+“Your majesty, I spoke only of my brother, and of no one else.”
+
+The queen tried hard to remain calm. She walked once or twice up and
+down the room, and then said, “M. de Crosne, you have convinced me: I
+was much disturbed by these rumors and accusations; your police is
+efficient, but I beg you not to forget to investigate this resemblance
+of which I have spoken. Adieu!” and she held out her hand to him with
+her own peculiar grace.
+
+Andrée made a movement to depart. The queen gave her a careless adieu.
+
+Jeanne also prepared to leave, when Madame de Misery entered.
+
+“Madame,” said she to the queen, “did your majesty appoint this hour to
+receive MM. Bœhmer and Bossange?”
+
+“Oh, yes, it is true; let them come in. Remain a little longer, Madame
+de la Motte; I want the king to make a full peace with you.” Perhaps
+she wished to pique Andrée by this favor to a newcomer, but Andrée did
+not seem to heed.
+
+“All these Taverneys are made of iron,” thought the queen. “Ah,
+gentlemen, what do you bring me now? you know I have no money.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX.
+THE TEMPTRESS.
+
+
+Madame de la Motte remained, therefore, as before.
+
+“Madame,” replied M. Bœhmer, “we do not come to offer anything to your
+majesty, we should fear to be indiscreet; but we come to fulfil a duty,
+and that has emboldened us——”
+
+“A duty?”
+
+“Concerning the necklace which your majesty did not deign to take.”
+
+“Oh! then, the necklace has come again,” said Marie Antoinette,
+laughing. “It was really beautiful, M. Bœhmer.”
+
+“So beautiful,” said Bossange, “that your majesty alone was worthy to
+wear it.”
+
+“My consolation is,” said the queen, with a sigh which did not escape
+Jeanne, “that it cost a million and a half. Was not that the price, M.
+Bœhmer?”
+
+“Yes, your majesty.”
+
+“And in these times,” continued the queen, “there is no sovereign that
+can give such a sum for a necklace; so that although I cannot wear it,
+no one else can: and once broken up, I should care nothing about it.”
+
+“That is an error of your majesty’s; the necklace is sold.”
+
+“Sold!” cried the queen. “To whom?”
+
+“Ah! madame, that is a state secret.”
+
+“Oh!” said the queen, “I think I am safe. A state secret means that
+there is nothing to tell.”
+
+“With your majesty,” continued Bœhmer, as gravely as ever, “we do not
+act as with others. The necklace is sold, but in the most secret
+manner, and an ambassador——”
+
+“I really think he believes it himself!” interrupted the queen,
+laughing again. “Come, M. Bœhmer, tell me at least the country he comes
+from, or, at all events, the first letter of his name.”
+
+“Madame, it is the ambassador from Portugal,” said Bœhmer, in a low
+voice, that Madame de la Motte might not hear.
+
+“The ambassador from Portugal!” said the queen. “There is none here, M.
+Bœhmer.”
+
+“He came expressly for this, madame.”
+
+“Do you imagine so?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“What is his name?”
+
+“M. de Souza.”
+
+The queen did not reply for a few minutes, and then said, “Well, so
+much the better for the Queen of Portugal. Let us speak of it no more.”
+
+“But allow us one moment, madame,” said Bœhmer.
+
+“Have you ever seen those diamonds?” said the queen to Jeanne.
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“They are beautiful. It is a pity these gentlemen have not brought
+them.”
+
+“Here they are,” said Bœhmer, opening the case.
+
+“Come, countess, you are a woman, and these will please you.”
+
+Jeanne uttered a cry of admiration when she saw them, and said, “They
+are indeed beautiful.”
+
+“1,500,000 francs, which you hold in the palm of your hand,” said the
+queen.
+
+“Monsieur was right,” said Jeanne, “when he said that no one was worthy
+to wear these diamonds but your majesty.”
+
+“However, my majesty will not wear them.”
+
+“We could not let them leave France without expressing our regret to
+your majesty. It is a necklace which is now known all over Europe, and
+we wished to know definitively that your majesty really refused it
+before we parted with it.”
+
+“My refusal has been made public,” said the queen, “and has been too
+much applauded for me to repent of it.”
+
+“Oh, madame!” said Bœhmer, “if the people found it admirable that your
+majesty preferred a ship of war to a necklace, the nobility at least
+would not think it surprising if you bought the necklace after all.”
+
+“Do not speak of it any more,” said Marie Antoinette, casting at the
+same time a longing look at the casket.
+
+Jeanne sighed, “Ah, you sigh, countess; in my place you would act
+differently.”
+
+“I do not know, madame.”
+
+“Have you looked enough?”
+
+“Oh no! I could look forever.”
+
+“Let her look, gentlemen; that takes nothing from the value.
+Unfortunately, they are still worth 1,500,000 francs.”
+
+“Oh,” thought Jeanne, “she is regretting it.” And she said, “On your
+neck, madame, they would make all women die with jealousy, were they as
+beautiful as Cleopatra or Venus.” And, approaching, she clasped it
+round her neck. “Ah, your majesty is beautiful so!”
+
+The queen turned to the mirror. It was really splendid; every one must
+have admired. Marie Antoinette forgot herself for a time in admiration;
+then, seized with fear, she tried to take it off.
+
+“It has touched your majesty’s neck; it ought not to belong to any one
+else,” said Bœhmer.
+
+“Impossible!” said the queen, firmly. “Gentlemen, I have amused myself
+with these jewels; to do more would be a fault.”
+
+“We will return to-morrow,” said Bœhmer.
+
+“No; I must pay sooner or later; and, besides, doubtless you want your
+money. You will get it soon.”
+
+“Yes, your majesty,” said the merchant, a man of business again.
+
+“Take the necklace back,” said the queen; “put it away immediately.”
+
+“Your majesty forgets that such a thing is equal to money itself.”
+
+“And that in a hundred years it will be worth as much as it is now,”
+said Jeanne.
+
+“Give me 1,500,000 francs,” said the queen, “and we shall see.”
+
+“Oh, if I had them!”
+
+MM. Bœhmer and Bossange took as long as possible to put back the
+necklace, but the queen did not speak.
+
+At last they said, “Your majesty refuses them?”
+
+“Yes, oh yes!” And they quitted the room.
+
+Marie Antoinette remained sitting, looking rather gloomy, and beating
+with her foot in an impatient manner; at last she said, “Countess, it
+seems the king will not return; we must defer our supplication till
+another time.”
+
+Jeanne bowed respectfully.
+
+“But I will not forget you,” added the queen.
+
+“She is regretting and desiring,” thought Jeanne, as she left; “and yet
+she is a queen.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL.
+TWO AMBITIONS THAT WISH TO PASS FOR TWO LOVES.
+
+
+When Jeanne returned to her pretty little house in the faubourg, it was
+still early; so she took a pen and wrote a few rapid lines, enclosed
+them in a perfumed envelope, and rang the bell. “Take this letter to
+Monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan,” said she.
+
+In five minutes the man returned.
+
+“Well,” said Madame de la Motte, impatiently, “why are you not gone?”
+
+“Just as I left the house, madame, his eminence came to the door. I
+told him I was about to go to his hotel with a letter from you; he read
+it, and is now waiting to come in.”
+
+“Let him enter,” said the countess.
+
+Jeanne had been thinking all the way home of the beautiful necklace,
+and wishing it was hers. It would be a fortune in itself.
+
+The cardinal entered. He also was full of desires and ambitions, which
+he wished to hide under the mask of love.
+
+“Ah, dear Jeanne,” said he, “you have really become so necessary to me
+that I have been gloomy all day knowing you to be so far off. But you
+have returned from Versailles?”
+
+“As you see, monseigneur.”
+
+“And content?”
+
+“Enchanted.”
+
+“The queen received you, then?”
+
+“I was introduced immediately on my arrival.”
+
+“You were fortunate. I suppose, from your triumphant air, that she
+spoke to you.”
+
+“I passed three hours in her majesty’s cabinet.”
+
+“Three hours! You are really an enchantress whom no one can resist. But
+perhaps you exaggerate. Three hours!” he repeated; “how many things a
+clever woman like you might say in three hours!”
+
+“Oh, I assure you, monseigneur, that I did not waste my time.”
+
+“I dare say that in the whole three hours you did not once think of
+me.”
+
+“Ungrateful man!”
+
+“Really!” cried the cardinal.
+
+“I did more than think of you; I spoke of you.”
+
+“Spoke of me! to whom?” asked the prelate, in a voice from which all
+his power over himself could not banish some emotion.
+
+“To whom should it be but to the queen?”
+
+“Ah, dear countess, tell me about it. I interest myself so much in all
+that concerns you, that I should like to hear the most minute details.”
+
+Jeanne smiled. She knew what interested the cardinal as well as he did
+himself. Then she related to him all the circumstances which had so
+fortunately made her, from a stranger, almost the friend and confidant
+of the queen.
+
+Scarcely had she finished, when the servant entered to announce supper.
+
+Jeanne invited the cardinal to accompany her.
+
+He gave her his arm, and they went in together.
+
+During supper, the cardinal continued to drink in long draughts of love
+and hope from the recitals which Jeanne kept making to him from time to
+time. He remarked also, with surprise, that, instead of making herself
+sought like a woman that knows that you have need of her, she had
+thrown off all her former pride, and only seemed anxious to please him.
+She did the honors of her table as if she had all her life mixed in the
+highest circles; there was neither awkwardness nor embarrassment.
+
+“Countess,” said he at length, “there are two women in you.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“One of yesterday, and another of to-day.”
+
+“And which does your excellency prefer?”
+
+“I do not know, but at least the one of this evening is a Circe—a
+something irresistible.”
+
+“And which you will not attempt to resist, I hope, prince as you are.”
+
+The cardinal imprinted a long kiss on her hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI.
+FACES UNDER THEIR MASKS.
+
+
+Two hours had elapsed, and the conversation still continued. The
+cardinal was now the slave, and Jeanne was triumphant. Two men often
+deceive each other as they shake hands, a man and a woman as they kiss;
+but here, each only deceived the other because they wished to be
+deceived: each had an end to gain, and for that end intimacy was
+necessary.
+
+The cardinal now did not demonstrate his impatience, but always managed
+to bring back the conversation to Versailles, and to the honors which
+awaited the queen’s new favorite.
+
+“She is generous,” said he, “and spares nothing towards those she
+loves. She has the rare talent of giving a little to every one, and a
+great deal to a few.”
+
+“You think, then, she is rich?”
+
+“She makes resources with a word or a smile; no minister, except
+perhaps Turgot, ever refused her anything.”
+
+“Well,” said Madame de la Motte, “I have seen her poorer than you
+think.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Are those rich who are obliged to impose privations on themselves?”
+
+“Privations! What do you mean, dear countess?”
+
+“I will tell you what I saw—I saw the queen suffer. Do you know what a
+woman’s desire is, my dear prince?”
+
+“No, countess; but I should like you to tell me.”
+
+“Well, the queen has a desire, which she cannot satisfy.”
+
+“For what?”
+
+“For a diamond necklace.”
+
+“Oh, I know what you mean—the diamonds of MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“Precisely.”
+
+“That is an old story, countess.”
+
+“Old or new, it is a real vexation for a queen not to be able to buy
+what was intended for a simple favorite. Fifteen more days added to the
+life of Louis XV., and Jeanne Vaubernier would have had what Marie
+Antoinette cannot buy.”
+
+“My dear countess, you mistake; the queen could have had it, and she
+refused it; the king offered them to her.”
+
+And he recounted the history of the ship of war.
+
+“Well,” said she, “after all, what does that prove?”
+
+“That she did not want them, it seems to me.”
+
+Jeanne shrugged her shoulders.
+
+“You know women and courts, and believe that? The queen wanted to do a
+popular act, and she has done it.”
+
+“Good!” said the cardinal; “that is how you believe in the royal
+virtues. Ah, skeptic, St. Thomas was credulous, compared to you!”
+
+“Skeptic or not, I can assure you of one thing—that the queen had no
+sooner refused it than she earnestly desired to have it.”
+
+“You imagine all this, my dear countess; for if the queen has one
+quality more than another, it is disinterestedness. She does not care
+for gold or jewels, and likes a simple flower as well as a diamond.”
+
+“I do not know that; I only know she wishes for this necklace.”
+
+“Prove it, countess.”
+
+“It is easy. I saw the necklace, and touched it.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“At Versailles, when the jewelers brought it for the last time to try
+and tempt the queen.”
+
+“And it is beautiful?”
+
+“Marvelous! I, who am a woman, think that one might lose sleep and
+appetite in wishing for it.”
+
+“Alas! why have I not a vessel to give the king?”
+
+“A vessel!”
+
+“Yes, for in return he would give me the necklace, and then you could
+eat and sleep in peace.”
+
+“You laugh.”
+
+“No, really.”
+
+“Well, I will tell you something that will astonish you. I would not
+have the necklace.”
+
+“So much the better, countess, for I could not give it to you.”
+
+“Neither you nor any one—that is what the queen feels.”
+
+“But I tell you that the king offered it to her.”
+
+“And I tell you that women like best those presents that come from
+people from whom they are not forced to accept them.”
+
+“I do not understand you.”
+
+“Well, never mind; and, after all, what does it matter to you, since
+you cannot have it?”
+
+“Oh, if I were king and you were queen, I would force you to have it.”
+
+“Well, without being king, oblige the queen to have it, and see if she
+is angry, as you suppose she would be.”
+
+The cardinal looked at her with wonder.
+
+“You are sure,” said he, “that you are not deceived, and that the queen
+wishes for it?”
+
+“Intensely. Listen, dear prince. Did you tell me, or where did I hear
+it, that you would like to be minister?”
+
+“You may have heard me say so, countess.”
+
+“Well, I will bet that the queen would make that man a minister who
+would place the necklace on her toilet within a week.”
+
+“Oh, countess!”
+
+“I say what I think. Would you rather I kept silent?”
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“However, it does not concern you, after all. It is absurd to suppose
+that you would throw away a million and a half on a royal caprice; that
+would be paying too dearly for the portfolio, which you ought to have
+for nothing, so think no more of what I have said.”
+
+The cardinal continued silent and thoughtful.
+
+“Ah, you despise me now!” continued she; “you think I judge the queen
+by myself. So I do; I thought she wanted these diamonds because she
+sighed as she looked at them, and because in her place I should have
+coveted them.”
+
+“You are an adorable woman, countess! You have, by a wonderful
+combination, softness of mind and strength of heart; sometimes you are
+so little of a woman that I am frightened; at others, so charmingly so,
+that I bless Heaven and you for it. And now we will talk of business no
+more.”
+
+“So be it,” thought Jeanne; “but I believe the bait has taken,
+nevertheless.”
+
+Indeed, although the cardinal said, “Speak of it no more,” in a few
+minutes he asked, “Does not Bœhmer live somewhere on the Quai de la
+Ferraille, near the Pont Neuf?”
+
+“Yes, you are right; I saw the name on the door as I drove along.”
+
+Jeanne was not mistaken—the fish had taken the hook; and the next
+morning the cardinal drove to M. Bœhmer. He intended to preserve his
+incognito, but they knew him, and called him “Monseigneur” directly.
+
+“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “if you know me, keep my secret from
+others.”
+
+“Monseigneur may rely upon us. What can we do for your eminence?”
+
+“I come to buy the necklace which you showed her majesty.”
+
+“Really we are in despair, but it is too late.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“It is sold.”
+
+“Impossible, as you offered it only yesterday to the queen.”
+
+“Who again refused it, so our other bargain held good.”
+
+“And with whom was this bargain?”
+
+“It is secret, monseigneur.”
+
+“Too many secrets, M. Bœhmer,” said he, rising; “but I should have
+thought that a French jeweler would prefer selling these beautiful
+stones in France. You prefer Portugal—very well.”
+
+“Monseigneur knows that!” cried the jeweler.
+
+“Well, is that astonishing?”
+
+“No one knew it but the queen.”
+
+“And if that were so?” said M. de Rohan without contradicting a
+supposition that flattered him.
+
+“Ah! that would change matters.”
+
+“Why so, sir?”
+
+“May I speak freely?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“The queen wishes for the necklace.”
+
+“You think so?”
+
+“I am sure of it.”
+
+“Then why did she not buy it?”
+
+“Because she had already refused the king, and she thought it would
+look capricious to buy it now.”
+
+“But the king wished her to have it.”
+
+“Yes, but he thanked her for refusing; therefore I think she wishes to
+have it without seeming to buy it.”
+
+“Well, you are wrong, sir.”
+
+“I am sorry for it, monseigneur. It would have been our only excuse for
+breaking our word to the Portuguese ambassador.”
+
+The cardinal reflected for a moment. “Then, sir, let us suppose that
+the queen wishes for your necklace.”
+
+“Oh! in that case, monseigneur, we would break through anything, that
+she should have it.”
+
+“What is the price?”
+
+“1,500,000 francs.”
+
+“How do you want payment?”
+
+“The Portuguese was to give 100,000 francs down, and I was to take the
+necklace myself to Lisbon, where the balance was to be paid.”
+
+“Well, the 100,000 francs down you shall have; that is reasonable. As
+for the rest——”
+
+“Your eminence wishes for time? With such a guarantee, we should not
+object; only credit implies a loss. The interest of our money must be
+considered.”
+
+“Well, call it 1,600,000 francs, and divide the time of payment into
+three periods, making a year.”
+
+“That would be a loss to us, sir.”
+
+“Oh! nonsense; if I paid you the whole amount to-morrow, you would
+hardly know what to do with it.”
+
+“There are two of us, monseigneur.”
+
+“Well, you will receive 500,000 francs every four months. That ought to
+satisfy you.”
+
+“Monseigneur forgets that these diamonds do not belong to us; if they
+did, we should be rich enough to wait; they belong to a dozen different
+creditors. We got some from Hamburg, some from Naples, one at Buenos
+Ayres, and one at Moscow. All these people wait for the sale of the
+necklace to be paid. The profit that we make is all that will be ours;
+and we have already had it two years on hand.”
+
+M. de Rohan interrupted him. “After all,” said he, “I have not seen the
+necklace.”
+
+“True, monseigneur; here it is.”
+
+“It is really superb,” cried the cardinal; “it is a bargain?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur. I must go to the ambassador and excuse myself.”
+
+“I did not think there was a Portuguese ambassador just now.”
+
+“M. de Souza arrived incognito.”
+
+“To buy this necklace?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“Oh! poor Souza, I know him well,” said he, laughing.
+
+“With whom am I to conclude the transaction?” asked M. Bœhmer.
+
+“With myself; you will see no one else. To-morrow I will bring the
+100,000 francs, and will sign the agreement. And as you are a man of
+secrets, M. Bœhmer, remember that you now possess an important one.”
+
+“Monseigneur, I feel it, and will merit your confidence and the
+queen’s.”
+
+M. de Rohan went away happy, like all men who ruin themselves in a
+transport of passion.
+
+The next day M. Bœhmer went to the hotel of the Portuguese ambassador.
+At the moment he knocked at the door, M. Beausire was going through
+some accounts with M. Ducorneau, while Don Manoël was taking over some
+new plan with the valet, his associate.
+
+M. Ducorneau was charmed to find an ambassador so free from national
+prejudice as to have formed his whole establishment of Frenchmen. Thus
+his conversation was full of praises of him.
+
+“The Souzas, you see,” replied Beausire, “are not of the old school of
+Portuguese. They are great travelers, very rich, who might be kings if
+they liked.”
+
+“And do they not?”
+
+“Why should they? With a certain number of millions, and the name of a
+prince, one is better than a king.”
+
+“Ah, Portugal will soon become great with such men at its head. But
+when is the presentation to take place? It is most anxiously looked
+for. The people around begin to talk of it, and to collect about the
+doors of the hotel, as though they were of glass, and they could see
+through.”
+
+“Do you mean the people of the neighborhood?” asked Beausire.
+
+“And others; for, the mission of M. de Souza being a secret one, you
+may be sure the police would soon interest themselves about it; and
+look,” continued Ducorneau, leading Beausire to the window, “do you see
+that man in the brown surtout, how he looks at the house?”
+
+“Yes, he does indeed. Who do you take him to be?”
+
+“Probably a spy of M. de Crosne. However, between ourselves, M. de
+Crosne is not equal to M. Sartines. Did you know him?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Ah! he would have found out all about you long ago, in spite of all
+your precautions.”
+
+A bell rang. “His excellency rings!” said Beausire, who was beginning
+to feel embarrassed by the conversation, and opening the door quickly,
+he nearly knocked down two of the clerks who were listening.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII.
+IN WHICH M. DUCORNEAU UNDERSTANDS NOTHING OF WHAT IS PASSING.
+
+
+Don Manoël was less yellow than usual, that is to say, he was more red.
+He had just been having a fierce altercation with his valet, and they
+were still disputing when Beausire entered.
+
+“Come, M. Beausire, and set us right,” said the valet.
+
+“About what?”
+
+“This 100,000 francs. It is the property of the association, is it
+not?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Ah, M. Beausire agrees with me.”
+
+“Wait,” said Don Manoël.
+
+“Well, then,” continued the valet, “the chest ought not to be kept
+close to the ambassador’s room.”
+
+“Why not?” asked Beausire.
+
+“M. Manoël ought to give us each a key to it.”
+
+“Not so,” said Manoël; “do you suspect me of wishing to rob the
+association? I may equally suspect you, when you ask for a key.”
+
+“But,” said the valet, “we have all equal rights.”
+
+“Really, monsieur, if you wish to make us all equal, we ought to have
+played the ambassador in turn. It would have been less plausible in the
+eyes of the public, but it would have satisfied you.”
+
+“And besides,” said Beausire, “M. Manoël has the incontestable
+privilege of the inventor.”
+
+“Oh,” replied the valet, “the thing once started, there are no more
+privileges. I do not speak for myself only; all our comrades think the
+same.”
+
+“They are wrong,” said both Manoël and Beausire.
+
+“I was wrong myself to take the opinion of M. Beausire; of course the
+secretary supports the ambassador.”
+
+“Monsieur,” replied Beausire, “you are a knave, whose ears I would
+slit, if it had not already been done too often. You insult me by
+saying that I have an understanding with Manoël.”
+
+“And me also,” said Manoël.
+
+“And I demand satisfaction,” added Beausire.
+
+“Oh, I am no fighter.”
+
+“So I see,” said Beausire, seizing hold of him.
+
+“Help! help!” cried the valet, attacked at once by both of them. But
+just then they heard a bell ring.
+
+“Leave him, and let him open the door,” said Manoël.
+
+“Our comrades shall hear all this,” replied the valet.
+
+“Tell them what you please; we will answer for our conduct.”
+
+“M. Bœhmer!” cried the porter from below.
+
+“Well, we shall have no more contests about the 100,000 francs,” said
+Manoël; “for they will disappear with M. Bœhmer.”
+
+M. Bœhmer entered, followed by Bossange. Both looked humble and
+embarrassed. Bœhmer began, and explained that political reasons would
+prevent their fulfilling their contract.
+
+Manoël cried out angrily; Beausire looked fierce.
+
+Manoël said “that the bargain was completed, and the money ready.”
+
+Bœhmer persisted.
+
+Manoël, always through Beausire, replied, “that his Government had been
+apprised of the conclusion of the bargain, and that it was an insult to
+his queen to break it off.”
+
+M. Bœhmer was very sorry, but it was impossible to act otherwise.
+
+Beausire, in Manoël’s name, refused to accept the retractation, and
+abused M. Bœhmer as a man without faith, and ended by saying, “You have
+found some one to pay more for it.”
+
+The jewelers colored.
+
+Beausire saw that he was right, and feigned to consult his ambassador.
+“Well,” said he at length, “if another will give you more for your
+diamonds, we would do the same, rather than have this affront offered
+to our queen. Will you take 50,000 francs more?”
+
+Bœhmer shook his head.
+
+“100,000, or even 150,000,” continued Beausire, willing to offer
+anything rather than lose the booty.
+
+The jewelers looked dazzled for a moment, consulted together, and then
+said, “No, monsieur, it is useless to tempt us. A will more powerful
+than our own compels us to decline. You understand, no doubt, that it
+is not we who refuse. We only obey the orders of one greater than any
+of us.”
+
+Beausire and Manoël saw that it was useless to say more, and tried to
+look and speak indifferently on the matter.
+
+Meanwhile the valet had been listening attentively, and just then
+making an unlucky movement, stumbled against the door. Beausire ran to
+the ante-chamber. “What on earth are you about?” cried he.
+
+“Monsieur, I bring the morning despatches.”
+
+“Good,” said Beausire, taking them from him, “now go.”
+
+They were letters from Portugal, generally very insignificant, but
+which, passing through their hands before going to Ducorneau, often
+gave them useful information about the affairs of the embassy.
+
+The jewelers, hearing the word despatches, rose to leave like men who
+had received their congé.
+
+“Well,” said Manoël, when they were gone, “we are completely beaten.
+Only 100,000 francs, a poor spoil; we shall have but 8,000 each.”
+
+“It is not worth the trouble. But it might be 50,000 each.”
+
+“Good,” replied Manoël, “but the valet will never leave us now he knows
+the affair has failed.”
+
+“Oh, I know how we will manage him. He will return immediately, and
+claim his share and that of his comrades, and we shall have the whole
+house on our hands. Well, I will call him first to a secret conference;
+then leave me to act.”
+
+“I think I understand,” said Manoël.
+
+Neither, however, would leave his friend alone with the chest while he
+went to call him.
+
+Manoël said “that his dignity as ambassador prevented him from taking
+such a step.”
+
+“You are not ambassador to him,” said Beausire; “however, I will call
+through the window.”
+
+The valet, who was just beginning a conversation with the porter,
+hearing himself called, came up.
+
+Beausire said to him, with a smiling air, “I suppose you were telling
+this business to the porter?”
+
+“Oh, no.”
+
+“Are you sure?”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“For if you were, you were committing a great folly, and have lost a
+great deal of money.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“Why, at present only we three know the secret, and could divide the
+100,000 francs between us, as they all now think we have given it to M.
+Bœhmer.”
+
+“Morbleu!” cried the valet, “it is true: 33,300 francs each.”
+
+“Then you accept?”
+
+“I should think so.”
+
+“I said you were a rogue,” said Beausire, in a thundering voice; “come,
+Don Manoël, help me to seize this man, and give him up to our
+associates.”
+
+“Pardon! pardon!” cried the unfortunate, “I did but jest.”
+
+“Shut him up until we can devise his punishment.”
+
+The man began to cry out.
+
+“Take care,” said Beausire, “that Ducorneau does not hear us.”
+
+“If you do not leave me alone,” said the valet, “I will denounce you
+all.”
+
+“And I will strangle you,” said Don Manoël, trying to push him into a
+neighboring closet.
+
+“Send away Ducorneau somewhere, Beausire, while I finish this fellow.”
+
+When he had locked him up, he returned to the room. Beausire was not
+there; Don Manoël felt tempted. He was alone, and Beausire might be
+some little time; he could open the chest, take out all the bank-notes,
+and be off in two minutes. He ran to the room where it was: the door
+was locked. “Ah,” thought he, “Beausire distrusted me, and locked the
+door before he went.” He forced back the lock with his sword, and then
+uttered a terrible cry. The chest was opened and empty. Beausire had
+got, as we know, a second key; he had forestalled Manoël.
+
+Manoël ran down like a madman; the porter was singing at the door—he
+asked if Beausire had passed.
+
+“Yes, some ten minutes ago.”
+
+Manoël became furious, summoned them all, and ran to release the
+unfortunate valet. But when he told his story, Manoël was accused of
+being an accomplice of Beausire, and they all turned against him.
+
+M. Ducorneau felt ready to faint, when he entered and saw the men
+preparing to hang M. de Souza. “Hang M. de Souza!” cried he. “It is
+high treason.”
+
+At last they threw him into a cellar, fearing his cries would arouse
+the neighborhood.
+
+At that moment loud knocks at the door disturbed them,—they looked at
+each other in dismay. The knocks were repeated, and some one cried,
+“Open in the name of the Portuguese ambassador.”
+
+On hearing this, each made his escape in terror, as he best could,
+scrambling over walls and roofs. The true ambassador could only enter
+by the help of the police.
+
+They found and arrested M. Ducorneau, who slept that night in the
+Châtelet.
+
+Thus ended the adventure of the sham embassy from the Portugal.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII.
+ILLUSIONS AND REALITIES.
+
+
+Beausire, on leaving the house, ran as fast as possible down the Rue
+Coquillière, then into the Rue St. Honoré, and took everywhere the most
+intricate and improbable turnings he could think of, and continued this
+until he became quite exhausted. Then, thinking himself tolerably safe,
+he sat down in the corn market, on a sack, to recover his breath. “Ah!”
+thought he, “now I have made my fortune; I will be an honest man for
+the future, and I will make Oliva an honest woman. She is beautiful,
+and she will not mind leading a retired life with me in some province,
+where we shall live like lords. She is very good; she has but two
+faults, idleness and pride, and as I shall satisfy her on both these
+points, she will be perfect.” He then began to reflect on what he
+should do next. They would seek him, of course, and most likely divide
+into different parties, and some would probably go first to his own
+house. Here lay his great difficulty, for there they would find Oliva,
+and they might ill-treat her. They might even take her as a hostage,
+speculating on his love for her. What should he do? Love carried the
+day; he ran off again like lightning, took a coach, and drove to the
+Pont Neuf. He then looked cautiously down the Rue Dauphine to
+reconnoiter, and he saw two men, who seemed also looking anxiously down
+the street. He thought they were police spies, but that was nothing
+uncommon in that part of the town; so, bending his back, and walking
+lamely, for disguise, he went on till he nearly reached his house.
+Suddenly he thought he saw the coat of a gendarme in the courtyard;
+then he saw one at the window of Oliva’s room. He felt ready to drop,
+but he thought his best plan was to walk quietly on; he had that
+courage, and passed the house. Heavens! what a sight! the yard was full
+of soldiers, and among them a police commissioner. Beausire’s rapid
+glance showed him what he thought disappointed faces. He thought that
+M. de Crosne had somehow begun to suspect him, and, sending to take
+him, had found only Oliva.
+
+“I cannot help her now,” thought he; “I should only lose my money and
+destroy us both. No, let me place that in safety, and then I will see
+what can be done.” He therefore ran off again, taking his way almost
+mechanically towards the Luxembourg; but as he turned the corner of the
+Rue St. Germain, he was almost knocked down by a handsome carriage
+which was driving towards the Rue Dauphine, and, raising his head to
+swear at the coachman, he thought he saw Oliva inside, talking with
+much animation to a handsome man who sat by her. He gave a cry of
+surprise, and would have run after it, but he could not again encounter
+the Rue Dauphine. He felt bewildered, for he had before settled that
+Oliva had been arrested in her own house, and he fancied his brain must
+be turning when he believed he saw her in the carriage. But he started
+off again and took refuge in a small cabaret at the Luxembourg, where
+the hostess was an old friend. There he gradually began to recover
+again his courage and hope. He thought the police would not find him,
+and that his money was safe. He remembered also that Oliva had
+committed no crime, and that the time was passed when people were kept
+prisoners for nothing. He also thought that his money would soon obtain
+her release, even if she were sent to prison, and he would then set off
+with her for Switzerland. Such were his dreams and projects as he sat
+sipping his wine.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV.
+OLIVA BEGINS TO ASK WHAT THEY WANT OF HER.
+
+
+If M. Beausire had trusted to his eyesight, which was excellent,
+instead of trusting his imagination, he would have spared himself much
+regret and many mistakes. It was, in fact, Oliva who sat in the
+carriage by the side of a man, whom he would also have recognized if he
+had looked a little longer. She had gone that morning, as usual, to
+take a walk in the gardens of the Luxembourg, where she had met the
+strange friend whose acquaintance she had made the day of the ball at
+the Opera.
+
+It was just as she was about to return that he appeared before her, and
+said, “Where are you going?”
+
+“Home, monsieur.”
+
+“Just what the people want who are there waiting for you.”
+
+“Waiting for me? No one is there for me.”
+
+“Oh, yes, a dozen visitors at least.”
+
+“A whole regiment, perhaps?” said Oliva, laughing.
+
+“Perhaps, had it been possible to send a whole regiment, they would
+have done so.”
+
+“You astonish me!”
+
+“You would be far more astonished if I let you go.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because you would be arrested.”
+
+“I! arrested?”
+
+“Assuredly. The twelve gentlemen who wait for you are sent by M. de
+Crosne.”
+
+Oliva trembled. Some people are always fearful on certain points. But
+she said:
+
+“I have done nothing; why should they arrest me?”
+
+“For some intrigue, perhaps.”
+
+“I have none.”
+
+“But you have had.”
+
+“Oh, perhaps.”
+
+“Well, perhaps they are wrong to wish to arrest you, but the fact is
+that they do desire to do so. Will you still go home?”
+
+“You deceive me,” said Oliva; “if you know anything, tell me at once.
+Is it not Beausire they want?”
+
+“Perhaps; he may have a conscience less clear than yours.”
+
+“Poor fellow!”
+
+“Pity him, if you like; but if he is taken, there is no need for you to
+be taken too.”
+
+“What interest have you in protecting me?” asked she. “It is not
+natural for a man like you.”
+
+“I would not lose time if I were you; they are very likely to seek you
+here, finding you do not return.”
+
+“How should they know I am here?”
+
+“Are you not always here? My carriage is close by, if you will come
+with me. But I see you doubt still.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, we will commit an imprudence to convince you. We will drive past
+your house, and when you have seen these gentlemen there, I think you
+will better appreciate my good offices.”
+
+He led her to the carriage, and drove to the Rue Dauphine, at the
+corner of which they passed Beausire. Had Oliva seen him, doubtless she
+would have abandoned everything to fly with him and share his fate,
+whatever it might be; but Cagliostro, who did see him, took care to
+engage her attention by showing her the crowd, which was already in
+sight, and which was waiting to see what the police would do.
+
+When Oliva could distinguish the soldiers who filled her house, she
+threw herself into the arms of her protector in despair. “Save me! save
+me!” she cried.
+
+He pressed her hand. “I promise you.”
+
+“But they will find me out anywhere.”
+
+“Not where I shall take you; they will not seek you at my house.”
+
+“Oh!” cried she, frightened, “am I to go home with you?”
