"Baby! Baby! This is your Mamma 'Mélie."
"I am hungry, mamma!" he cried.
"Hungry, darling?" she exclaimed, a frightful suspicion crossing her mind. "Have they given you nothing to eat? Have you had no broth? Even tho you are not in my arms, eat everything they give you, Baby; I am close by. It is just as though I were with you."
"But Mamma 'Mélie, they give me nothing, no broth, no milk. O give me something, mamma!"
A chill of horror ran through her veins. O were they capable of such cruelty? It must be that they had forgotten to take food to little Dick. Who would deliberately starve a child? But to think that he had been a whole day unfed! She wrung her hands and threw herself against the walls. With difficulty she repressed herself from screaming aloud. She shook the door with all her strength, though she well knew that that strength was impotent. Her temples seemed bursting. She felt on the verge of dementia. She recalled her father's imprisonment and the numerous historical crimes related. But O to starve a child! This too was possible. Depravity is boundless when it possesses a human heart.
When evening at last came and the same speechless attendant brought her supper, she darted a withering look at him, saying:
"Order food taken to the child at once! If you are not tigers, have pity on him. Starve me if you will. What has he to do with this miserable plot?"
The man made no answer, whatever. He fixed his eyes upon her and she knew that he was Volpetti indeed.
The night was terrible. During the first part Baby sobbed incessantly, tho his voice grew fainter and fainter. At last it died out altogether. She grew frantic and running to the windows, called aloud:
"Jean Vilon! Jean Vilon! Wretch! Is it thus you obey your master?"
Then, as silence followed:
"René! René!"
Then:
"Silvano! Silvano!"
But no answer came. Picmort, the grim giant, was silent. Again she ran to the door separating her from Dick. He was speaking to her but in a voice so faint that it was scarcely more than a murmur.
"He will die! he will die!" she wailed. "No child can resist such treatment. God have mercy on us both. What have I done to bring such suffering on this baby?—But I might save him; yes, if I renounce René forever. No, no! Rather perish the entire world. These fiends would defeat me through my sense of pity. Well, they shall not. I shall be stone. What is this child to me? Have I not once saved his life?—Perhaps my father was right. We have spilt blood—O no, no! My father you were weak and that weakness is my undoing—And now my pity for this child is making me also a weakling."
She broke into bitter weeping. Dick was calling:
"Mamma! Mamma!"
She crept to the door and whispered:
"My heaven, be patient. Very soon you shall have food and be with me."
With an air of a somnambulist did Amélie comb out her long blond hair and arrange it in its accustomed style. Then she performed her entire toilet, laughing stridently from time to time. Sometimes tears would trickle fast down her beautiful face, so pale and worn with its great anxiety. When at noon the silent attendant brought the meal, she said to him:
"Tell the Duchess de Rousillon that I shall comply with her wishes, provided she has the door opened immediately which separates me from the child."
An hour later, Baby sat in Amélie's lap. She had given him milk and soup and he was covering her face with kisses,—this child whom she loved more than ever since renouncing for him what was dearer to her than life. Suddenly the doors were thrown wide open and the Duchess entered accompanied by the two liveried attendants, bearing handsome clothes, jewels and laces. Amélie did not raise her eyes. Two girls, the maid-servants who had been so curious to see her, approached eagerly and began to deck the bride. They fastened a velvet petticoat beneath an embroidered silk jacket and pinned the veil and flowers in her beautiful hair. Soon she was transformed into a lovely Breton bride. Then the Duchess summoned Jean Vilon, who, in gala costume, a spray of wild flowers on his breast tied with many colored ribbons, made a brilliant handsome picture. He was pale, ecstatic, scarcely sensible of what was in preparation. Things had happened in so bewildering a manner that he could not co-ordinate his thoughts; he remembered that the Duchess had unexpectedly arrived and imposed her authority as René's mother to force entrance into the castle; then she had ordered him in her son's name to prepare to marry the girl above, who was under the family's special protection, adding that her misfortunes were the consequence of being abandoned by a man who had betrayed her. Jean, tho wild with joy, hesitated and the Duchess added that Amélie came from his class and was unconnected with the de Brezé family.
"Be a good husband to her, Jean, and you will lack nothing. Be a good father to the child, and I will give you the Plouret farm."
O what did the farm matter to him! He trembled in a rapture of love. The husband of Amélie! He enveloped her now in a glance that was a wave of flame and then, intimidated by the prize he longed to grasp, he turned interrogating eyes upon the Duchess.
At length they went into the chapel. Two tenants of the de Brezés served as witnesses. The altar was adorned with gorgeous pots, holding paper flowers, and the chaplain stood ready to perform the ceremony. The two serving-maids pressed near the bride, according to the custom of Breton girls, in eagerness to touch her so as to hasten their own marriage. Amélie seemed more a statue than an animate body. She recalled René's words: "In Picmort are the tombs of my ancestors, the ashes of my fathers; in Picmort I was baptized; in Picmort we shall receive heaven's blessing on our union." Since living in the castle she had often pictured their marriage in that chapel. She gazed on the long row of sepulchral arches to right and left and on the tombs with slabs supporting the prone forms of Crusader-paladins, hands crossed on breast; on the superb crucifix surmounting the altar; on the colored oblong windows. This was the chapel in which she was to have been united to René de Giac, but there stood now at her side a peasant, a rustic, a servant of the House of Brezé.
"But I must keep my word," she told herself. "I have promised this for the child's life."
When she realized that no miracle was forthcoming to liberate her, she was near screaming:
"Help! help! Violence is being enacted. I do not wish to marry."
But she knew that such appeal would be futile. She would be called hysterical and the child's martyrdom recommenced. Her story was so extraordinary, her claims so pretentious, that the witnesses would think she raved. Raising her eyes to the face of the crucified, she seemed to hear these words:
"Suffer now, for the hour of your expiation has arrived."
The chaplain put the questions to which the groom replied in a passionate tremor; Amélie's well-nigh inarticulate assent made her the wife of Jean Vilon. Almost swooning, she left the chapel. As the bridal pair reached the salon, the Duchess approached with an affectionate greeting and holding a diamond brooch which she sought to place in the girl's bosom. Amélie drew back, as from the sting of a venomous reptile, refusing the Judas kiss which the lady would have sounded upon her cheek. But the Duchess continued to smile in insolent triumph. At last did an insuperable obstacle exist between her son and this impertinent girl. This union to a peasant made the pretentions of Naundorff seem more extravagant than ever. The liveried attendants smiled also in joy at the diabolical victory. Then the Duchess addressed this speech to the groom:
"Jean, you are a faithful servant and it has made me happy to divine your wishes and give you the wife you desired. She is suitable to you, being of your class. Her father is a watch-maker and her mother a seamstress. May God give you long life. The castle of Picmort remains in your custody, it being the property of my son, the powerful Marquis de Brezé, whom I on this occasion represent. The farm of Plouret is yours and thither may you retire when you are minded to do so."
