That evening at the customary hour for lighting the lamps in the various apartments of the royal palace, the ladies in waiting to Madame the Duchess were surprised to see her accompanied by her husband on leaving the table. As the august pair entered the Duchess's apartments, the attendants discreetly withdrew and the lady motioned the Duke to a seat; but he, with unaccustomed gallantry, hastened to place himself beside her on the sofa and with the precipitation characteristic of a limited experience in conjugal affectionate demonstration, seized both her hands and effusively began:
"Thérèse, do you remember what anniversary it is tomorrow? The tenth of June, our marriage day?"
"Indeed?" she replied. "How slowly time passes."
"To me it seems as tho we had been married yesterday. 'Twas in the little chapel of Mittau. Listen, Thérèse: I fear at times that I have not made you happy. Am I mistaken? You treat me so distantly."
"I have been—happy," she stammered. "You know that it is not in my nature to be violently so."
"The time of mourning has passed," he said, kissing her slender patrician hands. "Look back no longer. Those who have suffered as much as we have a right to happiness."
Her face flushed as his warmth increased.
"To live and rejoice!" she sighed. "That is not my destiny, nor yours, Louis. We have greater trials in store. I feel their approach. I told you this morning that we have not sufficiently expiated."
"My Thérèse, you who are so good a Christian should not impugn the justice of God. Have you not suffered sufficiently to appease Him? Have you not even the right to breathe? Do you experience no emotion now that your husband is at your side? Were the reasons of state which prescribed our marriage not in accord with your sentiment? Would you choose me again if you were free? Can you not love?"
She blushed to hear these extraordinary words. His transformation was wonderful and seemed to be changing her, the austere Duchess, into a girl of twenty.
"Louis," she answered with noble simplicity, "since the death of my parents, I have loved only you. I fear at times that God will punish this excessive devotion to a creature."
"Cousin, wife," he ardently exclaimed, "'tis God's will that we love each other. You know well that tho at times I seem absorbed and cold, I am never even in thought unfaithful. Have you any complaint, any accusation?"
"I have believed," she replied, "that you did not love me. But I have never doubted you. That would have been unendurable."
He clasped her to his breast.
"Since you are so well convinced of my love," he whispered, "you will grant a request, you will permit me to influence that upright conscience, that noble heart."
She drew herself away instinctively, but he clasped her more closely, and she remained a happy prisoner.
"My wife," he pursued, "you are under the domination of a great sorrow. This morning you were almost hysterical. I suffered in seeing you so troubled. Now, we must be absolutely frank with one another. I fear for your reason if you continue to torment yourself about an ambitious fool. Listen to me and listen tranquilly. Your clear intelligence has become temporarily clouded. Your mind will soon recover its lucidity. You are now of the opinion that the man is being victimized, whereas he is nothing more than a keen-witted impostor, bolder and armed with more formidable documents than his predecessors."
"Do you really believe that the writer of this letter is an impostor?"
"Well: not precisely an impostor, Thérèse,—a dupe, rather, believing himself to be the prince. 'Tis a frequent phenomenon. Our reason is subject to such fluctuations that one is capable of confusing even his own individuality with that of another. You doubtless remember the case of the Spanish pie-vender who believed himself King Sebastian; or Pougatchef of Russia who under the name of Demetrius claimed the throne."
"What of the documents mentioned in the letter which he maintains would confirm his claim before any French tribunal?"
"Little by little. To begin with, we are not certain that they exist. Have you seen them? Doubt, then, of their existence, until you have them in your hands for examination. Let us suppose that the documents are genuine, does it therefore follow that the possessor is the prince? So great has been the confusion caused by the Revolution, unscrupulous persons have acquired such unrestricted power, our family secrets have been so profanely exploited, that 'twould be no wonder indeed that the papers should be in the hands of the veriest adventurer."
She remained silent, but the voice she loved so well opened an ever widening breach in her faith.
"Reflect," he continued, "how the Revolution has scattered important papers. Great frauds have stood upon stolen or spurious documents. But in this instance 'tis evident that the entire plot has for its object the exploitation of your credulity and tender memories. In order to prove whether his claim be true or false, subject your correspondent to a test."
"Louis," she said, clasping her hands, "on listening to you, my reason vacillates. My God, what shall I do?"
"Bid the man come to you."
"Did you not this morning express disapproval of my receiving him?"
"I have changed my mind. You must grant him a secret interview. You must discover the nature of those documents. Require him to bring them to you. You surely do not intend to take his word for it that they exist. Get possession of his proofs and then we shall be able to judge.—Now, let me tell you something of this man's past life. You know nothing of his history, tho he is proposing to throw himself into your arms. He belongs to the lowest class of Prussian people. His father was a mechanic, son of a kettle-mender. Until very recently he has been a watch-maker. He has been convicted of two grave crimes,—counterfeiting and arson. He has served a sentence at hard labor in a Silesia prison. What say you, Thérèse, to the seating upon the throne of Saint Louis a felon whose wrists and ankles have borne infamous manacles?"
She looked affrightedly at her husband.
"You are horrified? Well, you have heard but the beginning. This man was the victim of misery owing, in all probability, to his vices. He was rescued by a woman. This woman, many years his senior, was for a long period his—Thérèse I dare not explain the relation to you. I respect you too highly to pronounce the revolting words. But what do you say to the artifice of calling this woman his sister? Can you longer believe it probable that his body holds the royal blood?"
The blow was well aimed. The color mounted to the Duchess's face and she assumed an indignant attitude. The Duke caressed her consolingly:
"After that unsavory episode, he contracted matrimony. His wife is a woman of the lowest origin, vulgar, insignificant. But, in compensation, he has an ambitious daughter, a veritable phenomenon indeed. 'Tis not an ordinary spectacle, that of a girl of eighteen or nineteen occupying herself with vaulting schemes—"
"Perhaps not with vaulting schemes," rejoined the Duchess meditatively. "Nevertheless at eighteen there exists a clear comprehension of duty and expediency—"
"O Thérèse,you, you were early matured through suffering."
"And perhaps this young girl also."
The Duke was silent. He regretted the turn their conversation had taken. He sought not to awaken pity, so he suddenly faced his battery in another direction.
"Your would-be brother, the Prussian mechanic, seeks to found a new religion. He is therefore a heretic, which is reason sufficient for excommunication and deprivation of the Church's sacraments."
These words produced an extraordinary effect upon the Duchess. She was a fervent Catholic devotee, intensified by the Revolution. Her cheeks burned and her eyes shot anger.
"Not only does he profess heresy," resumed the Duke, "but he proclaims and propagates his doctrines. He has written a book entitled 'The Heavenly Doctrine.' It contains an arraignment of the Church and interprets arbitrarily the Holy Scriptures. 'Tis clear that his motive in attacking Catholicity is retaliation, the Pope having refused to indorse his absurd pretensions. His marriage was according to Protestant rites. It is claimed that he reckons as a saint that old Martin who pretends revelations from the archangel Raphael."