+
+“You are foolish,” said he; “I am not your lover, and do not wish to
+become so. If you prefer a prison, you are free to choose.”
+
+“No,” replied she, “I trust myself to you, take me where you please.”
+
+He conducted her to the Rue Neuve St. Gilles, into a small room on the
+second floor.
+
+“How triste!” said she; “here, without liberty, and without even a
+garden to walk in.”
+
+“You are right,” said he; “besides, my people would see you here at
+last.”
+
+“And would betray me, perhaps.”
+
+“No fear of that. But I will look out for another abode for you; I do
+not mean you to remain here.”
+
+Oliva was consoled; besides, she found amusing books and easy-chairs.
+
+He left her, saying, “If you want me, ring; I will come directly if I
+am at home.”
+
+“Ah!” cried she, “get me some news of Beausire.”
+
+“Before everything.” Then, as he went down, he said to himself, “It
+will be a profanation to lodge her in that house in the Rue St. Claude;
+but it is important that no one should see her, and there no one will.
+So I will extinguish the last spark of my old light.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV.
+THE DESERTED HOUSE.
+
+
+When Cagliostro arrived at the deserted house in the Rue St. Claude,
+with which our readers are already acquainted, it was getting dark, and
+but few people were to be seen in the streets.
+
+Cagliostro drew a key from his pocket, and applied it to the lock; but
+the door was swollen with the damp, and stiff with age, and it required
+all his strength to open it. The courtyard was overgrown with moss, the
+steps crumbling away; all looked desolate and deserted. He entered the
+hall, and lighted a lamp which he had brought with him. He felt a
+strange agitation as he approached the door which he had so often
+entered to visit Lorenza. A slight noise made his heart beat quickly;
+he turned, and saw an adder gliding down the staircase; it disappeared
+in a hole near the bottom.
+
+He entered the room; it was empty, but in the grate still lay some
+ashes, the remains of the furniture which had adorned it, and which he
+had burned there. Among it several pieces of gold and silver still
+sparkled. As he turned, he saw something glittering on the floor; he
+picked it up. It was one of those silver arrows with which the Italian
+women were in the habit of confining their hair. He pressed it to his
+lips, and a tear stood in his eyes as he murmured, “Lorenza!” It was
+but for a moment; then he opened the window and threw it out, saying to
+himself, “Adieu! this last souvenir, which would soften me. This house
+is about to be profaned—another woman will ascend the staircase, and
+perhaps even into this room, where Lorenza’s last sigh still vibrates;
+but to serve my end the sacrifice shall be made. I must, however, have
+some alterations made.”
+
+He then wrote on his tablets the following words: “To M. Lenoir, my
+architect,—Clean out the court and vestibule, restore the coach-house
+and stable, and demolish the interior of the pavilion. To be done in
+eight days.”
+
+“Now, let us see,” said he to himself, “if we can perfectly distinguish
+the window of the countess. It is infallible,” said he, after looking
+out; “the women must see each other.”
+
+The next day fifty workmen had invaded the house and commenced the
+projected alterations, which were completed within the given time. Some
+of the passers-by saw a large rat hung up by the tail.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI.
+JEANNE THE PROTECTRESS.
+
+
+M. le Cardinal de Rohan received, two days after his visit to M.
+Bœhmer, the following note:
+
+“His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan knows, doubtless, where he will sup
+this evening.”
+
+“From the little countess,” said he; “I will go.”
+
+Among the footmen given to her by the cardinal, Jeanne had
+distinguished one, black-haired and dark-eyed, and, as she thought,
+active and intelligent. She set this man to watch the cardinal, and
+learned from him that he had been twice to M. Bœhmer’s. Therefore she
+concluded the necklace was bought, and yet he had not communicated it
+to her. She frowned at the thought, and wrote the note which we have
+seen.
+
+M. de Rohan sent before him a basket of Tokay and other rarities, just
+as if he was going to sup with La Guimard or Mademoiselle Dangeville.
+Jeanne determined not to use any of it at supper.
+
+“When they were alone, she said to him:
+
+“Really, monseigneur, one thing afflicts me.”
+
+“What, countess?”
+
+“To see, not only that you no longer love me, but that you never have
+loved me.”
+
+“Oh, countess! how can you say so?”
+
+“Do not make excuses, monseigneur; it would be lost time.”
+
+“Oh, countess!”
+
+“Do not be uneasy; I am quite indifferent about it now.”
+
+“Whether I love you or not?”
+
+“Yes, because I do not love you.”
+
+“That is not flattering.”
+
+“Indeed, we are not exchanging compliments, but facts. We have never
+loved each other.”
+
+“Oh, as for myself, I cannot allow that; I have a great affection for
+you, countess.”
+
+“Come, monseigneur, let us esteem each other enough to speak the truth,
+and that is, that there is between us a much stronger bond than
+love—that is, interest.”
+
+“Oh, countess, what a shame!”
+
+“Monseigneur, if you are ashamed, I am not.”
+
+“Well, countess, supposing ourselves interested, how can we serve each
+other?”
+
+“First, monseigneur, I wish to ask you a question. Why have you failed
+in confidence towards me?”
+
+“I! How so, pray?”
+
+“Will you deny that, after skilfully drawing from me the details—which,
+I confess, I was not unwilling to give you—concerning the desire of a
+certain great lady for a certain thing, you have taken means to gratify
+that desire without telling me?”
+
+“Countess, you are a real enigma, a sphinx.”
+
+“Oh, no enigma, cardinal; I speak of the queen, and of the diamonds
+which you bought yesterday of MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“Countess!” cried he, growing pale.
+
+“Oh, do not look so frightened,” continued she. “Did you not conclude
+your bargain yesterday?”
+
+He did not speak, but looked uncomfortable, and half angry. She took
+his hand.
+
+“Pardon, prince,” she said, “but I wished to show you your mistake
+about me; you believe me foolish and spiteful.”
+
+“Oh, countess, now I understand you perfectly. I expected to find you a
+pretty woman and a clever one, but you are better than this. Listen to
+me: you have, you say, been willing to become my friend without loving
+me?”
+
+“I repeat it,” replied she.
+
+“Then you had some object?”
+
+“Assuredly. Do you wish me to tell it to you?”
+
+“No; I understand it. You wished to make my fortune; that once done,
+you are sure that my first care would be for yours. Am I right?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur; but I have not pursued my plans with any
+repugnance—the road has been a pleasant one.”
+
+“You are an amiable woman, countess, and it is a pleasure to discuss
+business with you. You have guessed rightly that I have a respectful
+attachment towards a certain person.”
+
+“I saw it at the Opera ball,” she said.
+
+“I know well that this affection will never be returned.”
+
+“Oh, a queen is only a woman, and you are surely equal to Cardinal
+Mazarin.”
+
+“He was a very handsome man,” said M. de Rohan, laughing.
+
+“And an excellent minister,” said Jeanne.
+
+“Countess, it is superfluous trouble to talk to you; you guess and know
+everything. Yes, I do wish to become prime minister. Everything
+entitles me to it—my birth, my knowledge of business, my standing with
+foreign courts, and the affection which is felt for me by the French
+people.”
+
+“There is but one obstacle,” said Jeanne.
+
+“An antipathy.”
+
+“Yes, of the queen’s; and the king always ends by liking what she
+likes, and hating what she hates.”
+
+“And she hates me? Be frank, countess.”
+
+“Well, monseigneur, she does not love you.”
+
+“Then I am lost! Of what use is the necklace?”
+
+“You deceive yourself, prince.”
+
+“It is bought.”
+
+“At least, it will show the queen that you love her. You know,
+monseigneur, we have agreed to call things by their right names.”
+
+“Then you say you do not despair of seeing me one day prime minister?”
+
+“I am sure of it.”
+
+“And what are your own ambitions?”
+
+“I will tell you, prince, when you are in a position to satisfy them.”
+
+“We will hope for that day.”
+
+“Now let us sup.”
+
+“I am not hungry.”
+
+“Then let us talk.”
+
+“I have nothing more to say.”
+
+“Then go.”
+
+“How! is that what you call our alliance? Do you send me away?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“Well, countess, I will not deceive myself again about you.” Before
+leaving, however, he turned, and said, “What must I do now, countess?”
+
+“Nothing; wait for me to act. I will go to Versailles.”
+
+“When?”
+
+“To-morrow.”
+
+“And when shall I hear from you?”
+
+“Immediately.”
+
+“Then I abandon myself to your protection; au revoir, countess.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII.
+JEANNE PROTECTED.
+
+
+Mistress of such a secret, rich in such a future, and supported by such
+a friend, Jeanne felt herself strong against the world. To appear at
+court, no longer as a suppliant, as the poor mendicant, drawn from
+poverty by Madame de Boulainvilliers, but as a Valois, with an income
+of 100,000 francs; to be called the favorite of the queen, and
+consequently governing the king and state through her.—Such was the
+panorama that floated before the eyes of Jeanne.
+
+She went to Versailles. She had no audience promised, but she trusted
+to her good fortune, and as the queen had received her so well before,
+all the officials were anxious to serve her. Therefore, one of the
+doorkeepers said aloud, as the queen came from chapel, to one of her
+gentlemen, “Monsieur, what am I to do? Here is Madame la Comtesse de la
+Motte Valois asking admission, and she has no letter of audience.”
+
+The queen heard and turned round. “Did you say Madame de la Motte
+Valois was here?” she asked.
+
+“Your majesty, the doorkeeper says so.”
+
+“I will receive her; bring her to the bath-room.”
+
+The man told Jeanne what he had done. She drew out her purse; but he
+said, “Will Madame la Comtesse allow this debt to accumulate? Some day
+she can pay me with interest.”
+
+“You are right, my friend; I thank you.”
+
+Marie Antoinette looked serious when Jeanne entered.
+
+“She supposes I am come again to beg,” thought Jeanne.
+
+“Madame,” said the queen, “I have not yet had an opportunity to speak
+to the king.”
+
+“Oh, your majesty has already done too much for me; I ask nothing more.
+I came——” she hesitated.
+
+“Is it something urgent, that you did not wait to ask for an audience?”
+
+“Urgent! Yes, madame; but not for myself.”
+
+“For me, then?” and the queen conducted her into the bath-room, where
+her women were waiting for her. Once in the bath, she sent them away.
+
+“Now, countess.”
+
+“Madame,” said Jeanne, “I am much embarrassed.”
+
+“Why so?”
+
+“Your majesty knows the kindness I have received from M. de Rohan.”
+
+The queen frowned. “Well, madame?”
+
+“Yesterday his eminence came to see me, and spoke to me as usual of
+your majesty’s goodness and kindness.”
+
+“What does he want?”
+
+“I expressed to him all my sense of your generosity, which constantly
+empties your purse, and told him that I felt almost guilty in thinking
+of your majesty’s gift to myself, and remembering that were it not for
+such liberality your majesty need not have been forced to deny yourself
+the beautiful necklace which became you so well. When I related this
+circumstance to M. de Rohan, I saw him grow pale and the tears came
+into his eyes. Indeed, madame, his fine face, full of admiration for,
+and emotion caused by, your noble conduct, is ever before my eyes.”
+
+“Well, countess, if he has impressed you so deeply, I advise you not to
+let him see it. M. de Rohan is a worldly prelate, and gathers the sheep
+as much for himself as for his Lord.”
+
+“Oh, madame!”
+
+“It is not I who say it: that is his reputation; he almost glories in
+it; his trophies are numerous, and some of them have made no little
+scandal.”
+
+“Well, madame, I am sure he thought then of no one but your majesty.”
+
+The queen laughed.
+
+“Your majesty’s modesty will not allow you to listen to praises.”
+
+“Not from the cardinal—I suspect them all.”
+
+“It is not my part,” replied Jeanne, respectfully, “to defend any one
+who has incurred your majesty’s displeasure.”
+
+“M. de Rohan has offended me, but I am a queen and a Christian, and do
+not wish to dwell on offenses.”
+
+Jeanne was silent.
+
+“You think differently to me on this subject?”
+
+“Completely, your majesty.”
+
+“You would not speak so if you knew what he has done against me; but as
+you have so great a friendship for him, I will not attack him again
+before you. You have not, then, forgotten the diamonds?”
+
+“Oh, madame, I have thought of them night and day. They will look so
+well on your majesty.”
+
+“What do you mean? They are sold to the Portuguese ambassador.”
+
+Jeanne shook her head.
+
+“Not sold!” cried the queen.
+
+“Yes, madame, but to M. de Rohan.”
+
+“Oh,” said the queen, becoming suddenly cold again.
+
+“Oh! your majesty,” cried Jeanne; “do not be ungenerous towards him. It
+was the impulse of a generous heart that your majesty should understand
+and sympathize with. When he heard my account he cried,—‘What! the
+queen refuse herself such a thing, and perhaps see it one day worn by
+one of her subjects!’ And when I told him that it was bought for the
+Queen of Portugal, he was more indignant than ever. He cried, ‘It is no
+longer a simple question of pleasure for the queen, but of the dignity
+of the French crown. I know the spirit of foreign courts; they will
+laugh at our queen because they happen to have more money to spare: and
+I will never suffer this.’ And he left me abruptly. An hour after I
+heard that he had bought the necklace.”
+
+“For 1,500,000 francs?”
+
+“1,600,000, madame.”
+
+“With what intention?”
+
+“That at least if your majesty would not have them no one else should.”
+
+“Are you sure it is not for some mistress?”
+
+“I am sure he would rather break it to pieces than see it on any other
+neck than your own.”
+
+Marie Antoinette reflected, and her expressive countenance showed
+clearly every thought that passed through her mind. At last she said:
+
+“What M. de Rohan has done is a noble trait of a delicate devotion, and
+you will thank him for me.”
+
+“Oh yes, madame.”
+
+“You will add, that he has proved to me his friendship, and that I
+accept it, but not his gift.”
+
+“But, madame——”
+
+“No, but as a loan. He has advanced his money and his credit to please
+me, and I will repay him. Bœhmer has asked for money down?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“How much?”
+
+“100,000 francs.”
+
+“That is my quarter’s allowance from the king. I received it this
+morning; it is in advance, but still I have it.” She rang the bell. Her
+woman came and wrapped her in warm sheets, and then she dressed
+herself. Once more alone in her bedroom with Jeanne, she said:
+
+“Open that drawer, and you will see a portfolio.”
+
+“Here it is, madame.”
+
+“It holds the 100,000 francs—count them.”
+
+Jeanne obeyed.
+
+“Take them to the cardinal with my thanks; each quarter I will pay the
+same. In this manner I shall have the necklace which pleased me so
+much, and if it embarrasses me to pay it, at least it will not hurt the
+king; and I shall have gained the knowledge that I have a friend who
+has guessed my wishes.” Then, after a pause, “You will add, countess,
+that M. de Rohan will be welcome at Versailles to receive my thanks.”
+
+Jeanne went away full of joy and delight.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII.
+THE QUEEN’S PORTFOLIO.
+
+
+The cardinal was at home when Madame de la Motte came to his hotel. She
+had herself announced, and was immediately admitted.
+
+“You come from Versailles?” said he.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Well, monseigneur, what do you expect?”
+
+“Ah, countess, you say that with an air that frightens me.”
+
+“You wished me to see the queen, and I have seen her; and that I should
+speak to her of you whom she has always so much disliked.”
+
+“And you did?”
+
+“Yes, and her majesty listened.”
+
+“Say no more, countess, I see she will not overcome her repugnance.”
+
+“Oh! as to that, I spoke of the necklace.”
+
+“And did you dare to say that I wished——”
+
+“To buy it for her? Yes.”
+
+“Oh, countess, you are sublime; and she listened?”
+
+“Yes, but she refused.”
+
+“Oh, I am lost.”
+
+“Refused to accept it as a gift, but not as a loan.”
+
+“I lend to the queen! countess, it is impossible.”
+
+“It is more than giving, is it not?”
+
+“A thousand times.”
+
+“So I thought.”
+
+The cardinal rose and came towards her. “Do not deceive me,” he said.
+
+“One does not play with the affections of a man like you, monseigneur.”
+
+“Then it is true?”
+
+“The exact truth.”
+
+“I have a secret with the queen!” and he pressed Jeanne’s hand.
+
+“I like that clasp of the hand,” she said, “it is like one man to
+another.”
+
+“It is that of a happy man to a protecting angel.”
+
+“Monseigneur, do not exaggerate.”
+
+“Oh, my joy! my gratitude! impossible.”
+
+“But lending a million and a half to the queen is not all you wish for?
+Buckingham would have asked for more.”
+
+“Buckingham believed what I dare not even dream of.”
+
+“The queen sends you word that she will see you with pleasure at
+Versailles.”
+
+The cardinal looked as pale as a youth who gives his first kiss of
+love.
+
+“Ah,” thought she, “it is still more serious than I imagined. I can get
+what I please from him, for he acts really not from ambition but from
+love.”
+
+He quickly recovered himself, however: “My friend,” said he, “how does
+the queen mean to act about this loan she talks of?”
+
+“Ah, you think she has no money. But she will pay you as she would have
+paid Bœhmer. Only if she had paid him all Paris must have known it,
+which she would not have liked, after the credit she has had for her
+refusal of it. You are a cashier for her, and a solvent one if she
+becomes embarrassed. She is happy and she pays. Ask no more.”
+
+“She pays?”
+
+“Yes, she knows you have debts; and when I told her you had advanced
+100,000 francs——”
+
+“You told her?”
+
+“Yes; why not?” Jeanne put her hand in her pocket, and drew out the
+portfolio. “The queen sends you this with thanks; it is all right, for
+I have counted it.”
+
+“Who cares for that? But the portfolio?”
+
+“Well, it is not handsome.”
+
+“It pleases me, nevertheless.”
+
+“You have good taste.”
+
+“Ah, you quiz me.”
+
+“You have the same taste as the queen, at all events.”
+
+“Then it was hers?”
+
+“Do you wish for it?”
+
+“I cannot deprive you of it.”
+
+“Take it.”
+
+“Oh, countess, you are a precious friend; but while you have worked for
+me, I have not forgotten you.”
+
+Jeanne looked surprised.
+
+“Yes,” said he, “my banker came to propose to me some plan of a marsh
+to drain, which must be profitable. I took two hundred shares, and
+fifty of them are for you.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur!”
+
+“He soon returned, he had realized already on them cent. per cent. He
+gave me 100,000 francs, and here is your share, dear countess;” and
+from the pocket-book she had just given him he slid 25,000 francs into
+her hand.
+
+“Thanks, monseigneur. What gratifies me most is, that you thought of
+me.”
+
+“I shall ever do so,” said he, kissing her hand.
+
+“And I of you, at Versailles.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIX.
+IN WHICH WE FIND DR. LOUIS.
+
+
+Perhaps our readers, remembering in what a position we left M. de
+Charny, will not dislike to return with us to that little ante-chamber
+at Versailles into which this brave seaman, who feared neither men nor
+elements, had fled, lest he should show his weakness to the queen. Once
+arrived there, he felt it impossible to go further; he stretched out
+his arms, and was only saved from falling to the ground by the aid of
+those around. He then fainted, and was totally ignorant that the queen
+had seen him, and would have run to his assistance had Andrée not
+prevented her, more even from a feeling of jealousy than from regard
+for appearances. Immediately after the king entered, and seeing a man
+lying supported by two guards, who, unaccustomed to see men faint,
+scarcely knew what to do, advanced, saying, “Some one is ill here.”
+
+At his voice the men started and let their burden fall.
+
+“Oh!” cried the king, “it is M. de Charny. Place him on this couch,
+gentlemen.” Then they brought him restoratives, and sent for a doctor.
+
+The king waited to hear the result. The doctor’s first care was to open
+the waistcoat and shirt of the young man to give him air, and then he
+saw the wound.
+
+“A wound!” cried the king.
+
+“Yes,” said M. de Charny, faintly, “an old wound, which has reopened;”
+and he pressed the hand of the doctor to make him understand.
+
+But this was not a court doctor, who understands everything; so,
+willing to show his knowledge, “Old, sir! this wound is not twenty-four
+hours old.”
+
+Charny raised himself at this, and said, “Do you teach me, sir, when I
+received my wound?” Then, turning round, he cried, “The king!” and
+hastened to button his waistcoat.
+
+“Yes, M. de Charny, who fortunately arrived in time to procure you
+assistance.”
+
+“A mere scratch, sire,” stammered Charny, “an old wound.”
+
+“Old or new,” replied Louis, “it has shown me the blood of a brave
+man.”
+
+“Whom a couple of hours in bed will quite restore,” continued Charny,
+trying to rise; but his strength failed him, his head swam, and he sank
+back again.
+
+“He is very ill,” said the king.
+
+“Yes, sire,” said the doctor, with importance, “but I can cure him.”
+
+The king understood well that M. de Charny wished to hide some secret
+from him, and determined to respect it. “I do not wish,” said he, “that
+M. de Charny should run the risk of being moved; we will take care of
+him here. Let M. de Suffren be called, this gentleman recompensed, and
+my own physician, Dr. Louis, be sent for.”
+
+While one officer went to execute these orders, two others carried
+Charny into a room at the end of the gallery. Dr. Louis and M. de
+Suffren soon arrived. The latter understood nothing of his nephew’s
+illness. “It is strange,” said he; “do you know, doctor, I never knew
+my nephew ill before.”
+
+“That proves nothing,” replied the doctor.
+
+“The air of Versailles must be bad for him.”
+
+“It is his wound,” said one of the officers.
+
+“His wound!” cried M. de Suffren; “he never was wounded in his life.”
+
+“Oh, excuse me,” said the officer, opening the shirt, covered with
+blood, “but I thought——”
+
+“Well,” said the doctor, who began to see the state of the case, “do
+not let us lose time disputing over the cause, but see what can be done
+to cure him.”
+
+“Is it dangerous, doctor?” asked M. de Suffren, with anxiety.
+
+“Not at all,” replied he.
+
+M. de Suffren took his leave, and left Charny with the doctor. Fever
+commenced, and before long he was delirious. Three hours after the
+doctor called a servant, and told him to take Charny in his arms, who
+uttered doleful cries. “Roll the sheet over his head,” said the doctor.
+
+“But,” said the man, “he struggles so much that I must ask assistance
+from one of the guards.”
+
+“Are you afraid of a sick man, sir? If he is too heavy for you, you are
+not strong enough for me. I must send you back to Auvergne.” This
+threat had its effect. Charny, crying, fighting, and gesticulating, was
+carried by the man through the guards.
+
+Some of the officers questioned the doctor.
+
+“Oh! gentlemen,” said he, “this gallery is too far off for me; I must
+have him in my own rooms.”
+
+“But I assure you, doctor, we would all have looked after him here. We
+all love M. de Suffren.”
+
+“Oh yes, I know your sort of care! The sick man is thirsty, and you
+give him something to drink, and kill him.”
+
+“Now there remains but one danger,” said the doctor to himself, as he
+followed Charny, “that the king should want to visit him, and if he
+hear him—— Diable! I must speak to the queen.” The good doctor,
+therefore, having bathed the head and face of his patient with cold
+water, and seen him safe in bed, went out and locked the door on him,
+leaving his servant to look after him. He went towards the queen’s
+apartments, and met Madame de Misery, who had just been despatched to
+ask after the patient.
+
+“Come with me,” he said.
+
+“But, doctor, the queen waits for intelligence.”
+
+“I am going to her.”
+
+“The queen wishes——”
+
+“The queen shall know all she wishes. I will take care of that.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER L.
+ÆGRI SOMNIA.
+
+
+The queen was expecting the return of Madame de Misery. The doctor
+entered with his accustomed familiarity. “Madame,” he said, “the
+patient in whom your majesty and the king are interested is as well as
+any one can be who has a fever.”
+
+“Is it a slight wound?” asked the queen.
+
+“Slight or not, he is in a fever.”
+
+“Poor fellow!—a bad fever?”
+
+“Terrible!”
+
+“You frighten me; dear doctor; you, who are generally so cheering.
+Besides, you look about you, as though you had a secret to tell.”
+
+“So I have.”
+
+“About the fever?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“To tell me?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Speak, then, for I am curious.”
+
+“I wait for you to question me, madame.”
+
+“Well, how does the fever go on?”
+
+“No; ask me why I have taken him away from the guard’s gallery, where
+the king left him, to my own room.”
+
+“Well, I ask. Indeed it is strange.”
+
+“Then, madame, I did so, because it is not an ordinary fever.”
+
+The queen looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
+
+“M. de Charny is delirious already, and in his delirium he says a
+number of things rather delicate for the gentlemen of the guard to
+hear.”
+
+“Doctor!”
+
+“Oh, madame! you should not question me, if you do not wish to hear my
+answers.”
+
+“Well, then, dear doctor, is he an atheist? Does he blaspheme?”
+
+“Oh, no! he is on the contrary a devotee.”
+
+The queen assumed a look of sang-froid. “M. de Charny,” she said,
+“interests me. He is the nephew of M. de Suffren, and has besides
+rendered me personal services. I wish to be a friend to him. Tell me,
+therefore, the exact truth.”
+
+“But I cannot tell you, madame. If your majesty wishes to know, the
+only way is to hear him yourself.”
+
+“But if he says such strange things?”
+
+“Things which your majesty ought to hear.”
+
+“But,” said the queen, “I cannot move a step here, without some
+charitable spy watching me.”
+
+“I will answer for your security. Come through my private way, and I
+will lock the door after us.”
+
+“I trust to you, then, dear doctor.” And she followed him, burning with
+curiosity.
+
+When they reached the second door the doctor put his ear to the
+keyhole.
+
+“Is your patient in there, doctor?”
+
+“No, madame, or you would have heard him at the end of the corridor.
+Even here you can hear his voice.”
+
+“He groans.”
+
+“No, he speaks loud and distinct.”
+
+“But I cannot go in to him.”
+
+“I do not mean you to do so. I only wish you to listen in the adjoining
+room, where you will hear without being seen.” They went on, and the
+doctor entered the sick-room alone.
+
+Charny, still dressed in his uniform, was making fruitless efforts to
+rise, and was repeating to himself his interview with the German lady
+in the coach. “German!” he cried—“German! Queen of France!”
+
+“Do you hear, madame?”
+
+“It is frightful,” continued Charny, “to love an angel, a woman—to love
+her madly—to be willing to give your life for her; and when you come
+near her, to find her only a queen—of velvet and of gold, of metal and
+of silk, and no heart.”
+
+“Oh! oh!” cried the doctor again.
+
+“I love a married woman!” Charny went on, “and with that wild love
+which, makes me forget everything else. Well, I will say to her, there
+remain for us still some happy days on this earth. Come, my beloved,
+and we will live the life of the blessed, if we love each other.
+Afterwards there will be death—better than a life like this. Let us
+love at least.”
+
+“Not badly reasoned for a man in a fever,” said the doctor.
+
+“But her children!” cried Charny suddenly, with fury; “she will not
+leave her children. Oh! we will carry them away also. Surely I can
+carry her, she is so light, and her children too.” Then he gave a
+terrible cry: “But they are the children of a king!”
+
+The doctor left his patient and approached the queen.
+
+“You are right, doctor,” said she; “this young man would incur a
+terrible danger if he were overheard.”
+
+“Listen again,” said the doctor.
+
+“Oh, no more.”
+
+But just then Charny said, in a gentler voice:
+
+“Marie, I feel that you love me, but I will say nothing about it.
+Marie, I felt the touch of your foot in the coach; your hand touched
+mine, but I will never tell; I will keep this secret with my life. My
+blood may all flow away, Marie, but my secret shall not escape with it.
+My enemy steeped his sword in my blood, but if he has guessed my
+secret, yours is safe. Fear nothing, Marie, I do not even ask you if
+you love me; you blushed, that is enough.”
+
+“Oh!” thought the doctor; “this sounds less like delirium than like
+memory.”
+
+“I have heard enough,” cried the queen, rising and trembling violently;
+and she tried to go.
+
+The doctor stopped her. “Madame,” said he, “what do you wish?”
+
+“Nothing, doctor, nothing.”
+
+“But if the king ask to see my patient?”
+
+“Oh! that would be dreadful!”
+
+“What shall I say?”
+
+“Doctor, I cannot think; this dreadful spectacle has confused me.”
+
+“I think you have caught his fever,” said the doctor, feeling her
+pulse.
+
+She drew away her hand, and escaped.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LI.
+ANDRÉE.
+
+
+The doctor remained thoughtful, then said to himself,—“There are other
+difficulties here besides those I can contend with by science.” He
+bathed again the temples of his patient, who for the time began to grow
+calmer.
+
+All at once the doctor heard the rustling of a dress outside. “Can it
+be the queen returned?” thought he; and opening the door softly, he saw
+before him the motionless figure of a woman, looking like a statue of
+despair. It was almost dark; he advanced suddenly along the corridor to
+the place where the figure was standing. On seeing him, she uttered a
+cry.
+
+“Who is there?” asked Doctor Louis.
+
+“I, doctor!” replied a sweet and sorrowful voice—a voice that he knew
+but could not immediately recognize. “I, Andrée de Taverney,” continued
+she.
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter?” cried the doctor; “is she ill?”
+
+“She! who?”
+
+The doctor felt that he had committed an imprudence.
+
+“Excuse me, but I saw a lady going away just now, perhaps it was you.”
+
+“Oh, yes, there has been a lady here before me, has there not?” asked
+Andrée, in a tone of emotion.
+
+“My dear child,” replied the doctor, “of whom do you speak? what do you
+want to know?”
+
+“Doctor,” answered Andrée, in a sorrowful voice, “you always speak the
+truth, do not deceive me now; I am sure there was a woman here before
+me.”
+
+“Doubtless. Why should I deceive you? Madame de Misery was here.”
+
+“It was Madame de Misery who came?”
+
+“Certainly; what makes you doubt? What inexplicable beings women are.”
+
+“Dear doctor.”
+
+“Well, but to the point. Is she worse?”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Pardieu, the queen.”
+
+“The queen!”
+
+“Yes, the queen, for whom Madame de Misery came to fetch me, and who
+was troubled with her palpitations. If you come from her, tell me, and
+we will go back together.”
+
+“No, doctor, I do not come from the queen, and was even ignorant that
+she was suffering. But pardon me, doctor, I scarcely know what I an
+saying.” In fact, she seemed on the point of fainting.
+
+The doctor supported her. She rallied by a strong effort. “Doctor,” she
+said, “you know I am nervous in the dark; I lost my way in these
+intricate passages, and have grown frightened and foolish.”
+
+“And why the devil should you be wandering about these dark passages,
+since you came for nothing?”
+
+“I did not say I came for nothing, only that no one sent me.”
+
+“Well, if you have anything to say to me, come away from here, for I am
+tired of standing.”
+
+“Oh, I shall not be ten minutes; can any one hear us?”
+
+“No one.”
+
+“Not even your patient in there?”
+
+“Oh, no fear of his hearing anything.”
+
+Andrée clasped her hands. “Oh, mon Dieu!” she cried, “he is, then, very
+ill?”
+
+“Indeed he is not well. But tell me quickly what brings you here, for I
+cannot wait.”
+
+“Well, doctor, we have spoken of it; I came to ask after him.”
+
+Doctor Louis received this confession with a solemn silence, which
+Andrée took for a reproach.
+
+“You may excuse this step, doctor,” she said, “as he was wounded in a
+duel with my brother.”
+
+“Your brother! I was ignorant of that.”
+
+“But now that you know it, you understand why I inquire after him.”
+
+“Oh, certainly, my child,” said the good doctor, enchanted to find an
+excuse for being indulgent; “I could not know this.”
+
+“A duel between two gentlemen is a thing of everyday occurrence,
+doctor.”
+
+“Certainly; the only thing that could make it of importance would be
+that they have fought about a lady!”
+
+“About a lady!”
+
+“About yourself, for example.”
+
+Andrée sighed.
+
+“Oh, doctor! they did not fight about me.”
+
+“Then,” said the doctor, “is it your brother that has sent you for news
+of M. de Charny?”
+
+“Oh, yes, my brother, doctor.”
+
+Dr. Louis looked at her scrutinizingly.
+
+“I will find out the truth,” thought he. Then he said, “Well, I will
+tell you the truth, that your brother may make his arrangements
+accordingly; you understand.”
+
+“No, doctor.”
+
+“Why, a duel is never a very agreeable thing to the king, and if it
+makes a scandal, he often banishes or imprisons the actors; but when
+death ensues, he is always inflexible. Therefore counsel your brother
+to hide for a time.”
+
+“Then,” cried Andrée, “M. de Charny is—dangerously ill?”
+
+“My dear young lady, if he is not out of danger by this time to-morrow,
+if before that time I cannot quell the fever that devours him, M. de
+Charny is a dead man.”
+
+Andrée bit her lips till the blood came, and clenched her hands till
+the nails stuck into the flesh, to stifle the cry that was ready to
+burst from her. Having conquered herself, she said, “My brother will
+not fly; he wounded M. de Charny in fair fight, and if he has killed
+him, he will take his chance.”
+
+The doctor was deceived. She did not come on her own account, he
+thought.
+
+“How does the queen take it?” he asked.
+
+“The queen? I know not. What is it to her?”
+
+“But she likes your brother.”
+
+“Well, he is safe; and perhaps she will defend him if he is accused.”
+
+“Then, mademoiselle, you have learned what you wished. Let your brother
+fly, or not, as he pleases; that is your affair. Mine is to do the best
+to-night for the wounded man; without which, death will infallibly
+carry him off. Adieu.”
+
+Andrée fled back to her room, locked herself in, and falling on her
+knees by the side of her bed, “My God!” cried she, with a torrent of
+burning tears, “you will not leave this young man to die who has done
+no wrong, and who is so loved in this world. Oh! save him, that I may
+see a God of mercy, and not of vengeance.” Her strength gave way, and
+she fell senseless on the floor. When her senses returned to her, her
+first muttered words were, “I love him! oh, I love him!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LII.
+DELIRIUM.
+
+
+M. De Charny conquered the fever. The next day the report was
+favorable. Once out of danger, Doctor Louis ceased to take so much
+interest in him; and after the lapse of a week, as he had not forgotten
+all that had passed in his delirium, he wished to have him removed from
+Versailles: but Charny, at the first hint of this, rebelled, and said
+angrily, “that his majesty had given him shelter there, and that no one
+had a right to disturb him.”