Amélie heard the words and thought she must be dreaming; such duplicity bewildered her. Indignant protests rose to her lips but her helplessness and disdain smothered the words. Casting upon the Duchess a look of regal scorn, she left the salon and re-entered the Marquise's boudoir.
Very soon after, the Duchess with her two liveried attendants and the chaplain was driven away from the castle. Jean Vilon carried the lady's belongings to the chaise and bowed in profound respect and gratitude as she departed. Amélie, having locked herself in, wept bitterly, the child clasped to her breast. Was all this true, great God? Was she indeed the wife of Jean Vilon? Absurd! Heaven would yet guide her out of this dilemma. O rather than submit, she would fling herself from that window into the pit below.
Baby covered her with kisses and childish coaxings which seemed in a measure to console her for what she had endured on his account, and he was dearer to her than ever. No real mother, she reflected, could love more deeply than she this child. Evening fell upon the grim castle and shadows darkened the Marquise's boudoir. Amélie, folding Baby's hands bade him pray, after which she placed him in bed. She barricaded the doors by drawing pieces of furniture against them and prepared to pass the night in vigil.
Suddenly a slight noise filled her with terror. It came from the mythologically wrought panels adorning the walls. It sounded like the gnawing of a mouse. The gnawing grew louder, the panel moved, revealing a door whose edges were the gilded framing, and Jean Vilon in his bridal clothes, the nuptial flowers in his breast, stood before her. He was a handsome man, the finest "gars" in that part of Brittany. Happiness made his dark face beautiful. She repelled her husband with a look of scorn which made him stand motionless.
"How dare you enter, Jean?" she demanded advancing upon him with a threatening look. "How dare you enter without my permission? Did you not see that I had locked myself in? You come like a thief through a secret entrance which only you know. Wretch! Leave me this instant and never return. Do you hear?Never!"
Jean advanced in his turn, stammering:
"Mademoiselle, what do you mean? Are we not husband and wife? I have known the secret of that door since I was a boy, but I have never used it. You were safe under my protection. But now! By God and Saint Anne!—the priest has joined us!—"
Amélie, taking courage at his moderation, said still more scornfully:
"You say we are joined together? Idiot! Do you consider that service valid? Are you pretending innocence? Are you a fool or a knave? Are you the Duchess's creature or her victim? Do you not know how they have wrested from me my consent? Has no one told you that I married you to save the child's life?"
Jean stared at her in speechless amazement, and Amélie perceiving his ignorance, breathed more freely.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last, "I am neither a murderer nor a hypocrite."
"Then why have you married me, wretch?" His eyes changed hue, resembling the sea water which beats against the Coast of Brittany emitting at night phosphoric light.
"Because I love you, because I love you!" he cried, coming close to her, so close that she felt his breath. "Because my mistress told me that you were not as I had been told, a relative of the family. She said you were a peasant like myself, who had suffered misfortune and been abandoned by a scoundrel. Even knowing this," he concluded affectionately, "I loved you and was wild with happiness when she offered to marry us."
"Vile calumniator!" hissed Amélie with flaming cheeks.
"My mistress also said that your father had rendered a service to her husband, the late Marquis, during the exile, giving that as the motive for your having been received in the castle. 'I wish now to further befriend the girl,' said she, 'by giving her a good husband. Are you ready to marry her? I will give her a dot of 75,000 francs,' But Mademoiselle, I agreed not because of the dot or the farm,—God confound me if I lie—but because I love you. Since you came, I have not slept a single night. If I closed my eyes I dreamed of you. I was like one bewitched." And he knelt at her feet, sobbing like a little child.
She was moved to pity and said:
"Jean, I see that you are a victim of the serpent also. Listen to the truth. I have married you because I was forced to, brutally forced. They were starving,—starvingto death—do you hear?—that little child, who is no child of mine.' Our marriage is a sacrilege in the eyes of God. By considering yourself my husband, you damn your own soul. Jean, beware of what you do!"
He rose and folded his arms across his breast.
"What you say may be true, Mademoiselle, and it hurts me to believe my mistress guilty of such conduct. But be the cause what it may, we are married. I am your husband; you are my wife; no power in heaven or earth can separate us. Whether the child is yours or not, matters little to me. Your life before I knew you concerns me not; I ask no questions. From today you are mine. Today you have been born anew, purer than water that falls from the clouds. I should defend you and the child to the death—I love you so much. You shall never again suffer, for now you belong to me. O if my mistress had not come to marry us, I should have killed you. You are holy to me, but my love is terrible. At last you are mine! O happiness!"
The Breton flung his arms around her.
Amélie sprang back, preparing for the struggle which the strength of the bridegroom would have rendered futile. The enameled clock rang out the hour of seven. The mythologically wrought panel opened again and a man entered.
Jean loosed his hold and stood petrified. The man advanced and asked in a terrible voice:
"What does this mean? What is going on in my house?"
"René!" cried Amélie, running to her lover who clasped her in his arms, regardless of the fire in Jean's eyes.
"Jean Vilon," said the master, "render an account of yourself. What has taken place in this castle? Unfaithful servant, how have you guarded this trust?"
Vilon trembled and knelt before René.
"Your lordship," he stammered, "your mother—the orders she brought me—from you."
"Orders? Were they not to refuse entrance to anyone not giving the watch-word? Did my mother speak it, imbecile? Do I call you imbecile? I mean scoundrel. How have you treated this woman,—this woman who should be as holy to you as the Virgin?"
"Your lordship, it was the Duchess, the wife of my late master whose ashes rest in the chapel"—incoherently articulated Vilon. "Should I refuse her?—close the door in her face?"
"Certainly, beast!" cried René, losing all control of himself. "You owe obedience to me and to me only, though you die for it."
He clenched his fists and advanced upon Vilon, who, making no resistance, prepared to receive the blow. But Amélie, with the generosity of her upright character, interposed.
"René, do not debase yourself. Jean Vilon is in no wise to blame. He has believed your mother, thinking he honored you. When you sent him instructions, you could not foresee this possibility. Fate brought her. Jean is upright and faithful."
Her persuasive voice brought calmness to René, but a monstrous doubt seemed to find lodgment in his mind.
"Very well; now let us come to the point. What has happened here? Under what pretext has my mother come with pretended messages from me? She surely has not foregone three days of frivolous court life for the pleasure of viewing country scenery. When I (for I have transformed myself into a professional spy) learned in Paris that she had taken the road to Brittany, I hastened after her, feeling sure that she was coming to Picmort. I met her just now on the road, unperceived by her party. I have entered the castle with my secret key and chosen this method of surprising you,—the same employed by the jealous Marquis who imprisoned his wife in this salon. Now, tell me what has happened. Come! the truth!"
Amélie remained silent, for not until that moment had she realized the extremity of the case, the nature of the confession she must make to her lover. Her customary valor forsook her.
"René," she faltered, "do not reproach me; forgive me, rather. Why have you delayed so long in coming? Why have you left me here defenceless? Why have you abandoned me?"