"The King has received that old man," remarked the Duchess. "It is said that he spoke dreadful prophecies. The hand of God weighs heavily upon us!"
"Thérèse, it is unworthy a strong intelligence to attach importance to such nonsense. The old idiot would today be in a mad-house but for the indulgence of the King."
"Well," said she, making a great effort, "am I to grant this interview, then?"
"Certainly, that your mind may be at rest. Light drives away phantoms. The King desires you to receive the man. Make it a condition that he bring the documents. Arrange that the conference be secret, for 'tis necessary to proceed with the greatest caution. Our enemies are vigilant. Thérèse, I hold forth both arms to sustain the tottering throne, but shall be powerless unless you help me. Have I in you an ally? You and I must not work at cross purposes."
He clasped his wife in his arms, uttering endearing words which seemed a promise of new days, full of happiness, and of a perfect union. The Duchess listened rapturously to the husband whom the state and church had given her. Her smothered youth rose in a strong tide. She realized that the grief which had really oppressed her through so many years was the glacial attitude which she and the Duke had maintained towards; each other. Closing her eyes, she leaned upon his; breast. He folded her in his arms and led her into the adjoining apartment, her dormitory, through which they passed into the oratory. They walked to the crimson prie-Dieu and knelt together upon; the velvet cushion. Holding her hand tightly, he solemnly said:
"Before God, who hears us, Thérèse,—sole woman that exists on earth for me,—and He knows I speak the truth,—promise me that you will save the royal House of France from perishing, that you will not permit the impious to rejoice nor the enemies of the cause to triumph, that you will prevent the sacred oil from being poured upon the head of this counterfeiter, this incendiary, this heretic. If he be an impostor, 'twould be sacrilegious; if he be not an impostor (to state an impossible case) his accession to the throne would let loose again license and unbridled passions which would precipitate a second Revolution. Promise, Thérèse. Swear!"
She raised her eyes to the crucifix. The thorn-crowned face against the dark background seemed, in a sublime melancholy, to murmur: "Father forgive them—" The oath died on her lips.
"Swear, Thérèse, my love, my wife!" repeated the Duke.
Tears coursed down her face as she groaned: "I swear, my God, I swear," and sank in a nervous paroxysm into her husband's arms. He had triumphed. Sustaining her, he led the Duchess from the oratory.
In the sitting-room of a small inn whose sign reads "Hotel d'Orleans" sat the five persons whom the Polipheme brought to France. Amélie, no longer a fresh radiant girl, and in deep mourning for her husband, Jean Vilon, sits beside René who whispers:
"When shall I see you light-hearted, Amélie? I am jealous of the dead. He robs me of you."
"What else may I do than wear black? He was a great heart. Do not wonder at my grief, René."
Naundorff's face was almost transfigured. He looked twenty years younger. He seemed to have lost consciousness of his past sufferings. Joy obliterated sorrow and his lips were wreathed in smiles.
"My friends," he was saying, "I reproach myself for having doubted of human justice. Early or late, the human heart turns to good as the body to earth. This is the happiest moment of my unhappy life. I am about to receive a great consolation and greatly did I require it, for on reaching Paris, my old wounds were re-opened. To return here after so many years and with such a record fastened to my name! I have visited my parents' prison. Yes, I have had the courage to do so. I am a man of memories. The tower has already been demolished. What haste to obliterate my past! In the remainder of the building a convent has been established, to which I have been refused admittance. I was brave enough to walk on the bloody ground whereon my mother—"
Amélie rose and threw her arms around her father's neck.
"Why do I dwell on this theme?" he asked, resuming his radiant expression. "Has not my destiny changed aspect? In spite of what we have suffered on the voyage, in spite of what you, my loved Amélie, have suffered, I say: 'Blessed be the hour in which I left London! Blessed the inspiration whereby I saved that wretch! These things have been registered to my credit. Blessed the faith I had in the one person who can save me and whose heart throbs at the sound of my name!'"
He fervently crossed his hands in an attitude of prayer.
"It is my duty to announce to you the secret of my happiness. You have cast your lives into my cause and braved even death. But danger has at last ceased; and the sun has chased away the clouds. I am happy, happy. O how strange that word sounds on my lips!"
Louis Pierre fixed on Naundorff a penetrating look and said:
"Monseigneur, we are waiting to know in what that happiness consists—"
"Listen, listen. This morning at about eleven o'clock a most affable gentleman brought me a message in answer to a letter I had written,—can you guess to whom?"
Then with his heart in his voice, he added:
"My sister, my sister!"
There was a moment of silence. Then Amélie asked almost sharply:
"Are we to infer that Madame does not Know how to write?"
"My dear child, what more can she do than send me word she will receive me—"
"Receiveus?" asked the girl.
"No, myself only. Amélie, consider that you are a stranger to her, whereas I am the companion of her childhood, the boy who wept and suffered with her during captivity. She consents to see me. Do you think this little? I asked only that much, for I know that once together, she will run to embrace me. O that embrace!"
"Does she summon you to the Palace?"
"No—not to the palace—"
"Aha! the meeting is to be clandestine!"
"My God!" groaned Naundorff. "How you poison the first happiness I have tasted! Can you not read the state of my soul? Ambition! 'Tis an illusive folly. I long only for those arms to be opened to me in which as a little child I slept. What are a crown and sceptre worth? Such baubles do not allure me. I wish above all things to recover my name and to feel my sister's kisses. Those kisses will banish the spectre back of my forehead. Am I mad? Have I dreamed my past life?She,shewill tell me the truth."
"But father," remonstrated Amélie, "why do you permit such doubts to overpower you? Do you not possess proofs? Have you not cited many corroborating circumstances? Have you not been recognized by your father's faithful servitors? By Madame Rambaud who rocked you in your cradle? Did you not remind her that the blue velvet dress you were to wear to Versailles was tight in the sleeves and that it was in consequence removed? Did she not exclaim on hearing you: 'This is my prince and my king?"
"Well, Amélie, in spite of these testimonials, I, myself falter in faith. My past seems too extraordinary to fit within the bounds of the possible. Perhaps Iama visionary, one of the many in the ranks of spurious Dauphins who have emerged from every corner of France. 'Tis true that I possess genuine documentary proof; of that I am certain. But these papers may have been placed in my hands for an end incomprehensible to me. Montmorin, himself, that hero of loyalty, may have been duped. This is the terrible suspicion which seizes me always at the moment when I most require confidence and courage."
Amélie sent René a look almost of anguish. Naundorff continued:
"Sheis the only cure for this unbearable incertitude.Sheis all that remains of my past. Her voice calling me 'Brother' will sweep the cobwebs from my brain and restore my faith forever."
