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 
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.”
 
“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 30. 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 31. 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 32. 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 33. 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 34. 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 35. 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 36. 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 37. 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 38. 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 39. 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 40. 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.