"Defenceless? Abandoned? And that fellow? Has he not protected you? He has orders to die for you. Tell me quickly what has been done. Answer, each of you. What does this mean?"
Amélie covered her face with her hands and turning to the wall, burst into bitter weeping. René seized Vilon by the collar, shaking him violently and saying:
"Traitor, what have you done? Answer or I will choke you."
The Breton freed himself with so lithe a movement that the superiority of his physical strength was evident. Folding his arms on his breast, he said quietly:
"The Duchess arrived in a post chaise accompanied by the chaplain and two attendants. I opened wide the gate through which the lords of Picmort have always entered. I kissed her hand in respect. She spent three days here, giving orders and being obeyed. On the third, she decreed that I should marry this young lady—"
René leaped in rage.
"And—you married—her?" he shrieked.
"Yes."
"When—when?"
"Today, at four o'clock in the Picmort chapel."
"Devil!" roared René. "And you, Amélie, have you consented?"
"Yes," she wailed.
"This is superb!" and he laughed in fury. "Explain yourself, that I may then kill you. Did you fall in love with this fellow?"
"René!" she implored, sinking to his feet, "Have pity on me. I consented because your mother was starving to death before my eyes that little child we saved from the ship. O René, never call her mother again."
"Is that what she did?" stammered the Marquis, clasping his hands.
"Yes," she replied. "René, my father was right; the crimes of the mighty are expiated by the innocent. How can one hear a little child cry for bread and not save him? Yes, I have taken vows at the altar. I am the wife of your steward."
"Why did you marry her?" demanded René, turning furiously on Vilon.
"Because your mother said you wished it."
"Did you know of the child's starvation?"
"By the cross, I did not."
"And you dared to love her?"
"From the moment I saw her," he cried with impetuous sincerity.
"Aha! I find the motive. Obedience to the devil! So you loved her?"
"Your lordship, that was not the motive. I could never have dreamed of marriage had it not been for the Duchess—"
"Dog, onlyIam your master. OnlyI—"
"True, but here we are not accustomed to distinguish between the orders of your lordship and his mother. Parents represent God on earth."
"Jean is innocent. Another in his place would have acted likewise. Be just, René," said Amélie.
The steward looked on her in deep gratitude.
"René, your mother is the only culprit,—she and that fatality which dogs all who aid our cause. We carry misfortune with us. We should have told Jean our secret to begin with; we should have treated him as a friend, not as a menial. Then our enemies could not have deceived him. But how could we suspect that your mother had a suspicion of my presence here? René, a vicious womb has borne you—the womb of a hyena."
"Amélie," he groaned, "I do not attempt to defend my mother's conduct. She has acted like a fiend. But she is mentally incapable of planning the villainy. She was the instrument of the police. O Amélie, 'tis our parents who accomplish our ruin. Your father sets Volpetti free and my mother delivers you to another man. O I rave! You are mine, mine! No other man exists."
He clasped her hands and she gazed passionately up into his face, forgetful of Vilon, who frowningly beheld his honor as bridegroom affronted. At length René remembered the importunate presence, and sternly said:
"Begone!"
"You bid me go!" said the Breton, roused at length. "If I go my wife comes with me."
"Your wife!" laughed René scornfully. "This woman is not your wife, fool."
"The priest has joined us," insisted the peasant.
"Through a fraud,—a crime."
"That matters not. She has said 'Yes' at the altar. We are husband and wife before God."
René turned threateningly upon him and Vilon lowered his head. The idea of resistance never entered his brain, but neither could he entertain the idea of resigning Amélie. In body and soul he belonged to his master, the Marquis de Brezé; in body and soul she belonged to him, Jean Vilon.
Amélie placed herself beside her husband.
"Jean is right," she said. "He is indeed, my master. Happiness has died and love also. Like you, I sought at first to break this bond—but I cannot,—we cannot. I expiate."
Tears flowed fast over her cheeks. Wild passion shot from Vilon's eyes. He longed to kneel before her and clasp her in his arms. He dug his nails into the palms to restrain himself. He hoarsely asked:
"Is this the woman your lordship has loved?"
"She was my promised wife. You have undone me by one act, Jean Vilon," answered René in a voice of deep sadness.
Jean's mouth contracted. He suffered terribly, but he did not yield. He kept assuring himself that Amélie was his, his treasure. Only death could separate them.
René clutched the Breton's wrist and pressed it till the bones almost cracked.
"I repeat, Jean, you are the undoing of my life. But you shall not save your soul, if you persist, for a dreadful crime would follow. You refuse to give her up? Well, let me tell you who the woman is that you continue to call your wife. She is sacred, poor fool, and as inaccessible to you as the saints. Listen, dust of the earth.She is of the race of kings—do you hear?—you must never forget this fact—of our kings!"
Terror and wonder contorted the peasant's face. He transfixed Amélie with a look of superstitious, reverence. The revelation exceeded his power of comprehension.
"The blood of the king martyred by the revolutionists is in her body,—the king for whom your father bore arms and fought hand to hand so often,—the king for whom he lay concealed in the woods and for whom,—do you remember, Jean?—he was shot, his body lying unburied during seven days. If your father should now awake he would behold his son attempting to profane the daughter of that king! This is the crime to which you have lent yourself."
"Is this true?" asked Jean, turning upon Amélie a face contorted with fear and pain.
"Yes, Jean," she answered, her voice full of compassion. "I swear by my soul it is true."
"And the honor of Brezé confirms the oath," added René. "Retain the fruit of your iniquity. I leave you your wife. You no longer have a master. I shall go away forever."
"No," entreated Jean. "Rather I, rather I."
He crossed himself and grasped the amulets which hung around his neck. Then, swiftly approaching Amélie, he kissed her on the forehead. His lips burned and she shrieked in horror. He walked rapidly out of the boudoir. His heavy feet sounded for a moment in the antechamber, then on the stairway, the narrow winding stairway leading to the tower's highest story. René and Amélie listened. Suddenly divining his intention, they ran after him. The tiny room was dark when they reached it, the window was curtained by a heavy obstruction which they realized was Jean. They darted to clutch him, but he rolled out before their eyes. Deeply affected, they looked down and beheld at the base of the tower the lifeless body of the grief-crazed Breton, with face upturned to the sky and glassy eyes gleaming amid the heavy blond hair. Silvano, the faithful mastiff, sat beside him, howling despairingly.
The apartments of the royal palace which we now enter are those farthest removed from the stir and distractions of the court. The perennial austerity of their august occupant seems to have imparted to them a religious gloom. Owners bestow themselves upon their belongings. The human soul leaves back of itself its peculiar track, either luminous or sombre.