"Are we to understand, Monseigneur," asked René, "that you may not enter the Palace? Is Madame to visit you here?"
"No; we have agreed to meet in Versailles park, the place where as children we so often played together. My sister is accustomed to visit Versailles occasionally that she may be undisturbed in her religious devotions and perform works of charity among the poor. Ah! my sister is an angel. In the midst of the brilliant court life, she is an angel. They have sought to harden her and weaken her clear judgment, but such effort has been futile. Yes, 'tis Versailles where we shall meet in six days, next Thursday. I am to be just without the garden. We are to meet in the grove of Apollo, from which the public is excluded; she visits the park only on festival days. All these details have been explained.—I know so well that our first act will be to cast ourselves into each other's arms and mingle our tears. We have not yet mourned our mother together!"
Louis Pierre contracted his thin lips in a bitter smile and caustically remarked:
"So this is to be all, Monseigneur? Only a fraternal embrace?"
"No, indeed. She wishes to see the documents. I shall therefore take them to her and also the manuscript—"
If a bomb had exploded in their midst, not more consternation could have been evinced. They exclaimed in chorus:
"The papers!"
"Never!" protested Amélie.
"'Tis an infernal trap!" exclaimed Louis Pierre.
"Bandits! The snare is well laid," added Giacinto.
"Monseigneur!" implored de Brezé. "Those papers are of inestimable value to us; they should be exhibited only before a court of justice. Our enemies seek to obtain possession of these papers, and, if they succeed, our cause is lost. The watch-maker Naundorff will be without proofs of his identity."
Naundorff became tremulous with anger.
"Dare not impute such infamy to my sister or I shall attribute villainy to yourselves. In this matter, I accept suggestions from no one. 'Tis an affair between God and myself. This is not a question for man to settle, for what value have the misleading judgments of earth?Ialone decide.Iam the State!Iam the King. These papers pertain to myself only, even as my life is my exclusive property. If my sister, on seeing me, shall waive material proofs, how happy I shall be! But if she doubt or repulse me, what a joy, what a Satanic joy 'twill be to fling these testimonials in her face and say, 'Farewell forever. Our mother curses you!'"
He broke into a mocking laugh, such a laugh as terminates in nervous hysteria, while the others with saddened faces remained silent. Then he rose to leave, saying to de Brezé:
"René, I trust to you to bring me the papers Thursday morning. If you do not accede to this request, you will force me to violence."
As he passed out, Amélie said entreatingly to her lover:
"Save him in spite of himself. Keep them in their place of concealment, for there they are secure."
"Most secure," replied de Brezé. "They are with a friend, Gontran de Lome. He thinks them a compromising love correspondence of mine. Who would suspect that amiable Lovelace? Nevertheless, in spite of his dissipations, he is a man of honor and discretion. I guarantee the security of the papers while they remain with Gontran. But should your father demand them, Amélie, I cannot refuse. He is the arbiter of his fate and of our own as well."
The Carbonari meanwhile conversed in low tones. After a while Louis Pierre advanced saying:
"There lives in Versailles a sister of mine, who terminated her vagrant peddling existence by the establishment of a little shop. Giacinto and I have formulated a plan which we shall explain to you. We cannot fold our arms in the moment of danger."
"Noble friends!" said Amélie, extending her hands to the two men.
"No, Mademoiselle; you are entitled to our lives. You were made in heaven and the mourning you wear for that unfortunate peasant testifies to the greatness of your soul. I would let myself be torn to pieces for you. Our danger is grave. From the moment the papers are delivered to our enemies, our necks will be in danger. Louis Pierre and I are endeavoring to counteract the blunder which—pardon me,—was committed in consequence of your father's generosity. I take an oath that 'tis the man whom I have vowed to kill that has woven the net which has caught your father. Has not your father suffered enough to destroy the impression that all men are to be trusted?"
"My opinion," said Louis Pierre, "is that the hands that have woven the snare are whiter and more patrician than the spy's, however much he love and care for them. An iniquitous plot has been hatched at the Duchess's shoulders, for the securing of the papers. If we find it impossible to prevent the catastrophe, why vengeance remains," he concluded, his face taking on a tragic grandeur.
Those to whom the gardens and parks of Versailles are not familiar can form no idea of the manner in which aristocratic dignity imparts elegance to rural, sites. The impression is not that of sweet melancholy so often produced by country scenes but rather of a lofty magnificence, which weighs upon the soul and becomes even a solemn ennui, which proceeds from the very regularity and grandeur of the royal domain, wherein one still involuntarily looks for powder-headed dames and cavaliers in embroidered waist-coats.
On Sundays it was permitted the public to enjoy the park, which during the week was deserted save for the gardeners and guard, who, wearing bandoliers and holding rifles, watched over the safety of whatever members of the royal family happened to be in the Palace.
Nazario Patin, sergeant of the guard, was quite taken aback on receiving orders to retire the soldiers on Thursday from the avenue leading to the Great lawn, from the Latona pond, the Columnata wood and the Apollo grove. A second order, no less explicit, followed to the effect that he was to hold these guards in waiting in the assembly hall, in case they should be needed.
On Wednesday evening the Duchess arrived at the Palace. Patin soliloquized:
"She wishes to promenade tomorrow and look on no human countenance, so greatly is she given to prayer and meditation. But that the guard should be retired! Hum! I can't understand."
On Thursday four men wearing the simple uniform of the ordinary guard, bearing rifles and in their belts hunting knives, arrived in the deserted park from the Ville d'Avray road and approached one of the little gates opening towards les Trianones which Marie Antoinette, discarding pompous ceremonial, used to frequent. Cautiously they opened the gate, using a key carried by him who seemed the leader. They held a conference in low tones, as tho fearful of disturbing the birds in the trees. The leader's southern type revived recollections of the Catalan smuggler, Albert Serra, a gentleman whom we met in the apartments of Baron Lecazes, just returned from London and professing to have successfully lightered a ship of a cargo of cutlery. This was Volpetti's disguise when he wished to represent a man of the lower classes.
"Beware!" he was saying to the others. "Listen well and execute even better. A false step will be fatal to our object. You, Lestrade, are to guide him into the garden. He comes by the route we have taken and will travel on foot from this side Le Chesnay. As for you, Sec and La Grive, remain without, near the gate. I only shall remain inside the park. When he leaves the garden, I shall follow him; and if I signal you by raising my arm, throw yourselves upon him, gagging and binding him. Whatever you find upon his person is to be taken to my superior, the Minister of Police. No matter what happens save the booty. Your lives, my life, are worth nothing in comparison. Whoever carries the prize to the Minister will be a lucky man, I pledge my word."