+
+The doctor, who was not patient with intractable convalescents, ordered
+four men to come in and move him; but Charny caught hold of his bed
+with one hand, and struck furiously with the other at every one who
+approached; and with the effort, the wound reopened, the fever
+returned, and he began to cry out that the doctor wished to deprive him
+of the visions that he had in his sleep, but that it was all in vain;
+for that she who sent them to him was of too high rank to mind the
+doctor.
+
+Then the doctor, frightened, sent the men away, and dressed the wound
+again; but as the delirium returned stronger than ever, he determined
+to go once more to the queen.
+
+Marie Antoinette received him with a smile; she expected to hear that
+the patient was cured, but on hearing that he was very ill, she cried:
+
+“Why, yesterday you said he was going on so well!”
+
+“It was not true, madame.”
+
+“And why did you deceive me? Is there, then, danger?”
+
+“Yes, madame, to himself and others; but the evil is moral, not
+physical. The wound in itself is nothing; but, madame, M. de Charny is
+fast becoming a monomaniac, and this I cannot cure. Madame, you will
+have ruined this young man.”
+
+“I, doctor! Am I the cause, if he is mad?”
+
+“If you are not now, you soon will be.”
+
+“What must I do, then? Command me, doctor.”
+
+“This young man must be cured either with kindness or coercion. The
+woman whose name he evokes every instant must kill or cure him.”
+
+“Doctor, you exaggerate. Can you kill a man with a hard word, or cure a
+madman with a smile?”
+
+“If your majesty be incredulous, I have only to pay my respects, and
+take leave.”
+
+“No, doctor; tell me what you wish.”
+
+“Madame, if you desire to free this palace from his cries, and from
+scandal, you must act.”
+
+“You wish me to come and see him?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then I will call some one—Mademoiselle de Taverney, for example—and
+you have all ready to receive us. But it is a dreadful responsibility
+to run the risk of kill or cure, as you say.”
+
+“It is what I have to do every day. Come, madame, all is ready.”
+
+The queen sighed, and followed the doctor, without waiting for Andrée,
+who was not to be found.
+
+It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Charny was asleep, after the
+troubled night he had gone through. The queen, attired in an elegant
+morning dress, entered the corridor. The doctor advised her to present
+herself suddenly, determined to produce a crisis, either for good or
+ill; but at the door they found a woman standing, who had not time to
+assume her usual unmoved tranquillity, but showed an agitated
+countenance, and trembled before them.
+
+“Andrée!” cried the queen.
+
+“Yes, your majesty; you are here too!”
+
+“I sent for you, but they could not find you.”
+
+Andrée, anxious to hide her feelings, even at the price of a falsehood,
+said, “I heard your majesty had asked for me, and came after you.”
+
+“How did you know I was here?”
+
+“They said you were gone with Doctor Louis, so I guessed it.”
+
+“Well guessed,” replied the queen, who was little suspicious, and
+forgot immediately her first surprise.
+
+She went on, leaving Andrée with the doctor.
+
+Andrée, seeing her disappear, gave a look full of anger and grief. The
+doctor said to her:
+
+“Do you think she will succeed?”
+
+“Succeed in what?”
+
+“In getting this poor fellow removed, who will die here.”
+
+“Will he live elsewhere?” asked Andrée, surprised.
+
+“I believe so.”
+
+“Oh, then, may she succeed!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIII.
+CONVALESCENCE.
+
+
+The queen walked straight up to where Charny lay, dressed, on a couch.
+He raised his head, wakened by her entrance.
+
+“The queen!” cried he, trying to rise.
+
+“Yes, sir, the queen,” she replied, “who knows how you strive to lose
+both reason and life; the queen, whom you offend both dreaming and
+waking; the queen, who cares for your honor and your safety, and
+therefore comes to you. Is it possible,” continued she, “that a
+gentleman, formerly renowned like you for his loyalty and honor, should
+become such an enemy as you have been to the reputation of a woman?
+What will my enemies do, if you set them the example of treason?”
+
+“Treason!” stammered Charny.
+
+“Yes, sir. Either you are a madman, and must be forcibly prevented from
+doing harm; or you are a traitor, and must be punished.”
+
+“Oh, madame, do not call me a traitor! From the mouth of a king, such
+an accusation would precede death; from the mouth of a woman, it is
+dishonor. Queen, kill me, or spare me!”
+
+“Are you in your right mind, M. de Charny?” said the queen, in a moved
+voice.
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Do you remember your wrongs towards me, and towards the king?”
+
+“Mon Dieu!” he murmured.
+
+“For you too easily forget, you gentlemen, that the king is the husband
+of the woman whom you insult, by raising your eyes to her—that he is
+the father of your future master, the dauphin; you forget, also, that
+he is a greater and better man than any of you—a man whom I esteem and
+love.”
+
+“Oh!” murmured Charny, with a groan, and seemed ready to faint.
+
+This cry pierced the queen’s heart; she thought he was about to die,
+and was going to call for assistance; but, after an instant’s
+reflection, she went on: “Let us converse quietly, and be a man. Doctor
+Louis has vainly tried to cure you; your wound, which was nothing, has
+been rendered dangerous through your own extravagances. When will you
+cease to present to the good doctor the spectacle of a scandalous folly
+which disquiets him? When will you leave the castle?”
+
+“Madame,” replied Charny, “your majesty sends me away; I go, I go!” And
+he rose with a violent effort, as though he would have fled that
+instant, but, unable to stand, fell almost into the arms of the queen,
+who had risen to stop him.
+
+She replaced him on the sofa; a bloody foam rose to his lips. “Ah, so
+much the better!” cried he; “I die, killed by you!” The queen forgot
+everything but his danger; she supported his drooping head on her
+shoulders, and pressed her cold hands to his forehead and heart. Her
+touch seemed to revive him as if by magic—he lived again; then she
+wished to fly, but he caught hold of her dress, saying:
+
+“Madame, in the name of the respect which I feel for you——”
+
+“Adieu, adieu!” cried the queen.
+
+“Oh, madame, pardon me!”
+
+“I do pardon you.”
+
+“Madame, one last look.”
+
+“M. de Charny,” said the queen, trembling, “if you are not the basest
+of men, to-morrow you will be dead, or have left this castle.”
+
+He threw himself at her feet; she opened the door, and rushed away.
+
+Andrée saw for an instant the young man on his knees before her, and
+felt struck with both hate and despair. She thought, as she saw the
+queen return, that God had given too much to this woman in adding to
+her throne and her beauty this half-hour with M. de Charny.
+
+The doctor, occupied only with the success of the negotiation, said,
+“Well, madame, what will he do?”
+
+“He will leave,” replied the queen; and, passing them quickly, she
+returned to her apartment.
+
+The doctor went to his patient, and Andrée to her room.
+
+Doctor Louis found Charny a changed man, declaring himself perfectly
+strong, asking the doctor how he should be moved, and when he should be
+quite well, with so much energy that the doctor feared it was too much,
+and that he must relapse after it. He was, however, so reasonable as to
+feel the necessity of explaining this sudden change. “The queen has
+done me more good by making me ashamed of myself,” he said, “than you,
+dear doctor, with all your science. She has vanquished me by an appeal
+to my amour propre.”
+
+“So much the better,” said the doctor.
+
+“Yes. I remember that a Spaniard—they are all boasters—told me one day,
+to prove the force of his will, that it sufficed for him in a duel
+which he had fought, and in which he had been wounded, to will that the
+blood should not flow in the presence of his adversary in order to
+retain it. I laughed at him. However, I now feel something like it
+myself; I think that if my fever and delirium wished to return, I could
+chase them away, saying, Fever and delirium, I forbid you to appear!”
+
+“We know such things are possible,” replied the doctor. “Allow me to
+congratulate you, for you are cured morally.”
+
+“Oh yes.”
+
+“Well, the physical cure will soon follow. Once sound in mind, you will
+be sound in body within a week.”
+
+“Thanks, doctor.”
+
+“And, to begin, you must leave this place.”
+
+“I am ready immediately.”
+
+“Oh, we will not be rash; we will wait till this evening. Where will
+you go?”
+
+“Anywhere—to the end of the world if you like.”
+
+“That is too far for a first journey; we will content ourselves with
+Versailles. I have a house there where you shall go to-night.”
+
+Accordingly, that evening the four valets, who had been so rudely
+repulsed before, carried him to his carriage. The king had been hunting
+all day; Charny felt somewhat uneasy at leaving without apprizing him;
+but the doctor promised to make his excuses.
+
+Andrée, concealed behind her curtains, saw the carriage drive off.
+
+“If he resumes his desire to die,” thought the doctor, “at least it
+will not be in my rooms, and under my care.”
+
+Charny arrived safely, however, and the next day the doctor found him
+so well, that he told him he thought he would require him no longer.
+
+He received a visit from his uncle, and from an officer sent by the
+king to inquire after him. At the end of a week he could ride slowly on
+horseback: then the doctor advised him to go for a time to his estates
+in Picardy to regain strength. He accordingly took leave of the king,
+charged M. de Suffren with his adieus to the queen, who was ill that
+evening, and set off for his château at Boursonnes.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIV.
+TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.
+
+
+On the day following the queen’s visit to M. de Charny, Madlle. de
+Taverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petite
+toilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de la
+Motte. Andrée, paler than usual, looked cold and grave: the queen,
+however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her
+head, said in her usual friendly tone, “Bon jour, petite.” At last,
+however, Andrée’s silence struck her, and looking up she saw her sad
+expression and said, “Mon Dieu! Andrée, what is the matter? Has any
+misfortune happened to you?”
+
+“Yes, madame, a great one.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“I am going to leave your majesty.”
+
+“Leave me!”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Where are you going? and what is the cause of this sudden departure?”
+
+“Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, I
+mean,” added Andrée, blushing.
+
+“I do not understand you—you seemed happy yesterday.”
+
+“No, madame,” replied Andrée, firmly. “Yesterday was one of the unhappy
+days of my life.”
+
+“Explain yourself.”
+
+“It would but fatigue your majesty, and the details are not worthy of
+your hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in my
+family—that I have no good to expect in this world. I come, therefore,
+to beg your majesty’s permission to retire into a convent.”
+
+The queen rose, and although with some effort to her pride, took
+Andrée’s hand, and said: “What is the meaning of this foolish
+resolution? Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a
+brother? and were they different yesterday from to-day? Tell me your
+difficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother?”
+
+Andrée, trembling, and bowing low, said, “Madame, your kindness
+penetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolved
+to quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give up
+the vocation to which I feel called.”
+
+“Since yesterday?”
+
+“I beg your majesty not to make me speak on this point.”
+
+“Be free, then,” said the queen, rather bitterly; “only I have always
+shown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. But
+it is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets,
+and I trust you will be happier away than you have been here. Remember
+one thing, however, that my friendship does not expire with people’s
+caprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go,
+Andrée; you are at liberty. But where are you going to?”
+
+“To the convent of St. Denis, madame.”
+
+“Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude
+and forgetfulness.”
+
+Andrée, however, left the room and the castle without giving any of
+those explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, and
+without in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived at
+home, she found Philippe in the garden—the brother dreamed, while the
+sister acted. At the sight of Andrée, whose duties always kept her with
+the queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened,
+which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.
+
+He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave the
+service of the queen, and go into a convent.
+
+He clasped his hands, and cried, “What! you also, sister?”
+
+“I also! what do you mean?”
+
+“’Tis a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to take
+religious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the least
+fitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queen
+with?”
+
+“I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected,
+and had the right to expect, so much—why did not you remain at court?
+You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years.”
+
+“She is capricious, Andrée.”
+
+“You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do not
+wish to do so.”
+
+“All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had with
+her.”
+
+“None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her? Oh, she
+is ungrateful!”
+
+“We must pardon her, Andrée; she is a little spoiled by flattery, but
+she has a good heart.”
+
+“Witness what she has done for you, Philippe.”
+
+“What has she done?”
+
+“You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one
+stroke pay off your debts and my own.”
+
+“Very dear, it seems to me, Andrée—to renounce the world at your age,
+and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister, if you renounce it young,
+you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will be
+passed, and you have outlived all your friends.”
+
+“You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little
+careful of your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have
+acquired titles and gold, you have only said—she is capricious, she is
+perfidious, and a coquette, and I prefer not to serve her. Therefore,
+you have renounced the world, though you have not entered into a
+monastery.”
+
+“You are right, sister; and were it not for our father——”
+
+“Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him,” replied Andrée,
+bitterly. “A father should be a support to his children, or accept
+their support. But what does ours do? Could you confide a secret to M.
+de Taverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you? M. de
+Taverney is made to live alone in this world.”
+
+“True, Andrée, but not to die alone.”
+
+“Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know
+I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only to
+have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me
+every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts
+respond; those whom we choose prefer others.”
+
+Philippe looked at her with astonishment. “What do you mean?” said he.
+
+“Nothing,” replied Andrée, shrinking from a confidence. “I think my
+brain is wandering; do not attend to my words.”
+
+“But——”
+
+Andrée took his hand. “Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am
+come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy,
+I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish.
+Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to
+seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator.
+He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In
+approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if
+all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant
+to me.”
+
+“Still, Andrée, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not
+confided to me the cause of your despair!”
+
+“Despair!” said she, with a disdainful air. “No, thank God, I am not
+despairing; no, a thousand times, no.”
+
+“This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you
+reject the word ‘despair,’ I must use that of ‘pique.’”
+
+“Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the
+world through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to
+retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your
+determination?”
+
+“I should call it an incurable grief.”
+
+“Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me.”
+
+“Then,” he replied, “brother and sister are alike in their lives: happy
+together, they have become unhappy at the same time.” Then, thinking
+further remonstrance useless, he asked, “When do you want to go?”
+
+“To-morrow, even to-day, if it were possible.”
+
+“I shall be ready whenever you require me.”
+
+Andrée retired to make her preparations. Soon she received this note
+from Philippe:
+
+“You can see our father at five o’clock this evening. You must be
+prepared for reproaches, but an adieu is indispensable.”
+
+She answered:
+
+“At five o’clock I will be with M. de Taverney all ready to start, and
+by seven we can be at St. Denis, if you will give me up your evening.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LV.
+THE MINISTER OF FINANCE.
+
+
+We have seen that the queen, before receiving Andrée, was smiling over
+a note from Madame de la Motte. She was, however, rendered serious by
+the interview with Mademoiselle de Taverney. Scarcely had she gone,
+when Madame de Misery came to announce M. de Calonne. He was a man of
+much intellect, but, foreseeing that disaster was hanging over France,
+determined to think only of the present, and enjoy it to the utmost. He
+was a courtier, and a popular man. M. de Necker had shown the
+impossibility of finding finances, and called for reforms which would
+have struck at the estates of the nobility and the revenues of the
+clergy; he exposed his designs too openly, and was overwhelmed by a
+torrent of opposition; to show the enemy your plan of attack is half to
+give them the victory. Calonne, equally alive to the danger, but seeing
+no way of escape, gave way to it. He completely carried with him the
+king and queen, who implicitly believed in his system, and this is,
+perhaps, the only political fault which Louis XVI was guilty of towards
+posterity. M. de Calonne was handsome, and had an ingratiating manner;
+he knew how to please a queen, and always arrived with a smile on his
+face, when others might have worn a frown.
+
+The queen received him graciously, and said, “Have we any money, M. de
+Calonne?”
+
+“Certainly, madame; we have always money.”
+
+“You are perfectly marvelous,” replied she, “an incomparable financier,
+for you seem always ready when we want money.”
+
+“How much does your majesty require?”
+
+“Explain to me first how you manage to find money, when M. Necker
+declared that there was none.”
+
+“M. Necker was right, madame; for when I became minister on the 3d of
+November, 1783, there were but one thousand and two hundred francs in
+the public treasury. Had M. Necker, madame, instead of crying out,
+‘There is no money,’ done as I have done, and borrowed 100,000,000 the
+first year, and 125,000,000 the second, and had he been as sure as I am
+of a new loan of 80,000,000 for the third, he would have been a true
+financier. Every one can say there is no money, but not that there is
+plenty.”
+
+“That is what I compliment you on, sir; but how to pay all this?”
+
+“Oh, madame, be sure we shall pay it,” replied he, with a strange
+smile.
+
+“Well, I trust to you,” said the queen.
+
+“I have now a project, madame,” replied he, bowing, “which will put
+20,000,000 into the pockets of the nation, and 7,000,000 or 8,000,000
+into your own.”
+
+“They will be welcome, but where are they to come from?”
+
+“Your majesty is aware that money is not of the same value in all the
+countries of Europe.”
+
+“Certainly. In Spain gold is dearer than in France.”
+
+“Your majesty is perfectly right. Gold in Spain has been for the last
+five or six years worth considerably more than in France; it results
+that the exporters gain on eight ounces of gold, that they send from
+here, about the value of fourteen ounces of silver.”
+
+“That is a great deal.”
+
+“Well, madame, I mean to raise the price of gold one-fifth of this
+difference, and where we have now thirty louis we shall then have
+thirty-two.”
+
+“It is a brilliant idea!” cried the queen.
+
+“I believe it, and am happy that it meets your majesty’s approbation.”
+
+“Always have such, and I am sure you will soon pay our debts.”
+
+“But allow me, madame, to return to what you want of me,” said the
+minister.
+
+“Would it be possible to have at present—I am afraid it is too much——”
+
+Calonne smiled in an encouraging manner.
+
+“500,000 francs?” continued the queen.
+
+“Oh, madame, really your majesty frightened me; I was afraid it was
+something great.”
+
+“Then you can?”
+
+“Assuredly.”
+
+“Without the king’s knowledge?”
+
+“Oh, madame, that is impossible. Every month all my accounts are laid
+before the king; however, he does not always read them.”
+
+“When can I have it?”
+
+“What day does your majesty wish for it?”
+
+“On the fifth of next month.”
+
+“Your majesty shall have it on the third.”
+
+“Thanks, M. de Calonne.”
+
+“My greatest happiness is to please your majesty, and I beg you never
+will allow yourself to be embarrassed for want of money.” He rose, the
+queen gave him her hand to kiss, and then said, “After all, this money
+causes me some remorse, for it is for a caprice.”
+
+“Never mind; some one will gain by it.”
+
+“That is true; you have a charming mode of consoling one.”
+
+“Oh, madame, if we had none of us more reasons for remorse than you, we
+should all go straight to heaven.”
+
+“But it will be cruel to make the poor people pay for my caprices.”
+
+“Have no scruples, madame; it is not the poor who will pay.”
+
+“How so?” asked the queen, in some surprise.
+
+“Because, madame, they have nothing to pay with.”
+
+He bowed and retired.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVI.
+THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.
+
+
+Hardly had M. de Calonne traversed the gallery, when Madame de la Motte
+was shown in to the queen.
+
+“Madame,” said she, “the cardinal is here.” She then introduced him,
+and took her leave.
+
+The cardinal, finding himself alone with the queen, bowed respectfully,
+without raising his eyes.
+
+“Monsieur,” said the queen, “I have heard of you what has effaced many
+wrongs.”
+
+“Permit me, madame,” said he, trembling with real emotion, “to assure
+your majesty that these wrongs of which you speak I could explain in a
+few words.”
+
+“I do not forbid you to justify yourself,” replied she, with dignity;
+“but if what you are about to say throws the smallest shade upon my
+family or country, you will only wound me still more. Let us leave this
+subject; and I will only see you under the fresh light, which shows you
+to me obliging, respectful, and devoted.”
+
+“Devoted until death,” replied he.
+
+“But,” said Marie Antoinette, with a smile, “at present it is a
+question not of death, but of ruin; and I do not wish you devoted even
+so far. You shall live, and not be ruined, at least, not by me; for
+they say you are ruining yourself.”
+
+“Madame!”
+
+“Oh! that is your own business; only, as a friend, I would counsel you
+to be economical—the king would like you better.”
+
+“I would become a miser to please your majesty.”
+
+“Oh, the king,” replied she, with an accent on the word, “does not love
+misers either.”
+
+“I will become whatever your majesty desires,” replied he, with a
+hardly-disguised passion.
+
+“I said, then,” continued she, “that you shall not be ruined for me.
+You have advanced money on my account, and I have the means of meeting
+the calls; therefore, regard the affair for the future as in my hands.”
+
+“To finish it, then, it only remains for me to offer the necklace to
+your majesty;” and drawing out the case, he presented it to her.
+
+She took it, but did not open it, and laid it down by her side. She
+received kindly all his polite speeches, but as she was longing to be
+left alone with her diamonds, she began to answer somewhat absently.
+
+He thought she was embarrassed, and was delighted, thinking it showed,
+at least, an absence of indifference. He then kissed her hand, and took
+leave, going away full of enthusiasm and hope.
+
+Jeanne was waiting for him in the carriage, and received his ardent
+protestations with pleasure. “Well,” said she, “shall you be Richelieu
+or Mazarin? Have her lips given you encouragement in ambition or love?
+Are you launched in politics or intrigue?”
+
+“Do not laugh, dear countess; I am full of happiness.”
+
+“Already!”
+
+“Assist me, and in three weeks I may be a minister.”
+
+“Peste! that is a long time; the next payment is in a fortnight.”
+
+“Ah! the queen has money, and will pay, and I shall have only the merit
+of the intention. It is too little; I would willingly have paid for
+this reconciliation with the whole sum.”
+
+“Make yourself easy,” replied the countess; “you shall have this merit
+if you desire it.”
+
+“I should have preferred it; the queen would then have been under an
+obligation to me.”
+
+“Monseigneur, something tells me you will have this satisfaction. Are
+you prepared for it?”
+
+“I have mortgaged all my revenue for the ensuing year.”
+
+“Then you have the money?”
+
+“Certainly, for this payment; after that, I do not know what I shall
+do.”
+
+“Oh, this payment will give you three quiet months; who knows what may
+happen in three months?”
+
+“That is true; but she said that the king wished me to incur no more
+debt.”
+
+“Two months in the ministry would set all straight.”
+
+“Countess!”
+
+“Oh, do not be fastidious; if you do not assist yourself, others will.”
+
+“You are right. Where are you going now?”
+
+“Back to the queen, to hear what she says of your interview.”
+
+“Good! I go to Paris.”
+
+“Why? You should go this evening to the ‘jeu du roi;’ it is good policy
+to keep your ground.”
+
+“No, countess; I must attend a rendezvous, for which I received a note
+this morning.”
+
+“A rendezvous?”
+
+“Yes, and a serious one, by the contents of the note. Look.”
+
+“A man’s writing,” said the countess; and, opening the note, she read:
+
+“Monseigneur,—Some one wishes to see you about raising an important sum
+of money. This person will wait on you this evening, at Paris, to
+solicit the honor of an interview.”
+
+“Anonymous—some beggar?”
+
+“No, countess; no beggar would expose himself to the risk of being
+beaten by my servants. Besides, I fancy I have seen the writing before.
+So au revoir, countess.”
+
+“Apropos, monseigneur, if you are going to get a windfall, some large
+sum, I understand we are to share.”
+
+“Countess, you have brought me luck; I shall not be ungrateful.” And
+they separated.
+
+The cardinal was full of happy dreams: the queen had received him
+kindly. He would place himself at the head of her party, and make it a
+popular one; he would protect her, and for her sake would abandon his
+slothful life, and live an active one.
+
+As soon as he arrived at his hotel, he commenced burning a box full of
+love-letters; then he called his steward to order some economical
+reforms, and sat down to his history of English politics. Soon he heard
+a ring, and a servant entered to announce the person who had written to
+him that morning.
+
+“Ask his name,” said the cardinal.
+
+The man, having inquired, returned and said:
+
+“M. le Comte de Cagliostro.”
+
+“Let him come in.”
+
+The count entered.
+
+“Mon Dieu!” cried the cardinal, “is it possible? Joseph Balsamo, who
+was supposed to have perished in the flames?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur, more alive than ever.”
+
+“But, sir, you have taken a new name.”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur; the other recalled too many painful recollections.
+Possibly, you yourself would not have opened your door to Joseph
+Balsamo.”
+
+“I! oh yes, sir.”
+
+“Then monseigneur has a better memory and more honesty than most men.”
+
+“Monsieur, you once rendered me a service.”
+
+“Am I not, monseigneur, a good specimen of the results of my elixir?”
+
+“I confess it, sir; but you seem above humanity—you, who distribute
+health and gold to all.”
+
+“Health perhaps, monseigneur, but not gold.”
+
+“You make no more gold.”
+
+“No, monseigneur.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because I lost the parcel of an indispensable ingredient which
+Althotas discovered, but of which I never had the receipt. He has
+carried that secret with him to the grave.”
+
+“He is dead, then? How, could you not preserve the life of this man, so
+useful to you, as you have kept yourself through so many centuries?”
+
+“Because I can guard against illness, but not against such accidents as
+kill before I can act.”
+
+“He died from an accident, then?”
+
+“The fire in which you thought I died killed him; or rather he, weary
+of life, chose to die.”
+
+“It is strange.”
+
+“No, it is natural; I have a hundred times thought of ending my life.”
+
+“But you have not done so.”
+
+“Because I enjoy a state of youth, in which health and pleasure kept me
+from ennui; but he had chosen one of old age. He was a savant, and
+cared only for science; and thus youth, with its thousand pleasures,
+would have constantly drawn him from its study. An old man meditates
+better than a young one. Althotas died a victim to his love of science:
+I lead a worldly life, and do nothing—I live like a planet.”
+
+“Oh, sir, your words and appearance bring to me dreams of my youth. It
+is ten years since I saw you.”
+
+“Yes; but if you are no longer a fine young man, you are a prince. Do
+you remember the day when, in my cabinet, I promised you the love of
+the woman whose fair locks I consulted?”
+
+The cardinal turned from pale to red. Terror and joy almost stopped the
+beating of his heart.
+
+“I remember,” said he.
+
+“Ah, let me try if I can still play the magician. This fair child of
+your dreams——”
+
+“What is she doing now?”
+
+“Ah, I suspect you yourself have seen her to-day; indeed, you have not
+long left her.”
+
+The cardinal could hardly stand.
+
+“Oh, I beg, sir——” he cried.
+
+“Let us speak of something else,” said Cagliostro, sitting down.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVII.
+DEBTOR AND CREDITOR.
+
+
+“Now that we have renewed our acquaintance, let us converse,” said
+Cagliostro.
+
+“Yes,” replied the cardinal, “about the money you wrote of; it was a
+pretext, was it not?”
+
+“No, monsieur, a serious matter, as it concerns a sum of 500,000
+francs.”
+
+“The sum which you lent me?” cried the cardinal, growing pale.
+
+“Yes, monseigneur; I love to see so good a memory in a great prince
+like you.”
+
+The cardinal felt overwhelmed by the blow. At last, trying to smile, he
+said:
+
+“I thought that Joseph Balsamo had carried his debt with him to the
+tomb, as he threw the receipt into the fire.”
+
+“Monseigneur,” replied the count, “the life of Joseph Balsamo is as
+indestructible as the sheet on which you wrote. Death cannot conquer
+the elixir of life; fire is powerless against asbestos.”
+
+“I do not understand,” said the cardinal.
+
+“You soon will,” replied Cagliostro, producing a folded paper, which he
+offered to the prince.
+
+He, before opening it, cried, “My receipt!”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur, your receipt.”
+
+“But I saw you burn it.”
+
+“True, I threw it on the fire, but by accident you had written on a
+piece of asbestos, so that the receipt remained uninjured among the
+cinders.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, haughtily, for he thought this a proof
+that he had been suspected, “believe me, I should not have denied my
+debt, even without this paper; therefore you were wrong to deceive me.”
+
+“I deceived you?”
+
+“Yes; you made me think the paper was destroyed.”
+
+“To leave you the calm enjoyment of 500,000 francs.”
+
+“But, sir, why have you left such a sum for ten years unclaimed?”
+
+“I knew, monseigneur, that it was safe. Various events have deprived me
+of my wealth; but, knowing that I had this sum in reserve, I have
+waited patiently until the last moment.”
+
+“And has that arrived?”
+
+“Alas! yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“So that you can really wait no longer?”
+
+“No, monseigneur.”
+
+“You want it at once?”
+
+“If it please you to pay it.”
+
+The cardinal was at first silent, through despair. Then he said, in a
+hoarse voice:
+
+“M. le Comte, we unhappy princes of the earth do not improvise fortunes
+as quickly as you enchanters.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur,” said Cagliostro, “I would not have asked you for
+this sum, had I not known beforehand that you had it.”
+
+“I have 500,000 francs?”
+
+“30,000 in gold, 11,000 in silver, and the rest in notes, which are in
+this buhl cabinet.”
+
+The cardinal turned white. “You knew this?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur, and I know you have made great sacrifices to obtain
+it. I have heard that you will pay heavily for it.”
+
+“Oh, it is too true!”
+
+“But, monseigneur, during these ten years I have often been in want and
+embarrassment, yet I have kept this paper back, so as not to trouble
+you; therefore I do not think you can complain.”
+
+“Complain! oh, no, sir; when you graciously lent me such a sum, I must
+ever remain your debtor. But during those ten years there were twenty
+occasions when I could have repaid you with ease, while to-day the
+restitution you demand embarrasses me dreadfully. You, who know
+everything, who read even hearts, and penetrate the doors of cabinets,
+doubtless, know also the purpose for which this money was destined.”
+
+“You are wrong, monseigneur,” said Cagliostro, coldly. “My knowledge
+has brought me so much misery and disappointment, that I no longer seek
+to penetrate the secrets of others. It concerned me to know whether you
+had this money, as I wished to claim it; but once having ascertained
+that, I did not trouble myself to think for what purpose it was
+destined. Besides, did I know it, it might seem so grave a matter as
+almost to force me to waive my claim, which really at present I cannot
+afford to do. Therefore, I prefer to be ignorant.”
+
+“Oh, monsieur,” cried the cardinal, “do not think I wish to parade my
+embarrassments in order to elude my debt! You have your own interests
+to look to; they are guaranteed by this paper, which bears my
+signature—that is enough. You shall have your money, although I do not
+think there was any promise to pay.”
+
+“Your eminence is mistaken;” and opening the paper he read these words:
+
+“I acknowledge the receipt of 500,000 francs from M. Joseph Balsamo,
+which I will repay on demand.
+
+“Louis de Rohan.”
+
+
+“You see, monseigneur, that I only ask my right; besides, as this was a
+spontaneous loan by me to a man I hardly knew, the payment might have
+been equally spontaneous, without waiting for me to claim it. But you
+did not think so. Well, monseigneur, I withdraw this paper, and bid you
+adieu.”
+
+“No, count,” replied the cardinal; “a Rohan must not receive lessons in
+generosity; besides, this is a mere question of honesty. Give me the
+paper, sir, and I will discharge my debt.”
+
+For a moment Cagliostro hesitated, for the pale face and distressed air
+of the cardinal inclined him to pity; but quickly hardening himself he
+handed him the paper. M. de Rohan went to the cabinet, and took out the
+money. “There,” said he, “are your 500,000 francs; and I owe you
+250,000 more for interest, which you shall have if you will give me
+time.”
+
+“Monseigneur,” said Cagliostro, “I lent 500,000 francs to M. de Rohan,
+which he has paid me; he therefore owes me nothing more. I will take
+the notes with me, and send for the money. I thank you for your
+compliance with my request.” Then, bowing, he left the room.
+
+“Well,” sighed M. de Rohan, “it is likely, at least, that the queen has
+the money, and no Joseph Balsamo will come and take it from her.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVIII.
+FAMILY ACCOUNTS.
+
+
+It was the day before the first payment was due, and M. de Calonne had
+so much to do, that he had forgotten his promise. The queen had up to
+this time waited patiently, relying on his word; she now, however, was
+beginning to grow uneasy, when she received the following note:
+
+“This evening the business with which your majesty has charged me will
+be settled by the Council; the money will be with the queen to-morrow
+evening.”
+
+Marie Antoinette recovered all her gaiety directly.
+
+After dinner the king went to the Council, but in a rather bad humor.
+The news from Russia was bad; a vessel had been lost; some of the
+provinces refused to pay the taxes; also a beautiful map of the world,
+made by himself, had that day split into two pieces. Vainly, therefore,
+M. de Calonne produced his accounts, with his usual smiling air; the
+king continued out of temper. For a long time he sat, as usual, drawing
+hieroglyphics on a piece of paper, whilst the foreign correspondence
+was being read, and paying little attention to what passed around him.
+
+At last, however, M. de Calonne began to speak of the loan to be raised
+for the ensuing year. The king became attentive, and said, “Always
+borrowing; but how is it to be repaid? That is a problem, M. de
+Calonne, for you to solve.”
+
+“Sire, a loan is only turning a stream from one direction, to cause it
+to flow more abundantly in another. In deepening the channel, you only
+increase the supply; therefore, let us not think of paying, but only of
+obtaining present supplies.” M. de Calonne then explained his plans,
+which were approved by his colleagues.
+
+The king agreed, with a sigh.
+
+“Now we have money,” said M. de Calonne, “let us dispose of it;” and he
+handed a paper to the king, with a list of pensions, gifts, and
+payments to be made.
+
+The king glanced at the total,—“1,900,000 francs for this—enormous!”
+
+“But, sire, one item is 500,000 francs.”
+
+“Which?”
+
+“The advance to the queen.”
+
+“To the queen! 500,000 francs to the queen!—impossible!”
+
+“Pardon, sire, it is correct.”
+
+“But there must be a mistake; a fortnight ago her majesty received her
+money.”
+
+“Sire, but if her majesty has need of money; and we all know how well
+she employs it.”
+
+“No,” cried the king; “the queen does not want this money; she said to
+me that she preferred a vessel to jewels. The queen thinks but of
+France, and when France is poor, we that are rich ought to lend to
+France; and if she does require this money, it will be a greater merit
+to wait for it; and I guarantee that she will wait.”
+
+The ministers applauded this patriotic speech of the king,—only M. de
+Calonne insisted.
+
+“Really, monsieur,” said the king, “you are more interested for us than
+we are for ourselves.”
+
+“The queen, sire, will accuse us of having been backward when her
+interests were concerned.”
+
+“I will plead your cause.”
+
+“But, sire, the queen never asks without necessity.”