The first impression made upon one entering the salons is of absolute silence. Noise would seem there a trespasser, a deep breath an infringing of etiquette. Servants and courtiers smother their voices and footfalls, suppress smiles and even dim the brightness of their eyes on addressing the Duchess,—the sad Duchess, who daily resembles more and more those rigid supplicating forms which guard sepulchres. After passing through a succession of reception rooms, screened from the sunlight by heavy draperies, and of appointments so symmetrically and solemnly arranged that it seems impossible they should ever be moved from their places, we come to the Duchess's boudoir. Passing the dormitory and visitors' room, we lift a tapestry portière and enter the small apartment which is her oratory.
A richly wrought silver lamp is the only ornament, wherein float two burning wicks in perfumed oil. By the pale rays is discernible against a black velvet screen, a large marble figure of the Christ. He is represented at the moment of expiring, just when his head falls on his shoulder and he cries: "It is finished!" At the foot of the altar kneels a woman in fervent prayer. She rests on a crimson prie-Dieu and her eyes are raised to the Christ. The light falls full on her face and we see it is the Duchess.
Beautiful had that face been in youth, but suffering has obliterated all trace of beauty. The hair once pale yellow,—the family color,—and so abundant that it was whispered she wore a wig, has now an ashen, almost a cobwebby look; the skin is yellow and marked with wrinkles; the dry eyes are inflamed with tears that do not flow. The lips are drawn tight,—the lips that neither laugh nor kiss. The clasped hands are emaciated and of waxen whiteness. Bitter thoughts seem to hover around the pale forehead,—cruel doubt and insistent remorse. An expression of appalling incertitude, the terror of faith stripped of celestial consolation are there. Incoherent, rebellious words come from the lips.
At last, heaving a deep sigh, she arose, unclasped her hands and passed the right one over her forehead as though in an effort to banish her thoughts. Approaching the lamp, she unfastened two buttons of her waist and took from her bosom a roll of paper,—a letter. She glanced around, as if to assure herself that she was alone, and then began to read:
"My sister, well beloved: I live, I live; the hand of your brother directs these words; disregarding court etiquette, I assure you of my love—"
Here two timid raps sounded on the door and a gentle voice called: "Your Grace!"
The lady hastily replaced the paper and buttoned her bodice with an unsteady hand. By a strong effort of the will, she assumed the impenetrable mask she put on habitually and opened the door, with a look of cold surprise on her face. The attendant apologized profusely for the interruption.
"His—his—Royal Highness wishes urgently to speak with you. He has ordered me to—"
Without moving a muscle of her face, the Duchess bowed in assent and, with the gait of an automaton, passed on to meet her husband, who awaited her in the visitors' room, a small apartment, containing a desk, some books of devotion and a few classics.
On her entry, the Duke saluted gravely as tho at an official ceremony. She seated herself, but he continued standing. He was tall and of patrician and martial bearing. She addressed him a mute interrogatory. The absence of cordiality between them was at once apparent.
"Thérèse, I come to trouble you and this I regret infinitely. But 'tis indispensable. I come to talk of state matters, that is of matters closely related to the state. Some time ago we banished this topic from our conversation, Thérèse, because—we happen to differ in our views. You find me somewhat—what phrase shall I use?—well, liberal. I find you obstinate,—opposed to making concessions and blind to the exigencies of the times. I am inclined to adopt the opinion of the King and Ferdinand; you, like our good father—but Thérèse, think as we individually may, we both desire the same accomplishment. At bottom there is harmony between us. I could not bear to believe otherwise."
"At bottom there is indeed harmony," she answered. "Neither could I bear to believe otherwise. We are united, as is the entire family, in the faith that the Restoration is genuine—a victory over the dragon of the Revolution. You employ hidden weapons; I am less astute; I fight unarmed, or, as better said, I do not fight. I resist the foe, arms folded on my breast, and I should not retreat. I should face him to the last tho he advanced upon me with an overpowering host."
"The Corsican did not err when he said you were the only man of the family."
"Do not repeat that absurd speech. Each prince of the House is a man, a paladin, worthy of the race. Neither you nor your brother Ferdinand, notwithstanding his delinquencies respecting women, has given the lie to the proud blood which flows through your veins. I am a weak woman, whose only refuge, in hours of trial, is religion—the religion which has taught me to suffer resignedly, but never to yield. Much have I suffered; much am I yet to suffer."
A trembling convulsed her bosom and passed over her entire body, rustling the violet silk gown which she wore in half mourning. The Duke suppressed his annoyance. His wife's gloomy disposition had, from the first days of their marriage de convenance been a killjoy—that marriage, consummated for political reasons and in compliance with the dying request of her parents. Somewhat of warmth, somewhat of human tenderness would have mingled those two souls, had not constraint been characteristic of both.
"Thérèse," he replied, "in every life there is a cup of bitterness. Each thinks that his chalice contains the most gall. Each knows but his own sorrow. God has tried us indeed, but have courage! I come with another sorrow to your heart already bleeding. Your strength must sustain you."
"Of what do you speak?" she asked, endeavoring to seem calm.
"Of the impostors, who have, in succession, exploited favorable circumstances in personating the unhappy prince who perished in captivity."
A deathlike pallor spread over her face.
"This is the reason you have come?" she murmured.
"Yes, this is the reason. The iniquitous farce grows of sufficient consequence to threaten the throne."
"Be explicit," she said, recovering command of herself.
"I am come for that purpose," he replied. "The king has entrusted me with messages for you. He is fearful lest these spurious pretensions leave an ill effect upon you."
The Duchess drew a handkerchief across her eyes. Her husband and cousin continued:
"The fate of the young prince has brought sorrow to many. It has also been the cause of numerous schemes, and served as basis for ambitious delirium. An Austrian drummer declares before a council of war that he is your brother; another, whose brain has become addled from a bullet wound, is so insistent in his claims that it has been found necessary to incarcerate him in Bicetre; a servant in this asylum disputes with him the honor, by name Fontolive; a hunch-back assistant to a notary follows suit and he will likely end his career in Bicetre; there is a Dufresne who displays on his right calf a fleur de lis. There are others too numerous to mention, including one who dresses like a woman. To enumerate them all would be to number the sands of the seashore. I shall speak only of the most audacious among them, of those who have succeeded in investing their ridiculous pretensions with the semblance of truth, namely a certain Fruchard, a man of brains and resolution; Hervagault, the son of a tailor who plays his cards well indeed; Maturino Bruneau of Vezins, a most popular impostor; Baron Richemont, the most dangerous of them all, for he is a man of education, a profound student of history, and of irreproachable morals. Several gentlemen, formerly staunch royalists, have placed themselves in his ranks—"
The Duchess listened with attention, fixing upon her husband her inquisitorial eyes which cut like a keen knife. The Duke hesitated and she asked coldly:
"And what more? Is the list of farceurs ended?"
"No," he replied, making a visible effort to compose himself.
"There is another, Thérèse—He is seconded—O 'tis incredible!—by such men as René de Giac, whom we considered so devoted to the throne. His mother is inconsolable and no longer permits him to visit her. Besides René, there are La Rochefoucauld, Madame de Rambeau, who was the Dauphin's guardian during infancy, the family Saint Hilaire, the Marquis Feuillade, the Marquis de Broglio Solari—a legion, indeed."