Making motions of assent, the party dispersed. A deep quiet spread over the park, along whose paths the Duchess was even now walking. Her dress of violet silk embroidered in passementerie, betokened mourning. She held her hand on her heart to still its beating. At about the same time, Patin, sergeant of the guard, his services not being required, turned his steps in the direction of a lady friend, a certain laundress, in whose kitchen, so gossip had it, there was never lack of savory dishes and pleasant chitchat for the handsome sergeant. On ascending the stairway, he met a girl whose face seemed glorified by the splendor light of yellow hair, arranged in curls, according to the style of the period. As he drew back to make room for her, he muttered to himself:
"The picture of the beheaded Queen!"
Some moments later he was asking the laundress, as she stood at her table ironing a dainty garment:
"Who is that young girl in mourning that has just left your neighbor's apartment?"
"I do not know. I have never spoken with her but I scent a mystery. There is a cat in a bag, several cats, rather. You know my neighbor well."
"I should say I did. I have known her and her brother Louis Pierre Louvel a lifetime. Such a sullen silent fellow! I wonder where he is now. No one seems to have heard of him since the banishment of his beloved Emperor."
"Why he is here, my boy. He has been here for three days. He brought with him to his sister's house that young girl and a handsome young man. They came stealthily and they have all kept as quiet as mice. I have not seen even Louis Pierre's sister. She must however go out at night to buy provisions. But through a window I have seen the f aces of Louis Pierre and the handsome gentleman."
"Has he been casting eyes at you?" jealously inquired Patin, whereupon his mistress boxed his ears, and so diverted his thoughts from this trend of suspicion regarding the new comers.
"I could swear that these people are conspiring," remarked the laundress.
"You are dreaming, my dear. I have but just met the girl on the stairs. Why should you become suspicious because a brother visits his sister?"
"That a brother should visit a sister causes me no surprise, but there are queer kinds of brothers and queer ways of paying visits. Will you believe that the sister denied to me yesterday that her brother was with her?"
"Rosa, that is indeed strange," remarked the sergeant pensively.
"I do not like Louis Pierre. He is capable of anything."
"Well, my little Rosa, stop your gossip. I don't suppose danger is being plotted. Neither the King nor Princes are in the castle; as for the Duchess, she is a saint whom no one would harm. What amazes me is the resemblance of the girl to the dead Queen."
"She is a live bird, I'll warrant," answered the woman.
While this dialogue was in progress, the blond girl in black rapidly crossed several streets and reached a deserted square shaded by elm trees. She was almost immediately joined by a man with whom she walked for some distance, entering at last the beginning of a park by a path which skirted the wall. The man consulted from time to time a paper plan which he carried in his hands. He stopped suddenly and examined a breach in the wall.
"Louis Pierre was right," he said.
He vaulted the fence and held forth his arms for the girl, who, crawling along the ruins, came within his reach. Taking her by the waist, he held her for a moment against his breast and spoke passionate words of love.
"Amélie!" he whispered, "when will you become mine for all time? I adore you more than ever."
"René, I long for it as much as you. But O the saddest of presentiments weighs upon me. My father's mind seems giving way beneath the weight of his sorrows. His reason is clouded and confused. If his sister does not open her arms today, alas for him, alas for us! And she will not; this interview is part of an infernal plot—"
"Amélie, you express my fears also. But none of your father's friends are sleeping on their oars. Louis Pierre knows every inch of ground on this place. We are here to defend the cause, he, Giacinto and I. 'Twould have been better had you not come."
"Perhaps so, René, but I wanted so much to be near you. Do not heed my seeming coldness of the last few days. How could I fail in mourning for that innocent, noble man,—victim of low intrigues and his own loyalty? He typifies the people, the people sacrificed to the classes."
"I have been jealous of your devotion, your gratitude. I have longed to be the dead. Had I died, what should you have done?"
"Died with you, René."
He stooped and kissed her eyes, holding her close in his arms.
On reaching the appointed place, the Duchess fell upon a garden seat, seemingly very tired. Taking a lace handkerchief from the reticule which hung at her wrist, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She consulted the watch at her belt and found it lacked ten minutes of the time set. She sighed, resigning herself to wait.
At last she heard the approach of footsteps; some moments later a man with uncovered head stood before her. Marie Thérèse de Bourbon uttered no cry. She was stricken dumb. After so many years, she beheld standing before her against the crimson background of the sky, which looked like a nimbus of blood, the Past, the terrible, tragic Past. It surged again to overwhelm her, that Past, the sorrows of which seemed to have been calmed by time; the terrors of the prison; the flaring up of frail hopes destined to be dashed to earth; the incertitude of the fate of loved ones; ardent prayers to heaven to work miracles; entreaties; outrages; infinite despair: all these rose again out of that terrible Past and stood before her.
She could not speak; she could scarcely see; but she felt hot tears through her silk skirt and trembling arms clasp her knees while a heart-rending voice cried:
"Marie Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!"
"Rise," she said at last, almost inaudibly. "Be seated."
He staggered to the stone bench beside her. She averted her head in order to avoid seeing his grief-stricken face. A silence followed which the lady at last broke:
"You perceive, Sir, that I have complied with your request. What do you wish?"
"To remind you that I am your brother, the brother whom your mother bore."
"My brother—died," she faltered.
"He lives and speaks to you. Dare you look upon me and deny it? I carry on my face the marks of royal baptism and of prison torture."
"My God!" she groaned.
"Why do you not acknowledge me?" he cried with waxing indignation. "I believed that on receiving me you would take me to your heart. I thought you felt the great thirst that devours me. I thought that you and I should mourn our mother in each other's arms. Why did you receive me, if you had already decided to treat me as an impostor? Are you about to turn me out of your palace gates along with the dogs and beggars? After all that I have suffered?"
Making a terrible effort, she said:
"You have spoken of proofs, irrefutable proofs."
"Miserable woman, until today I thought that the wall which separates us should be demolished on our meeting. But I see it is of iron. Listen, then. You ask me for the documents. Well, those documents shall be presented at a French tribunal, and you with the others shall be brushed off the usurped throne. You refuse to acknowledge me; well, when the world salutes me King, you will admit I am your brother. Europe will proclaim what no court can deny. Until then, farewell."
She trembled and softly spoke his name:
"Charles Louis!"
Her voice seemed to come from an immense distance. He cried out almost in delirium:
"Thérèse, Thérèse, my adored sister!"
He caught the Duchess in his arms almost strangling her. He wept and laughed together for at last his overmastering desire was filled. He felt a wild longing to dance. Scarcely realizing the craftiness of her thoughts, she assured herself with feminine complacency that she should now do with him as she chose.
"You know me at last,—do you, Thérèse? You no longer repulse me? O how happy I am! Only thro you do I believe in myself, for tho I told you with so much assurance just now that I was your brother, I doubted my own words. Are you surprised that much suffering seems to have clouded my brain? On leaving prison, you found friends and shelter and affection and at last a throne; you returned to our father's palace amid acclamations and festivities. How can you divine my suffering? See, I have written them that you may read."