+
+“If the queen has wants, they are, I trust, less imperious than those
+of the poor, and she will be the first to acknowledge it.”
+
+“Sire!”
+
+“I am resolved,” said the king; “and I fancy I hear the queen in her
+generosity thanking me for having so well understood her heart.”
+
+M. de Calonne bit his lips, and Louis, content with this personal
+sacrifice, signed all the rest without looking at them.
+
+“Calonne, you shall tell the queen yourself.”
+
+“Oh! sire, I beg to resign to you the honor.”
+
+“So be it then. Ah! here she comes, let us meet her.”
+
+“I beg your majesty to excuse me,” he replied, and retired quickly.
+
+The king approached the queen—she was leaning on the arm of the Comte
+d’Artois, and seemed very gay.
+
+“Madame,” said the king, “have you had a pleasant walk?”
+
+“Yes, sire. And you an agreeable council?”
+
+“Yes, madame, I have gained you 500,000 francs.”
+
+“M. de Calonne has kept his word,” thought the queen.
+
+“Only imagine, madame,” continued the king; “M. de Calonne had put down
+500,000 francs for you, and I have struck it out,—a clear gain,
+therefore, of that sum.”
+
+“Struck it through!” cried the queen, turning pale; “but, sire——”
+
+“Oh! I am so hungry, I am going to supper;” and he went away delighted
+with his work.
+
+“Brother,” said the queen, “seek M. de Calonne for me.”
+
+At that moment a note from him was handed to her: “Your majesty will
+have learned that the king refused your grant. It was incomprehensible,
+and I retired from the council penetrated with grief.”
+
+“Read,” said she, passing the note to the count.
+
+“And there are people,” said he, “who say that we squander the revenue!
+This is an extraordinary proceeding——”
+
+“Quite husbandlike,” said the queen. “Adieu, brother.”
+
+“I condole with you,” he replied; “and it is a lesson for me. I was
+going to make a request to-morrow for myself.”
+
+“Send for Madame de la Motte,” said the queen, when she returned to her
+room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIX.
+MARIE ANTOINETTE AS QUEEN, AND MADAME DE LA MOTTE AS WOMAN.
+
+
+The courier despatched for Madame de la Motte, not finding her at home,
+went to the hotel of the Cardinal de Rohan to inquire if she were
+there.
+
+The well-tutored Swiss replied that she was not, but that he could get
+any message transmitted to her.
+
+The courier, therefore, left word for her to come to the queen as soon
+as possible. The man had hardly left the door before the message was
+delivered to Jeanne as she sat at supper with the cardinal. She set off
+immediately, and was at once introduced into the queen’s chamber.
+
+“Oh!” cried the queen on seeing her, “I have something to tell you. The
+king has refused me 500,000 francs.”
+
+“Mon Dieu!” murmured the countess.
+
+“Incredible, is it not? He struck through the item; but it is useless
+to talk of it; you must return to Paris, and tell the cardinal that
+since he is so kind I accept the 500,000 francs he offered me. It is
+selfish, I know, but what can I do?”
+
+“Oh! madame!” cried Jeanne, “we are lost—the cardinal no longer has the
+money.”
+
+The queen started.
+
+“No money!” stammered she.
+
+“No, madame; an unexpected creditor claimed this money from him. It was
+a debt of honor, and he paid it.”
+
+“The whole 500,000 francs?
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“And he has no more?”
+
+“No, madame, he told me this an hour and a half ago, and confessed to
+me that he had no other resources.”
+
+The queen leaned her head on her hands; then, after a few moments’
+reflection, she said:
+
+“This, countess, is a terrible lesson for me, and a punishment for
+having done anything, great or small, without the king’s knowledge. It
+was a folly; I had no need of this necklace.”
+
+“True, madame; but if the queen consulted only her absolute wants——”
+
+“I must consult before everything the tranquillity and happiness of my
+household. I renounce forever what has begun with so much annoyance. I
+will sacrifice my vanity on the altar of duty, as M. de Provence would
+say; and beautiful as this necklace is, you shall carry it back to MM.
+Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+“Carry it back?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But, madame, your majesty has already given 100,000 francs for it.”
+
+“Well, I shall gain all the rest that was to have been paid for it.”
+
+“But, madame, they will not like to return your money.”
+
+“I give it up on condition of their breaking the contract. Now,
+countess, that I have come to this determination, I feel at ease once
+more. This necklace brought with it cares and fears; diamonds cannot
+compensate for these. Take it away, countess; the jewelers must be
+satisfied; they will have their necklace, and 100,000 francs into the
+bargain.”
+
+“But M. de Rohan?”
+
+“He only acted to give me pleasure, and when he is told it is my
+pleasure, not to have the necklace, he will understand me, I am sure;
+and if he is a good friend, he will approve and strengthen me in my
+sacrifice.” Saying these words, the queen held out the casket to
+Jeanne.
+
+She did not take it. “Why not ask for time, madame?”
+
+“No, countess, it is humiliation. One may humiliate one’s self for a
+person one loves, to save a living creature, were it only a dog; but
+only to keep some sparkling stones—never, countess; take it away.”
+
+“But, madame, it will surely become known that your majesty has had the
+jewels, and was obliged to return them.”
+
+“No one will know anything about it. The jewelers will surely hold
+their tongues for 100,000 francs. Take it away, countess, and thank M.
+de Rohan for his good-will towards me. There is no time to lose; go as
+soon as possible, and bring me back a receipt for them.”
+
+“Madame, it shall be done as you wish.”
+
+She first drove home, and changed her dress, which was too elegant for
+a visit to the jewelers. Meanwhile she reflected much; she thought
+still it was a fault for M. de Rohan to allow the queen to part with
+these jewels; and should she obey her orders without consulting him,
+would he not have reason to complain? Would he not rather sell himself
+than let the queen return them? “I must consult him,” she thought;
+“but, after all, he never can get the money.” She then took the
+necklace from the case, once more to look at and admire it. “1,600,000
+francs in my possession; true, it is but for an hour. To carry away
+such a sum in gold I should want two horses, yet how easily I hold it
+here! But I must decide. Shall I go to the cardinal, or take it direct
+to the jewelers, as the queen ordered? And the receipt—in what form
+shall I get it, so as not to compromise the queen, the cardinal, or
+myself? Shall I consult—— Ah! if he loved me more, and could give me
+the diamonds.”
+
+She sat down again and remained nearly an hour in deep thought. Then
+she rose, with a strange look in her eyes, and rang the bell with a
+determined air.
+
+She ordered a coach, and in a few minutes she reached the house of the
+journalist, M. Reteau de Villette.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LX.
+THE RECEIPT OF MM. BŒHMER AND BOSSANGE, AND THE GRATITUDE OF THE QUEEN.
+
+
+The result of Madame de la Motte’s visit to M. Reteau de Villette
+appeared the next day. At seven o’clock in the morning she sent to the
+queen the following paper:
+
+“We, the undersigned, acknowledge having received back again the
+diamond necklace sold to the queen for 1,600,000 francs, the diamonds
+not suiting her majesty, who has paid us for our loss and trouble
+100,000 francs.
+
+“Bœhmer and Bossange.”
+
+
+The queen, now tranquil about the whole affair, locked up the receipt,
+and thought no more of it.
+
+But, in strange contradiction to this receipt, the jewelers received a
+visit two days after from M. de Rohan, who felt uneasy about the
+payment.
+
+If the instalment had not been paid, he expected to find them naturally
+annoyed; but to his great satisfaction they received him with smiles.
+
+“The queen has paid, then?” he asked.
+
+“No, monseigneur, the queen could not procure the money, as the king
+had refused it to her; but she has guaranteed the debt, and that fully
+satisfies us.”
+
+“Ah! so much the better; but how? Through the countess?”
+
+“No, monseigneur. On hearing of the king’s refusal, which soon became
+public, we wrote to Madame de la Motte——”
+
+“When?”
+
+“Yesterday.”
+
+“And she replied?”
+
+“By one word, ‘Wait.’ That evening we received from the queen, by a
+courier, a letter.”
+
+“A letter to you?”
+
+“Or rather a guarantee, in due form.”
+
+“Let me see it.”
+
+“Oh! we would with pleasure, but her majesty enjoins that it is not to
+be shown to any one.”
+
+“Then you are safe?”
+
+“Perfectly, monseigneur.”
+
+“The queen acknowledges the debt?”
+
+“Fully.”
+
+“And engages to pay?”
+
+“500,000 francs in three months, the rest in six;” and she adds, “let
+the affair rest between ourselves. You will have no cause to repent
+it.”
+
+“I am charmed that it is settled,” said the cardinal.
+
+We must now raise the veil, though, doubtless, our readers comprehend
+how Jeanne de la Motte had acted towards her benefactress, and how she
+had managed to satisfy both the queen and the jewelers by borrowing the
+pen of M. Reteau.
+
+Three months were thus obtained for the completion of her design of
+crime and deception, and within three months everything would be
+arranged.
+
+She went to M. de Rohan, and repeated to him what the jewelers had
+already told him.
+
+He asked if the queen remembered his good intentions. She drew a
+picture of her gratitude, which enchanted him.
+
+Her intention had been to sell some of the diamonds to the value of
+100,000 crowns, and then pass over to England, where, when necessary,
+she could dispose of the remainder. But her first essay frightened her;
+some offered despicably small sums for the stones, others went into
+raptures, declaring they had never seen such diamonds but in the
+necklace of MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.
+
+She abandoned this course, therefore, which she saw might soon bring
+about her ruin. She shut up the diamonds carefully, and resolved to
+wait. But her position was critical. A few words of explanation between
+the queen and the cardinal, and all would be discovered. She consoled
+herself by thinking that the cardinal was too much in love not to fall
+into all the snares she might lay for him.
+
+One thought alone occupied her—how to prevent their meeting. That he
+would not be long satisfied without an interview she knew—what should
+she do? Persuade him to ask for one, and offend the queen by his
+presumption?—but then the queen would speak her anger out, and all
+would come to light. She must compromise her, and endeavor so to close
+her lips. But if they met by chance, what remained for her but flight?
+That was easy; a few hours would suffice. Then, again, she thought of
+the name she would leave behind her, and bear with her; no longer a
+woman of rank, but a thief, whom justice only does not reach, because
+she is too far off. No, she would not fly, if she could help it. She
+would try what audacity and skill could do, remain here and act between
+them. “To prevent them from meeting—that is the difficulty, as he is in
+love, and a prince, who has a right to see the queen; and she is now
+grateful and will no longer fly from him; but if I excite him to too
+open an admiration and disgust her, I alienate them more than ever. She
+will take fire easily, but what I want is something to make the queen
+tremble as well as him; something which would give me power to say, ‘If
+you accuse me, I will accuse you and ruin you—leave me my wealth, and I
+will you your honor.’ This is what I must seek for, and what I must
+find.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXI.
+THE PRISONER.
+
+
+Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue St. Claude, where M.
+de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house, to keep her from the
+pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy:
+Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being
+protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return.
+Only what did he want? she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must
+have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he
+was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air in
+which we must confess poor Beausire now very rarely had a place.
+Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always
+eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her
+dreams, and playing the great lady. However, her books were soon read
+through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon
+wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the
+windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the
+attention of the passers-by; and her delightful promenades in the
+Quartier St. Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after
+her. True, the police-agents were formidable people, but what availed
+safety if she was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and
+then regretted Beausire.
+
+Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had
+been used to walk every day.
+
+One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected
+visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened
+the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed
+her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice,
+“Monsieur, I am ennuyée here.”
+
+“This is unlucky, my dear child.”
+
+“I shall die here.”
+
+“Really?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well,” said he, soothingly, “do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of
+police, who persecutes you.”
+
+“You exasperate me with your sang froid, monsieur; I would rather you
+flew in a passion.”
+
+“Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable,” said he, seating
+himself.
+
+“It is all very well for you to talk,” replied she; “you come and go as
+you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I
+vegetate in the space to which you have limited me, and your
+assistance, is useless to me if I am to die here.”
+
+“Die!” said the count, smiling.
+
+“You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately.”
+
+“M. Beausire?”
+
+“Yes, Beausire, I love him. I always told you so. Did you think I had
+forgotten him?”
+
+“So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him.”
+
+“Ah!”
+
+“He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not?”
+
+“Full of imagination and fire, rather rough toward me, but that is his
+way of showing his love.”
+
+“Therefore I wished to take you back to him.”
+
+“You did not wish that a month ago.”
+
+“No, but when I see how you love him.”
+
+“Ah! you are laughing at me.”
+
+“Oh, no, you have resisted all my advances so well.”
+
+“Yes, have I not?”
+
+“It was your love for him.”
+
+“But yours, then, was not very tenacious.”
+
+“No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor
+foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would
+always have preferred Beausire.”
+
+“Oh, but,” cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle
+so long, “this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of
+always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked; did that give
+you no hope?”
+
+Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her
+glances.
+
+“Let us return to Beausire,” she said, piqued at his indifference; “why
+have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is
+free——”
+
+“Because,” replied Cagliostro, “Beausire has too much imagination, and
+has also embroiled himself with the police.”
+
+“What has he done?”
+
+“Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but
+matter-of-fact people—and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can
+be—call it a theft.”
+
+“A theft!” cried Oliva, frightened. “Is he arrested?”
+
+“No, but he is pursued.”
+
+“And is he in danger?”
+
+“That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were
+together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled.”
+
+“Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave
+France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up
+here, I shall end by committing some imprudence.”
+
+“What do you call imprudence?”
+
+“Oh, just getting some fresh air.”
+
+“I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your
+beauty, and M. Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as
+much as you like.”
+
+“Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me.”
+
+“Offended me—how?”
+
+“Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your
+consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being
+rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, sir, I
+entreat;” and she put her arms round his neck.
+
+“Poor little thing,” said he, kissing her forehead; “do not be afraid;
+I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I
+should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments.
+Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so
+we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you.”
+
+Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended
+generosity of Cagliostro. “Oh, I shall say henceforth,” she cried,
+“that there are men superior to what I ever thought.”
+
+“All women are good,” thought Cagliostro, “if you only touch the right
+chord.—From this evening,” he said aloud, “you shall move to other
+rooms, where the windows look on Menilmontant and the Bellevue. You
+need not fear to show yourself to the neighbors; they are all honest,
+simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from
+the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At
+least you will have air and sunshine.”
+
+Oliva looked pleased.
+
+“Shall I conduct you there now?”
+
+“Oh, yes.”
+
+He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third
+story, and entered a room, completely furnished, and ready for
+occupation.
+
+“One would think it was prepared for me,” she said.
+
+“Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to
+sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your
+femme-de-chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour.” And he left
+the room.
+
+The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, “I understand
+nothing of all this.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXII.
+THE LOOK OUT.
+
+
+Oliva went to bed, and slept better. She admired the count, whom she
+did not in the least understand. She could no longer think him timid;
+she did not suspect that he was only cold and insensible. She felt
+pleased at the perfect safety in which he assured her she was; and in
+the morning she examined her new rooms, and found them nobly and
+luxuriously furnished, and enjoyed immensely her privilege of going out
+into the balcony, filled with flowers, and where she got sunshine and
+fresh air, although she drew back whenever she saw any one approaching,
+or heard a carriage coming. There were not many, however, in the Rue
+St. Claude. She could see the château of Menilmontant, the great trees
+in the cemetery, myriads of houses of all colors; and she could see the
+fields beyond, full of children at play, and the peasants trotting
+along the roads on their donkeys. All this charmed Oliva, who had
+always a heart of love for the country, since she had left Taverney
+Maison-Rouge. At last, getting tired of this distant view, she began to
+examine the houses opposite to her. In some, she saw birds in cages;
+and in one, hung with yellow silk curtains, and ornamented with
+flowers, she thought she could distinguish a figure moving about. She
+called her femme-de-chambre to make inquiries about them; but the woman
+could only show her mistress all the churches, and tell her the names
+of the streets; she knew nothing of the neighbors. Oliva therefore sent
+her away again, and determined to watch for herself.
+
+She saw some open their doors, and come out for a walk, and others
+variously occupied. At last she saw the figure of a woman seat herself
+in an armchair, in the room with the yellow curtains, and abandon her
+head for an hour and a half to a hair-dresser, while he built up one of
+those immense edifices worn at that time, in which minerals,
+vegetables, and even animals, were introduced. At last, it was
+complete: Oliva thought she looked pretty, and admired her little foot,
+encased in a rose-colored slipper, which rested on another chair. She
+began to construct all sorts of romances about this lady, and made
+various movements to attract her attention, but she never turned her
+eyes that way, as that room had never before been occupied, and she
+began to despair. The lady was, of course, Jeanne de Valois, who was
+deeply absorbed in devising some scheme for preventing the queen and
+the cardinal from meeting. At last, Oliva, turning suddenly round,
+knocked over a flower-pot which fell from the balcony with a crash: at
+the sound the lady turned and saw her, and clasping her hands she
+called out, “The Queen;” but looking again, she murmured, “Oh! I sought
+for a means to gain my end, and I have found one.” Then, hearing a
+sound behind her, Oliva turned and saw Cagliostro, and came in
+directly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIII.
+THE TWO NEIGHBORS.
+
+
+Cagliostro recommended her using the greatest circumspection, and,
+above all, not to make friends with her neighbors; but she did not feel
+disposed to relinquish the intercourse which she hoped for with her
+fair neighbor opposite. She, however, promised to obey him; but he was
+no sooner gone than she returned to her balcony, hoping to attract her
+attention again. Nor was she disappointed, for Jeanne, who was watching
+for her, acknowledged her with a bow and by kissing her hand. This went
+on for two days. Jeanne was ever ready to wave her a good morning, or
+an adieu when she went out.
+
+Cagliostro, at his next visit, informed Oliva that an unknown person
+had paid a visit to her hotel.
+
+“What do you mean?” cried Oliva.
+
+“A very pretty and elegant lady presented herself here, and asked the
+servant who inhabited this story, and wished to see you. I fear you are
+discovered; you must take care, the police have female spies as well as
+male, and I warn you, that if M. de Crosne claims you, I cannot refuse
+to give you up.”
+
+Oliva was not at all frightened, she recognized the portrait of her
+opposite neighbor, and felt delighted at this advance, but she
+dissembled with the count, and said, “Oh! I am not at all frightened;
+no one has seen me; she could not have meant me.”
+
+“But she said a lady in these rooms.”
+
+“Well, I will be more careful than ever, and, besides, this house is so
+impenetrable.”
+
+“Yes, without climbing the wall, which is not easy, or opening the
+little door with a key like mine, which I never lend, no one can come
+in, so I think you are safe.”
+
+Oliva overwhelmed the count with thanks and protestations, but at six
+o’clock the next morning she was out in the balcony. She had not long
+to wait before Jeanne appeared, who, after looking cautiously up and
+down the street, and observing that all the doors and windows were
+still closed, and that everything was quiet, called across, “I wish to
+pay you a visit, madame; is it impossible to see you?”
+
+“Alas, yes!” said Oliva.
+
+“Can I send a letter?”
+
+“Oh, no!”
+
+Jeanne, after a moment’s thought, left her balcony, but soon returned
+with a cross-bow, with which she shot a little wooden ball right
+through the open window of Oliva’s room.
+
+She picked it up and found wrapped round it the following note:
+
+“You interest me, beautiful lady. I find you charming, and love you
+only by having seen you. Are you a prisoner? I vainly tried to obtain
+admission to you. Does the enchanter who guards you never let any one
+approach you? Will you be my friend? If you cannot go out, you can at
+least write, and as I go out when I please, wait till you see me pass,
+and then throw out your answer. Tie a thread to your balcony, and
+attach your note to it; I will take it off and fasten mine on, and in
+the dark no one will observe us. If your eyes have not deceived me, I
+count on a return of my affection and esteem, and between us we will
+outwit any one.
+
+“Your Friend.”
+
+
+Oliva trembled with joy when she read this note. She replied as
+follows:
+
+“I love you as you love me. I am a victim of the wickedness and cruelty
+of men; but he who keeps me here is a protector and not a tyrant; he
+comes to see me nearly every day. I will explain all this some day;
+but, alas! I cannot go out; I am locked up. Oh! if I could but see you;
+there is so much we cannot write.
+
+“Your friend,
+
+“Oliva Legay.”
+
+
+Then, when evening came, she let the thread fall over the balcony.
+Jeanne, who was below, caught it, and half an hour afterwards attached
+to it the following answer:
+
+“You seem generally alone. How is your house secured—with a key? Who
+has this key? Could you not borrow or steal it? It would be no harm,
+but would procure you a few hours of liberty, or a few walks with a
+friend, who would console you for all your misfortune.”
+
+Oliva devoured this eagerly. She had remarked that when the count came
+in he put down his lantern and the key on a chiffonier. So she prepared
+some wax to take the impression of the key at his first visit. This she
+accomplished without his once turning to look at her, and as soon as he
+was gone, she put it into a little box, and lowered it to Jeanne, with
+a note.
+
+The next day she received the following answer:
+
+“My Dearest,
+
+“To-night, at eleven o’clock, you will descend and unlock the door,
+when you will find yourself in the arms of your faithful friend.”
+
+Oliva felt more charmed than with the most tender love-letter that she
+had ever received. At the appointed time she went down and met Jeanne,
+who embraced her tenderly, and made her get into a carriage that waited
+a little way off; they remained out two hours, and parted with kisses
+and protestations of affection. Jeanne learned the name of Oliva’s
+protector; she feared this man, and determined to preserve the most
+perfect mystery as to her plans. Oliva had confided everything to her
+about Beausire, the police, and all. Jeanne gave herself out for a
+young lady of rank, living here secretly, without the knowledge of her
+friends. One knew all, the other nothing. From this day, then, it was
+no longer necessary to throw out notes; Jeanne had her key, and carried
+off Oliva whenever she pleased. “M. de Cagliostro suspects nothing?”
+she often asked Oliva.
+
+“Oh! no,” she would reply; “I do not think he would believe it if I
+told him.”
+
+A week passed thus.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIV.
+THE RENDEZVOUS.
+
+
+When Charny arrived at his estates, the doctor ordered him to keep
+within doors, and not receive visitors; orders which he rigorously
+obeyed, to the great disappointment of all the young ladies in the
+neighborhood, who were most anxious to see this young man, reputed to
+be at once so brave and so handsome. His malady, however, was more
+mental than bodily; he was devoured by regrets, by longings, and by
+ennui; so, after a week, he set off one night on horseback, and, before
+the morning, was at Versailles. He found a little house there, outside
+the park, which had been empty for some time; it had been inhabited by
+one of the king’s huntsmen, who had cut his throat, and since then the
+place had been deserted. There Charny lived in profound solitude; but
+he could see the queen from afar when she walked in the park with her
+ladies, and when she went in again he could see her windows from his
+own, and watch her lights every evening until they disappeared; and he
+even fancied he could see her shadow pass before the window. One
+evening he had watched all this as usual, and after sitting two hours
+longer at his window, was preparing to go to bed, for midnight was
+striking from a neighboring clock, when the sound of a key turning in a
+lock arrested his attention. It was that of a little door leading into
+the park, only twenty paces from his cottage, and which was never used,
+except sometimes on hunting-days. Whoever it was that entered did not
+speak, but closed it again quietly, and entered an avenue under his
+windows. At first Charny could not distinguish them through the thick
+wood, though he could hear the rustling of dresses; but as they emerged
+into an open space, and bright moonlight, he almost uttered a cry of
+joy in recognizing the tournure of Marie Antoinette, and a glimpse of
+her face; she held in her hand a beautiful rose. Stifling his emotion,
+he stepped down as quietly as possible into the park, and hid behind a
+clump of trees, where he could see her better. “Oh!” thought he, “were
+she but alone, I would brave tortures, or death itself, that I might
+once fall on my knees before her, and tell her, ‘I love you!’” Oh, were
+she but menaced by some danger, how gladly would he have risked his
+life to save hers. Suddenly the two ladies stopped, and the shortest,
+after saying a few words to her companion in a low voice, left her. The
+queen, therefore, remained alone, and Charny felt inclined to run
+towards her; but he reflected that the moment she saw him she would
+take fright, and call out, and that her cries would first bring back
+her companion, and then the guards; that his retreat would be
+discovered, and he should be forced to leave it. In a few minutes the
+other lady reappeared, but not alone. Behind her came a man muffled up
+in a large cloak, and whose face was concealed by a slouch hat.
+
+This man advanced with an uncertain and hesitating step to where the
+queen stood, when he took off his hat and made a low bow. The surprise
+which Charny felt at first soon changed into a more painful feeling.
+Why was the queen in the park at this time of night? Who was this man
+who was waiting for her, and whom she had sent her companion to fetch?
+Then he remembered that the queen often occupied herself with foreign
+politics, much to the annoyance of the king. Was this a secret
+messenger from Schoenbrunn, or from Berlin? This idea restored him to
+some degree of composure. The queen’s companion stood a few steps off,
+anxiously watching lest they should be seen; but it was as necessary to
+guard against spies in a secret political rendezvous as in one of love.
+After a short time Charny saw the gentleman bow to the ground, and turn
+to leave, when the companion of the queen said to him, “Stop.” He
+stopped, and the two ladies passed close to Charny, who could even
+recognize the queen’s favorite scent, vervain, mixed with mignonette.
+They passed on, and disappeared. A few moments after the gentleman
+passed; he held in his hand a rose, which he pressed passionately to
+his lips. Did this look political? Charny’s head turned; he felt a
+strong impulse to rush on this man and tear the flower from him, when
+the queen’s companion reappeared, and said, “Come, monseigneur.” He
+joined her quickly, and they went away. Charny remained in a distracted
+state, leaning against the tree.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXV.
+THE QUEEN’S HAND.
+
+
+When Charny reentered the house, he felt overwhelmed by what he had
+seen—that he should have discovered this retreat, which he had thought
+so precious, only to be the witness of a crime, committed by the queen
+against her conjugal duty and royal dignity. This man must be a lover;
+in vain did he try to persuade himself that the rose was the pledge of
+some political compact, given instead of a letter, which might have
+been too compromising. The passionate kiss which he had seen imprinted
+on it forbade this supposition. These thoughts haunted him all night
+and all the next day, through which he waited with a feverish
+impatience, fearing the new revelations which the night might bring
+forth. He saw her taking her ordinary walk with her ladies, then
+watched the lights extinguished one by one, and he waited nervously for
+the stroke of midnight, the hour of the rendezvous of the preceding
+night. It struck, and no one had appeared. He then wondered how he
+could have expected it; she surely would not repeat the same imprudence
+two nights following. But as these thoughts passed through his mind, he
+heard the key turn again and saw the door open. Charny grew deadly pale
+when he recognized the same two figures enter the park. “Oh, it is too
+much,” he said to himself, and then repeated his movements of the night
+before, swearing that, whatever happened, he would restrain himself,
+and remember that she was his queen. All passed exactly as the night
+before: the confidante left and returned with the same man; only this
+time, instead of advancing with his former timid respect, he almost ran
+up to the queen, and kneeled down before her. Charny could not hear
+what he said, but he seemed to speak with passionate energy. She did
+not reply, but stood in a pensive attitude; then he spoke again, and at
+last she said a few words, in a low voice, when the unknown cried out,
+in a loud voice, so that Charny could hear, “Oh! thanks, your majesty,
+till to-morrow, then.” The queen drew her hood still more over her
+face, and held out both her hands to the unknown, who imprinted on them
+a kiss so long and tender that Charny gnashed his teeth with rage. The
+queen then took the arm of her companion and walked quickly away; the
+unknown passed also. Charny remained in a state of fury not to be
+described; he ran about the park like a madman: at last he began to
+wonder where this man came from; he traced his steps to the door behind
+the baths of Apollo. He comes not from Versailles, but from Paris,
+thought Charny, and to-morrow he will return, for he said, “to-morrow.”
+Till then let me devour my tears in silence, but to-morrow shall be the
+last day of my life, for we will be four at the rendezvous.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVI.
+WOMAN AND QUEEN.
+
+
+The next night the door opened at the same time, and the two ladies
+appeared. Charny had taken his resolution—he would find out who this
+lover was; but when he entered the avenue he could see no one—they had
+entered the baths of Apollo. He walked towards the door, and saw the
+confidante, who waited outside. The queen, then, was in there alone
+with her lover; it was too much. Charny was about to seize this woman,
+and force her to tell him everything; but the rage and emotion he had
+endured were too much for him—a mist passed over his eyes, internal
+bleeding commenced, and he fainted. When he came to himself again, the
+clock was striking two, the place was deserted, and there was no trace
+of what had passed there. He went home, and passed a night almost of
+delirium. The next morning he arose, pale as death, and went towards
+the Castle of Trianon just as the queen was leaving the chapel. All
+heads were respectfully lowered as she passed. She was looking
+beautiful, and when she saw Charny she colored, and uttered an
+exclamation of surprise.
+
+“I thought you were in the country, M. de Charny,” she said.
+
+“I have returned, madame,” said he, in a brusque and almost rude tone.
+
+She looked at him in surprise; then, turning to the ladies, “Good
+morning, countess,” she said to Madame de la Motte, who stood near.
+
+Charny started as he caught sight of her, and looked at her almost
+wildly. “He has not quite recovered his reason,” thought the queen,
+observing his strange manner. Then, turning to him again, “How are you
+now, M. de Charny?” said she, in a kind voice.
+
+“Very well, madame.”
+
+She looked surprised again; then said:
+
+“Where are you living?”
+
+“At Versailles, madame.”
+
+“Since when?”
+
+“For three nights,” replied he, in a marked manner.
+
+The queen manifested no emotion, but Jeanne trembled.
+
+“Have you not something to say to me?” asked the queen again, with
+kindness.
+
+“Oh, madame, I should have too much to say to your majesty.”
+
+“Come,” said she, and she walked towards her apartments; but to avoid
+the appearance of a tête-à-tête, she invited several ladies to follow
+her. Jeanne, unquiet, placed herself among them; but when they arrived,
+she dismissed Madame de Misery, and the other ladies, understanding
+that she wished to be alone, left her. Charny stood before her.
+
+“Speak,” said the queen; “you appear troubled, sir.”
+
+“How can I begin?” said Charny, thinking aloud; “how can I dare to
+accuse honor and majesty?”
+
+“Sir!” cried Marie Antoinette, with a flaming look.
+
+“And yet I should only say what I have seen.”
+
+The queen rose. “Sir,” said she, “it is very early in the morning for
+me to think you intoxicated, but I can find no other solution for this
+conduct.”
+
+Charny, unmoved, continued, “After all, what is a queen?—a woman. And
+am I not a man as well as a subject?”
+
+“Monsieur!”
+
+“Madame, anger is out of place now. I believe I have formerly proved
+that I had respect for your royal dignity. I fear I proved that I had
+an insane love for yourself. Choose, therefore, to whom I shall speak.
+Is it to the queen, or the woman, that I shall address my accusation of
+dishonor and shame?”
+
+“Monsieur de Charny,” cried the queen, growing pale, “if you do not
+leave this room, I must have you turned out by my guards!”
+
+“But I will tell you first,” cried he, passionately, “why I call you an
+unworthy queen and woman! I have been in the park these three nights!”
+
+Instead of seeing her tremble, as he believed she would on hearing
+these words, the queen rose, and, approaching him, said, “M. de Charny,
+your state excites my pity. Your hands tremble, you grow pale; you are
+suffering. Shall I call for help?”
+
+“I saw you!” cried he again; “saw you with that man to whom you gave
+the rose! saw you when he kissed your hands! saw you when you entered
+the baths of Apollo with him!”
+
+The queen passed her hands over her eyes, as if to make sure that she
+was not dreaming.
+
+“Sit down,” said she, “or you will fall.”
+
+Charny, indeed, unable to keep up, fell upon the sofa.
+
+She sat down by him. “Be calm,” said she, “and repeat what you have
+just said.”
+
+“Do you want to kill me?” he murmured.
+
+“Then let me question,” she said. “How long have you returned from the
+country?”
+
+“A fortnight.”
+
+“Where do you live?”
+
+“In the huntsman’s house, which I have hired.”
+
+“At the end of the park?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You speak of some one whom you saw with me.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In the park.”
+
+“When?”
+
+“At midnight. Tuesday, for the first time, I saw you and your
+companion.”
+
+“Oh, I had a companion! Do you know her also?”
+
+“I thought just now I recognized her, but I could not be positive,
+because it was only the figure—she always hid her face, like all who
+commit crimes.”
+
+“And this person to whom you say I gave a rose?”
+
+“I have never been able to meet him.”
+
+“You do not know him, then?”
+
+“Only that he is called monseigneur.”
+
+The queen stamped her foot.
+
+“Go on!” said she. “Tuesday I gave him a rose——”
+
+“Wednesday you gave him your hands to kiss, and yesterday you went
+alone with him into the baths of Apollo, while your companion waited
+outside.”
+
+“And you saw me?” said she, rising.
+
+He lifted his hands to heaven, and cried, “I swear it!”
+
+“Oh, he swears!”
+
+“Yes. On Tuesday you wore your green dress, moirée, with gold;
+Wednesday, the dress with great blue and brown leaves; and yesterday,
+the same dress that you wore when I last kissed your hand. Oh, madame,
+I am ready to die with grief and shame while I repeat that, on my life,
+my honor, it was really you!”
+
+“What can I say?” cried the queen dreadfully agitated. “If I swore, he
+would not believe me.”
+
+Charny shook his head.
+
+“Madman!” cried she, “thus to accuse your queen—to dishonor thus an
+innocent woman! Do you believe me when I swear, by all I hold sacred,
+that I was not in the park on either of those days after four o’clock?
+Do you wish it to be proved by my women—by the king? No; he does not
+believe me.”
+
+“I saw you,” replied he.
+
+“Oh, I know!” she cried. “Did they not see me at the ball at the Opera,
+at Mesmer’s, scandalizing the crowd? You know it—you, who fought for
+me!”
+
+“Madame, then I fought because I did not believe it; now I might fight,
+but I believe.”
+
+The queen raised her arms to heaven, while burning tears rolled down
+her cheeks.
+
+“My God,” she cried, “send me some thought which will save me! I do not
+wish this man to despise me.”
+
+Charny, moved to the heart, hid his face in his hands.