"But you do not tell me this impostor's name," she asked in a bitter voice. "Whence comes he?"
"His name is William Naundorff and he comes from England, though he has been brought up in Prussia."
The Duchess seemed about to swoon. Her head dropped upon the chair back and swayed from side to side. The Duke hastened to revive her by holding to her nose a flask of English smelling salts.
More through an effort of her strong will than because of the efficaciousness of the smelling salts, the Duchess sat upright and fixed upon the Duke her keen eyes.
"Why," she asked, "does the King desire that; I should be so minutely informed? Why not settle the matter in those departments wherein the governmental thunderbolts are forged, since it is a question pertaining to statecraft? Can I not be left in peace, I the desolate survivor of the shipwreck?—I who ask only for solitude in which to pray."
"It is natural that we should consult you when THE PRINCIPLE is involved. Moreover, we depend upon your firmness and energy. You can offer us valuable suggestions, for no one has so imposing a conception of the royal dignity."
"That is because no one else has endured so much for the royal cause. I am the unhappiest woman on earth—" and her tears fell. "I wrote so upon the walls of my prison and it is still the truth."
"Thérèse, what memories! What a tragedy!"
"In that prison," she exclaimed, "in that horrible prison, while we underwent the Via Crucis of outrages, there arose like a beautiful star, illuminating even the prisons and scaffolds,—there arose the PRINCIPLE. Only the PRINCIPLE is of moment; individuals are as nothing. What matter our sufferings or the blood that was spilled, or all the heads that fell if the principle remain the centre of life? But one head fell which incarnated the PRINCIPLE and it has cried for vengeance to God."
A fire glowed in her faded eyes, her heart beat so rapidly that the paper beneath the dress rustled. The Duke drew closer but made no effort to touch even her hands. No sweet transport had united these souls.
"I rejoice to see you thus, Thérèse," he murmured. "What has made the King fear your attitude on this question?"
"As the King has not suffered, he has no comprehension of the PRINCIPLE. I pray much for the King. He is a weakling."
"Not so today, Thérèse," the Duke interposed. "His Majesty's tastes differ, perhaps, from yours, from ours; but when he beholds the ship of state in danger, then does he recover his spirit, rather then does he seem to, for in reality he never loses it. Because of his artistic and philosophical pre-occupations and of his adherence to certain doctrines—which, to be frank, are not to my liking,—because of these, he regards at times indifferently what he eventually realizes to be of supreme importance. There are times when his imagination dominates him, but he has too great a mind to permit such impressions to be more than transitory. Do you remember the recent episode of the visionary Martin? Well, for a while the King was greatly troubled. He believed his end to be near."
"It is," she observed with no trace of emotion. "His infirmities increase rapidly."
"All the more reason," he rejoined, "that we should live cautiously. His Majesty's ill health may cause complications."
"And how does that fear affect your attitude with regard to—imposters?"
"Very closely. Old Martin insisted that one of the imposters was in reality your brother. May God preserve us from beholding the King a victim to that illusion. All imposters shall be rebuffed if we stand our ground. Their multitude and diverse origins destroy whatever advantage any one of them may have gained. Tho human credulity is infinite, it seems to me impossible that they should make a lasting impression on the public or cause any of the European Cabinets to lose confidence in the government. This last consideration is of the greatest importance. Europe is at enmity with France, but the Holy Alliance has sustained us, teas steadied the tottering throne, because we are the principle. Insidious rumors regarding your brother are being carried to the ears of European sovereigns. It is insistently claimed that he lives. The intervention of some foreign cabinet is imminent, which would carry in train disastrous results. Can we contemplate another invasion of France? How avoid it if the stigma of usurpers be attached to us?"
The Duchess's eyes were riveted on the carpet.
"Let us thank God," continued the Duke, "that amid the cohort of adventurers, charlatans and self-deluded fools which is recruited from all quarters, there is not one whose ability and certificates differentiate him sufficiently from the others to claim the attention of Europe. Should such a one arise and triumph over us, the Revolution which we have crushed would break forth with redoubled fury. Thérèse, to outward appearance, we lie on a bed of roses; in reality, a volcano rumbles beneath our feet. We have to act with the greatest circumspection. We are watched, we are hounded. We, the men and women of the House Regnant of France, must be wise as the serpent and gentle as the dove; we must even make compromises. That is why I spoke (in my proclamation of Saint Jean de Lumière) of crushing tyranny and breaking chains. That is why I have through the columns of the Meridien prescribed limits to the zeal of our partizans, who demand blood in the celebration of our triumph. The King, therefore, would warn you that a false step, an impulse of generosity from your noble heart might—"
"Do I constitute so great a peril?" she sardonically asked.
"An immense peril,—that of your generous nature, your excessive,—no, I should not say excessive,—conscientiousness; but, Thérèse, it is so easy to be misled by our rectitude. Will you believe that my brother Ferdinand, in whom our hopes of succession lie, (here the Duchess winced)—for although his children have been girls, a boy may be born to him,—I repeat that Ferdinand inclines favorably toward the impostors—that is to say, not all of them, but one in particular."
She revealed her displeasure. Nothing so much irritated her as allusion to her sterility.
"Ferdinand," she began aimlessly.
"Yes, Ferdinand, following the generous impulses of his heart—or—for some reason—which—Well, Ferdinand cannot think and act as we do—because he has lived—has been the slave of his passions. Indeed, his life resembles, in certain respects that of the impostor whom he supports. He also lived for a period obscurely and in London, forming there ties with a woman of the people. You remember Amy Brown and the children she bore him. When one's antecedents have not been of a licit character, one is predisposed to make extraordinary excuses for others. You and I are not of that kind, Thérèse. We may proudly hold up our heads. Ferdinand has decided to believe that your brother lives, and, in consequence, places faith in whatever impostor raises his head, saying that one among them is Charles Louis."
The Duchess trembled, notwithstanding her attempted impassivity.
"My father," resumed the Duke, "alarmed at his attitude, has remonstrated with him but to no purpose other than that of prevailing upon him to cease making public display of his opinions. He therefore no longer proclaims them from the house-top. You, Thérèse, employing the influence with which your virtues invest you, must caution Ferdinand and his wife, Caroline, against indiscretions. Insist that the members of the royal family must act in harmony. What would be the consequence of the slightest admission?" And, as she remained silent, he added, "You do not answer."
"Yes, yes, I am about to answer. For three nights I have not slept and for three days I have prayed continually. O, if among those who assume my brother's name, there be one who presents proofs,—do you hear?—irrefutable proofs, to such a one we have no right to apply the epithet impostor. If he bear incontestable documentary evidence, should we longer doubt? You know well that Charles Louis's death certificate has never been found. The copy which exists is not authentic."