He took from his pocket an oblong case of yellow calf.
"I intended that the Marquis de Brezé, whom I regard as my son should bring you this. But perhaps 'tis better that you receive it from me. When you read my via crucis, you will not marvel that my past life seems to me a dream, a forgery of a madman's delirium. Only you can relieve me of this intolerable fear and restore me to faith in myself. You have called me Charles Louis, my name in infancy and early childhood. Those who now call me Louis do not know this. Ah, Thérèse, God bless you!"
Again he embraced her and together they recalled incidents of the past.
"Do you remember," he asked, "how in prison a wall separated us and we were never permitted to speak together? Well, I used to place my ear to the wall and listen for your footsteps."
"Charles Louis," she said with a great effort, "if love of your sister has caused you to seek me, prove that love by granting a request."
"Ask my life if you will."
"What I ask may be more difficult to give. I am going to beg you,—listen!—to renounce what you have so long desired. Be very calm. The Revolution submerged the throne, the altar and whatever our family represented and supported. Providence has replaced us on the throne; the great days of the monarchy have returned; the churches have been re-opened; our country has been reconciled to its monarchs and its God,—the God who has placed the crown upon our uncle's head rather than upon yours. God has perhaps selected you as the victim, innocent tho you be. He has required your sacrifice and he continues to require it. To what do you aspire today? Are you thinking of placing arms in the hands of our father's executioners? Have you come, Charles Louis, to win the applause of hell?"
He could not answer for gazing upon her.
"Your duty is to retire to peace and quietude. Whatever be your rights, your duty is to stifle your pretensions. I assure you this is true."
"And my children, Thérèse? My sons? I have the sons which have been denied to both you and Ferdinand. No one but me can present an heir. My seed has fallen upon blessed ground in being mingled with the people."
The Duchess experienced great anger, as she always did at any allusion to her sterility, and she retorted harshly:
"The heir whom you present is from a woman of low extraction, the fruit of a union unsanctioned by the Catholic Church. And you dare aspire to the throne? Remember the Corsican! He also sought to improvise a dynasty. All that survives of that farce is the daughter of a real emperor and the son of the adventurer, sheltered by that emperor's throne. If you believed yourself a king, why did you marry a plebeian? Why did you not restrain your passions? And you complain of your fate? As for your heart, you have followed its impulses. I married my cousin because the state required the union—Ferdinand separated from his loved Amy Brown and abandoned his children, one of them a son, in order to marry Caroline. Are you willing to do likewise? I know well you are not. Believe me, believe me, Charles Louis, life is not what we would wish but as God ordains it to be. Your fate has been to live far from the throne—Resign yourself to the decree. Do not violate the most holy PRINCIPLE, the PRINCIPLE for which our father died. He adjures you from the tomb to accept your lot."
Her eloquence subjugated him, for she spoke from her heart's conviction.
"God was God, yet he lived and died a man," she continued. "Live then and die a man, my brother. Will you?—a man of the people."
In a transport of abnegation, he kissed her cheeks and said:
"I will."
In confirmation of his promise, he drew the casket of documents from his breast and held them toward her.
"Here they are," he said. "Here are the papers which sustain my claims. They are of such a nature, especially the testimony of the unhappy Pichegru, Charette, Hoche and Josephine that I could demand the throne by presenting them in a court. I despoil myself of my personality, of my strength. I become again Naundorff, the obscure mechanic, the impostor, the convict, the outlaw! Take the papers, Marie Thérèse, I give them to you. The sacrifice is accomplished. Have you more to ask of me? And now, sister, holy love of my life, all that remains to me of my mother,—call me once more Charles Louis—let me rest my forehead on your breast."
She was scarcely able to control herself. He attracted and repelled her by turns. She was about to extend her hand for the papers when, by the light of the setting sun, intense and red, he so greatly resembled her father that she dared not accomplish her purpose. With involuntary reverence, she said:
"No, Charles Louis, the papers are yours. Keep them. Promise me, only, that you will not misuse them. I shall be satisfied with your word. I ask this of you because I must. Accept your fate, as I accept mine. Accept it as you would a cross. O Charles Louis, the Past is irrevocable, your Past and mine, and who knows which of us has suffered the more greatly? Farewell, farewell, my brother. Do not forget your oath."
"I shall remember it, my sister. God bless you! I have received all that I expected from you. I count this day happy. I shall remove with my family to Holland. May my children never suffer the pangs of poverty! I trust that no further assaults will be made upon my life. And now, for one moment—"
He laid his head upon the lady's shoulder and wept.
As Naundorff left the garden, a man, hidden amid the shrubbery advanced cautiously and reached the little gate holding there a short conversation with one of the spies, La Grive.
"He carries a casket which must be captured. I reiterate my previous instructions. That casket must be seized. Where are Sec and Lestrade?"
"Within two steps. Shall I call them?"
"Keep very quiet. Remember to make no use of firearms. If he make no resistance, do not harm him. Run. Find the others. He is almost here."
"Very well."
The two spies, disguised as guards, separated. Volpetti waited back of the gate and on Naundorff's arrival, he solicitously held it open. Naundorff did not look toward the other, but even had he, the black hair and beard of Albert Serra would have misled him completely. He was surrounded by the party of spies, who were in turn surrounded by de Brezé and the Carbonari. The latter were concealed by the foliage, from a height dominating the path. Like the spies, they had planned to use firearms only in case of an extremity.
Naundorff passed through the gate, deep in thought. His sister's voice was in his ears; he felt again her caresses. His mind was at peace and the incertitude regarding his individuality set at rest. Had she not called him brother? Now he was tranquil, free from tormenting doubts. Despoiled of his rights, perhaps, but impostor or maniac never! He thought of Amélie, dreading to tell her the result of the interview. Suddenly a hand was placed over his mouth, his arms were pinned to his sides and he could neither cry nor defend himself. Volpetti searched him and possessed himself of the case of papers with a triumphant laugh. There was no need to employ force; nevertheless, through an excess of precaution the spies gagged their victim and tied his hands.