+
+Then, after a moment’s silence, the queen continued:
+
+“Sir, you owe me reparation. I exact this from you. You say you have
+seen me three nights with a man; I have been already injured through
+the resemblance to me of some woman, I know not whom, but who is like
+her unhappy queen; but you are pleased to think it was me. Well, I will
+go with you into the park; and if she appears again, you will be
+satisfied? Perhaps we shall see her together; then, sir, you will
+regret the suffering you have caused me.”
+
+Charny pressed his hands to his heart.
+
+“Oh, madame, you overwhelm me with your kindness!”
+
+“I wish to overwhelm you with proofs. Not a word, to any one, but this
+evening, at ten o’clock, wait alone at the door of the park. Now go,
+sir.”
+
+Charny kneeled, and went away without a word.
+
+Jeanne, who was waiting in the ante-chamber, examined him attentively
+as he came out. She was soon after summoned to the queen.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVII.
+WOMAN AND DEMON.
+
+
+Jeanne had remarked the trouble of Charny, the solicitude of the queen,
+and the eagerness of both for a conversation.
+
+After what we have already told of the meetings between Jeanne and
+Oliva, our readers will have been at no loss to understand the scenes
+in the park. Jeanne, when she came in to the queen, watched her
+closely, hoping to gather something from her; but Marie Antoinette was
+beginning to learn caution, and she guarded herself carefully. Jeanne
+was, therefore, reduced to conjectures. She had already ordered one of
+her footmen to follow M. de Charny; the man reported that he had gone
+into a house at the end of the park.
+
+“There is, then, no more doubt,” thought Jeanne; “it is a lover who has
+seen everything, it is clear. I should be a fool not to understand. I
+must undo what I have done.”
+
+On leaving Versailles, she drove to the Rue St. Claude; there she found
+a superb present of plate, sent to her by the cardinal. She then drove
+to his house, and found him radiant with joy and pride. On her entrance
+he ran to meet her, calling her “Dear countess,” and full of
+protestations and gratitude.
+
+“Thank you also, for your charming present. You are more than a happy
+man; you are a triumphant victor.”
+
+“Countess, it frightens me; it is too much.”
+
+Jeanne smiled.
+
+“You come from Versailles?” continued he.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You have seen her?”
+
+“I have just left her.”
+
+“And she said nothing?”
+
+“What do you expect that she said?”
+
+“Oh, I am insatiable.”
+
+“Well, you had better not ask.”
+
+“You frighten me. Is anything wrong? Have I come to the height of my
+happiness, and is the descent to begin?”
+
+“You are very fortunate not to have been discovered.”
+
+“Oh! with precautions, and the intelligence of two hearts and one
+mind——”
+
+“That will not prevent eyes seeing through the trees.”
+
+“We have been seen?”
+
+“I fear so.”
+
+“And recognized?”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, if you had been—if this secret had been known to any
+one, Jeanne de Valois would be out of the kingdom, and you would be
+dead.”
+
+“True; but tell me quickly. They have seen people walking in the park;
+is there any harm in that?”
+
+“Ask the king.”
+
+“The king knows?”
+
+“I repeat to you, if the king knew, you would be in the Bastile. But I
+advise you not to tempt Providence again.”
+
+“What do you mean, dear countess?”
+
+“Do you not understand?”
+
+“I fear to understand,” he replied.
+
+“I shall fear, if you do not promise to go no more to Versailles.”
+
+“By day?”
+
+“Or by night.”
+
+“Impossible!”
+
+“Why so, monseigneur?”
+
+“Because I have in my heart a love which will end only with my life.”
+
+“So I perceive,” replied she, ironically; “and it is to arrive more
+quickly at this result that you persist in returning to the park; for
+most assuredly, if you do, your love and your life will end together.”
+
+“Oh, countess, how fearful you are—you who were so brave yesterday!”
+
+“I am always brave when there is no danger.”
+
+“But I have the bravery of my race, and am happier in the presence of
+danger.”
+
+“But permit me to tell you——”
+
+“No, countess, the die is cast. Death, if it comes; but first, love. I
+shall return to Versailles.”
+
+“Alone, then.”
+
+“You abandon me?”
+
+“And not I alone.”
+
+“She will come?”
+
+“You deceive yourself; she will not come.”
+
+“Is that what you were sent to tell me?”
+
+“It is what I have been preparing you for.”
+
+“She will see me no more?”
+
+“Never; and it is I who have counseled it.”
+
+“Madame, do not plunge the knife into my heart!” cried he, in a doleful
+voice.
+
+“It would be much more cruel, monseigneur, to let two foolish people
+destroy themselves for want of a little good advice.”
+
+“Countess, I would rather die.”
+
+“As regards yourself, that is easy; but, subject, you dare not dethrone
+your queen; man, you will not destroy a woman.”
+
+“But confess that you do not come in her name, that she does not throw
+me off.”
+
+“I speak in her name.”
+
+“It is only a delay she asks?”
+
+“Take it as you wish; but obey her orders.”
+
+“The park is not the only place of meeting. There are a hundred safer
+spots—the queen can come to you, for instance.”
+
+“Monseigneur, not a word more. The weight of your secret is too much
+for me, and I believe her capable, in a fit of remorse, of confessing
+all to the king.”
+
+“Good God! impossible.”
+
+“If you saw her, you would pity her.”
+
+“What can I do then?”
+
+“Insure your safety by your silence.”
+
+“But she will think I have forgotten her, and accuse me of being a
+coward.”
+
+“To save her.”
+
+“Can a woman forgive him who abandons her?”
+
+“Do not judge her like others.”
+
+“I believe her great and strong. I love her for her courage and her
+noble heart. She may count on me, as I do on her. Once more I will see
+her, lay bare my heart to her; and whatever she then commands, I will
+sacredly obey.”
+
+Jeanne rose. “Go, then,” said she, “but go alone. I have thrown the key
+of the park into the river. You can go to Versailles—I shall go to
+Switzerland or Holland. The further off I am when the shell bursts the
+better.”
+
+“Countess, you abandon me. With whom shall I talk of her?”
+
+“Oh! you have the park and the echoes. You can teach them her name!”
+
+“Countess, pity me; I am in despair.”
+
+“Well, but do not act in so childish and dangerous a manner. If you
+love her so much, guard her name, and if you are not totally without
+gratitude, do not involve in your own ruin those who have served you
+through friendship. Swear to me not to attempt to see or speak to her
+for a fortnight, and I will remain, and may yet be of service to you.
+But if you decide to brave all, I shall leave at once, and you must
+extricate yourself as you can.”
+
+“It is dreadful,” murmured the cardinal; “the fall from so much
+happiness is overwhelming. I shall die of it.”
+
+“Suffering is always the consequence of love. Come, monseigneur,
+decide. Am I to remain here, or start for Lausanne?”
+
+“Remain, countess.”
+
+“You swear to obey me.”
+
+“On the faith of a Rohan.”
+
+“Good. Well, then, I forbid interviews, but not letters.”
+
+“Really! I may write?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And she will answer.”
+
+“Try.”
+
+The cardinal kissed Jeanne’s hand again, and called her his guardian
+angel. The demon within her must have laughed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVIII.
+THE NIGHT.
+
+
+That day, at four o’clock, a man on horseback stopped in the outskirts
+of the park, just behind the baths of Apollo, where M. de Rohan used to
+wait. He got off, and looked at the places where the grass had been
+trodden down. “Here are the traces,” thought he; “it is as I supposed.
+M. de Charny has returned for a fortnight, and this is where he enters
+the park.” And he sighed. “Leave him to his happiness. God gives to
+one, and denies to another. But I will have proof to-night. I will hide
+in the bushes, and see what happens.”
+
+As for Charny, obedient to the queen’s commands, he waited for orders;
+but it was half-past ten, and no one appeared. He waited with impatient
+anxiety. Then he began to think she had deceived him, and had promised
+what she did not mean to perform. “How could I be so foolish—I, who saw
+her—to be taken in by her words and promises!” At last he saw a figure
+approaching, wrapped in a large black mantle, and he uttered a cry of
+joy, for he recognized the queen. He ran to her, and fell at her feet.
+
+“Ah, here you are, sir! it is well.”
+
+“Ah, madame! I scarcely hoped you were coming.”
+
+“Have you your sword?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Where do you say those people came in?”
+
+“By this door.”
+
+“At what time?”
+
+“At midnight each time.”
+
+“There is no reason why they should not come again to-night. You have
+not spoken to any one.”
+
+“To no one.”
+
+“Come into the thick wood, and let us watch, I have not spoken of this
+to M. de Crosne. I have already mentioned this creature to him, and if
+she be not arrested, he is either incapable, or in league with my
+enemies. It seems incredible that any one should dare to play such
+tricks under my eyes, unless they were sure of impunity. Therefore, I
+think it is time to take the care of my reputation on myself. What do
+you think?”
+
+“Oh, madame! allow me to be silent! I am ashamed of all I have said.”
+
+“At least you are an honest man,” replied the queen, “and speak to the
+accused face to face. You do not stab in the dark.”
+
+“Oh, madame, it is eleven o’clock! I tremble.”
+
+“Look about, that no one is here.”
+
+Charny obeyed.
+
+“No one,” said he.
+
+“Where did the scenes pass that you have described?”
+
+“Oh, madame! I had a shock when I returned to you; for she stood just
+where you are at this moment.”
+
+“Here!” cried the queen, leaving the place with disgust.
+
+“Yes, madame; under the chestnut tree.”
+
+“Then, sir, let us move, for they will most likely come here again.”
+
+He followed the queen to a different place. She, silent and proud,
+waited for the proof of her innocence to appear. Midnight struck. The
+door did not open. Half an hour passed, during which the queen asked
+ten times if they had always been punctual.
+
+Three-quarters struck—the queen stamped with impatience. “They will not
+come,” she cried; “these misfortunes only happen to me;” and she looked
+at Charny, ready to quarrel with him, if she saw any expression of
+triumph or irony: but he, as his suspicions began to return, grew so
+pale and looked so melancholy, that he was like the figure of a martyr.
+
+At last she took his arm, and led him under the chestnut tree. “You
+say,” she murmured, “that it was here you saw her?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“Here that she gave the rose?” And the queen, fatigued and wearied with
+waiting and disappointment leaned against the tree, and covered her
+face with her hands, but Charny could see the tears stealing through.
+At last she raised her head:
+
+“Sir,” said she, “I am condemned. I promised to prove to you to-day
+that I was calumniated; God does not permit it, and I submit. I have
+done what no other woman, not to say queen, would have done. What a
+queen! who cannot reign over one heart, who cannot obtain the esteem of
+one honest man. Come, sir, give me your arm, if you do not despise me
+too much.”
+
+“Oh, madame!” cried he, falling at her feet, “if I were only an unhappy
+man who loves you, could you not pardon me?”
+
+“You!” cried she, with a bitter laugh, “you love me! and believe me
+infamous!”
+
+“Oh, madame!”
+
+“You accuse me of giving roses, kisses, and love. No, sir, no
+falsehoods! you do not love me.”
+
+“Madame, I saw these phantoms. Pity me, for I am on the rack.”
+
+She took his hands. “Yes, you saw, and you think it was I. Well, if
+here under this same tree, you at my feet, I press your hands, and say
+to you, ‘M, de Charny, I love you, I have loved, and shall love no one
+else in this world, may God pardon me’—will that convince you? Will you
+believe me then?” As she spoke, she came so close to him that he felt
+her breath on his lips. “Oh!” cried Charny, “now I am ready to die.”
+
+“Give me your arm,” said she, “and teach me where they went, and where
+she gave the rose,”—and she took from her bosom a rose and held it to
+him. He took it and pressed it to his heart.
+
+“Then,” continued she, “the other gave him her hand to kiss.”
+
+“Both her hands,” cried Charny, pressing his burning lips passionately
+on hers.
+
+“Now they visited, the baths—so will we; follow me to the place.” He
+followed her, like a man in a strange, happy dream. They looked all
+round, then opened the door, and walked through. Then they came out
+again: two o’clock struck. “Adieu,” said she; “go home until
+to-morrow.” And she walked away quickly towards the château.
+
+When they were gone, a man rose from among the bushes. He had heard and
+seen all.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIX.
+THE CONGÉ.
+
+
+The queen went to mass the next day, which was Sunday, smiling and
+beautiful. When she woke in the morning she said, “It is a lovely day,
+it makes me happy only to live.” She seemed full of joy, and was
+generous and gracious to every one. The road was lined as usual on her
+return with ladies and gentlemen. Among them were Madame de la Motte
+and M. de Charny, who was complimented by many friends on his return,
+and on his radiant looks. Glancing round, he saw Philippe standing near
+him, whom he had not seen since the day of the duel.
+
+“Gentlemen,” said Charny, passing through the crowd, “allow me to
+fulfil an act of politeness;” and, advancing towards Philippe, he said,
+“Allow me, M. de Taverney, to thank you now for the interest you have
+taken in my health. I shall have the honor to pay you a visit
+to-morrow. I trust you preserve no enmity towards me.”
+
+“None, sir,” replied Philippe.
+
+Charny held out his hand, but Philippe, without seeming to notice it,
+said, “Here comes the queen, sir.” As she approached, she fixed her
+looks on Charny with that rash openness which she always showed in her
+affections, while she said to several gentlemen who were pressing round
+her, “Ask me what you please, gentlemen, for to-day I can refuse
+nothing.” A voice said, “Madame.” She turned, and saw Philippe, and
+thus found herself between two men, of whom she almost reproached
+herself with loving one too much and the other too little.
+
+“M. de Taverney, you have something to ask me; pray speak——”
+
+“Only ten minutes’ audience at your majesty’s leisure,” replied he,
+with grave solemnity.
+
+“Immediately, sir—follow me.” A quarter of an hour after, Philippe was
+introduced into the library, where the queen waited for him.
+
+“Ah! M. de Taverney, enter,” said she in a gay tone, “and do not look
+so sorrowful. Do you know I feel rather frightened whenever a Taverney
+asks for an audience. Reassure me quickly, and tell me that you are not
+come to announce a misfortune.”
+
+“Madame, this time I only bring you good news.”
+
+“Oh! some news.”
+
+“Alas, yes, your majesty.”
+
+“There! an ‘alas’ again.”
+
+“Madame, I am about to assure your majesty that you need never again
+fear to be saddened by the sight of a Taverney; for, madame, the last
+of this family, to whom you once deigned to show some kindness, is
+about to leave the court of France forever.”
+
+The queen, dropping her gay tone, said, “You leave us?”
+
+“Yes, your majesty.”
+
+“You also!”
+
+Philippe bowed. “My sister, madame, has already had that grief; I am
+much more useless to your majesty.”
+
+The queen started as she remembered that Andrée had asked for her congé
+on the day following her first visit to Charny in the doctor’s
+apartments. “It is strange,” she murmured, as Philippe remained
+motionless as a statue, waiting his dismissal. At last she said
+abruptly, “Where are you going?”
+
+“To join M. de la Pérouse, madame.”
+
+“He is at Newfoundland.”
+
+“I have prepared to join him there.”
+
+“Do you know that a frightful death has been predicted for him?”
+
+“A speedy one,” replied Philippe; “that is not necessarily a frightful
+one.”
+
+“And you are really going?”
+
+“Yes, madame, to share his fate.”
+
+The queen was silent for a time, and then said, “Why do you go?”
+
+“Because I am anxious to travel.”
+
+“But you have already made the tour of the world.”
+
+“Of the New World, madame, but not of the Old.”
+
+“A race of iron, with hearts of steel, are you Taverneys. You and your
+sister are terrible people—you go not for the sake of traveling, but to
+leave me. Your sister said she was called by religions duty; it was a
+pretext. However, she wished to go, and she went. May she be happy! You
+might be happy here, but you also wish to go away.”
+
+“Spare us, I pray you, madame; if you could read our hearts, you would
+find them full of unlimited devotion towards you.”
+
+“Oh!” cried the queen, “you are too exacting; she takes the world for a
+heaven, where one should only live as a saint; you look upon it as a
+hell—and both fly from it; she because she finds what she does not
+seek, and you because you do not find what you do seek. Am I not right?
+Ah! M. de Taverney, allow human beings to be imperfect, and do not
+expect royalty to be superhuman. Be more tolerant, or, rather, less
+egotistical.” She spoke earnestly, and continued: “All I know is, that
+I loved Andrée, and that she left me; that I valued you, and you are
+about to do the same. It is humiliating to see two such people abandon
+my court.”
+
+“Nothing can humiliate persons like your majesty. Shame does not reach
+those placed so high.”
+
+“What has wounded you?” asked the queen.
+
+“Nothing, madame.”
+
+“Your rank has been raised, your fortune was progressing.”
+
+“I can but repeat to your majesty that the court does not please me.”
+
+“And if I ordered you to stay here?”
+
+“I should have the grief of disobeying your majesty.”
+
+“Oh! I know,” cried she impatiently, “you bear malice; you quarreled
+with a gentleman here, M. de Charny, and wounded him; and because you
+see him returned to-day, you are jealous, and wish to leave.”
+
+Philippe turned pale, but replied, “Madame, I saw him sooner than you
+imagine, for I met him at two o’clock this morning by the baths of
+Apollo.”
+
+It was now the queen’s time to grow pale, but she felt a kind of
+admiration for one who had retained so much courtesy and self-command
+in the midst of his anger and grief. “Go,” murmured she at length, in a
+faint voice, “I will keep you no longer.”
+
+Philippe bowed, and left the room, while the queen sank, terrified and
+overwhelmed, on the sofa.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXX.
+THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL.
+
+
+The cardinal passed three nights very different to those when he went
+to the park, and which he constantly lived over again in his memory. No
+news of any one, no hope of a visit; nothing but a dead silence, and
+perfect darkness, after such brightness and happiness. He began to fear
+that, after all, his sacrifice had been displeasing to the queen. His
+uneasiness became insupportable. He sent ten times in one day to Madame
+de la Motte: the tenth messenger brought Jeanne to him. On seeing her
+he cried out, “How! you live so tranquilly; you know my anxiety, and
+you, my friend, never come near me.”
+
+“Oh, monseigneur, patience, I beg. I have been far more useful to you
+at Versailles than I could have been here.”
+
+“Tell me,” replied he, “what does she say? Is she less cruel?”
+
+“Absence is equal pain, whether borne at Versailles or at Paris.”
+
+“Oh, I thank you, but the proofs——”
+
+“Proofs! Are you in your senses, monseigneur, to ask a woman for proofs
+of her own infidelity?”
+
+“I am not speaking of proofs for a lawsuit, countess, only a token of
+love.”
+
+“It seems to me that you are either very exacting or very forgetful.”
+
+“Oh! I know you will tell me that I might be more than satisfied. But
+judge by yourself, countess; would you like to be thrown on one side,
+after having received assurances of favor?”
+
+“Assurances!”
+
+“Oh, certainly, I have nothing to complain of, but still——”
+
+“I cannot be answerable for unreasonable discontents.”
+
+“Countess, you treat me ill. Instead of reproaching me for my folly,
+you should try to aid me.”
+
+“I cannot aid you. I see nothing to do.”
+
+“Nothing to do?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, madame, I do not say the same.”
+
+“Ah, monseigneur, anger will not help you; and besides, you are
+unjust.”
+
+“No, countess; if you do not assist me any longer, I know it is because
+you cannot. Only tell me the truth at once.”
+
+“What truth?”
+
+“That the queen is a perfidious coquette, who makes people adore her,
+and then drives them to despair.”
+
+Jeanne looked at him with an air of surprise, although she had expected
+him to arrive at this state, and she felt really pleased, for she
+thought that it would help her out of her difficult position. “Explain
+yourself,” she said.
+
+“Confess that the queen refuses to see me.”
+
+“I do not say so, monseigneur.”
+
+“She wishes to keep me away lest I should rouse the suspicions of some
+other lover.”
+
+“Ah, monseigneur!” cried Jeanne in a tone which gave him liberty to
+suspect anything.
+
+“Listen,” continued he; “the last time I saw her, I thought I heard
+steps in the wood——”
+
+“Folly!”
+
+“And I suspect——”
+
+“Say no more, monseigneur. It is an insult to the queen; besides, even
+if it were true that she fears the surveillance of another lover, why
+should you reproach her with a past which she has sacrificed to you?”
+
+“But if this past be again a present, and about to be a future?”
+
+“Fie, monseigneur, your suspicions are offensive both to the queen and
+to me.”
+
+“Then, countess, bring me a proof—does she love me at all?”
+
+“It is very simple,” replied Jeanne, pointing to his writing table, “to
+ask her.”
+
+“You will give her a note?”
+
+“Who else would, if not I?”
+
+“And you will bring me an answer?”
+
+“If possible.”
+
+“Ah! now you are a good creature, countess.”
+
+He sat down, but though he was an eloquent writer, he commenced and
+destroyed a dozen sheets of paper before he satisfied himself.
+
+“If you go on so, you will never have done,” said Jeanne.
+
+“You see, countess, I fear my own tenderness, lest I displease the
+queen.”
+
+“Oh,” replied Jeanne, “if you write a business letter, you will get one
+in reply. That is your own affair.”
+
+“You are right, countess; you always see what is best.” He then wrote a
+letter, so full of loving reproaches and ardent protestations, that
+Jeanne, when he gave it to her to read, thought, “He has written of his
+own accord what I never should have dared to dictate.”
+
+“Will it do?” asked he.
+
+“If she loves you. You will see to-morrow: till then be quiet.”
+
+“Till to-morrow, then.”
+
+On her return home Jeanne gave way to her reflections. This letter was
+just what she wanted. How could the cardinal ever accuse her, when he
+was called on to pay for the necklace? Even admitting that the queen
+and cardinal met, and that everything was explained, how could they
+turn against her while she held in her hands such proofs of a
+scandalous secret? No, they must let her go quietly off with her
+fortune of a million and a half of francs. They would know she had
+stolen the diamonds, but they never would publish all this affair; and
+if one letter was not enough, she would have seven or eight. The first
+explosion would come from the jewelers, who would claim their money.
+Then she must confess to M. de Rohan, and make him pay by threatening
+to publish his letters. Surely they would purchase the honor of a queen
+and a prince at the price of a million and a half! The jewelers once
+paid, that question was at an end; Jeanne felt sure of her fortune. She
+knew that the cardinal had a conviction so firm that nothing could
+shake it, that he had met the queen. There was but one living witness
+against her, and that one she would soon cause to disappear. Arrived at
+this point, she went to the window and saw Oliva, who was watching in
+her balcony. She made the accustomed sign for her to come down, and
+Oliva replied joyfully. The great thing now was to get rid of her. To
+destroy the instrument that has served them is the constant endeavor of
+those who intrigue; but here it is that they generally fail; they do
+not succeed in doing so before there has been time to disclose the
+secret. Jeanne knew that Oliva would not be easy to get rid of, unless
+she could think of something that would induce her to fly willingly.
+Oliva, on her part, much as she enjoyed her nocturnal promenades at
+first, after so much confinement, was already beginning to weary of
+them, and to sigh once more for liberty and Beausire.
+
+The night came, and they went out together; Oliva disguised under a
+large cloak and hood, and Jeanne dressed as a grisette; besides which
+the carriage bore the respectable arms of Valois, which prevented the
+police, who alone might have recognized Oliva, from searching it.
+
+“Oh! I have been so ennuyée,” cried Oliva, “I have been expecting you
+so long.”
+
+“It was impossible to come and see you, I should have run, and made you
+run, a great danger.”
+
+“How so?” said Oliva, astonished.
+
+“A terrible danger at which I still tremble. You know how ennuyée you
+were, and how much you wished to go out.”
+
+“Yes; and you assisted me like a friend.”
+
+“Certainly; I proposed that we should have some amusement with that
+officer who is rather mad, and in love with the queen, whom you
+resemble a little; and endeavor to persuade him that it was the queen
+he was walking with.”
+
+“Yes,” said Oliva.
+
+“The first two nights you walked in the park, and you played your part
+to perfection; he was quite taken in.”
+
+“Yes,” said Oliva, “but it was almost a pity to deceive him, poor
+fellow, he was so delightful.”
+
+“Yes, but the evil is not there. To give a man a rose, to let him kiss
+your hands, and call you ‘your majesty,’ was all good fun; but, my
+little Oliva, it seems you did not stop here.”
+
+Oliva colored.
+
+“How?” stammered she.
+
+“There was a third interview.”
+
+“Yes,” replied Oliva, hastily, “you know, for you were there.”
+
+“Excuse me, dear friend; I was there, but at a distance. I neither saw
+nor heard what passed within, I only know what you told me, that he
+talked and kissed your hands.”
+
+“Oh, mon Dieu!” murmured Oliva.
+
+“You surely could not have exposed us both to such a terrible danger
+without telling me of it.”
+
+Oliva trembled from head to foot.
+
+Jeanne continued. “How could I imagine that you, who said you loved M.
+Beausire, and were courted by a man like Count Cagliostro, whom you
+refused; oh! it cannot be true.”
+
+“But where is the danger?” asked Oliva.
+
+“The danger! Have we not to manage a madman, one who fears nothing, and
+will not be controlled. It was no great thing for the queen to give him
+her hand to kiss or to give him a rose; oh, my dear child, I have not
+smiled since I heard this.”
+
+“What do you fear?” asked Oliva, her teeth chattering with terror.
+
+“Why, as you are not the queen, and have taken her name, and in her
+name have committed a folly of this kind, that is unfortunately
+treason. He has no proof of this—they may be satisfied with a prison or
+banishment.”
+
+“A prison! banishment!” shrieked Oliva.
+
+“I, at least, intend to take precautions and hide myself.”
+
+“You fear also?”
+
+“Oh! will not this madman divulge my share also? My poor Oliva, this
+trick of yours will cost us dear.”
+
+Oliva burst into tears.
+
+“Oh!” she cried, “I think I am possessed of a demon, that I can never
+rest: just saved from one danger, I must rush into another. Suppose I
+confess all to my protector?”
+
+“A fine story to confess to him, whose advances you refused, that you
+have committed this imprudence with a stranger.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! you are right.”
+
+“Soon this report will spread, and will reach his ears; then do you not
+think he will give you up to the police? Even if he only send you away,
+what will become of you?”
+
+“Oh! I am lost.”
+
+“And M. Beausire, when he shall hear this——?”
+
+Oliva started, and wringing her hands violently, cried out, “Oh, he
+would kill me; but no, I will kill myself. You cannot save me, since
+you are compromised also.”
+
+“I have,” replied Jeanne, “in the furthest part of Picardy, a little
+farm. If you can gain this refuge, you might be safe.”
+
+“But you?”
+
+“Oh, once you were gone, I should not fear him.”
+
+“I will go whenever you like.”
+
+“I think you are wise.”
+
+“Must I go at once?”
+
+“Wait till I have prepared everything to insure safety; meanwhile, hide
+yourself, and do not come near the window.”
+
+“Oh yes, dear friend.”
+
+“And to begin, let us go home, as there is no more to say.”
+
+“How long will your preparations take?”
+
+“I do not know, but remember henceforth, until the day of your
+departure I shall not come to the window. When you see me there, you
+will know that the day has arrived, and be prepared.”
+
+They returned in silence. On arriving, Oliva begged pardon humbly of
+her friend for bringing her into so much danger through her folly.
+
+“I am a woman,” replied Jeanne, “and can pardon a woman’s weakness.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXI.
+THE FLIGHT.
+
+
+Oliva kept her promise, and Jeanne also. Oliva hid herself from every
+one, and Jeanne made her preparations, and in a few days made her
+appearance at the window as a sign to Oliva to be ready that evening
+for flight.
+
+Oliva, divided between joy and terror, began immediately to prepare.
+Jeanne went to arrange about the carriage that was to convey her away.
+Eleven o’clock at night had just struck when Jeanne arrived with a
+post-chaise to which three strong horses were harnessed. A man wrapped
+in a cloak sat on the box, directing the postilions. Jeanne made them
+stop at the corner of the street, saying, “Remain here—half an hour
+will suffice—and then I will bring the person whom you are to conduct
+with all possible speed to Amiens. There you will give her into the
+care of the farmer who is my tenant; he has his instructions.”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“I forgot—are you armed? This lady is menaced by a madman; he might,
+perhaps, try to stop her on the road.”
+
+“What should I do?”
+
+“Fire on any one who tries to impede your journey.”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“You asked me seventy louis; I will give you a hundred, and will pay
+the expenses of the voyage which you had better make to London. Do not
+return here; it is more prudent for you to go to St. Valery, and embark
+at once for England.”
+
+“Rely on me, madame.”
+
+“Well, I will go and bring the lady.”
+
+All seemed asleep in that quiet house. Jeanne lighted the lamp which
+was to be the signal to Oliva, but received no answering sign. “She
+will come down in the dark,” thought Jeanne; and she went to the door,
+but it did not open. Oliva was perhaps bringing down her packages. “The
+fool!” murmured the countess, “how much time she is wasting over her
+rubbish!” She waited a quarter of an hour—no one came; then half-past
+eleven struck. “Perhaps she did not see my signal,” thought Jeanne; and
+she went up and lighted it again, but it was not acknowledged. “She
+must be ill,” cried Jeanne, in a rage, “and cannot move.” Then she took
+the key which Oliva had given her; but just as she was about to open
+the door, she thought, “Suppose some one should be there? But I should
+hear voices on the staircase, and could return. I must risk something.”
+She went up, and on arriving outside Oliva’s door she saw a light
+inside and heard footsteps, but no voices. “It is all right,” she
+thought; “she was only a long time getting ready.” “Oliva,” said she
+softly, “open the door.” The door opened, and Jeanne found herself face
+to face with a man holding a torch in his hand.
+
+“Oliva,” said he, “is this you?” Then, with a tone of admirably-feigned
+surprise, cried, “Madame de la Motte!”
+
+“M. de Cagliostro!” said she in terror, feeling half inclined to run
+away; but he took her hand politely, and begged her to sit down.
+
+“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, madame?”
+
+“Monsieur,” said she, stammering, “I came—I sought——”
+
+“Allow me, madame, to inquire which of my servants was guilty of the
+rudeness of letting you come up unattended?”
+
+Jeanne trembled.
+
+“You must have fallen to the lot of my stupid German porter, who is
+always tipsy.”
+
+“Do not scold him, I beg you, sir,” replied Jeanne, who could hardly
+speak.
+
+“But was it he?”
+
+“I believe so. But you promise me not to scold him?”
+
+“I will not; only, madame, will you now explain to me——”
+
+Jeanne began to gather courage.
+
+“I came to consult you, sir, about certain reports.”
+
+“What reports?”
+
+“Do not hurry me, sir; it is a delicate subject.”
+
+“Ah! you want time to invent,” thought he.
+
+“You are a friend of M. le Cardinal de Rohan?”
+
+“I am acquainted with him, madame.”
+
+“Well, I came to ask you——”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Oh, sir, you must know that he has shown me much kindness, and I wish
+to know if I may rely upon it. You understand me, sir? You read all
+hearts.”
+
+“You must be a little more explicit before I can assist you, madame.”
+
+“Monsieur, they say that his eminence loves elsewhere in a high
+quarter.”
+
+“Madame, allow me first to ask you one question. How did you come to
+seek me here, since I do not live here?” Jeanne trembled. “How did you
+get in?—for there are neither porter nor servants in this part of my
+hotel. It could not be me you sought here—who was it? You do not reply;
+I must aid you a little. You came in by the help of a key which you
+have now in your pocket. You came to seek a young woman whom from pure
+kindness I had concealed here.”
+
+Jeanne trembled visibly, but replied, “If it were so, it is no crime;
+one woman is permitted to visit another. Call her; she will tell you if
+my friendship is a hurtful one.”
+
+“Madame, you say that because you know she is not here.”
+
+“Not here! Oliva not here?”
+
+“Oh you do not know that—you, who helped her to escape!”
+
+“I!” cried Jeanne; “you accuse me of that?”
+
+“I convict you,” replied Cagliostro; and he took a paper from the
+table, and showed her the following words, addressed to himself:
+
+“Monsieur, and my generous protector, forgive me for leaving you; but
+above all things I love M. Beausire. He came and I follow him. Adieu!
+Believe in my gratitude!”
+
+“Beausire!” cried Jeanne, petrified; “he, who did not even know her
+address?”
+
+“Oh, madame, here is another paper, which was doubtless dropped by M.
+Beausire.” The countess read, shuddering:
+
+“M. Beausire will find Mademoiselle Oliva, Rue St. Claude, at the
+corner of the boulevard. He had better come for her at once; it is
+time. This is the advice of a sincere friend.”
+
+“Oh!” groaned the countess.
+
+“And he has taken her away,” said Cagliostro.
+
+“But who wrote this note?”
+
+“Doubtless yourself.”
+
+“But how did he get in?”
+
+“Probably with your key.”
+
+“But as I have it here, he could not have it.”
+
+“Whoever has one can easily have two.”
+
+“You are convinced,” replied she, “while I can only suspect.” She
+turned and went away, but found the staircase lighted and filled with
+men-servants. Cagliostro called out loudly before them, “Madame la
+Comtesse de la Motte!” She went out full of rage and disappointment.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXII.
+THE LETTER AND THE RECEIPT.
+
+
+The day arrived for the payment of the first 500,000 francs. The
+jewelers had prepared a receipt, but no one came with the money in
+exchange for it. They passed the day and night in a state of cruel
+anxiety. The following day M. Bœhmer went to Versailles, and asked to
+see the queen; he was told that he could not be admitted without a
+letter of audience. However, he begged so hard, and urged his
+solicitations so well among the servants, that they consented to place
+him in the queen’s way when she went out. Marie Antoinette, still full
+of joy from her interview with Charny, came along, looking bright and
+happy, when she caught sight of the somewhat solemn face of M. Bœhmer.
+She smiled on him, which he took for a favorable sign, and asked for an
+audience, which was promised him for two o’clock. On his return to
+Bossange, they agreed that no doubt the money was all right, only the
+queen had been unable to send it the day before. At two o’clock Bœhmer
+returned to Versailles.
+
+“What is it now, M. Bœhmer?” asked the queen, as he entered. Bœhmer
+thought some one must be listening, and looked cautiously around him.
+
+“Have you any secret to tell?” asked the queen, in surprise. “The same
+as before, I suppose—some jewels to sell. But make yourself easy; no
+one can hear you.”