Lowering her voice still more, even though aware that they could not be overheard, she continued:
"You know also that I went incognito to the Hospital of Incurables and interviewed the cobbler's wife. Notwithstanding my disguise, the unfortunate woman knew me and said: 'I am not insane. They have placed me here to silence me. The boy lives.'"
The Duke paced feverishly up and down.
"There are a thousand testimonials and asseverations by conscientious persons who have recognized this claimant. He says things which only my brother can say. And as the time has come to speak the whole truth, I shall tell you that he has written to me. His letter has rested here three days; it burns like a live coal. It burns my fingers and my heart."
She pulled the paper from her bosom and placed it before him.
"I had thought myself incapable of tears. I had wept so much that it seemed impossible to weep always. But this letter has unsealed my tear ducts. This man knows only what my brother would know. He entreats an interview. He wishes me to decide his claim. He asks that my heart be judge, though he offers to bring documentary proofs which any court would sustain. Why do we refuse to hear him?"
The Duke's perturbation increased.
"Thérèse," he said at length, "your affection for your dead brother is so well known that these pretenders seek to exploit that affection. Beware! An imprudent act may blight the dynasty and France; be the ruin of us all. It rests with you to avert this impending disaster."
"With me? Why with me?"
"Yes, with you," he said almost harshly. "Why did you refuse the embalmed heart sent you by the physician who performed the autopsy on the dead boy in the tower? It was a mistake,—a terrible mistake. The public got wind of it—"
"You say I should have received that offering?—that heart which never beat in my brother's breast? You dare reproach me with that refusal? Answer me this: why has the King refused up to this day to be anointed? Why has the Pope forbidden us to celebrate Charles Louis's funeral rites? Have you forgotten the singular proceeding of suspending the mortuary ceremony after the church has been draped in black and the clergy vested? Have you forgotten the Nuncio's announcement: 'The Church offers up requiem masses only for the dead?'"
The Duke was dumb.
"Listen," she continued. "Last night as I lay awake the voice of my mother came to me softly and full of tears. She said only: 'Marie Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!'"
Losing control of herself, the Duchess sobbed aloud, her face in her hands.
"We must restore the stolen crown, descend from the usurper's throne. Ferdinand is right. Why fight an unworthy battle? There are proofs before which we must recede. You say I am the only man of the family. 'Tis that I am the only member of the family who looks the situation in the face. Tell the King that there is but one way of demonstrating his courage; to deliver up his ill gotten goods and make restitution."
The Duke unable to find his voice, mutely rose. Saluting his wife with the same reverential air he had employed on entering, he passed out of the door.
The interior of the King's cabinet contrasted strikingly with the apartment we have just left. Here we find a veritable museum arranged by an intelligent hand which has collected something of the most beautiful in each esthetic epoch.
The Monarch stretched upon his invalid's couch, surrounded by cushions, his limbs bandaged, converses with his Minister of Police. A fire glows on the hearth, notwithstanding the warmth of the apartment, all the windows and doors being closed. 'Tis the loving heart of the young Countess Cayla that has designed the arrangement of furniture, etc., with the effect of securing the greatest comfort.
Disease makes noticeable ravages in the royal countenance, which, though still expressing a keen intellectual and reflective penetration, even a repressed enthusiasm, begins to become bloated by an insidious edema. The eyes, back of their swollen lids, betray blood decomposition. When the King changes his position, a medicinal odor floats through the elegant apartment, notwithstanding the profusion of rare flowers in alabaster Pompeian vases,—prodigies of antique art,—flowers, brought by the Countess to her invalid friend.
The King economized his conversational forces, replying only when necessity compelled: his words were always affluent and opportune. He listened attentively to the Minister, who was saying:
"Greater danger has never threatened the monarchy. I have long foreseen the evil. 'Tis of many years' standing. My predecessors—I must do them justice—took every precaution to obviate the result. Le Coq in Berlin endeavored to prevent what today seems imminent."
Lecazes took a pinch of snuff, and resumed:
"Your Majesty cannot doubt my zeal and activity. My devotion to the cause has been demonstrated. I have never vacillated in critical moments, never weakly yielded to circumstances. But in spite of my efforts and circumspection, a catastrophe stares us in the face."
The King listened attentively and the Minister went on.
"I have endeavored to spare your Majesty the annoyance of listening to these alarms. I come now to appeal for your help, for only you may avert the danger.
"One of my deputies, the most resourceful of all, my right hand, indeed, by name Volpetti, who for a time was in the service of Caroline, Queen of Sicily;—this Volpetti has for years tracked that—that dangerous creature. So far he has subjected him to living in a position in which mischief was impossible of accomplishment. He has been incapacitated for the attaining of any real advantage—This Volpetti was bequeathed me by Fouché. He was employed in the surveillance of the individual in question when I became Minister. During Napoleon's ascendancy, Volpetti kept this individual well concealed in a Vincennes dungeon; but the Empress Josephine, with the end of employing him as a weapon in view of the contingent divorce, adopted the policy of befriending and, finally of liberating him. After leaving Vincennes, our individual turns up in Prussia. As he had no civil status, he could give no trouble. He was nobody. At that time, Volpetti conceived a brilliant idea, that of playing the friend. He lent him a passport bearing a fictitious name and authorizing him to reside in Spandau. The individual has never been able to shuffle off his name. O there is no prison so secure as a name."
"Nevertheless," interposed the King, "when one possesses documents proving one's identity—"
"I am coming to that," said the Minister, waving his hand in order to dispel apprehension.
"The preservation of those documents, thro all these years of vicissitudes is the knot which I cannot unravel. Whence come they? I conjecture they procede from Barras (with his mania for collections), and that he gave them to Josephine. She in turn placed them with Montmorin, who planned his escape and who was subsequently killed in a skirmish. Those papers constituted an infernal magazine which threatened to explode at any moment. Volpetti rested not in his search for them, but they were skilfully concealed. As a last resort, he insinuated into the life of the individual a woman, excellent hearted and who was persuaded that she rendered a veritable service by advising him to deliver the papers to Le Coq."
"And did he?" inquired the King in graceful irony. "I wager that the woman attained her ends."
"Yes, your Majesty, he delivered certain papers, but the most important ones he kept—the devil knows where. He preserves them to this day in a casket."
"Next to woman, the gravest perils to man are documents," murmured the King in persistent irony.
"Realizing the impossibility of recovering the papers from Le Coq, the individual subsided. He is of a pacific temperament, tending to inaction and retirement. He married and devoted himself to his trade of watch-making—"
"'Tis a family proclivity," observed the King.
"I was saying he is devoted to watch-making and the care of his several children, among whom there is a daughter, who as a contrast to her father's impassivity, is action and energy incarnate. It was his ill fortune to be indicted as an incendiary and counterfeiter and to serve sentence at hard labor in Silesia—"
"Did this ill fortune come to him in consequence of the cautious policy of my astute friend and Minister, Lecazes? Let us have no figures of rhetoric here."