All this was accomplished with the utmost celerity. Naundorff had been reduced to immobility when de Brezé and the two Carbonari ran up. Using cudgels, they stunned Lestrade and disabled La Grive. De Brezé then devoted himself to Sec, and Giacinto turned, infuriated, on Volpetti. This king of spies held the papers, determined to keep them at the cost of his life, and was for this reason unable to handle his hunting knife with his accustomed dexterity. The Sicilian dealt him a vigorous blow on the collar bone which caused him to drop the case of papers. Lights danced in his eyes and he felt as tho about to swoon. With a great effort he recovered his senses sufficiently to aim a blow at Giacinto's neck, as the Sicilian stooped to grasp the case. The wound would have been fatal had not Giacinto evaded it by a rapid movement which resembled the spring of a tiger. All the evil which his family had suffered from Volpetti flashed thro lis mind and outweighed Naundorffs interests; he forgot the papers for his own grievances, especially his brother's body hanging from the gibbet. Clinching his white teeth, he dashed upon the enemy, knocked the knife out of his hand and jerked the false beard from his face. Volpetti lacked neither courage nor coolness, but he was a constructive intelligence rather than a physical force. Giacinto was much the younger and just now impelled by a homicidal vertigo. Volpetti sought to rise, but Giacinto pushed his head back and knelt with one knee upon his breast. In an access of savage joy, he cut through his neck, accompanying the action with dreadful oaths and invocations to the Madonna.
While the Sicilian satiated his thirst for vengeance, one of the other spies, La Grive, regained his footing and fought desperately with Louis Pierre, whom he quickly so battered with fist blows that the Knight of Liberty lay prone upon the grass. La Grive next turned his attention upon Giacinto and Volpetti. The latter lay dead in a pool of blood. The case of papers was near. He remembered the leader's injunction: 'The casket must be saved, at all costs.' Seizing his opportunity, while Giacinto feasted his eyes upon his dead enemy, he grasped the papers and ran off, soon being lost among the trees. So vanished the last proofs of Naundorff's identity.
The defeat was complete. It was the culmination of the lengthy drama initiated in prison and developed in London, Dover, Picmort and Paris. While La Grive possessed himself of the papers René was engaged in combat with the brutal and athletic Sec. At length he dispossessed him of his hunting knife and threw him senseless, as he thought, to the ground. Then he ran swiftly to Naundorff and cut his cords. Sec watched his opportunity. Gliding noiselessly toward his vanquisher, he aimed a bullet which made René spin around and fall lifeless to the ground. It had pierced his heart.
Meanwhile, the Duchess, motionless on her garden seat, was powerless to summon the courage to return to the castle. Scarcely could she restrain herself from running after Naundorff, calling, "Brother, brother!" The sun no longer reddened the sky. The evening was chill. Suddenly a shot rang out. She shuddered but remained paralyzed, in the throes of conflicting emotions. The branches rustled and swift footsteps hurried along the path. Was this an apparition? A young girl in black, her face framed in a glory of golden hair, her hands raised menacingly and dropping blood! It was the image of her mother, her eyes gleaming, her mouth livid and mutely pronouncing maledictions and her forefinger held prophetically and accusingly in the Duchess's face.
Marie Thérèse de Bourbon fell upon the ground, writhing and groaning: "Mother, mother!"
Soliviac nimbly leaped to the wharf from a skiff and held out his hands to Louis Pierre and Giacinto. He uncovered respectfully to Naundorff and Amélie and caressed Baby Dick's head, as the little fellow clung to his adoptive mother's hand.
Amélie, in deep mourning, was the shadow of her former self. Wasted away, almost blue in her pallor, her sunken eyes surrounded by red circles, and of an agonized expression, she was indeed the picture of the unhappy queen; not the queen in faces and crowned with roses, but the queen of the prison and the guillotine. Like unto Marie Antoinette, sorrow only augmented her grace and dignity. When she held her hand to Soliviac to be kissed, no court might show so regal a movement.
Naundorff opened his arms to Soliviac, both shedding tears.
"When do we start?" the former asked, as though longing to be off.
"At once, if Monseigneur wishes."
"Do not call me 'Monseigneur.' That is over, Captain. I am only Naundorff, the mechanic, the chemist. You are taking me from a land where I have known only sorrow to a country of peace and liberty. In Holland my good wife and little children await me. There shall I forget my insensate dreams, the cause of my ills. Because of my refusal to accept the decrees of fate, I have been punished in whom I most love, this daughter. A widow twice, never having been a wife, her life is blighted forever. The prison walls did not lie in speaking to me the terrible words: 'Your friends shall perish.'"
Amélie laid her hand on her father's shoulder. Her eyes were dry. She seemed to forgive him all that she had suffered.
"My friends," added Naundorff, turning to the Carbonari, "let us give the lie to the prison prophecy. Since I am given respite and my persecutors seem to be satiated from having rifled me of my certificates; since they ignore my interview with the woman—whom I have forgiven (may my mother in heaven forgive her also)—; friends, return to a quiet life and cease to combat, cease to conspire, cease to avenge! A clear light illumines my mind and heart. I see what I would impart to you. Listen: Resist not evil; rather return good for evil. He who uproots the hedge will be bitten by the serpent, say the words of eternal wisdom. Forgive that you may be forgiven."
Louis Pierre turned his face away that Naundorff might not see the keen light in his eyes.
"Farewell, farewell!" repeated the outlaw. "I am a simple man, henceforth. My only title is that of Man. I go to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow. I go to die obscurely. Embrace me again."
The two Carbonari folded their arms around him, Giacinto shedding tears. Naundorff said gently:
"Thanks, thanks! Peace descend upon you both. Cease to struggle, claim not your dues. And you, Giacinto, do penance. Your hands are stained with blood."
The Sicilian involuntarily looked upon those members. Just then they were seized by Amélie, who whispered in his ear:
"O Giacinto, do not reproach yourself! 'Twas simple justice. Listen. She who prepared the ambuscade shall herself leave France in banishment, or else there is no God."
Some moments later the sloop glided out of port. Erect and majestic, like unto a dethroned queen, Amélie waved an adieu to the Knights of Liberty.
Giacinto and Louis Pierre stood motionless on the wharf which now began to be covered with fishermen, sailors and venders. Their eyes were riveted upon the sloop as she reached the schooner Polipheme. They could still distinguish the black form of Amélie and her father's grave outlines. The Polipheme weighed anchor, spread sails and gracefully cleaved the waves red with the morning sun.
The gay voices of the crowd ashore awaiting the arrival of the fishing smacks constituted so brilliant a tout ensemble that Giacinto, notwithstanding the sad parting from his friends, felt new life rushing through his veins and joy tugging at his heart strings. He looked at Louis Pierre. That face wore an expression recalling vengeance and the scaffold. Shuddering, the Sicilian returned to reality.
"They are gone, Louis Pierre," said he, in order to break the silence. "They are gone,—those royal personages whom history will fail to enumerate."
"Giacinto, you should have gone to Holland with them. I advise you as a friend, for in Versailles you have a mistress whom you have filched from a guard,—a dangerous experiment. O, I know all about it; she lives on our floor. Do you think the bird worth the risking of your neck? Yes, it was best for our friends to go. The police pretend to have forgotten us. 'Tis a trap. They will not forget to square accounts with the man who sent Volpetti to his brother Satan.—You are a child, Giacinto, and may be led to any pasture by a petticoat string—"
"Bah!" interrupted the other. "Were it not for petticoats, what savor would remain to life? My dear little laundress has set me quite crazy with love and the sergeant is dying with jealousy. Will you believe that here also I have discovered a jewel of a woman?—the daughter of a tinker. And I am either a fool or this night—"
"So you remain? You are indeed a fool, Giacinto. I shall work out my ends, henceforth, without your aid. Tho I be sought, I shall not be found; even tho I be found, I shall not be caught, and even tho I be caught, I shall not be retained. In this enigma I speak the truth."