+
+“Ahem!” murmured Bœhmer, startled at his reception.
+
+“Well, what?”
+
+“Then I may speak out to your majesty?”
+
+“Anything; only be quick.”
+
+“I only wished to say that your majesty probably forgot us yesterday.”
+
+“Forgot you! what do you mean?”
+
+“Yesterday the sum was due——”
+
+“What sum?”
+
+“Pardon me, your majesty, if I am indiscreet. Perhaps your majesty is
+not prepared. It would be a misfortune; but still——”
+
+“But,” interrupted the queen, “I do not understand a word of what you
+are saying. Pray explain yourself.”
+
+“Yesterday the first payment for the necklace was due.”
+
+“Have you sold it, then?”
+
+“Certainly, your majesty,” replied Bœhmer, looking stupefied.
+
+“And those to whom you have sold it have not paid, my poor Bœhmer? So
+much the worse; but they must do as I did, and, if they cannot pay,
+send it you back again.”
+
+The jeweler staggered like a man who had just had a sunstroke. “I do
+not understand your majesty,” he said.
+
+“Why, Bœhmer, if ten purchasers were each to send it back, and give you
+100,000 francs, as I did, you would make a million, and keep your
+necklace also.”
+
+“Your majesty says,” cried Bœhmer, ready to drop, “that you sent me
+back the necklace!”
+
+“Certainly. What is the matter?”
+
+“What! your majesty denies having bought the necklace?”
+
+“Ah! what comedy is this, sir?” said the queen, severely. “Is this
+unlucky necklace destined to turn some one’s brain?”
+
+“But did your majesty really say that you had returned the necklace?”
+
+“Happily,” replied the queen, “I can refresh your memory, as you are so
+forgetful, to say nothing more.” She went to her secretaire, and,
+taking out the receipt, showed it to him, saying, “I suppose this is
+clear enough?”
+
+Bœhmer’s expression changed from incredulity to terror. “Madame,” cried
+he, “I never signed this receipt!”
+
+“You deny it!” said the queen, with flashing eyes.
+
+“Positively, if I lose my life for it. I never received the necklace; I
+never signed the receipt. Were the headsman here, or the gallows, I
+would repeat the same thing!”
+
+“Then, sir,” said the queen, “do you think I have robbed you? do you
+think I have your necklace?”
+
+Bœhmer drew out a pocket-book, and in his turn produced a letter. “I do
+not believe,” said he, “that if your majesty had wished to return the
+necklace, you would have written this.”
+
+“I write! I never wrote to you; that is not my writing.”
+
+“It is signed,” said Bœhmer.
+
+“Yes, ‘Marie Antoinette of France.’ You are mad! Do you think that is
+the way I sign? I am of Austria. Go, M. Bœhmer; you have played this
+game unskilfully; your forgers have not understood their work.”
+
+“My forgers!” cried the poor Bœhmer, ready to faint at this new blow.
+“You suspect me?”
+
+“You accuse me, Marie Antoinette?” replied she.
+
+“But this letter?”
+
+“This receipt? Give it me back, and take your letter; the first lawyer
+you ask will tell you how much that is worth.” And taking the receipt
+from his trembling hands, and throwing the letter indignantly down, she
+left the room.
+
+The unfortunate man ran to communicate this dreadful blow to his
+partner, who was waiting in the carriage for him; and on their way home
+their gestures and cries of grief were so frantic as to attract the
+attention of every passer-by. At last they decided to return to
+Versailles.
+
+Immediately they presented themselves they were admitted by the order
+of the queen.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIII.
+“Roi ne puis, prince ne daigne,
+Rohan je suis.”[B]
+
+
+“Ah!” cried the queen, immediately they entered, “you have brought a
+reinforcement, M. Bœhmer; so much the better.”
+
+Bœhmer kneeled at her feet, and Bossange followed his example.
+
+“Gentlemen,” said she, “I have now grown calm, and an idea has come
+into my head which has modified my opinion with regard to you. It seems
+to me that we have both been duped.”
+
+“Ah, madame, you suspect me no longer. Forger was a dreadful word.”
+
+“No, I do not suspect you now.”
+
+“Does your majesty suspect any one else?”
+
+“Reply to my questions. You say you have not these diamonds?”
+
+“No, madame, we have not.”
+
+“It then matters little to you that I sent them—that is my affair. Did
+you not see Madame de la Motte?”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“And she gave you nothing from me?”
+
+“No, madame; she only said to us, ‘Wait.’”
+
+“But this letter—who brought it?”
+
+“An unknown messenger, during the night.”
+
+She rang, and a servant entered.
+
+“Send for Madame de la Motte. And,” continued the queen to M. Bœhmer,
+“did you see M. de Rohan?”
+
+“Yes, madame; he paid us a visit in order to ask.”
+
+“Good!” said the queen. “I wish to hear no more now; but if he be mixed
+up with this affair, I think you need not despair. I think I can guess
+what Madame de la Motte meant by saying ‘Wait.’ Meanwhile, go to M. de
+Rohan, and tell him all you have told us, and that I know it.”
+
+The jewelers had a renewed spark of hope; only Bossange said that the
+receipt was a false one, and that that was a crime.
+
+“True,” replied Marie Antoinette, “if you did not write it, it is a
+crime; but to prove this I must confront you with the person whom I
+charged to return you the jewels.”
+
+“Whenever your majesty pleases; we do not fear the test.”
+
+“Go first to M. de Rohan; he alone can enlighten you.”
+
+“And will your majesty permit us to bring you his answer?”
+
+“Yes; but I dare say I shall know all before you do.”
+
+When they were gone she was restless and unquiet, and despatched
+courier after courier for Madame de la Motte.
+
+We will, however, leave her for the present, and follow the jewelers in
+their search after the truth.
+
+The cardinal was at home, reading, with a rage impossible to describe,
+a little note which Madame de la Motte had just sent him, as she said,
+from Versailles. It was harsh, forbidding any hope, ordering him to
+think no more of the past, not to appear again at Versailles, and
+ending with an appeal to his loyalty not to attempt to renew relations
+which were become impossible.
+
+“Coquette, capricious, perfidious!” cried he. “Here are four letters
+which she has written to me, each more unjust and tyrannical than the
+other. She encouraged me only for a caprice, and now sacrifices me to a
+new one.”
+
+It was at this moment that the jewelers presented themselves. Three
+times he refused them admittance, and each time the servant came back,
+saying that they would not go without an audience. “Let them come in,
+then,” said he.
+
+“What means this rudeness, gentlemen? No one owes you anything here.”
+
+The jewelers, driven to despair, made a half-menacing gesture.
+
+“Are you mad?” asked the cardinal.
+
+“Monseigneur,” replied Bœhmer, with a sigh, “do us justice, and do not
+compel us to be rude to an illustrious prince.”
+
+“Either you are not mad, in which case my servants shall throw you out
+of the window; or you are mad, and they shall simply push you out of
+the door.”
+
+“Monseigneur, we are not mad, but we have been robbed.”
+
+“What is that to me? I am not lieutenant of police.”
+
+“But you have had the necklace in your hands, and in justice——”
+
+“The necklace! is it the necklace that is stolen?”
+
+“Yes, monseigneur.”
+
+“Well, what does the queen say about it?”
+
+“She sent me to you.”
+
+“She is very amiable; but what can I do, my poor fellows?”
+
+“You can tell us, monseigneur, what has been done with it.”
+
+“I?”
+
+“Doubtless.”
+
+“Do you think I stole the necklace from the queen?”
+
+“It is not the queen from whom it was stolen.”
+
+“Mon Dieu! from whom, then?”
+
+“The queen denies having had it in her possession.”
+
+“How! she denies it? But I thought you had an acknowledgment from her.”
+
+“She says it is a forged one.”
+
+“Decidedly, you are mad!” cried the cardinal.
+
+“We simply speak the truth.”
+
+“Then she denied it because some one was there.”
+
+“No, monseigneur. And this is not all: not only does the queen deny her
+own acknowledgment, but she produced a receipt from us, purporting that
+we had received back the necklace.”
+
+“A receipt from you?”
+
+“Which also is a forgery, M. le Cardinal—you know it.”
+
+“A forgery, and I know it!”
+
+“Assuredly, for you came to confirm what Madame de la Motte had said;
+and you knew that we had sold the necklace to the queen.”
+
+“Come,” said the cardinal, “this seems a serious affair. This is what I
+did: first, I bought the necklace of you for her majesty, and paid you
+100,000 francs.”
+
+“True, monseigneur.”
+
+“Afterwards you told me that the queen had acknowledged the debt in
+writing, and fixed the periods of payment.”
+
+“We said so. Will your eminence look at this signature?”
+
+He looked at it, and said directly, “‘Marie Antoinette of France:’ you
+have been deceived, gentlemen; this is not her signature; she is of the
+House of Austria.”
+
+“Then,” cried the jewelers, “Madame de la Motte must know the forger
+and the robber.”
+
+The cardinal appeared struck with this. He acted like the queen; he
+rang, and said, “Send for Madame de la Motte.” His servants went after
+Jeanne’s carriage, which had not long left the hotel.
+
+M. Bœhmer continued, “But where is the necklace?”
+
+“How can I tell?” cried the cardinal; “I gave it to the queen. I know
+no more.”
+
+“We must have our necklace, or our money,” cried the jewelers.
+
+“Gentlemen, this is not my business.”
+
+“It is Madame de la Motte,” cried they in despair, “who has ruined us.”
+
+“I forbid you to accuse her here.”
+
+“Some one must be guilty; some one wrote the forged papers.”
+
+“Was it I?” asked M. de Rohan, haughtily.
+
+“Monseigneur, we do not wish to say so.”
+
+“Well, who then?”
+
+“Monseigneur, we desire an explanation.”
+
+“Wait till I have one myself.”
+
+“But, monseigneur, what are we to say to the queen? For she accused us
+at first.”
+
+“What does she say now?”
+
+“She says that either you or Madame de la Motte has the necklace, for
+she has not.”
+
+“Well,” replied the cardinal, pale with rage and shame, “go and tell
+her—no, tell her nothing; there is scandal enough. But to-morrow I
+officiate at the chapel at Versailles: when I approach the queen, come
+to us; I will ask her again if she has the necklace, and you shall hear
+what she replies; if she denies it before me, then, gentlemen, I am a
+Rohan, and will pay.” And with these words, pronounced with an
+indescribable dignity, he dismissed them.
+
+[B] The motto of the Rohans.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIV.
+LOVE AND DIPLOMACY.
+
+
+The next morning, about ten o’clock, a carriage bearing the arms of M.
+de Breteuil entered Versailles. Our readers will not have forgotten
+that this gentleman was a personal enemy of M. de Rohan, and had long
+been on the watch for an opportunity of injuring him. He now requested
+an audience from the king, and was admitted.
+
+“It is a beautiful day,” said Louis to his minister; “there is not a
+cloud in the sky.”
+
+“Sire, I am sorry to bring with me a cloud on your tranquillity.”
+
+“So am I,” replied the king, “but what is it?”
+
+“I feel very much embarrassed, sire, more especially as, perhaps, this
+affair naturally concerns the lieutenant of police rather than myself,
+for it is a sort of theft.”
+
+“A theft! well, speak out.”
+
+“Sire, your majesty knows the diamond necklace?”
+
+“M. Bœhmer’s, which the queen refused?”
+
+“Precisely, sire,” said M. de Breteuil; and ignorant of all the
+mischief he was about to do, he continued, “and this necklace has been
+stolen.”
+
+“Ah! so much the worse. But diamonds are very easy to trace.”
+
+“But, sire, this is not an ordinary theft; it is pretended that the
+queen has kept the necklace.”
+
+“Why, she refused it in my presence.”
+
+“Sire, I did not use the right word; the calumnies are too gross.”
+
+“Ah!” said the king with a smile, “I suppose they say now that the
+queen has stolen the necklace.”
+
+“Sire,” replied M. Breteuil, “they say that the queen recommenced the
+negotiation for the purchase privately, and that the jewelers hold a
+paper signed by her, acknowledging that she kept it. I need not tell
+your majesty how much I despise all such scandalous falsehoods.”
+
+“They say this!” said the king, turning pale. “What do they not say?
+Had the queen really bought it afterwards, I should not have blamed
+her. She is a woman, and the necklace is marvelously beautiful; and,
+thank God, she could still afford it, if she wished for it. I shall
+only blame her for one thing, for hiding her wishes from me. But that
+has nothing to do with the king, only with the husband. A husband may
+scold his wife if he pleases, and no one has a right to interfere. But
+then,” continued he, “what do you mean by a robbery?”
+
+“Oh! I fear I have made your majesty angry.”
+
+The king laughed. “Come, tell me all; tell me even that the queen sold
+the necklace to the Jews. Poor woman, she is often in want of money,
+oftener than I can give it to her.”
+
+“Exactly so; about two months ago the queen asked for 500,000 francs,
+and your majesty refused it.”
+
+“True.”
+
+“Well, sire, they say that this money was to have been the first
+payment for the necklace. The queen, being denied the money, could not
+pay——”
+
+“Well!”
+
+“Well, sire, they say the queen applied to some one to help her.”
+
+“To a Jew?”
+
+“No, sire; not to a Jew.”
+
+“Oh! I guess, some foreign intrigue. The queen asked her mother, or
+some of her family, for money.”
+
+“It would have been better if she had, sire.”
+
+“Well, to whom, then, did she apply?”
+
+“Sire, I dare not——”
+
+“Monsieur, I am tired of this. I order you to speak out at once. Who
+lent this money to the queen?”
+
+“M. de Rohan.”
+
+“M. de Rohan! Are you not ashamed to name to me the most embarrassed
+man in my kingdom?”
+
+“Sire,” said M. de Breteuil, lowering his eyes.
+
+“M. de Breteuil, your manner annoys me. If you have anything to say,
+speak at once.”
+
+“Sire, I cannot bring myself to utter things so compromising to the
+honor of my king and queen.”
+
+“Speak, sir; if there are calumnies, they must be refuted.”
+
+“Then, sire, M. de Rohan went to the jewelers, and arranged for the
+purchase of the necklace, and the mode of payment.”
+
+“Really!” cried the king, annoyed and angry.
+
+“It is a fact, sire, capable of being proved with the greatest
+certainty. I pledge my word for this.”
+
+“This is most annoying,” said the king; “but still, sir, we have not
+heard of a theft.”
+
+“Sire, the jewelers say that they have a receipt signed by the queen,
+and she denies having the necklace.”
+
+“Ah!” cried the king, with renewed hope; “she denies it, you see, M. de
+Breteuil.”
+
+“Oh, sire! I never doubted her majesty’s innocence. I am indeed
+unfortunate, if your majesty does not see all my respect for the purest
+of women.”
+
+“Then you only accuse M. de Rohan?”
+
+“Yes, sire. And appearances demand some inquiry into his conduct. The
+queen says she has not the necklace—the jewelers say they sold it to
+her. It is not to be found, and the word ‘theft’ is used as connected
+both with the queen and M. de Rohan.”
+
+“You are right, M. de Breteuil; this affair must be cleared up. But who
+is that passing below? Is it not M. de Rohan going to the chapel?”
+
+“Not yet, sire; he does not come till eleven o’clock, and he will be
+dressed in his robes, for he officiates to-day.”
+
+“Then I will send for him and speak to him.”
+
+“Permit me to advise your majesty to speak first to the queen.”
+
+“Yes, she will tell me the truth.”
+
+“Doubtless, sire.”
+
+“But first tell me all you know about it.”
+
+M. de Breteuil, with ingenious hate, mentioned every particular which
+he thought could injure M. de Rohan. They were interrupted by an
+officer, who approached the king, and said, “Sire, the queen begs you
+will come to her.”
+
+“What is it?” asked the king, turning pale. “Wait here, M. de
+Breteuil.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXV.
+CHARNY, CARDINAL, AND QUEEN.
+
+
+At the same moment as M. de Breteuil asked for an audience of the king,
+M. de Charny, pale and agitated, begged one of the queen. He was
+admitted, and touching tremblingly the hand she held out to him, said
+in an agitated voice, “Oh! madame, what a misfortune!”
+
+“What is the matter?”
+
+“Do you know what I have just heard? What the king has perhaps already
+heard, or will hear to-morrow.”
+
+She trembled, for she thought of her night with Charny, and fancied
+they had been seen. “Speak,” said she; “I am strong.”
+
+“They say, madame, that you bought a necklace from M. Bœhmer.”
+
+“I returned it,” said she quickly.
+
+“But they say that you only pretended to do so, when the king prevented
+you from paying for it by refusing you the money, and that you went to
+borrow the amount from some one else, who is your lover.”
+
+“And,” cried the queen, with her usual impetuous confidence, “you,
+monsieur—you let them say that?”
+
+“Madame, yesterday I went to M. Bœhmer’s with my uncle, who had brought
+some diamonds from the Indies, and wished to have them valued. There we
+heard this frightful story now being spread abroad by your majesty’s
+enemies. Madame, I am in despair; if you bought the necklace, tell me;
+if you have not paid, tell me; but do not let me hear that M. de Rohan
+paid for you.”
+
+“M. de Rohan!”
+
+“Yes, M. de Rohan, whom they call your lover—whom they say lent the
+money—and whom an unhappy man, called Charny, saw in the park in
+Versailles, kneeling before the queen, and kissing her hand.”
+
+“Monsieur,” cried Marie Antoinette, “if you believe these things when
+you leave me, you do not love me.”
+
+“Oh!” cried the young man, “the danger presses. I come to beg you to do
+me a favor.”
+
+“What danger?”
+
+“Oh, madame! the cardinal paying for the queen dishonors her. I do not
+speak now of the grief such a confidence in him causes to me. No; of
+these things one dies, but does not complain.”
+
+“You are mad!” cried Marie Antoinette, in anger.
+
+“I am not mad, madame, but you are unhappy and lost. I saw you in the
+park—I told you so—I was not deceived. To-day all the horrible truth
+has burst out. M. de Rohan boasts, perhaps——”
+
+The queen seized his arm. “You are mad,” repeated she, with
+inexpressible anguish. “Believe anything—believe the impossible—but, in
+the name of heaven, after all I have said to you, do not believe me
+guilty. I, who never even thought of you without praying to God to
+pardon me for my fault. Oh, M. de Charny! if you do not wish to kill
+me, do not tell me that you think me guilty.”
+
+Charny wrung his hands with anguish. “Listen,” said he, “if you wish me
+to serve you efficaciously.”
+
+“A service from you?—from you, more cruel than my enemies? A service
+from a man who despises me? Never, sir—never.”
+
+Charny approached, and took her hands in his. “This evening it will be
+too late. Save me from despair, by saving yourself from shame.”
+
+“Monsieur!”
+
+“Oh, I cannot pick my words with death, before me! If you do not listen
+to me, we shall both die; you from shame, and I from grief. You want
+money to pay for this necklace.”
+
+“I?”
+
+“Do not deny it.”
+
+“I tell you——”
+
+“Do not tell me that you have not the necklace.”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“Do not swear, if you wish me to love you. There remains one way to
+save at once your honor and my love. The necklace is worth 1,600,000
+francs—you have paid 100,000. Here is the remainder; take it, and pay.”
+
+“You have sold your possessions—you have ruined yourself for me! Good
+and noble heart, I love you!”
+
+“Then you accept?”
+
+“No; but I love you.”
+
+“And let M. de Rohan pay. Remember, madame, this would be no generosity
+towards me, but the refinement of cruelty.”
+
+“M. de Charny, I am a queen. I give to my subjects, but do not accept
+from them.”
+
+“What do you mean to do, then?”
+
+“You are frank. What do the jewelers say?”
+
+“That as you cannot pay, M. de Rohan will pay for you.”
+
+“What does the public say?”
+
+“That you have the necklace hidden, and will produce it when it shall
+have been paid for; either by the cardinal, in his love for you, or by
+the king, to prevent scandal.”
+
+“And you, Charny; in your turn, I ask, what do you say?”
+
+“I think, madame, that you have need to prove your innocence to me.”
+
+The Prince Louis, Cardinal de Rohan, was at that moment announced by an
+usher.
+
+“You shall have your wish,” said the queen.
+
+“You are going to receive him?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And I?”
+
+“Go into my boudoir, and leave the door ajar, that you may hear. Be
+quick—here he is.”
+
+M. de Rohan appeared in his robes of office. The queen advanced towards
+him, attempting a smile, which died away on her lips.
+
+He was serious, and said, “Madame, I have several important things to
+communicate to you, although you shun my presence.”
+
+“I shun you so little, monsieur, that I was about to send for you.”
+
+“Am I alone with your majesty?” said he, in a low voice. “May I speak
+freely?”
+
+“Perfectly, monseigneur. Do not constrain yourself,” said she aloud,
+for M. de. Charny to hear.
+
+“The king will not come?”
+
+“Have no fear of the king, or any one else.”
+
+“Oh, it is yourself I fear,” said he, in a moved voice.
+
+“Well, I am not formidable. Say quickly and openly what you have to
+say. I like frankness, and want no reserve. They say you complain of
+me; what have you to reproach me with?”
+
+The cardinal sighed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVI.
+EXPLANATIONS.
+
+
+“Madame,” said the cardinal, bowing, “you know what is passing
+concerning the necklace?”
+
+“No, monsieur; I wish to learn it from you.”
+
+“Why has your majesty for so long only deigned to communicate with me
+through another? If you have any reason to hate me, why not explain
+it?”
+
+“I do not know what you mean. I do not hate you; but that is not, I
+think, the subject of our interview. I wish to hear all about this
+unlucky necklace; but first, where is Madame de la Motte?”
+
+“I was about to ask your majesty the same question.”
+
+“Really, monsieur, if any one knows, I think it ought to be you.”
+
+“I, madame! why?”
+
+“Oh! I do not wish to receive your confessions about her, but I wish to
+speak to her, and have sent for her ten times without receiving any
+answer.”
+
+“And I, madame, am astonished at her disappearance, for I also sent to
+ask her to come, and, like your majesty, received no answer.”
+
+“Then let us leave her, monsieur, and speak of ourselves.”
+
+“Oh no, madame; let us speak of her first, for a few words of your
+majesty’s gave me a painful suspicion; it seemed to me that your
+majesty reproached me with my assiduities to her.”
+
+“I have not reproached you at all, sir.”
+
+“Oh! madame, such a suspicion would explain all to me; then I should
+understand all your rigor towards me, which I have hitherto found so
+inexplicable.”
+
+“Here we cease to understand each other, and I beg of you not to still
+further involve in obscurity what I wished you to explain to me.”
+
+“Madame,” cried the cardinal, clasping his hands, “I entreat you not to
+change the subject; allow me only two words more, and I am sure we
+shall understand each other.”
+
+“Really, sir, you speak in language that I do not understand. Pray
+return to plain French; where is the necklace that I returned to the
+jewelers?”
+
+“The necklace that you sent back?”
+
+“Yes; what have you done with it?”
+
+“I! I do not know, madame.”
+
+“Listen, and one thing is simple; Madame de la Motte took away the
+necklace, and returned it to the jewelers in my name. The jewelers say
+they never had it, and I hold in my hands a receipt which proves the
+contrary; but they say the receipt is forged; Madame de la Motte, if
+sincere, could explain all, but as she is not to be found, I can but
+conjecture. She wished to return it, but you, who had always the
+generous wish to present me the necklace, you, who brought it to me,
+with the offer to pay for it——”
+
+“Which your majesty refused.”
+
+“Yes. Well, you have persevered in your idea, and you kept back the
+necklace, hoping to return it to me at some other time. Madame de la
+Motte was weak; she knew my inability to pay for it, and my
+determination not to keep it when I could not pay; she therefore
+entered into a conspiracy with you. Have I guessed right? Say yes. Let
+me believe in this slight disobedience to my orders, and I promise you
+both pardon; so let Madame de la Motte come out from her hiding-place.
+But, for pity’s sake, let there be perfect clearness and openness,
+monsieur. A cloud rests over me; I will have it dispersed.”
+
+“Madame,” replied the cardinal, with a sigh, “unfortunately it is not
+true. I did not persevere in my idea, for I believed the necklace was
+in your own hands; I never conspired with Madame de la Motte about it,
+and I have it no more than you say you or the jewelers have it.”
+
+“Impossible! you have not got it?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“Is it not you who hide it?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“You do not know what has become of it?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“But, then, how do you explain its disappearance?”
+
+“I do not pretend to explain it, madame; and, moreover, it is not the
+first time that I have had to complain that your majesty did not
+understand me.”
+
+“How, sir?”
+
+“Pray, madame, have the goodness to retrace my letters in your memory.”
+
+“Your letters!—you have written to me?”
+
+“Too seldom, madame, to express all that was in my heart.”
+
+The queen rose.
+
+“Terminate this jesting, sir. What do you mean by letters? How can you
+dare to say such things?”
+
+“Ah! madame, perhaps I have allowed myself to speak too freely the
+secret of my soul.”
+
+“What secret? Are you in your senses, monsieur?”
+
+“Madame!”
+
+“Oh! speak out. You speak now like a man who wishes to embarrass one
+before witnesses.”
+
+“Madame, is there really any one listening to us?”
+
+“No, monsieur. Explain yourself, and prove to me, if you can, that you
+are in your right senses.”
+
+“Oh! why is not Madame de la Motte here? she could aid me to reawaken,
+if not your majesty’s attachment, at least your memory.”
+
+“My attachment! my memory!”
+
+“Ah, madame,” cried he, growing excited, “spare me, I beg. It is free
+to you to love no longer, but do not insult me.”
+
+“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the queen, turning pale: “hear what this man
+says.”
+
+“Well, madame,” said he, getting still more excited, “I think I have
+been sufficiently discreet and reserved not to be ill-treated. But I
+should have known that when a queen says, ‘I will not any longer,’ it
+is as imperious as when a woman says, ‘I will.’”
+
+“But, sir, to whom, or when, have I said either the one or the other?”
+
+“Both, to me.”
+
+“To you! You are a liar, M. de Rohan. A coward, for you calumniate a
+woman; and a traitor, for you insult the queen.”
+
+“And you are a heartless woman and a faithless queen. You led me to
+feel for you the most ardent love. You let me drink my fill of hopes——”
+
+“Of hopes! My God! am I mad, or what is he?”
+
+“Should I have dared to ask you for the midnight interviews which you
+granted me?”
+
+The queen uttered a cry of rage, as she fancied she heard a sigh from
+the boudoir.
+
+“Should I,” continued M. de Rohan, “have dared to come into the park if
+you had not sent Madame de la Motte for me?”
+
+“Mon Dieu!”
+
+“Should I have dared to steal the key? Should I have ventured to ask
+for this rose, which since then I have worn here on my heart, and
+burned up with my kisses? Should I have dared to kiss your hands? And,
+above all, should I have dared even to dream of sweet but perfidious
+love.”
+
+“Monsieur!” cried she, “you blaspheme.”
+
+“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the cardinal, “heaven knows that to be loved by
+this deceitful woman I would have given my all, my liberty, my life.”
+
+“M. de Rohan, if you wish to preserve either, you will confess
+immediately that you invented all these horrors; that you did not come
+to the park at night.”
+
+“I did come,” he replied.
+
+“You are a dead man if you maintain this.”
+
+“A Rohan cannot lie, madame; I did come.”
+
+“M. de Rohan, in heaven’s name say that you did not see me there.”
+
+“I will die if you wish it, and as you threaten me; but I did come to
+the park at Versailles, where Madame de la Motte brought me.”
+
+“Once more, confess it is a horrible plot against me.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then believe that you were mistaken—deceived—that it was all a fancy.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then we will have recourse,” said she, solemnly, “to the justice of
+the king.”
+
+The cardinal bowed.
+
+The queen rang violently. “Tell his majesty that I desire his
+presence.”
+
+The cardinal remained firm. Marie Antoinette went ten times to the door
+of the boudoir, and each time returned without going in.
+
+At last the king appeared.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVII.
+THE ARREST.
+
+
+“Sire,” cried the queen, “here is M. de Rohan, who says incredible
+things, which I wish him to repeat to you.”
+
+At these unexpected words the cardinal turned pale. Indeed, it was a
+strange position to hear himself called upon to repeat to the king and
+the husband all the claims which he believed he had over the queen and
+the wife.
+
+But the king, turning towards him, said, “About a certain necklace, is
+it not, sir?”
+
+M. de Rohan took advantage of the king’s question, and chose the least
+of two evils. “Yes, sire,” he murmured, “about the necklace.”
+
+“Then, sir, you have brought the necklace?”
+
+“Sire——”
+
+“Yes, or no, sir.”
+
+The cardinal looked at the queen, and did not reply.
+
+“The truth, sir,” said the queen, answering his look. “We want nothing
+but the truth.”
+
+M. de Rohan turned away his head, and did not speak.
+
+“If M. de Rohan will not reply, will you, madame, explain?” said the
+king. “You must know something about it; did you buy it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+M. de Rohan smiled rather contemptuously.
+
+“You say nothing, sir,” said the king.
+
+“Of what am I accused, sire?”
+
+“The jewelers say they sold the necklace either to you or the queen.
+They show a receipt from her majesty——”
+
+“A forged one,” interrupted the queen.
+
+“The jewelers,” continued the king, “say that in case the queen does
+not pay, you are bound to do so by your engagements.”
+
+“I do not refuse to pay, sire. It must be the truth, as the queen
+permits it to be said.” And a second look, still more contemptuous than
+the first, accompanied this speech.
+
+The queen trembled, for she began to think his behavior like the
+indignation of an honest man.
+
+“Well, M. le Cardinal, some one has imitated the signature of the Queen
+of France,” said the king.
+
+“The queen, sire, is free to attribute to me whatever crimes she
+pleases.”
+
+“Sir,” said the king, “instead of justifying yourself, you assume the
+air of an accuser.”
+
+The cardinal paused a moment, and then cried, “Justify
+myself?—impossible!”
+
+“Monsieur, these people say that this necklace has been stolen under a
+promise to pay for it; do you confess the crime?”
+
+“Who would believe it, if I did?” asked the cardinal, with a haughty
+disdain.
+
+“Then, sir, you think they will believe——”
+
+“Sire, I know nothing of what is said,” interrupted the cardinal; “all
+that I can affirm is, that I have not the necklace; some one has it who
+will not produce it; and I can but say, let the shame of the crime fall
+on the person who knows himself guilty.”
+
+“The question, madame, is between you two,” said the king. “Once more,
+have you the necklace?”
+
+“No, by the honor of my mother, by the life of my son.”
+
+The king joyfully turned towards the cardinal. “Then, sir, the affair
+lies between you and justice, unless you prefer trusting to my
+clemency.”
+
+“The clemency of kings is for the guilty, sire; I prefer the justice of
+men!”
+
+“You will confess nothing?”
+
+“I have nothing to say.”
+
+“But, sir, your silence compromises my honor,” cried the queen.
+
+The cardinal did not speak.
+
+“Well, then, I will speak,” cried she. “Learn, sire, that M. de Rohan’s
+chief crime is not the theft of this necklace.”
+
+M. de Rohan turned pale.
+
+“What do you mean?” cried the king.
+
+“Madame!” murmured the cardinal.
+
+“Oh! no reasons, no fear, no weakness shall close my mouth. I would
+proclaim my innocence in public if necessary.”
+
+“Your innocence,” said the king. “Oh, madame, who would be rash enough,
+or base enough, to compel you to defend that?”
+
+“I beg you, madame,” said the cardinal.
+
+“Ah! you begin to tremble. I was right: such plots bear not the light.
+Sire, will you order M. de Rohan to repeat to you what he has just said
+to me.”
+
+“Madame,” cried the cardinal, “take care; you pass all bounds.”
+
+“Sir,” said the king, “do you dare to speak thus to the queen?”
+
+“Yes, sire,” said Marie Antoinette; “this is the way he speaks to me,
+and pretends he has the right to do so.”
+
+“You, sir!” cried the king, livid with rage.
+
+“Oh! he says he has letters——”
+
+“Let us see them, sir,” said the king.
+
+“Yes, produce them,” cried the queen.
+
+The cardinal passed his hands over his burning eyes, and asked himself
+how heaven could ever have created a being so perfidious and so
+audacious; but he remained silent.
+
+“But that is not all,” continued the queen, getting more and more
+excited: “M. le Cardinal says he has obtained interviews——”
+
+“Madame, for pity’s sake,” cried the king.
+
+“For modesty’s sake,” murmured the cardinal.
+
+“One word, sir. If you are not the basest of men; if you hold anything
+sacred in this world; if you have proofs, produce them.”
+
+“No, madame,” replied he, at length, “I have not.”
+
+“You said you had a witness.”
+
+“Who?” asked the king.
+
+“Madame de la Motte.”
+
+“Ah!” cried the king, whose suspicions against her were easily excited;
+“let us see this woman.”
+
+“Yes,” said the queen, “but she has disappeared. Ask monsieur what he
+has done with her.”
+
+“Others have made her disappear who had more interest in doing so than
+I had.”
+
+“But, sir, if you are innocent, help us to find the guilty.”
+
+The cardinal crossed his hands and turned his back.
+
+“Monsieur,” cried the king, “you shall go to the Bastile.”
+
+“As I am, sire, in my robes? Consider, sire, the scandal will commence,
+and will fall heavily on whomsoever it rests.”
+
+“I wish it to do so, sir.”
+
+“It is an injustice, sire.”
+
+“It shall be so.” And the king looked round for some one to execute his
+orders. M. de Breteuil was near, anticipating the fall of his rival;
+the king spoke to him, and he cried immediately, “Guards! arrest M. le
+Cardinal de Rohan.”
+
+The cardinal passed by the queen without saluting her; then, bowing to
+the king, went towards the lieutenant of the guards, who approached
+timidly, seeming to wait for a confirmation of the order he had
+received.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said M. de Rohan, “it is I whom you are to arrest.”
+
+“Conduct monsieur to his apartment until I have written the order;”
+said the king.
+
+When they were alone, the king said, “Madame, you know this must lead
+to a public trial, and that scandal will fall heavily on the heads of
+the guilty.”
+
+“I thank you, sire; you have taken the only method of justifying me.”
+
+“You thank me.”
+
+“With all my heart; believe me, you have acted like a king, and I as a
+queen.”