"Your Majesty, when matters arrange themselves in favorable combinations, a wise man loses no time in hesitation. The sentence passed was so favorable to our cause, was so strong a card to reserve, should the individual carry his claims before a tribunal. Think of it! Counterfeiter, incendiary!—sufficient, I should think, to deter members of the nobility from advocating his cause, should they be inclined to do so. Should we complain if hams be rained into our mouths? Shall we bewail the great number of impostors and dupes who have appeared from all quarters, finally occasioning so much skepticism among the people that one more or less makes no difference to them?"
Again the King smiled.
"Come," said he, delighting to pierce the diplomatic artifices of his minister, "I agree that we have no reason to complain; above all when it appears that among the horde of spurious Dauphins there is one bearing marks not unknown to us. Let us talk as men who have learned to vanquish their conscience; surely we shall not display such bad taste as to become pedantic moralists."
Lecazes smiled in his turn.
"I do not think," continued the royal invalid in whimsical banter, "that you class me among the abettors of my nephew; Ferdinand's ardent wish is to embrace his recovered cousin. Lecazes, prepare to hand in your resignation on the day of my death."
"Happily for us, your Majesty is much stronger than you yourself believe. Long life and long reign have you in prospect."
Having delivered himself of this flattery, he resumed:
"It is stated in the court records that the chief cause of the individual's condemnation was the indignation produced by his absurd pretensions. He was not proved guilty. He stated that he had been born a prince and this lost him the respect of the court. My complaint of the proceedings is that the sentence was for so brief a term. To imprison a man for a season is only to make him more set in his convictions. When liberated he is more dangerous than ever. If your Majesty were to ask my opinion of this man, I should say he was less knave than visionary. Owing to the stupidity of the Prussian police, it has been impossible to discover a trace of his ancestry or place of birth. He claims that this failure to produce confuting evidence proves his claim, and he speaks logically there."
"He does indeed."
"Well, our—maniac left prison more than ever determined to sustain his pretensions. To the children that were successively born to him he gave such names as Amélie (in memory of the flight); Marie Antoinette, Charles, Edward. This may seem inoffensive, but 'tis far from being so. Persistency in this fixed idea has continued to envelop him more and more in a tattered purple mantle. His sceptre is a reed in truth, but it gives him, nevertheless, the appearance of a persecuted martyr. Your Majesty will agree that our individual is not to be placed in the same category as the multitude whom, after disproving, we have endeavored to construct into a parapet serving as a blockade to effectually shut out possible pretenders bearing credentials having the appearance of genuiness."
"I agree with you that this is a grave matter."
"That aureole of martyrdom elicits faith and devotion. For example, when the individual on leaving prison established himself in Crossen, with not a sou in his purse, he found there a magistrate who gave him a large sum of money and became a champion of his cause. His enthusiasm became so pronounced that the prince of Coralath's secretary was obliged to observe to the fellow that Prussia contained dungeons for the reception of those who meddle in what does not concern them. The remark having no effect, the magistrate soon received in heaven the reward for his devotion to the cause."
"Did he die?" inquired the King.
"He did, your Majesty, from a sudden illness. We have reason to believe that he and no other was the guardian of the cursed documents, those explosives. When dying, he spoke incoherently of the prince's papers."
"Why was the opportunity not improved?"
"Unfortunately I was not on hand. The police got wind of the death and confiscated what papers they could lay their hands on, but those desired were evidently well concealed. The German police have leaden feet and heads of straw. Was it not childish to search for evidences in the house of the suspected man? A fool indeed would he have been to hide them there. Not less than ten times has the impostor's house been raided, under pretext of fire or burglary or what not, but to no purpose. They have not been near him. But lately since his residence in England he has kept them, for in England we have not so free a field—"
"He has lived in England?"
"Yes, your Majesty, he moved there from Prussia, realizing that a country whose cabinet was not on friendly terms with ours and in which respect for the home is carried to great lengths, was a more appropriate habitat for him than Prussia. In England our individual, ceasing to write letters to influential personages of Europe and failing to receive the desired recognition, devoted himself to watch-making and chemistry. He is said to have invented a new explosive."
"Why then has he been molested? When a man lives inoffensively—"
"Your Majesty, he was not disturbed, tho we continued to watch him. Our suspicions were aroused when we learned that he had sent his eldest daughter to France. This girl is an able strategist, a second edition of La Mothe. She caught in her net no less a nobleman than the Marquis de Brezé."
"Eve enters the garden," piquantly observed the King.
"Matters became complicated indeed. The girl sought nothing less than the undermining of the throne. I tried to sever the cords by making the Duchess of Rousillon—"
"That inflated hen? Competent agent indeed!"
"I commissioned her to reveal the antecedents of the girl's father to the infatuated Marquis. But Love was blind as usual, and the Marquis slipped through our hands and arrived in England just in time to save his prospective father-in-law's life."
"His life? Who threatened his life?"
"Oh, pickpockets! one of those nocturnal encounters so common in London streets. That is an unimportant detail in our narrative. We are reaching the heart of the matter. The girl had captured the Marquis with the aim of establishing in the very camp of French aristocracy a following for her father. The precious documents were confided to René and a journey to France arranged, the three to meet in Dover."
"And how have you ascertained these particulars, Baron?"
"Should I be doing my duty, did I not gather every particular? My business is to know all things regarding this infernal plot. Volpetti no sooner learned where the confederates were to meet than he arranged to put up at the same inn. He possessed himself of the papers by the cleverest strategy—"
The King, unmindful of his disabled limbs, half jumped from the couch.
"Then we are saved!" he cried. "For Volpetti surely destroyed them at once."
"Your Majesty, I never trust my agents implicitly. I spy upon my spies. Fruits of research I require to be always delivered into my hands. Otherwise, they might report to me that damning testimony has been destroyed, and meanwhile retain the deadly weapon, to turn it at any moment against me. No, they have express orders to destroy nothing."
"You were saying that Volpetti obtained possession of the papers."
"Yes; now the imbroglio becomes more complicated. A new power intervenes in the individual's behalf. Can your Majesty guess whom I mean?"
"The Carbonari."
"Precisely; the Carbonari,—the association which plants mines under our feet, and which carries on the Revolution beneath the earth. They have written on their statutes: 'The Bourbons have been brought back by foreigners; the Carbonari will restore to France freedom of choice.' Your Majesty, this society has members in every department of government; they are numerous in the army; they exist even in the Royal Council. They make it impossible for us to obliterate devotion to Napoleon; they constitute an incessant protest against the established régime."
"How the devil did the Carbonari become the champions of this pretender?"
"A countermine, your Majesty. It happened that in Dover at the same inn were two members of the order having unsettled scores from old Italian days against Jacome Volpetti."
"My friend, the spy who was set upon the individual should have had no unsettled scores pending with members of the Carbonari."