Giacinto's superstitious nature was aroused.
"Why do you say these words, friend?" he asked.
"Because no man is overcome until he has performed his assigned task," serenely replied the Knight of Liberty. "Was the Other One overcome before he had subjugated Europe? Today he is chained to Saint Helena, but he first demonstrated the might of the Revolution. Before he could demonstrate the might of Despotism, he was overpowered, for this the Fates would not permit."
"We are not the Other One."
"Each man is the Other One. Each man may change the world if he acts of himself."
"Bah!" retorted Giacinto. "We are pawns on a chess-board. Poor devils, we but play our part. What matters it to me that it be primary or secondary? I have sent to hell the devil who killed my brother. For the rest, a fig!—I feel his warm blood on my hands now!"
His nostrils dilated at the ghastly memory, his lips smacked with savage joy, his handsome face glowed with exultation.
"Yes," answered Louis Pierre in a solemn voice. "Your work is accomplished. Fear, Giacinto, for you are now a hollow shell. Remember how the dastardly Volpetti was given life only to accomplish his mission. Volpetti was delivered to you when he had secured the documents for Lecazes. But my work is as yet unfulfilled. For that reason I am secure. My history is as yet unwritten."
"And it shall remain unwritten, my friend. What have two poor devils such as you and I to do with history, especially since we no longer accompany royalty?"
"I am a man," retorted Louis Pierre Louvel. "Have you measured the power of a man? Giacinto, the birth of an individual is of transcendent importance. Remember Him who was born in Judea. Consider the significance of a male child to the House of France! This rotten dynasty which the Cossack has forced us to again endure may yet sprout forth fresh and green, and all because of a child's birth."
By this time the two Carbonari had reached their lodgings. They ascended to their humble apartments. Louis Pierre took up his knapsack and, according to the French custom, kissed his companion on the cheek.
"Are we not to breakfast together?" asked Giacinto.
"By breakfast time, I shall be far away from this place. You should be also," replied Louis Pierre.
"What would the tinker's daughter think of her sweetheart? She has this morning peeped from her window five times. She has thrown me a flower and waved her hand—"
The fatalist remonstrated no further. Carrying his light equipage, he descended the rickety stairs. Naundorff had paid the bills. He might, therefore, depart, without seeking the host. His rickety form took the direction of the woods and was soon lost to view.
An hour later Giacinto sat before a succulent repast of stewed fish. A girl held to his lips a glass of foamy beer. Just then steps and the clanking of muskets sounded on the stairway. The officer heading the soldiers laid a hand on the Sicilian's shoulder, saying:
"Manacle his hands."
In a human existence there may be a culminating moment,—a moment in which ambitions are realized and reality adapts itself to the dreamed-of ideal. The maneuvers of a subterranean state-craft during that epoch of incessant conspiracy had raised Lecazes to the pinnacle of glory. The Police was in its apogee, holding triumphantly in its hands the warp whose reverse side was espionage, provocation, indictment, torture, and whose obverse consisted of brilliant court ceremonials, stormy discussions in Councils and diplomatic strife in the royal coterie, wherein conservative and reactionary parties contended bitterly. Dominating the maneuvers from his cabinet, the genial Minister reigned,—the arbiter of the nation. He was the real master. He held the reins and guided the King with well dissembled strategy, as well as the other members of the royal family and the courtiers and officials,—all of whom complacently obeyed him, in their solicitude for the maintenance of the legitimate government.
Nevertheless, to use his own expression, "his life flowed between two walls of paper." He was accustomed to say that Paper was his worst enemy, adding, "You may rid yourself of a man but not of a piece of written paper." Excepting those retained as future shields, he tore all such sheets into bits, and compromising documents he burned.
It was the month of February. Lecazes sat in the same closet in which he had received the Duchess de Rousillon. A cloud was upon his face and an expression at once stealthy and rapacious, such as characterizes the countenances of all selfishly ambitious men, when alone. The cause of his preoccupation was a letter just received. It was anonymous and contained only these brief clauses:
"Naundorff is despoiled, de Brezé murdered, Giacinto executed. They shall be avenged. Guard the trunk; as for the limbs they are despicable."
Such communications seldom troubled the Minister, accustomed as he was to the language of charlatans. He usually destroyed the epistles, smiling a Machiavellian smile. But this letter troubled him, for it was not the first of the series; others had periodically preceded it, giving no clue to the writer and seeming to have for object a warning to the intended victim.
"There is not a thread of the net which I may not snap at will," he soliloquized. "They are not indeed thinking of avenging de Brezé or Naundorff—nor even that insignificant Carbonaro whom I have had to execute. I did not do so as retaliation for Volpetti's death. However much I miss him, I can not replace him. He was my hands and feet. But pshaw! in state-craft we waive vengeance and travel direct to our ends,—the Carbonari to the demolishing of the throne, I to the sustaining of it. To sustain it I have wrought miracles. Had I not obtained the papers which have cost me Volpetti, alas for the dynasty! The happy exit must console me for the loss of my best man."
Re-reading the anonymous sheet, his attention was arrested by the phrase "Guard the trunk."
"Who is the trunk?" he asked himself. "I should overestimate even my own importance to suppose they mean me. Can it be the King? Poor decayed trunk, soon to fall beneath the great woodman's ax! Can it be his brother? Impossible!—that hollow reactionary, incorrigible trunk. He is the Carbonari's best ally. I know not what will be the outcome of the King's succumbing to gout. Can it be the Duke Louis? Sterile trunk! No, if any one in particular is signified, 'tis Ferdinand,—the destined perpetuator of the race. Let us see! Lecazes, imagine yourself a conspirator. Whom would you attack? Why Ferdinand! Ferdinand the debonnaire, the well-loved, the generator of heirs. May this writing be the effusion of some fool? Or is it a conspirator's dash of romantic honor in warning the intended victim? However that be, I must warn the Prince. He is as unsuspicious and gay and heroic as his ancestor, Henry of Navarre. Flatterers assure him that he is that great monarch's prototype. He and his wife go about so freely and to every kind of diversion. During one of these sky-larkings—Ah! kings may not live as other men. Naundorff little realizes the good turn I did him and his family by barring his approach to the throne, nor she either, the audacious little intriguante. She has ample opportunity now to devote her energies to the weaving of Flemish laces."