+
+“Good,” replied the king, joyfully; “we shall find out the truth at
+last, and when once we have crushed the serpent, I hope we may live in
+more tranquillity.” He kissed the queen, and left her.
+
+“Monsieur,” said the cardinal to the officer who conducted him, “can I
+send word home that I have been arrested?”
+
+“If no one sees, monseigneur.”
+
+The cardinal wrote some words on a page of his missal, then tore it
+out, and let it fall at the feet of the officer.
+
+“She ruins me,” murmured the cardinal; “but I will save her, for your
+sake, oh! my king, and because it is my duty to forgive.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVIII.
+THE PROCÈS-VERBAL.
+
+
+When the king reentered his room he signed the order to consign M. de
+Rohan to the Bastile. The Count de Provence soon came in and began
+making a series of signs to M. de Breteuil, who, however willing, could
+not understand their meaning. This, however, the count did not care
+for, as his sole object was to attract the king’s attention. He at last
+succeeded, and the king, after dismissing M. de Breteuil, said to him,
+“What was the meaning of all those signs you were making just now? I
+suppose they meant something.”
+
+“Undoubtedly, but——”
+
+“Oh, you are quite free to say or not.”
+
+“Sire, I have just heard of the arrest of M. de Rohan.”
+
+“Well, and what then? Am I wrong to do justice even on him?”
+
+“Oh no, brother; I did not mean that.”
+
+“I should have been surprised had you not taken part somehow against
+the queen. I have just seen her, and am quite satisfied.”
+
+“Oh, sire, God forbid that I should accuse her! The queen has no friend
+more devoted than myself.”
+
+“Then you approve of my proceedings? which will, I trust, terminate all
+the scandals which have lately disgraced our court.”
+
+“Yes, sire, I entirely approve your majesty’s conduct, and I think all
+is for the best as regards the necklace——”
+
+“Pardieu, it is clear enough. M. de Rohan has been making himself great
+on a pretended familiarity with the queen; and conducting in her name a
+bargain for the diamonds, and leaving it to be supposed that she had
+them. It is monstrous. And then these tales never stop at the truth,
+but add all sorts of dreadful details which would end in a frightful
+scandal on the queen.”
+
+“Yes, brother, I repeat as far as the necklace is concerned you were
+perfectly right.”
+
+“What else is there, then?”
+
+“Sire, you embarrass me. The queen has not, then, told you?”
+
+“Oh, the other boastings of M. de Rohan? The pretended correspondence
+and interviews he speaks of? All that I know is, that I have the most
+absolute confidence in the queen, which she merits by the nobleness of
+her character. It was easy for her to have told me nothing of all this;
+but she always makes an immediate appeal to me in all difficulties, and
+confides to me the care of her honor. I am her confessor and her
+judge.”
+
+“Sire, you make me afraid to speak, lest I should be again accused of
+want of friendship for the queen. But it is right that all should be
+spoken, that she may justify herself from the other accusations.”
+
+“Well, what have you to say?”
+
+“Let me first hear what she told you?”
+
+“She said she had not the necklace; that she never signed the receipt
+for the jewels; that she never authorized M. de Rohan to buy them; that
+she had never given him the right to think himself more to her than any
+other of her subjects; and that she was perfectly indifferent to him.”
+
+“Ah! she said that——?”
+
+“Most decidedly.”
+
+“Then these rumors about other people——”
+
+“What others?”
+
+“Why, if it were not M. de Rohan, who walked with the queen——”
+
+“How! do they say he walked with her?”
+
+“The queen denies it, you say? but how came she to be in the park at
+night, and with whom did she walk?”
+
+“The queen in the park at night!”
+
+“Doubtless, there are always eyes ready to watch every movement of a
+queen.”
+
+“Brother, these are infamous things that you repeat, take care.”
+
+“Sire, I openly repeat them, that your majesty may search out the
+truth.”
+
+“And they say that the queen walked at night in the park?”
+
+“Yes, sire, tête-à-tête.”
+
+“I do not believe any one says it.”
+
+“Unfortunately I can prove it but too well. There are four witnesses:
+one is the captain of the hunt, who says he saw the queen go out two
+following nights by the door near the kennel of the wolf-hounds; here
+is his declaration signed.”
+
+The king, trembling, took the paper.
+
+“The next is the night watchman at Trianon, who says he saw the queen
+walking arm in arm with a gentleman. The third is the porter of the
+west door, who also saw the queen going through the little gate; he
+states how she was dressed, but that he could not recognize the
+gentleman, but thought he looked like an officer; he says he could not
+be mistaken, for that the queen was accompanied by her friend, Madame
+de la Motte.”
+
+“Her friend!” cried the king, furiously.
+
+“The last is from the man whose duty it is to see that all the doors
+are locked at night. He says that he saw the queen go into the baths of
+Apollo with a gentleman.”
+
+The king, pale with anger and emotion, snatched the paper from the
+hands of his brother.
+
+“It is true,” continued the count, “that Madame de la Motte was
+outside, and that the queen did not remain more than an hour.”
+
+“The name of the gentleman?” cried the king.
+
+“This report does not name him; but here is one dated the next day, by
+a forester, who says it was M. de Charny.”
+
+“M. de Charny!” cried the king. “Wait here; I will soon learn the truth
+of all this.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIX.
+THE LAST ACCUSATION.
+
+
+As soon as the king left the room, the queen ran towards the boudoir,
+and opened the door; then, as if her strength failed her, sank down on
+a chair, waiting for the decision of M. de Charny, her last and most
+formidable judge.
+
+He came out more sad and pale than ever.
+
+“Well?” said she.
+
+“Madame,” replied he, “you see, everything opposes our friendship.
+There can be no peace for me while such scandalous reports circulate in
+public, putting my private convictions aside.”
+
+“Then,” said the queen, “all I have done, this perilous aggression,
+this public defiance of one of the greatest nobles in the kingdom, and
+my conduct being exposed to the test of public opinion, does not
+satisfy you?”
+
+“Oh!” cried Charny, “you are noble and generous, I know——”
+
+“But you believe me guilty—you believe the cardinal. I command you to
+tell me what you think.”
+
+“I must say, then, madame, that he is neither mad nor wicked, as you
+called him, but a man thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he
+said—a man who loves you, and the victim of an error which will bring
+him to ruin, and you——”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“To dishonor.”
+
+“Mon Dieu!”
+
+“This odious woman, this Madame de la Motte, disappearing just when her
+testimony might have restored you to repose and honor—she is the evil
+genius, the curse, of your reign; she whom you have, unfortunately,
+admitted to partake of your intimacy and your secrets.”
+
+“Oh, sir!”
+
+“Yes, madame, it is clear that you combined with her and the cardinal
+to buy this necklace. Pardon if I offend you.”
+
+“Stay, sir,” replied the queen, with a pride not unmixed with anger;
+“what the king believes, others might believe, and my friends not be
+harder than my husband. It seems to me that it can give no pleasure to
+any man to see a woman whom he does not esteem. I do not speak of you,
+sir; to you I am not a woman, but a queen; as you are to me, not a man,
+but a subject. I had advised you to remain in the country, and it was
+wise; far from the court, you might have judged me more truly. Too
+ready to condescend, I have neglected to keep up, with those whom I
+thought loved me, the prestige of royalty. I should have been a queen,
+and content to govern, and not have wished to be loved.”
+
+“I cannot express,” replied Charny, “how much your severity wounds me.
+I may have forgotten that you were a queen, but never that you were the
+woman most in the world worthy of my respect and love.”
+
+“Sir, I think your absence is necessary; something tells me that it
+will end by your name being mixed up in all this.”
+
+“Impossible, madame!”
+
+“You say ‘impossible’; reflect on the power of those who have for so
+long played with my reputation. You say that M. de Rohan is convinced
+of what he asserts; those who cause such convictions would not be long
+in proving you a disloyal subject to the king, and a disgraceful friend
+for me. Those who invent so easily what is false will not be long in
+discovering the truth. Lose no time, therefore; the peril is great.
+Retire, and fly from the scandal which will ensue from the approaching
+trial; I do not wish that my destiny should involve yours, or your
+future be ruined. I, who am, thank God, innocent, and without a stain
+on my life—I, who would lay bare my heart to my enemies, could they
+thus read its purity, will resist to the last. For you might come ruin,
+defamation, and perhaps imprisonment. Take away the money you so nobly
+offered me, and the assurance that not one movement of your generous
+heart has escaped me, and that your doubts, though they have wounded,
+have not estranged me. Go, I say, and seek elsewhere what the Queen of
+France can no longer give you—hope and happiness. From this time to the
+convocation of Parliament, and the production of witnesses must be a
+fortnight; your uncle has vessels ready to sail—go and leave me; I
+bring misfortunes on my friends.” Saying this, the queen rose, and
+seemed to give Charny his congé.
+
+He approached quickly, but respectfully. “Your majesty,” cried he, in a
+moved voice, “shows me my duty. It is here that danger awaits you, here
+that you are to be judged, and, that you may have one loyal witness on
+your side, I remain here. Perhaps we may still make your enemies
+tremble before the majesty of an innocent queen, and the courage of a
+devoted man. And if you wish it, madame, I will be equally hidden and
+unseen as though I went. During a fortnight that I lived within a
+hundred yards of you, watching your every movement, counting your
+steps, living in your life, no one saw me; I can do so again, if it
+please you.”
+
+“As you please,” replied she; “I am no coquette, M. de Charny, and to
+say what I please is the true privilege of a queen. One day, sir, I
+chose you from every one. I do not know what drew my heart towards you,
+but I had need of a strong and pure friendship, and I allowed you to
+perceive that need; but now I see that your soul does not respond to
+mine, and I tell you so frankly.”
+
+“Oh, madame,” cried Charny, “I cannot let you take away your heart from
+me! If you have once given it to me, I will keep it with my life; I
+cannot lose you. You reproached me with my doubts—oh, do not doubt me!”
+
+“Ah,” said she, “but you are weak, and I, alas, am so also.”
+
+“You are all I love you to be.”
+
+“What!” cried she, passionately, “this abused queen, this woman about
+to be publicly judged, that the world condemns, and that her king and
+husband may, perhaps, also in turn condemn, has she found one heart to
+love her?”
+
+“A slave, who venerates her, and offers her his heart’s blood in
+exchange for every pang he has caused her!”
+
+“Then,” cried she, “this woman is blessed and happy, and complains of
+nothing!”
+
+Charny fell at her feet, and kissed her hands in transport. At that
+moment the door opened, and the king surprised, at the feet of his
+wife, the man whom he had just heard accused by the Comte de Provence.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXX.
+THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.
+
+
+The queen and Charny exchanged a look so full of terror, that their
+most cruel enemy must have pitied them.
+
+Charny rose slowly, and bowed to the king, whose heart might almost
+have been seen to beat.
+
+“Ah!” cried he, in a hoarse voice, “M. de Charny!”
+
+The queen could not speak—she thought she was lost.
+
+“M. de Charny,” repeated the king, “it is little honorable for a
+gentleman to be taken in the act of theft.”
+
+“Of theft?” murmured Charny.
+
+“Yes, sir, to kneel before the wife of another is a theft; and when
+this woman is a queen, his crime is called high treason!”
+
+The count was about to speak, but the queen, ever impatient in her
+generosity, forestalled him.
+
+“Sire,” said she, “you seem in the mood for evil suspicions and
+unfavorable suppositions, which fall falsely, I warn you; and if
+respect chains the count’s tongue, I will not hear him wrongfully
+accused without defending him.” Here she stopped, overcome by emotion,
+frightened at the falsehood she was about to tell, and bewildered
+because she could not find one to utter.
+
+But these few words had somewhat softened the king, who replied more
+gently, “You will not tell me, madame, that I did not see M. de Charny
+kneeling before you, and without your attempting to raise him?”
+
+“Therefore you might think,” replied she, “that he had some favor to
+ask me.”
+
+“A favor?”
+
+“Yes, sire, and one which I could not easily grant, or he would not
+have insisted with so much less warmth.”
+
+Charny breathed again, and the king’s look became calmer. Marie
+Antoinette was searching for something to say, with mingled rage at
+being obliged to lie, and grief at not being able to think of anything
+probable to say. She half hoped the king would be satisfied, and ask no
+more, but he said:
+
+“Let us hear, madame, what is the favor so warmly solicited, which made
+M. de Charny kneel before you; I may, perhaps, more happy than you, be
+able to grant it.”
+
+She hesitated; to lie before the man she loved was agony to her, and
+she would have given the world for Charny to find the answer. But of
+this he was incapable.
+
+“Sire, I told you that M. de Charny asked an impossible thing.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“What can one ask on one’s knees?”
+
+“I want to hear.”
+
+“Sire, it is a family secret.”
+
+“There are no secrets from the king—a father interested in all his
+subjects, who are his children, although, like unnatural children, they
+may sometimes attack the honor and safety of their father.”
+
+This speech made the queen tremble anew.
+
+“M. de Charny asked,” replied she, “permission to marry.”
+
+“Really,” cried the king, reassured for a moment. Then, after a pause,
+he said, “But why should it be impossible for M. de Charny to marry? Is
+he not noble? Has he not a good fortune? Is he not brave and handsome?
+Really, to refuse him, the lady ought to be a princess, or already
+married. I can see no other reason for an impossibility. Therefore,
+madame, tell me the name of the lady who is loved by M. de Charny, and
+let me see if I cannot remove the difficulty.”
+
+The queen, forced to continue her falsehood, replied:
+
+“No, sire; there are difficulties which even you cannot remove, and the
+present one is of this nature.”
+
+“Still, I wish to hear,” replied the king, his anger returning.
+
+Charny looked at the queen—she seemed ready to faint. He made a step
+towards her and then drew back. How dared he approach her in the king’s
+presence?
+
+“Oh!” thought she, “for an idea—something that the king can neither
+doubt nor disbelieve.” Then suddenly a thought struck her. She who has
+dedicated herself to heaven the king cannot influence. “Sire!” she
+cried, “she whom M. de Charny wishes to marry is in a convent.”
+
+“Oh! that is a difficulty; no doubt. But this seems a very sudden love
+of M. de Charny’s. I have never heard of it from any one. Who is the
+lady you love, M. de Charny?”
+
+The queen felt in despair, not knowing what he would say, and dreading
+to hear him name any one. But Charny could not reply: so, after a
+pause, she cried, “Sire, you know her; it is Andrée de Taverney.”
+
+Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her
+heart, and could hardly support herself.
+
+“Mademoiselle de Taverney? but she has gone to St. Denis.”
+
+“Yes, sire,” replied the queen.
+
+“But she has taken no vows.”
+
+“No, but she is about to do so.”
+
+“We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows?”
+
+“She is poor,” said the queen.
+
+“That I can soon alter, madame, if M. de Charny loves her.”
+
+The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging
+him to deny it. He did not speak.
+
+“And I dare say,” continued the king, taking his silence for consent,
+“that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves M. de Charny. I will give her as
+dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank
+the queen, M. de Charny, for telling me of this, and ensuring your
+happiness.”
+
+Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received an instant’s life.
+
+“Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!” said the king.
+
+The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who
+left on it a burning kiss.
+
+“Now,” said the king, “come with me.”
+
+M. de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXI.
+ST. DENIS.
+
+
+The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her
+that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to
+retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andrée even the chance
+of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she
+refused, would not the king’s suspicions reawaken, and everything seem
+only the worse for this falsehood? She dared not risk this—she must go
+to Andrée and confess, and implore her to make this sacrifice; or if
+she would only temporize, the king’s suspicions might pass away, and he
+might cease to interest himself about it. Thus the liberty of Mlle. de
+Taverney would not be sacrificed, neither would that of M. de Charny;
+and she would be spared the remorse of having sacrificed the happiness
+of two people to her honor. She longed to speak again to Charny, but
+feared discovery; and she knew she might rely upon him to ratify
+anything she chose to say. Three o’clock arrived—the state dinner and
+the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and
+smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her
+carriage, and, without any guards, and only one companion, drove to St.
+Denis, and asked to see Andrée. Andrée was at that moment kneeling,
+dressed in her white peignoir; and praying with fervor. She had quitted
+the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed
+her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had
+she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen
+occupied all his thoughts? Yet, when she heard that the queen was
+asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a
+mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she
+reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavoring to
+think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.
+
+“Come here, Andrée,” said the queen, with a smile, as she entered.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXII.
+A DEAD HEART.
+
+
+“Andrée,” continued the queen, “it looks strange to see you in this
+dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like
+a warning to ourselves from the tomb.”
+
+“Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty.”
+
+“That was never my wish,” said the queen; “tell me truly, Andrée, had
+you to complain of me when you were at court?”
+
+“Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took
+leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame.”
+
+“But often,” said the queen, “a grief hurts us which is not personal;
+have I injured any one belonging to you? Andrée, the retreat which you
+have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches
+gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend,
+and ask you to receive me as such.”
+
+Andrée felt touched. “Your majesty knows,” said she, “that the
+Taverneys cannot be your enemies.”
+
+“I understand,” replied the queen; “you cannot pardon me for having
+been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of
+caprice.”
+
+“My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen,” said
+Andrée, coldly.
+
+The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andrée on this
+subject; so she said only, “Well, at least, I am ever your friend.”
+
+“Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness.”
+
+“Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?”
+
+“I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever
+love any one in this world.” She colored as she spoke.
+
+“You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly
+extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed
+place.”
+
+“Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead.”
+
+“Your heart dead, Andrée? you, so young and beautiful.”
+
+“I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world,
+is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for
+myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious
+vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it
+every day.”
+
+“Then you like the convent?”
+
+“I embrace with pleasure a solitary life.”
+
+“Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?”
+
+“Nothing!”
+
+“Mon dieu!” thought the queen; “shall I fail? If nothing else will
+succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de
+Charny—heavens, how unhappy I am!—Andrée,” she said, “what you say
+takes from me the hope I had conceived.”
+
+“What hope, madame?”
+
+“Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to
+speak.”
+
+“If your majesty would explain——”
+
+“You never regret what you have done?”
+
+“Never, madame.”
+
+“Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy.”
+
+“Me?”
+
+“Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations.”
+
+“Still, if your majesty would tell me——”
+
+“Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court.”
+
+“Never!”
+
+“You refuse me?”
+
+“Oh, madame, why should you wish me?—sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided
+by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah,
+madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be
+accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present.”
+
+“But,” said the queen, “what I was about to propose to you would have
+removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which
+would have made you one of our great ladies.”
+
+“A marriage?” stammered Andrée.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Oh, I refuse, I refuse!”
+
+“Andrée!” cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.
+
+“Ah, no, I refuse!”
+
+Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart,
+for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andrée said, “But, madame,
+tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his
+companion for life.”
+
+“M. de Charny,” said the queen, with an effort.
+
+“M. de Charny?”——
+
+“Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren.”
+
+“It is he!” cried Andrée, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; “he
+consents——”
+
+“He asks you in marriage.”
+
+“Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him.”
+
+The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andrée kissed
+her hands, bathing them with her tears. “Oh, I am ready,” murmured she.
+
+“Come, then!” cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was
+failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.
+
+Andrée left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with
+bitter sobs, “Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering?
+and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and
+myself from shame?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIII.
+IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT.
+
+
+Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure. He
+did not wish to witness the dishonor of the queen, his first and only
+passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father.
+For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to
+feed on the scandals circulating at the court—they were meat and drink
+to him. When he received his son’s message, instead of sending for him,
+he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder
+consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from
+his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andrée had
+already left him, and it was one less to torment, and he must feel a
+blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear
+his father call out, with a burst of laughter, “Oh, mon Dieu! he is
+going away, I was sure of it, I would have bet upon it. Well played,
+Philippe, well played.”
+
+“What is well played, sir?”
+
+“Admirable!” repeated the old man.
+
+“You give me praises, sir, which I neither understand nor merit, unless
+you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me.”
+
+“Oh! oh!” laughed the old man again, “I am not your dupe. Do you think
+I believe in your departure?”
+
+“You do not believe? really, sir, you surprise me.”
+
+“Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right
+to pretend to leave; without this ruse all, probably, would have been
+discovered.”
+
+“Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to
+me.”
+
+“Where do you say you go to?”
+
+“I go first to Taverney Maison Rouge.”
+
+“Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she
+is so fiery and incautious, that you must be prudent for both. What is
+your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news?”
+
+“Taverney, monsieur.”
+
+“Taverney, nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in
+the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have
+managed so well for your love, can easily manage this.”
+
+“Sir, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution.”
+
+“Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets,
+tell me nothing of the huntsman’s house, nor the nightly walks with two
+dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses.”
+
+“Monsieur!” cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, “will you hold
+your tongue?”
+
+“Well, I know it all—your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in
+the baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever.”
+
+“Monsieur, you cause me horror!” cried poor Philippe, hiding his face
+in his hands. And, indeed, he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself
+all the happiness of another. All the rumors that the father had heard,
+he had assigned to his son, and believed that it was he that the queen
+loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.
+
+“Yes,” he went on, “some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny;
+not one that it was Taverney. Oh, you have acted well.”
+
+At this moment a carriage was heard to drive up, and a servant
+entering, said, “Here is mademoiselle.”
+
+“My sister!” cried Philippe.
+
+Then another servant appeared, and said that Mademoiselle de Taverney
+wished to speak to her brother in the boudoir. Another carriage now
+came to the door.
+
+“Who the devil comes now?” muttered the baron; “it is an evening of
+adventures.”
+
+“M. le Comte de Charny,” cried the powerful voice of the porter at the
+gate.
+
+“Conduct M. le Comte to the drawing-room; my father will see him; and I
+will go to my sister—What can he want here?” thought Philippe, as he
+went down.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIV.
+THE FATHER AND THE FIANCÉE.
+
+
+Philippe hastened to the boudoir, where his sister awaited him. She ran
+to embrace him with a joyous air.
+
+“What is it, Andrée?” cried he.
+
+“Something which makes me happy. Oh! very happy, brother.”
+
+“And you come back to announce it to me.”
+
+“I come back for ever,” said Andrée.
+
+“Speak low, sister; there is, or is going to be, some one in the next
+room who might hear you.”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Listen.”
+
+“M. le Comte de Charny,” announced the servant.
+
+“He! oh, I know well what he comes for.”
+
+“You know!”
+
+“Yes, and soon I shall be summoned to hear what he has to say.”
+
+“Do you speak seriously, my dear Andrée?”
+
+“Listen, Philippe. The queen has brought me suddenly back, and I must
+go and change my dress for one fit for a fiancée.” And saying this,
+with a kiss to Philippe, she ran off.
+
+Philippe remained alone. He could hear what passed in the adjoining
+room. M. de Taverney entered, and saluted the count with a recherché
+though stiff politeness.
+
+“I come, monsieur,” said Charny, “to make a request, and beg you to
+excuse my not having brought my uncle with me, which I know would have
+been more proper.”
+
+“A request?”
+
+“I have the honor,” continued Charny, in a voice full of emotion, “to
+ask the hand of Mademoiselle Andrée, your daughter.”
+
+The baron opened his eyes in astonishment—“My daughter?”
+
+“Yes, M. le Baron, if Mademoiselle de Taverney feels no repugnance.”
+
+“Oh,” thought the old man, “Philippe’s favor is already so well-known,
+that one of his rivals wishes to marry his sister.” Then aloud, he
+said, “This request is such an honor to us, M. le Comte, that I accede
+with much pleasure; and as I should wish you to carry away a perfectly
+favorable answer, I will send for my daughter.”
+
+“Monsieur,” interrupted the count, rather coldly, “the queen has been
+good enough to consult Mademoiselle de Taverney already, and her reply
+was favorable.”
+
+“Ah!” said the baron, more and more astonished, “it is the queen
+then——”
+
+“Yes, monsieur, who took the trouble to go to St. Denis.”
+
+“Then, sir, it only remains to acquaint you with my daughter’s fortune.
+She is not rich, and before concluding——”
+
+“It is needless, M. le Baron; I am rich enough for both.”
+
+At this moment the door opened, and Philippe entered, pale and wild
+looking.
+
+“Sir,” said he, “my father was right to wish to discuss these things
+with you. While he goes up-stairs to bring the papers I have something
+to say to you.”
+
+When they were left alone, “M. de Charny,” said he, “how dare you come
+here to ask for the hand of my sister?” Charny colored. “Is it,”
+continued Philippe, “in order to hide better your amours with another
+woman whom you love, and who loves you? Is it, that by becoming the
+husband of a woman who is always near your mistress, you will have more
+facilities for seeing her?”
+
+“Sir, you pass all bounds.”
+
+“It is, perhaps; and this is what I believe, that were I your
+brother-in-law, you think my tongue would be tied about what I know of
+your past amours.”
+
+“What you know?”
+
+“Yes,” cried Philippe, “the huntsman’s house hired by you, your
+mysterious promenades in the park at night, and the tender parting at
+the little gate.”
+
+“Monsieur, in heaven’s name——”
+
+“Oh, sir, I was concealed behind the baths of Apollo when you came out,
+arm in arm with the queen.”
+
+Charny was completely overwhelmed for a time; then, after a few
+moments, he said, “Well, sir, even after all this, I reiterate my
+demand for the hand of your sister. I am not the base calculator you
+suppose me; but the queen must be saved.”
+
+“The queen is not lost, because I saw her on your arm, raising to
+heaven her eyes full of happiness; because I know that she loves you.
+That is no reason why my sister should be sacrificed, M. de Charny.”
+
+“Monsieur,” replied Charny, “this morning the king surprised me at her
+feet——”
+
+“Mon Dieu!”
+
+“And she, pressed by his jealous questions, replied that I was kneeling
+to ask the hand of your sister. Therefore if I do not marry her, the
+queen is lost. Do you now understand?”
+
+A cry from the boudoir now interrupted them, followed by another from
+the ante-chamber. Charny ran to the boudoir; he saw there Andrée,
+dressed in white like a bride: she had heard all, and had fainted.
+Philippe ran to where the other cry came from; it was his father, whose
+hopes this revelation of the queen’s love for Charny had just
+destroyed; struck by apoplexy, he had given his last sigh. Philippe,
+who understood it, looked at the corpse for a few minutes in silence,
+and then returned to the drawing-room, and there saw Charny watching
+the senseless form of his sister. He then said, “My father has just
+expired, sir; I am now the head of the family; if my sister survive, I
+will give her to you in marriage.”
+
+Charny regarded the corpse of the baron with horror, and the form of
+Andrée with despair. Philippe uttered a groan of agony, then continued,
+“M. de Charny, I make this engagement in the name of my sister, now
+lying senseless before us; she will give her happiness to the queen,
+and I, perhaps, some day shall be happy enough to give my life for her.
+Adieu, M. de Charny——” and taking his sister in his arms, he carried
+her into the next room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXV.
+AFTER THE DRAGON, THE VIPER.
+
+
+Oliva was preparing to fly, as Jeanne had arranged, when Beausire,
+warned by an anonymous letter, discovered her and carried her away. In
+order to trace them, Jeanne put all her powers in requisition—she
+preferred being able to watch over her own secret—and her
+disappointment was great when all her agents returned announcing a
+failure. At this time she received in her hiding-place numerous
+messages from the queen.
+
+She went by night to Bar-sur-Aube, and there remained for two days. At
+last she was traced, and an express sent to take her. Then she learnt
+the arrest of the cardinal. “The queen has been rash,” thought she, “in
+refusing to compromise with the cardinal, or to pay the jewelers; but
+she did not know my power.”
+
+“Monsieur,” said she to the officer who arrested her, “do you love the
+queen?”
+
+“Certainly, madame.”
+
+“Well, in the name of that love I beg you to conduct me straight to
+her. Believe me, you will be doing her a service.”
+
+The man was persuaded, and did so. The queen received her haughtily,
+for she began to suspect that her conduct had not been straightforward.
+She called in two ladies as witnesses of what was about to pass.
+
+“You are found at last, madame,” said the queen; “why did you hide?”
+
+“I did not hide, madame.”
+
+“Run away, then, if that pleases you better.”
+
+“That is to say, that I quitted Paris. I had some little business at
+Bar-sur-Aube, and, to tell the truth, I did not know I was so necessary
+to your majesty as to be obliged to ask leave for an absence of eight
+days.”
+
+“Have you seen the king?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“You shall see him.”
+
+“It will be a great honor for me; but your majesty seems very severe
+towards me—I am all trembling.”
+
+“Oh, madame, this is but the beginning. Do you know that M. de Rohan
+has been arrested?”
+
+“They told me so, madame.”
+
+“You guess why?”
+
+“No, madame.”
+
+“You proposed to me that he should pay for a certain necklace; did I
+accept or refuse?”
+
+“Refuse.”
+
+“Ah!” said the queen, well pleased.
+
+“Your majesty even paid 100,000 francs on account.”
+
+“Well, and afterwards?”
+
+“Afterwards, as your majesty could not pay, you sent it back to M.
+Bœhmer.”
+
+“By whom?”
+
+“By me.”
+
+“And what did you do with it?”
+
+“I took it to the cardinal.”
+
+“And why to the cardinal instead of to the jewelers, as I told you?”
+
+“Because I thought he would be hurt if I returned it without letting
+him know.”
+
+“But how did you get a receipt from the jewelers?”
+
+“M. de Rohan gave it to me.”
+
+“But why did you take a letter to them as coming from me?”
+
+“Because he gave it to me, and asked me to do so.”
+
+“It is, then, all his doing?”
+
+“What is, madame?”
+
+“The receipt and the letter are both forged.”
+
+“Forged, madame!” cried Jeanne, with much apparent astonishment.
+
+“Well, you must be confronted with him to prove the truth.”
+
+“Why, madame?”
+
+“He himself demands it. He says he has sought you everywhere, and that
+he wishes to prove that you have deceived him.”
+
+“Oh! then, madame, let us meet.”
+
+“You shall. You deny all knowledge of where the necklace is?”
+
+“How should I know, madame?”
+
+“You deny having aided the cardinal in his intrigues?”
+
+“I am a Valois, madame.”
+
+“But M. de Rohan maintained before the king many calumnies, which he
+said you would confirm.”
+
+“I do not understand.”
+
+“He declares he wrote to me.”
+
+Jeanne did not reply.
+
+“Do you hear?” said the queen.
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“What do you reply?”
+
+“I will reply when I have seen him.”
+
+“But speak the truth now.”
+
+“Your majesty overwhelms me.”
+
+“That is no answer.”
+
+“I will give no other here;” and she looked at the two ladies. The
+queen understood, but would not yield; she scorned to purchase anything
+by concession.
+
+“M. de Rohan,” said the queen, “was sent to the Bastile for saying too
+much; take care, madame, that you are not sent for saying too little.”
+
+Jeanne smiled. “A pure conscience can brave persecution,” she replied;
+“the Bastile will not convict me of a crime I did not commit.”
+
+“Will you reply?”
+
+“Only to your majesty.”
+
+“Are you not speaking to me?”
+
+“Not alone.”
+
+“Ah! you fear scandal, after being the cause of so much to me.”
+
+“What I did,” said Jeanne, “was done for you.”
+
+“What insolence!”
+
+“I submit to the insults of my queen.”
+
+“You will sleep in the Bastile to-night, madame!”
+
+“So be it; I will first pray to God to preserve your majesty’s honor.”
+
+The queen rose furiously, and went into the next room.
+
+“After having conquered the dragon,” she said, “I can crush the viper!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVI.
+HOW IT CAME TO PASS THAT M. BEAUSIRE WAS TRACKED BY THE AGENTS OF M. DE
+CROSNE.
+
+
+Madame de la Motte was imprisoned as the queen had threatened, and the
+whole affair created no little talk and excitement through France. M.
+de Rohan lived at the Bastile like a prince: he had everything but
+liberty. He demanded to be confronted with Madame de la Motte as soon
+as he heard of her arrest. This was done. She whispered to him, “Send
+every one away, and I will explain.” He asked this, but was refused;
+they said his counsel might communicate with her. She said to this
+gentleman that she was ignorant of what had become of the necklace, but
+that they might well have given it to her in recompense for the
+services she had rendered the queen and the cardinal, which were well
+worth a million and a half. The cardinal turned pale on hearing this
+repeated, and felt how much they were in Jeanne’s power. He was
+determined not to accuse the queen, although his friends endeavored to
+convince him that it was his only way to prove his innocence of the
+robbery. Jeanne said that she did not wish to accuse either the queen
+or the cardinal, but that, if they persisted in making her responsible
+for the necklace, she would do so to show that they were interested in
+accusing her of falsehood. Then M. de Rohan expressed all his contempt
+for her, and said that he began to understand much of Jeanne’s conduct,
+but not the queen’s. All this was reported to Marie Antoinette. She
+ordered another private examination of the parties, but gained nothing
+from it. Jeanne denied everything to those sent by the queen; but when
+they were gone she altered her tone, and said, “If they do not leave me
+alone I will tell all.” The cardinal said nothing, and brought no
+accusations; but rumors began to spread fast, and the question soon
+became, not “Has the queen stolen the necklace?” but “Has she allowed
+some one else to steal it because she knew all about her amours?”
+Madame de la Motte had involved her in a maze, from which there seemed
+no honorable exit; but she determined not to lose courage. She began to
+come to the conclusion that the cardinal was an honest man, and did not
+wish to ruin her, but was acting like herself, only to preserve his
+honor. They strove earnestly but ineffectually to trace the necklace.
+All opinions were against Jeanne, and she began to fear that, even if
+she dragged down the queen and cardinal, she should be quite
+overwhelmed under the ruins she had caused; and she had not even at
+hand the fruits of her dishonesty to corrupt her judges with. Affairs
+were in this state when a new episode changed the face of things. Oliva
+and M. Beausire were living, happy and rich, in a country house, when
+one day Beausire, going out hunting, fell into the company of two of
+the agents of M. de Crosne, whom he had scattered all over the country.
+They recognized Beausire immediately, but, as it was Oliva whom they
+most wanted, they did not arrest him there, but only joined the chase.
+Beausire, seeing two strangers, called the huntsman, and asked who they
+were. He replied that he did not know, but, if he had permission, would
+send them away. On his questioning them, they said they were friends of
+that gentleman, pointing to M. Beausire. Then the man brought them to
+him, saying, “M. de Linville, these gentlemen say they are friends of
+yours.”