Lecazes winced, tho he was well aware that the words had for their sole object giving annoyance to him. He continued:
"Well, the Carbonari succeeded in murdering the police agent who accompanied our spy. They then despoiled Volpetti of the papers, after which they carried him, tied and gagged, aboard a French vessel, whose captain was also a member of the association. He would have been murdered also, had he not succeeded in freeing himself and leaping into the sea, from which he was rescued by an English schooner. The French vessel gave chase and so riddled the other by cannon balls, that, unable to defend herself, and being moreover the victim of a fire which—"
"Bravo, Lecazes, redoubtable romancer!" exclaimed the King mockingly.
"Your Majesty, I relate history, beside which romancing is a tame art. Weil, to resume: in spite of piracy and conflagration, Volpetti reached the coast near Pleneuf. At the same time, unaware of their enemy's salvation, the two Carbonari, de Brezé, Naundorff and his daughter disembarked also on French soil."
"How do you explain the coalition of the Carbonari and the pretender?"
"Your Majesty is well aware that, provided they work against the present administration, the association has carte blanche to make such combinations as are considered best. In that branch of the Carbonari known as Knights of Liberty, each member is free to follow his own judgment, to take risks and accept consequences. The Knights of Liberty constitute the germinating centre of crime. Notwithstanding the dispatch with which Volpetti issued warnings that the party be denied entry into Paris, he was outwitted. They arrived. The individual ishere, beneath the powerful shelter of the association. The documents are doubtless well guarded. All efforts to obtain them by violence would be in vain. I have not the slightest clue to their place of concealment."
"Is de Brezé with the pretender?"
"Yes, and one of the Carbonari, an Italian."
"Where is the girl?"
"She has been placed for security in the Castle of Picmort. She was guarded by one of the Carbonari, but this man has started on one of those journeys which are characteristic of the society."
"Do you not consider it possible that the girl carries the documents?"
"I do not think so. In the first place, de Brezé through chivalry,—and he is a Paladin—would never give her a charge of grave peril; besides, the place for those papers is Paris."
"Then peace and happiness to the maiden in her Picmort refuge!" sighed the King.
"The Duchess informs me that the steward of the castle may prove a formidable rival to the Marquis in the affections of the fascinating intriguante."
"My blessing on the sylvan pair! An eclogue, indeed! A peasant lover!" remarked the King with a Voltairian laugh, after which he hummed:
"In the lap of PhillisDamon streweth flowersWet with dews of morning."
Lecazes, not heeding the poetical interruption, continued:
"With regard to the documents, your Majesty, a subject which seems to bore you, I affirm that they are in Paris, because, among other reasons, the individual would have need of them in order to convince Madame the Duchess, whom it is his intention of addressing—"
"Also Ferdinand, I suppose—"
"Ferdinand is already convinced. Is your Majesty, perchance, ignorant that he recognizes the pretender? But his action is of no moment compared to that of Madame, the Dauphin's prison companion. Madame should be warned."
"What plan do you propose, Lecazes? As for me, I confess myself incompetent to forge methods of outwitting a woman."
"Listen, then. If we might arrange that Madame shall receive the individual—"
"What!" exclaimed the King.
"If she will grant him this secret interview and exact that he deliver to her the documents, in order that she may become convinced of his identity—"
The King applauded, cordially, sonorously, as tho he were a spectator at a theatrical representation,—the only character, he used to say, that suited him. He rendered homage to his Minister's genius.
"Enough!" he exclaimed. "I comprehend."
"Your Majesty divines the rest?"
"I divine, my friend, but—"
Lecazes radiantly took a pinch of aromatic snuff, and asked:
"But what?"
"But who is to tie the bell on the cat's neck? Who is to persuade my niece—"
"Her husband may convince her."
"Her husband? Lecazes, you and I are not children. My good nephew Louis is unacquainted with the art of influencing his wife. He treats her with such profound respect that—well, they fail utterly to understand each other. Whence comes this awkwardness in the second generation in dealing with women? Louis is my reproach, though I must admit that Ferdinand does me honor. Besides, Lecazes, you know well that I have instructed Louis to advise his wife to act as tho no such impostor exists."
Steps sounded in the adjoining apartment.
"Silence!" said the King. "Tis Ferdinand or Louis."
A moment later, the elegant martial figure of the Duke appeared in the door.
"You arrive opportunely, nephew," said Louis XVIII, as the Duke respectfully kissed his hand. "Be seated and give us news. What says Marie Thérèse?"
"Sire, I do not bring you pleasant news. Madame is strangely exalted. She has received a letter from that—man, which she carries over her heart."
"Repress your jealousy," replied the King in banter.
"I experience only sadness," replied the Duke with sincerity, "She suffers greatly and I suffer with her. She has not slept for three nights nor eaten for three days. She passes hours in prayer—"
"That is your fault!"
"Mine, sire?" exclaimed the Duke.
"Emphatically so, my little Louis. When a woman, such as is your wife, a woman who would die rather than even look at another man,—when she becomes fad, 'tis that her husband is indifferent. Listen; the time has come when I must speak the truth: you have behaved like a simpleton. You have never won her heart. You have treated her with a veneration such as the devote evinces toward the marble statues of saints."
"Sire, you know well that I am more in my element at the head of a regiment than with women. I do not understand them."
"The devil! This cursed generation seems to have been born blasé, destitute even of a sense of beauty. The reason that I love your brother Ferdinand is that he is the living reproduction of our ancestor, Henry of Navarre. The 'ultras' are scandalized at his romance with the English girl. Well, we must beautify our life with illusion or we should become stone. I have kept my heart in its place always, even though I have been a wretched invalid. Not that I have given myself up to material joys. We become divine through that exaltation evoked by the presence of woman. The Countess is the intermediary between soul and faith,—faith in the beautiful. You know that here there is no possibility of descent into matter—An old man in ruined health!"
The Duke frowned, struggling between respect for his uncle and repugnance towards his theories.
"In short, Louis, my aching limbs are already in the grave. I have done ail in my power to protect the institutions in my charge. I have subjugated my convictions, my reason, my skepticism, in order to be true to the trust confided to me. With my right hand I have restrained the Revolution; with my left the excesses of an imbecile and sanguinary Reaction. Lecazes has aided me and aids me. But Louis, my heir, if you falter, I shall contend no longer, even tho the monarchy perish. In vain will you have combatted at the pass of Ivon, at Ravenheim and afterwards, beside the unfortunate Eugene. Bah! The hardest battles are these of state, my son."
The Duke was moved. When the King discarded his habitual raillery, he evinced genuine majesty. Almost subjugated, he knelt at his uncle's feet, saying:
"What can I do for the monarchy, for God? I am willing to give my life, if necessary."
"Much less than that is required," replied the King, affectionately. "All that I ask is that you act the part of an affectionate husband, which you are; that you treat your wife tenderly, passionately—"
"To what end, Sire?"
"Lecazes will inform you, for I am greatly fatigued. I must be careful of my forces, as tomorrow will be Wednesday and the Countess Cayla will be here to make some hours heaven to me."