These thoughts still occupied him when he that afternoon entered the royal cabinet. Before the monarch stood a table whose draperies were arranged to conceal the swollen feet, for the gout grew daily worse. Nevertheless, in frequent carriage rides and an incessant sortie of fine classic raillery from his patrician lips, Louis XVIII demonstrated an increased activity.
When Lecazes entered, the valetudinarian smiled piquantly, as one might in slipping manacles on the wrists of an astute diplomat. Handing the Minister a threatening letter, he vehemently asked:
"What does this mean, Baron? I am asked for an audience. I am told that some one possesses knowledge of impending evil to the royal family. I am warned that the refusing of this interview will be the cause of disaster to those dearest to me. It follows that some one is better informed than I concerning our interests. Is not this a humiliating position for a King?"
As Lecazes was about to answer, there entered unannounced a man in the prime of life. He had a prepossessing nonchalant impetuous manner. This was Prince Ferdinand, second son of the King's brother Charles, sole hope of the race's continuation. He was not handsome but he possessed in a high manner the simple frankness and graceful address characteristic of certain members of the Bourbon family, which was so captivating as to create around them, even in times of popular discontent, an atmosphere of loyalty. Ferdinand was short of stature and irregular in feature, but his bright glance and irradiating vitality acted always as a great jubilant wave enveloping all near him. A generous and cordial nature, rising spontaneously to heroism, was revealed in his face, mingled with a noble energy.
"Sire," he said, kissing his uncle's hand, "I pray you to pardon my intrusion. I have an urgent communication which must not be delayed a moment."
Lecazes made a discreet movement of withdrawal.
"No, no, Baron," interposed Ferdinand. "I pray you to remain. I expected to find you here. I know, besides, that His Majesty has no secrets from you. Indeed, I suppose you are better informed concerning this tangle than I, for your fingers it is that have woven the mesh."
"To what does your Royal Highness allude?" asked Lecazes guardedly.
"To letters which I constantly receive," replied Ferdinand sharply. "Letters which have kept me awake more than one night."
"Love letters?" ironically inquired Lecazes. "Your Royal Highness inspires innumerable passions. 'Tis no marvel that these letters rain upon you. What I find amusing is your simplicity in taking them seriously."
The Prince's frank countenance darkened. His brow contracted and his lips curled disdainfully as he replied:
"Baron, I am not accustomed to discuss such questions with others,—least of all with the police! The matter concerns,—bah! why should I relate this to you?—the matter concerns a member of our family who has been rifled of personal documents and forced into exile, in order to avoid even more barbarous treatment."
"Will Your Royal Highness be good enough to mention the name of—this—member of the royal House?"
"You know his name better than I, since 'twas you who prepared the villainous ambuscade and the other iniquities which I shall not enumerate."
"Who is Your Royal Highness's informant?" asked Lecazes, turning livid.
"One who knows whereof he speaks," replied the Prince producing a packet of letters.
"But Ferdinand, my son, why do you credit such calumniators?" interposed the King.
"Sire, these are not calumnies. If you consider them such, why not turn upon them the light of day? To me they have ample confirmation in the face of Monsieur the Superintendent of Police, or in your own, Sire, or in that of Madame my cousin and sister-in-law. I have seen her swoon on hearing the name of the man whose personal history contains the tragic episodes enacted last summer in Versailles park. The life of that true knight and gentleman, my dear friend, René de Giac, there paid the penalty for his loyalty—he, the son of one of the most valiant of Condé's officers—"
"Ferdinand," stammered the King, his face growing paler and paler, "your words are audacious and unwarranted. From any other than you, I should pronounce them the ravings of a madman. What inference is to be drawn from your asseverations? None other than that we are a usurper, that the Restoration was a robbery and that as restitution, we must deliver up the throne, after having played the role of thief, and retire into private life amid the jeers of the spectators. What would follow then, think you? Nothing less than an armed intervention of Europe to restore order in France a second time and clear the bandit caves of their booty."
"We are not speaking of an impostor," insisted Ferdinand bravely.
"Dare you call us usurper, then?" shrieked the King.
The smile on Lecazes's lips was a discharge of gall and the gleam in his eyes was Satanic.
"For my part, Sire," retorted the nephew, "I believe you to be such. I refuse—O more than the glory of thrones and crowns do I cherish honor and the religion of Knighthood. I may or may not have a right to the tide Royal Highness, but beyond question I am a soldier, and notwithstanding certain gallantries, a Christian. I do not proclaim my virtue as does my brother Louis, but neither do I ravish another man of his rights. I will not longer live this life. I have tried to make light of these letters. Does Your Majesty know why? Because in all of them breathes a threat, and no man shall think me coward. If God gives me life and France wars,'twill be demonstrated whether or not I am such. My coming to you now has for object that of declaring to your Majesty that if this matter be not adjudicated according to law and justice and in a manner befitting our family dignity, I shall be forced to the alternative of going to Holland and offering my services to my cousin, as a partial reparation for the iniquity practised upon him."
"And I should not be surprised at your extravagance, my dear nephew," replied the King, irate and sarcastic. "Your action would be in keeping with the conduct of a man who never considers the consequences of his acts, a man who married a London woman of base extraction,—the plebeian Amy Brown, a man who disregards court etiquette so far as to imitate the Corsican in his policy of acquiring popularity with the army, a man whose language in public is such as to undermine the established regime. You would be more satisfactory nephew, were you to fulfill your office, of furnishing France with a male heir of whom we stand in so great need."
Ferdinand, far from evincing annoyance at the burst of wrath, answered serenely:
"Sire, I scarcely think you hold me accountable for failing to counteract the decrees of Providence regarding the birth of an heir. As for the matter which brings me here, I declare that my regard for Your Majesty cannot prevent my speaking my mind. I have considered that it was due you to make you a party to the knowledge of the iniquity, that you might have the opportunity of seconding my resolution. But if our strength is to have its foundation in infamy, a sad future has the House! I ask for but my commission in the army or to be a soldier in the ranks. Your Majesty accuses me of imitating the Corsican. I reply that the only glory I seek is the glory of arms and of a fearless heart."
"Is this all you would say, nephew?" asked the King, white with rage.
"Your Majesty is offended? Your Majesty dismisses me?"
"His Majesty's strength is unequal to such shocks," interposed Lecazes.
"My Lord Baron," said the Prince, "you are right. I retire. Henceforth, Ferdinand de Bourbon has no guide but his conscience."
Saluting the monarch gravely and the Minister with mock respect, he departed.
Lecazes followed him with a smile. As his footsteps died away, the Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"What do you think of this Lecazes?" inquired the King.
"That we must let the Prince continue the road he has chosen. Place no obstacles in his way—and do not trouble your mind about him.—Many important historical events have just such origins as this.—I shall not meddle in the affairs of His Royal Highness."
In the minister's mind there was formed the picture of a young vigorous tree felled at a blow.