+
+“Ah, you are called De Linville now, dear M. Beausire!”
+
+Beausire trembled; he had concealed his name so carefully. He sent away
+the huntsman, and asked them who they were.
+
+“Take us home with you, and we will tell you.”
+
+“Home?”
+
+“Yes; do not be inhospitable.” Beausire was frightened, but still
+feared to refuse these men who knew him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVII.
+THE TURTLES ARE CAGED.
+
+
+Beausire, on entering the house, made a noise to attract Oliva’s
+attention, for, though he knew nothing about her later escapades, he
+knew enough about the ball at the Opera, and the morning at M.
+Mesmer’s, to make him fear letting her be seen by strangers.
+Accordingly, Oliva, hearing the dogs bark, looked out, and, seeing
+Beausire returning with two strangers, did not come to meet him as
+usual. Unfortunately the servant asked if he should call madame. The
+men rallied him about the lady whom he had concealed; he let them
+laugh, but did not offer to call her. They dined; then Beausire asked
+where they had met him before. “We are,” replied they, “friends of one
+of your associates in a little affair about the Portuguese embassy.”
+
+Beausire turned pale.
+
+“Ah!” said he: “and you came on your friend’s part?”
+
+“Yes, dear M. Beausire, to ask for 10,000 francs.”
+
+“Gentlemen,” replied Beausire, “you cannot think I have such a sum in
+the house.”
+
+“Very likely not, monsieur; we do not ask for impossibilities. How much
+have you?”
+
+“Not more than fifty or sixty louis.”
+
+“We will take them to begin with.”
+
+“I will go and fetch them,” said Beausire. But they did not choose to
+let him leave the room without them, so they caught hold of him by the
+coat, saying:
+
+“Oh no, dear M. Beausire, do not leave us.”
+
+“But how am I to get the money if I do not leave you?”
+
+“We will go with you.”
+
+“But it is in my wife’s bedroom.”
+
+“Ah,” cried one of them, “you hide your wife from us!”
+
+“Are we not presentable?” asked the other. “We wish to see her.”
+
+“You are tipsy, and I will turn you out!” said Beausire.
+
+They laughed.
+
+“Now you shall not even have the money I promised,” said he, emboldened
+by what he thought their intoxication; and he ran out of the room.
+
+They followed and caught him; he cried out, and at the sound a door
+opened, and a woman looked out with a frightened air. On seeing her,
+the men released Beausire, and gave a cry of exultation, for they
+recognized her immediately who resembled the Queen of France so
+strongly.
+
+Beausire, who believed them for a moment disarmed by the sight of a
+woman, was soon cruelly undeceived.
+
+One of the men approached Oliva, and said:
+
+“I arrest you.”
+
+“Arrest her! Why?” cried Beausire.
+
+“Because it is M. de Crosne’s orders.”
+
+A thunderbolt falling between the lovers would have frightened them
+less than this declaration.
+
+At last Beausire said, “You came to arrest me?”
+
+“No; it was a chance.”
+
+“Never mind, you might have arrested me, and for sixty louis you were
+about to leave me at liberty.”
+
+“Oh no, we should have asked another sixty; however, for one hundred we
+will do so.”
+
+“And madame?”
+
+“Oh, that is quite a different affair.”
+
+“She is worth two hundred louis,” said Beausire.
+
+They laughed again, and this time Beausire began to understand this
+terrible laugh.
+
+“Three hundred, four hundred, a thousand—see, I will give you one
+thousand louis to leave her at liberty!”
+
+They did not answer.
+
+“Is not that enough? Ah, you know I have money, and you want to make me
+pay. Well, I will give you two thousand louis; it will make both your
+fortunes!”
+
+“For 100,000 crowns we would not give up this woman. M. de Rohan will
+give us 500,000 francs for her, and the queen 1,000,000. Now we must
+go. You doubtless have a carriage of some kind here; have it prepared
+for madame. We will take you also, for form’s sake; but on the way you
+can escape, and we will shut our eyes.”
+
+Beausire replied, “Where she goes, I will go; I will never leave her.”
+
+“Oh, so much the better; the more prisoners we bring M. de Crosne, the
+better he will be pleased.”
+
+A quarter of an hour after, Beausire’s carriage started, with the two
+lovers in it. One may imagine the effect of this capture on M. de
+Crosne. The agents probably did not receive the 1,000,000 francs they
+hoped for, but there is reason to believe they were satisfied. M. de
+Crosne went to Versailles, followed by another carriage well guarded.
+He asked to see the queen, and was instantly admitted. She judged from
+his face that he had good news for her, and felt the first sensation of
+joy she had experienced for a month.
+
+“Madame,” said M. de Crosne, “have you a room here where you can see
+without being seen?”
+
+“Oh yes—my library.”
+
+“Well, madame, I have a carriage below, in which is some one whom I
+wish to introduce into the castle unseen by any one.”
+
+“Nothing more easy,” replied the queen, ringing to give her orders.
+
+All was executed as he wished. Then she conducted M. de Crosne to the
+library, where, concealed from view behind a large screen, she soon saw
+enter a form which made her utter a cry of surprise. It was Oliva,
+dressed in one of her own favorite costumes—a green dress with broad
+stripes of black moirée, green satin slippers with high heels, and her
+hair dressed like her own. It might have been herself reflected in the
+glass.
+
+“What says your majesty to this resemblance?” asked M. de Crosne,
+triumphantly.
+
+“Incredible,” said the queen. She then thought to herself, “Ah! Charny;
+why are you not here?”
+
+“What does your majesty wish?”
+
+“Nothing, sir, but that the king should know.”
+
+“And M. de Provence see her? shall he not, madame?”
+
+“Thanks, M. de Crosne, you hold now, I think, the clue to the whole
+plot.”
+
+“Nearly so, madame.”
+
+“And M. de Rohan?”
+
+“Knows nothing yet.”
+
+“Ah!” cried the queen; “in this woman, doubtless, lies all his error.”
+
+“Possibly, madame; but if it be his error it is the crime of some one
+else.”
+
+“Seek well, sir; the honor of France is in your hands.”
+
+“Believe me worthy of the trust. At present, the accused parties deny
+everything. I shall wait for the proper time to overwhelm them with
+this living witness that I now hold.”
+
+“Madame de la Motte?”
+
+“Knows nothing of this capture. She accuses M. de Cagliostro of having
+excited the cardinal to say what he did.”
+
+“And what does M. de Cagliostro say?”
+
+“He has promised to come to me this morning. He is a dangerous man, but
+a useful one, and attacked by Madame de la Motte, I am in hopes he will
+sting back again.”
+
+“You hope for revelations?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“How so, sir? Tell me everything which can reassure me.”
+
+“These are my reasons, madame. Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue St.
+Claude, and M. de Cagliostro just opposite her. So I think her
+movements cannot have been unnoticed by him; but if your majesty will
+excuse me, it is close to the time he appointed to meet me.”
+
+“Go, monsieur, go; and assure yourself of my gratitude.”
+
+When he was gone the queen burst into tears. “My justification begins,”
+said she; “I shall soon read my triumph in all faces; but the one I
+most cared to know me innocent, him I shall not see.”
+
+M. de Crosne drove back to Paris, where M. de Cagliostro waited for
+him. He knew all; for he had discovered Beausire’s retreat, and was on
+the road to see him, and induce him to leave France, when he met the
+carriage containing Beausire and Oliva. Beausire saw the count, and the
+idea crossed his mind that he might help them. He therefore accepted
+the offer of the police-agents, gave them the hundred louis, and made
+his escape, in spite of the tears shed by Oliva; saying, “I go to try
+and save you.” He ran after M. de Cagliostro’s carriage, which he soon
+overtook, as the count had stopped, it being useless to proceed.
+Beausire soon told his story; Cagliostro listened in silence, then
+said, “She is lost.”
+
+“Why so?” Then Cagliostro told him all he did not already know—all the
+intrigues in the park.
+
+“Oh! save her,” cried Beausire; “and I will give her to you, if you
+love her still.”
+
+“My friend,” replied Cagliostro, “you deceive yourself; I never loved
+Mademoiselle Oliva; I had but one aim—that of weaning her from the life
+of debauchery she was leading with you.”
+
+“But——” said Beausire.
+
+“That astonishes you—know that I belong to a society whose object is
+moral reform. Ask her if ever she heard from my mouth one word of
+gallantry, or if my services were not disinterested.”
+
+“Oh, monsieur! but will you save her?”
+
+“I will try, but it will depend on yourself.”
+
+“I will do anything.”
+
+“Then return with me to Paris, and if you follow my instructions
+implicitly, we may succeed in saving her. I only impose one condition,
+which I will tell you when I reach home.”
+
+“I promise beforehand. But can I see her again?”
+
+“I think so, and you can tell her what I say to you.” In two hours they
+overtook the carriage containing Oliva, and Beausire bought for fifty
+louis permission to embrace her, and tell her all the count had said.
+The agents admired this violent love, and hoped for more louis, but
+Beausire was gone. Cagliostro drove him to Paris.
+
+We will now return to M. de Crosne.
+
+This gentleman knew a good deal about Cagliostro, his former names, his
+pretensions to ubiquity and perpetual regeneration, his secrets in
+alchemy and magnetism, and looked upon him as a great charlatan.
+
+“Monsieur,” said he to Cagliostro, “you asked me for an audience; I
+have returned from Versailles to meet you.”
+
+“Sir, I thought you would wish to question me about what is passing, so
+I came to you.”
+
+“Question you?” said the magistrate, affecting surprise. “On what?”
+
+“Monsieur,” replied Cagliostro, “you are much occupied about Madame de
+la Motte, and the missing necklace.”
+
+“Have you found it?” asked M. de Crosne, laughing.
+
+“No, sir, but Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue St. Claude——”
+
+“I know, opposite you.”
+
+“Oh, if you know all about Oliva, I have nothing more to tell you.”
+
+“Who is Oliva?”
+
+“You do not know? Then, sir, imagine a young girl very pretty, with
+blue eyes, and an oval face, a style of beauty something like her
+majesty, for instance.”
+
+“Well, sir?”
+
+“This young girl led a bad life; it gave me pain to see it; for she was
+once in the service of an old friend of mine, M. de Taverney—but I
+weary you.”
+
+“Oh no, pray go on.”
+
+“Well, Oliva led not only a bad life, but an unhappy one, with a fellow
+she called her lover, who beat and robbed her.”
+
+“Beausire,” said the magistrate.
+
+“Ah! you know him. You are still more a magician than I am. Well, one
+day when Beausire had beaten the poor girl more than usual, she fled to
+me for refuge; I pitied her, and gave her shelter in one of my houses.”
+
+“In your house!” cried M. de Crosne in surprise.
+
+“Oh! why not? I am a bachelor,” said Cagliostro, with an air which
+quite deceived M. de Crosne.
+
+“That is then the reason why my agents could not find her.”
+
+“What! you were seeking this little girl? Had she then been guilty of
+any crime?”
+
+“No, sir, no; pray go on.”
+
+“Oh! I have done. I lodged her at my house, and that is all.”
+
+“No, sir, for you just now associated her name with that of Madame de
+la Motte.”
+
+“Only as neighbors.”
+
+“But, sir, this Oliva, whom you say you had in your house, I found in
+the country with Beausire.”
+
+“With Beausire? Ah! then I have wronged Madame de la Motte.”
+
+“How so, sir?”
+
+“Why just as I thought I had hopes of reforming Oliva, and bringing her
+back to an honest life, some one carried her away from me.”
+
+“That is strange.”
+
+“Is it not? And I firmly believed it to be Madame de la Motte. But as
+you found her with Beausire, it was not she, and all her signals and
+correspondence with Oliva meant nothing.”
+
+“With Oliva?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“They met?”
+
+“Yes, Madame de la Motte found a way to take Oliva out every night.”
+
+“Are you sure of this?”
+
+“I saw and heard her.”
+
+“Oh, sir, you tell me what I would have paid for with one thousand
+francs a word. But you are a friend of M. de Rohan?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You ought to know how far he was connected with this affair.”
+
+“I do not wish to know.”
+
+“But you know the object of these nightly excursions of Madame de la
+Motte and Oliva?”
+
+“Of that also I wish to be ignorant.”
+
+“Sir, I only wish to ask you one more question. Have you proofs of the
+correspondence of Madame de la Motte and Oliva?”
+
+“Plenty.”
+
+“What are they?”
+
+“Notes which Madame de la Motte used to throw over to Oliva with a
+cross-bow. Several of them did not reach their destination, and were
+picked up either by myself, or my servants, in the street.”
+
+“Sir, you will be ready to produce them, if called upon?”
+
+“Certainly; they are perfectly innocent, and cannot injure any one.”
+
+“And have you any other proofs of intimacy?”
+
+“I know that she had a method of entering my house to see Oliva. I saw
+her myself, just after Oliva had disappeared, and my servants saw her
+also.”
+
+“But what did she come for, if Oliva was gone?”
+
+“I did not know. I saw her come out of a carriage at the corner of the
+street. My idea was that she wished to attach Oliva to her, and keep
+her near her.”
+
+“And you let her do it?”
+
+“Why not? She is a great lady, and received at court. Why should I have
+prevented her taking charge of Oliva, and taking her off my hands?”
+
+“What did she say when she found that Oliva was gone?”
+
+“She appeared distressed.”
+
+“You suppose that Beausire carried her off?”
+
+“I suppose so, for you tell me you found them together. I did not
+suspect him before, for he did not know where she was.”
+
+“She must have let him know herself.”
+
+“I think not, as she had fled from him. I think Madame de la Motte must
+have sent him a key.”
+
+“Ah! what day was it?”
+
+“The evening of St. Louis.”
+
+“Monsieur, you have rendered a great service to me and to the state.”
+
+“I am happy to hear it.”
+
+“You shall be thanked as you deserve. I may count on the production of
+the proofs you mention?”
+
+“I am ready, sir, to assist justice at all times.”
+
+As Cagliostro left, he muttered, “Ah, countess! you tried to accuse
+me—take care of yourself.”
+
+Meanwhile, M. de Breteuil was sent by the king to examine Madame de la
+Motte. She declared that she had proofs of her innocence, which she
+would produce at the proper time; she also declared, that she would
+only speak the truth in the presence of the cardinal. She was told that
+the cardinal laid all the blame upon her. “Tell him then,” she said,
+“that I advise him not to persist in such a foolish system of defense.”
+
+“Whom then do you accuse?” asked M. Breteuil.
+
+“I accuse no one,” was her reply.
+
+A report was spread at last that the diamonds were being sold in
+England by M. Reteau de Villette. This man was soon found and arrested,
+and brought over and confronted with Jeanne. To her utter confusion, he
+acknowledged that he had forged a receipt from the jewelers, and a
+letter from the queen at the request of Madame de la Motte. She denied
+furiously, and declared that she had never seen M. Reteau. M. de Crosne
+produced as witness a coachman, who swore to having driven her, on the
+day named, to the house of M. Reteau. Also, one of the servants of M.
+de Cagliostro deposed to having seen this man on the box of Jeanne’s
+carriage on the night that she came to his master’s house. Now, Jeanne
+began to abuse the count, and accused him of having inspired M. de
+Rohan with the ideas inimical to the royal dignity. M. de Rohan
+defended him, and Jeanne at once plainly accused the cardinal of a
+violent love for the queen. M. de Cagliostro requested to be
+incarcerated, and allowed to prove his innocence publicly. Then the
+queen caused to be published all the reports made to the king about the
+nocturnal promenades, and requested M. de Crosne to state all that he
+knew about it. This public avowal overturned all Jeanne’s plans, and
+she denied having assisted at any meetings between the queen and the
+cardinal. This declaration would have cleared the queen, had it been
+possible to attach any credence to what this woman said. While Jeanne
+continued to deny that she had ever been in the park, they brought
+forward Oliva at last, a living witness of all the falsehoods of the
+countess. When Oliva was shown to the cardinal the blow was dreadful.
+He saw at last how infamously he had been played upon. This man, so
+full of delicacy and noble passions, discovered that an adventuress had
+led him to insult and despise the Queen of France; a woman whom he
+loved, and who was innocent. He would have shed all his blood at the
+feet of Marie Antoinette to make atonement. But he could not even
+acknowledge his mistake without owning that he loved her—even his
+excuse would involve an offense; so he was obliged to keep silent, and
+allow Jeanne to deny everything. Oliva confessed all without reserve.
+At last Jeanne, driven from every hold, confessed that she had deceived
+the cardinal, but declared that it was done with the consent of the
+queen, who watched and enjoyed the scene, hidden behind the trees. To
+this story she kept; the queen could never disprove it, and there were
+plenty of people willing to believe it true.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
+THE LAST HOPE LOST.
+
+
+Here the affair therefore rested, for Jeanne was determined to share
+the blame with some one, as she could not turn it from herself. All her
+calculations had been defeated by the frankness with which the queen
+had met, and made public, every accusation against her.
+
+At last Jeanne wrote the following letter to the queen:
+
+“Madame,
+
+“In spite of my painful position and rigorous treatment, I have not
+uttered a complaint; all that has been tried to extort avowals from me
+has failed to make me compromise my sovereign. However, although
+persuaded that my constancy and discretion will facilitate my release
+from my present position, the friends of the cardinal make me fear I
+shall become his victim. A long imprisonment, endless questions, and
+the shame and despair of being accused of such crimes, begin to exhaust
+my courage, and I tremble lest my constancy should at last give way.
+Your majesty might end all this by a few words to M. de Breteuil, who
+could give the affair in the king’s eyes any color your majesty likes
+without compromising you. It is the fear of being compelled to reveal
+all which makes me beg your majesty to take steps to relieve me from my
+painful position. I am, with profound respect,
+
+“Your humble servant,
+
+“Jeanne de la Motte.”
+
+
+Jeanne calculated either that this letter would frighten the queen, or,
+what was more probable, would never reach her hands, but be carried by
+the messenger to the governor of the Bastile, where it could hardly
+fail to tell against the queen. She then wrote to the cardinal:
+
+“I cannot conceive, monseigneur, why you persist in not speaking
+plainly. It seems to me that your best plan would be to confide fully
+in our judges. As for me, I am resolved to be silent if you will not
+second me; but why do you not speak? Explain all the circumstances of
+this mysterious affair, for if I were to speak first, and you not
+support me, I should be sacrificed to the vengeance of her who wishes
+to ruin us. But I have written her a letter which will perhaps induce
+her to spare us, who have nothing to reproach ourselves with.”
+
+This letter she gave to the cardinal at their last confrontation. He
+grew pale with anger at her audacity, and left the room. Then Jeanne
+produced her letter to the queen, and begged the Abbé Lekel, chaplain
+of the Bastile, who had accompanied the cardinal, and was devoted to
+him, to take charge of it and convey it to the queen. He refused to
+take it. She declared that if he did not she would produce M. de
+Rohan’s letters to the queen. “And take care, sir,” added she, “for
+they will cause his head to fall on the scaffold.”
+
+At this moment the cardinal reappeared.
+
+“Madame,” said he, “let my head fall, so that I have the satisfaction
+of seeing also the scaffold which you shall mount as a thief and a
+forger. Come, Abbé.” He went away, leaving Jeanne devoured with rage
+and disappointment at her failures at every turn.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIX.
+THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE.
+
+
+Madame de la Motte had deceived herself on all points, Cagliostro upon
+none. Once in the Bastile, he saw a good opportunity for working at the
+ruin of the monarchy, which he had been trying to undermine for so many
+years. He prepared the famous letter, dated from London, which appeared
+a month after. In this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal,
+and even M. de Breteuil, he said, “Yes, I repeat, now free after my
+imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six
+months in the Bastile. They ask me if I shall ever return to France?
+Yes, I reply, when the Bastile becomes a public promenade. You have all
+that is necessary to happiness, you Frenchmen; a fertile soil and
+genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. You only
+want, my friends, one little thing—to feel sure of sleeping quietly in
+your beds when you are innocent.”
+
+Oliva kept her word faithfully to Cagliostro, and uttered no word that
+could compromise him. She threw all the blame on Madame de la Motte,
+and asserted vehemently her own innocent participation in what she
+believed to be a joke, played on a gentleman unknown to her. All this
+time she did not see Beausire, but she had a souvenir of him; for in
+the month of May she gave birth to a son. Beausire was allowed to
+attend the baptism, which took place in the prison, which he did with
+much pleasure, swearing that if Oliva ever recovered her liberty he
+would make her his wife.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XC.
+THE TRIAL.
+
+
+The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment
+of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to
+the Conciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva
+continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent;
+Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent,
+menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his
+wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.
+
+The first who took his place on the wooden stool, which was
+appropriated for the accused, was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears
+and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested
+no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la
+Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the
+disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois,
+threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of
+sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as
+before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own
+innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to
+have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that
+she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was
+best able to answer this question himself. “Ask him to produce them,”
+said she; “I wish to say nothing about them.” She inspired in nearly
+all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only
+consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her;
+and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an armchair
+brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four
+attendants, and the governor of the Bastile walked by his side. At his
+entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it
+was echoed by loud shouts from without—it was the people who cheered
+him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him,
+and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling
+voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather
+than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and
+seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The
+wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing
+this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then
+Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed
+immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were
+concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were
+locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not
+pronounced till the following day. Jeanne seated herself early at the
+window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd
+collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she
+distinctly heard a passer-by say, “A grand day for the cardinal!” “For
+the cardinal,” thought Jeanne; “then he is acquitted;” and she ran to
+M. Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. “He must be
+acquitted!” she said; “they said it was a grand day for him. But I——”
+
+“Well, madame,” said he, “if he is acquitted, why should you not be
+acquitted also?”
+
+Jeanne returned to the window. “You are wrong, madame,” said Madame
+Hubert to her; “you only become agitated, without perfectly
+understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel
+comes to communicate your fate.”
+
+“I cannot,” said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the
+street.
+
+A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. “He
+shall have my bouquet, the dear man!” said she. “Oh, I would embrace
+him if I could!”
+
+“And I also,” said another.
+
+“He is so handsome!” said a third.
+
+“It must be the cardinal,” said Jeanne; “he is acquitted.”
+
+And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, “But,
+madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released?”
+
+Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, “Oh, you
+misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish
+ill to my companions in misfortune? Oh no; I trust he is free. It is
+only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing.”
+
+“We do not know,” replied they.
+
+Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing
+round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were
+thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of
+a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was
+the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of “Vive Cagliostro!”
+were mingled with the shouts for M. de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather
+courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the
+queen’s victims; but suddenly the thought flashed on her, “They are
+already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!”
+and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach, which
+was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognized
+Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her,
+holding her child in her arms. Then Jeanne, seeing all these people
+free, happy, and fêted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not
+also liberated, or at least told her fate.
+
+“Calm yourself, madame,” said Madame Hubert.
+
+“But tell me, for you must know.”
+
+“Madame.”
+
+“I implore you! You see how I suffer.”
+
+“We are forbidden, madame.”
+
+“Is it so frightful that you dare not?”
+
+“Oh no; calm yourself.”
+
+“Then speak.”
+
+“Will you be patient, and not betray us?”
+
+“I swear.”
+
+“Well, the cardinal is acquitted.”
+
+“I know it.”
+
+“M. de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are also acquitted, M. Reteau
+condemned to the galleys——”
+
+“And I?” cried Jeanne, furiously.
+
+“Madame, you promised to be patient.”
+
+“See—speak—I am calm.”
+
+“Banished,” said the woman, feebly.
+
+A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then
+she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame
+Hubert. “What would it have been,” thought she, “if I had told her the
+truth!”
+
+“Banishment!” thought Jeanne; “that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it
+is what I hoped for. I have won!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCI.
+THE EXECUTION.
+
+
+Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being
+now at ease, said to herself, “What do I care that I am thought more
+guilty than M. de Rohan? I am banished—that is to say, I can carry away
+my million and a half with me, and live under the orange trees of
+Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer.
+Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as
+I please among my friends.”
+
+Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her
+future plans, the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in
+London. This brought to her mind M. Reteau. “Poor fellow!” thought she,
+“it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls
+on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets
+against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes, and now
+it terminates with the galleys.” She dined with M. and Madame Hubert,
+and was quite gay; but they did not respond, and were silent and
+uneasy. Jeanne, however, felt so happy that she cared little for their
+manner towards her. After dinner, she asked when they were coming to
+read her sentence.
+
+M. Hubert said they were probably waiting till she returned to her
+room. She therefore rose to go, when Madame Hubert ran to her and took
+her hands, looking at her with an expression of so much pity and
+sympathy, that it struck her for a moment with terror. She was about to
+question her, but Hubert took her hand, and led her from the room. When
+she reached her own apartment, she found eight soldiers waiting
+outside; she felt surprised, but went in, and allowed the man to lock
+her up as usual. Soon, however, the door opened again, and one of the
+turnkeys appeared.
+
+“Will madame please to follow me?” he said.
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Below.”
+
+“What for? What do they want with me?”
+
+“Madame, M. Viollet, your counsel, wishes to speak to you.”
+
+“Why does he not come here?”
+
+“Madame, he has received letters from Versailles, and wishes to show
+them to you.”
+
+“Letters from Versailles,” thought Jeanne; “perhaps the queen has
+interested herself for me, since the sentence was passed. Wait a
+little,” she said; “Till I arrange my dress.” In five minutes she was
+ready. “Perhaps,” she thought, “M. Viollet has come to get me to leave
+France at once, and the queen is anxious to facilitate the departure of
+so dangerous an enemy.”
+
+She followed the turnkey down-stairs, and they entered a room, which
+looked like a vault; it was damp, and almost dark.
+
+“Sir,” said she, trying to overcome her terror, “where is M. Viollet?”
+
+The man did not reply.
+
+“What do you want?” continued she; “have you anything to say to me? you
+have chosen a very singular place for a rendezvous.”
+
+“We are waiting for M. Viollet,” he replied.
+
+“It is not possible that M. Viollet should wish for me to wait for him
+here.” All at once, another door, which Jeanne had not before observed,
+opened, and three men entered. Jeanne looked at them in surprise, and
+with growing terror. One of them, who was dressed in black, with a roll
+of papers in his hand, advanced, and said:
+
+“You are Jeanne de St. Rémy de Valois, wife of Marie Antoine, Count de
+la Motte?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Born at Fontette, on the 22d of July, 1756?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“You live at Paris, Rue St. Claude?”
+
+“Yes, sir; but why these questions?”
+
+“Madame, I am the registrar of the court, and I am come to read to you
+the sentence of the court of the 31st of May, 1786.”
+
+Jeanne trembled again, and now looked at the other two men; one had a
+gray dress with steel buttons, the other a fur cap on and an apron,
+which seemed to her spotted with blood. She drew back, but the
+registrar said, “On your knees, madame, if you please.”
+
+“On my knees?” cried Jeanne; “I, a Valois!”
+
+“It is the order, madame.”
+
+“But, sir, it is an unheard-of thing, except where some degrading
+sentence has been pronounced; and banishment is not such.”
+
+“I did not tell you you were sentenced to banishment,” said he gravely.
+
+“But to what, then?”
+
+“I will tell you, madame, when you are on your knees.”
+
+“Never!”
+
+“Madame, I only follow my instructions.”
+
+“Never! I tell you.”
+
+“Madame, it is the order that when the condemned refuse to kneel, they
+should be forced to do it.”
+
+“Force—to a woman!”
+
+“There is no distinction in the eyes of justice.”
+
+“Ah!” cried Jeanne, “this is the queen’s doings; I recognize the hands
+of an enemy.”
+
+“You are wrong to accuse the queen; she has nothing to do with the
+orders of the court. Come, madame, I beg you to spare me the necessity
+of violence, and kneel down.”
+
+“Never!” and she planted herself firmly in a corner of the room.
+
+The registrar then signed to the two other men, who, approaching,
+seized her, and in spite of her cries dragged her into the middle of
+the room. But she bounded up again.
+
+“Let me stand,” said she, “and I will listen patiently.”
+
+“Madame, whenever criminals are punished by whipping, they kneel to
+receive the sentence.”
+
+“Whipping!” screamed Jeanne; “miserable wretch, how dare you——”
+
+The men forced her on her knees once more, and held her down, but she
+struggled so furiously that they called out, “Read quickly, monsieur,
+for we cannot hold her.”
+
+“I will never hear such an infamous sentence,” she cried; and indeed
+she drowned his voice so effectually with her screams, that although he
+read, not a word could be heard.
+
+He replaced his papers in his pocket, and she, thinking he had
+finished, stopped her cries. Then he said, “And the sentence shall be
+executed at the place of executions, Cour de Justice.”
+
+“Publicly!” screamed she.
+
+“Monsieur de Paris, I deliver you this woman,” said the registrar,
+addressing the man with the leathern apron.
+
+“Who is this man?” cried Jeanne, in a fright.
+
+“The executioner,” replied the registrar.
+
+The two men then took hold of her to lead her out, but her resistance
+was so violent that they were obliged to drag her along by force, and
+she never ceased uttering the most frantic cries. They took her thus
+into the court called Cour de Justice, where there was a scaffold and
+which was crowded with spectators. On a platform, raised about eight
+feet, was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount
+to it. This place was surrounded with soldiers. When she appeared,
+cries of “Here she is!” mingled with much abuse, were heard from the
+crowd. Numbers of the partisans of M. de Rohan had assembled to hoot
+her, and cries of “A bas la Motte, the forger!” were heard on every
+side, and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced.
+
+Then she cried in a loud voice, “Do you know who I am? I am of the
+blood of your kings. They strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival;
+not only a rival, but an accomplice. Yes,” repeated she, as the people
+kept silence to listen, “an accomplice. They punish one who knows the
+secrets of——”
+
+“Take care,” interrupted the registrar.
+
+She turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. At this
+sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her
+hatred, and sinking on her knees she said, “Have pity!” and seized his
+hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her
+shoulders. She jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off
+the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a
+hot iron. At this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by
+the people.
+
+“Help! help!” she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they
+were tying her hands. The executioner at last forced her on her knees,
+and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard
+through all the tumult, “Cowardly Frenchmen! you do not defend me, but
+let me be tortured; oh! it is my own fault. If I had said all I knew of
+the queen I should have been——”
+
+She could say no more, for she was gagged by the attendants: then two
+men held her, while the executioner performed his office. At the touch
+of the iron she fainted, and was carried back insensible to the
+Conciergerie when the crowd gradually dispersed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCII.
+THE MARRIAGE.
+
+
+On the same day at noon the king entered a drawing-room, where the
+queen was sitting in full dress, but pale through her rouge, and
+surrounded by a party of ladies and gentlemen. He glanced frequently
+towards the door. “Are not the young couple ready? I believe it is
+noon,” he said.
+
+“Sire, M. de Charny is waiting in the gallery for your majesty’s
+orders,” said the queen, with a violent effort.
+
+“Oh! let him come in.” The queen turned from the door. “The bride ought
+to be here also,” continued the king, “it is time.”
+
+“Your majesty must excuse Mademoiselle de Taverney, if she is late,”
+replied M. de Charny, advancing; “for since the death of her father she
+has not left her bed until to-day, and she fainted when she did so.”
+
+“This dear child loved her father so much,” replied the king, “but we
+hope a good husband will console her. M. de Breteuil,” said he, turning
+to that gentleman, “have you made out the order of banishment for M. de
+Cagliostro?”
+
+“Yes, sire.”
+
+“And that De la Motte. Is it not to-day she is to be branded?”
+
+At this moment, Andrée appeared, dressed in white like a bride, and
+with cheeks nearly as white as her dress. She advanced leaning on her
+brother’s arm. M. de Suffren, leading his nephew, came to meet her, and
+then drew back to allow her to approach the king.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” said Louis, taking her hand, “I begged of you to hasten
+this marriage, instead of waiting until the time of your mourning had
+expired, that I might have the pleasure of assisting at the ceremony;
+for to-morrow I and the queen commence a tour through France.” And he
+led Andrée up to the queen, who could hardly stand, and did not raise
+her eyes. The king then, putting Andrée’s hand into Philippe’s, said,
+“Gentlemen, to the chapel,”—and they began to move. The queen kneeled
+on her prie Dieu, her face buried in her hands, praying for strength.
+Charny, though pale as death, feeling that all eyes were upon him,
+appeared calm and strong. Andrée remained immovable as a statue; she
+did not pray—she had nothing to ask, to hope for, or to fear. The
+ceremony over, the king kissed Andrée on the forehead, saying, “Madame
+la Comtesse, go to the queen, she wishes to give you a wedding
+present.”
+
+“Oh!” murmured Andrée to Philippe, “it is too much; I can bear no more;
+I cannot do that.”
+
+“Courage, sister, one effort more.”
+
+“I cannot, Philippe; if she speaks to me, I shall die.”
+
+“Then, you will be happier than I, for I cannot die.”
+
+Andrée said no more, but went to the queen. She found her in her chair
+with closed eyes and clasped hands, seeming more dead than alive,
+except for the shudders which, shook her from time to time. Andrée
+waited tremblingly to hear her speak; but, after a minute, she rose
+slowly, and took from the table a paper, which she put into Andrée’s
+hands. Andrée opened it, and read:
+
+“Andrée, you have saved me. My honor comes from you; my life belongs to
+you. In the name of this honor, which has cost you so dear, I swear to
+you that you may call me sister without blushing. This paper is the
+pledge of my gratitude, the dowry which I give you. Your heart is noble
+and will thank me for this gift.
+
+“MARIE ANTOINETTE DE LORRAINE D’AUTRICHE.”
+
+
+Andrée looked at the queen, and saw tears falling from her eyes; she
+seemed expecting an answer, but Andrée, putting the letter in the fire,
+turned and left the room. Then Charny, who was waiting for her, took
+her hand, and they, each pale and silent, left the room. Two
+traveling-carriages were in the courtyard; Andrée got into one, and
+then said:
+
+“Sir, I believe you go to Picardy.”
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+“And I to where my mother lies dead. Adieu, monsieur.”
+
+Charny bowed, but did not reply, and Andrée drove off.
+
+Charny himself, after giving his hand to Philippe, got into the other,
+and also drove off.
+
+Then Philippe cried, in a tone of anguish, “My task is done!” and he
+too vanished.
+
+
+
+
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