Henri glided along the hedge on the side which was thrown into deep shade, taking care to make no noise either on the gravel or against the trees.
Obliged to walk carefully, and while walking to watch carefully over every movement he made, he could not perceive anything. And yet, by his style, his dress, his walk, he still fancied he recognized Remy in the man who wore the overcoat.
Mere conjectures, more terrifying for him than realities, arose in his mind with regard to this man's companion.
The road which they were following, and which was bounded by a row of elms, terminated in a high hawthorn hedge, which separated from the rest of the park the pavilion of the Duc d'Anjou, and enveloped it as with a curtain of verdure, in the midst of which, as has been already observed, it entirely disappeared in a remote corner of the grounds of the chateau. There were several beautiful sheets of water, dark underwood, through which winding paths had been cut, and venerable trees, over the summits of which the moon was shedding its streams of silver light, while underneath the gloom was thick, dark, and impenetrable.
As he approached this hedge, Henri felt that his heart was on the point of failing him. In fact, to transgress so boldly the prince's orders, and to abandon himself to a course of conduct as indiscreet as it was rash, was the act, not of a loyal and honorable man, but of a mean and cowardly spy, or of a jealous man driven to extremities. But as, while opening the gate, which separated the greater from the smaller park, the man he followed moved in such a way that his features were revealed, and as he perceived that these features were indeed those of Remy, the count's scruples vanished, and he resolutely advanced at all hazards. Henri found the gate again closed; he leaped over the railings, and then continued his pursuit of the prince's two strange visitors, who still seemed to be hurrying onward. Another cause of terror was soon added; for the duke, on hearing the footsteps of Remy and his companion upon the gravel walk, made his appearance from the pavilion. Henri threw himself behind the largest of the trees, and waited.
He could not see anything, except that he observed that Remy made a very low salutation, that Remy's companion courtesied like a woman, instead of bowing like a man, and that the duke, seemingly transported with delight, offered his arm to the latter, in the same way as he would have done to a woman. Then all three advanced toward the pavilion, disappeared under the vestibule, and the door closed behind them.
"This must end," said Henri, "and I must seek a more convenient place, where I can see everything that may pass without being seen."
He decided in favor of a clump of trees situated between the pavilion and the wall, from the center of which the waters of a fountain gushed forth, thus forming an impenetrable place of concealment; for it was not likely that in the night-time, with the freshness and humidity which would naturally be found near this fountain, the prince would seek the vicinity of the water and the thickets. Hidden behind the statue with which the fountain was ornamented, and standing at his full height behind the pedestal, Henri was enabled to see what was taking place in the pavilion, the principal window of which was quite open before him.
As no one could, or rather, as no one would, venture to penetrate so far, no precautions had been taken.
A table was laid, sumptuously served with the richest viands, and with rare wines in bottles of costly Venetian glass.
Two seats only at this table seemed to be awaiting two guests.
The duke approached one of the chairs; then, leaving the arm of Remy's companion, and pointing to the other seat, he seemed to request that the cloak might be thrown aside, as, although it might be very serviceable for an evening stroll, it became very inconvenient when the object of the stroll was attained, and when that object was a supper.
Thereupon the individual to whom the invitation had been addressed threw the cloak upon a chair, and the dazzling blaze of the flambeaux lighted up, without a shadow on their loveliness, the pale and majestically-beautiful features of a woman whom the terrified eyes of Henri immediately recognized. It was the lady of the mysterious house in the Rue des Augustins, the wanderer in Flanders; in one word, it was that Diana whose gaze was as mortal as the thrust of a dagger. On this occasion she wore the apparel of her own sex, and was richly dressed in brocaded silk; diamonds blazed on her neck, in her hair, and on her wrists, and thereby made the extreme pallor of her face more remarkable than ever, and in the light which shone from her eyes, it almost seemed as if the duke had, by the employment of some magical means, evoked the ghost of this woman, rather than the woman herself. Had it not been for the support afforded by the statue round which he had thrown his arms, colder even than the marble itself, Henri would have fallen backward headlong into the basin of the fountain.
The duke seemed intoxicated with delight; he fixed his passionate gaze upon this beautiful creature, who had seated herself opposite to him, and who hardly touched the dishes which had been placed before her. From time to time Francois leaned across the table to kiss one of the hands of his silent guest, who, as pale as death, seemed as insensible to his kisses as if her hand had been sculptured in alabaster, which, for transparency and perfect whiteness, it so much resembled. From time to time Henri started, raised his hand to his forehead, and with it wiped away the death-like sweat which rose on it, and asked himself: "Is she alive, or dead?"
The duke tried his utmost efforts and displayed all his powers of eloquence to unbend the rigid beauty of her face.
Remy, the only attendant, for the duke had sent every one away, waited on them both, and, occasionally, lightly touching his mistress with his elbow as he passed behind her chair, seemed to revive her by the contact, and to recall her to life, or rather to the position in which she was placed.
Thereupon, a bright flush spread over her whole face, her eyes sparkled, she smiled as if some magician had touched a spring unknown to this automaton-like figure, seemingly endowed with intelligence, and the mechanism of which had drawn the lightning glance from her eyes, the glowing flush on her cheek, and the sparkling smile to her lips. The moment after, she again subsided into her calm and statue-like stillness. The prince, however, approached her, and by the passionate tone of his conversation, seemed as if he had succeeded in warming into animation his new conquest. Thereupon Diana, who occasionally glanced at the face of a magnificent clock suspended over the prince's head, against the opposite side of the wall to where she was seated, seemed to make an effort over herself, and with her lips bedecked with smiles took a more active part in the conversation.
Henri, concealed in his leafy covert, wrung his hands in despair, and cursed the whole creation in the utter wretchedness of his sore distress. It seemed to him monstrous, almost iniquitous, that this woman, so pure and rigidly inflexible, should yield herself so unresistingly to the prince, because he was a prince, and abandon herself to love because it was offered within the precincts of a palace. His horror at Remy was so extreme that he could have slain him without remorse, in order to see whether so great a monster had the blood and heart of a man in him. In such paroxysms of rage and contempt did Henri pass the time during the supper, which to the Duc d'Anjou was so full of rapture and delight.
Diana sang. The prince, inflamed by wine, and by his passionate discourse, rose from the table for the purpose of embracing Diana. Every drop of blood seemed to curdle in Henri's veins. He put his hand to his side to see if his sword were there, and then thrust it into his breast in search of a dagger. Diana, with a strange smile, which most assuredly had never, until that moment, had its counterpart on any face, stopped the duke as he was approaching her.
"Will you allow me, monseigneur," she said, "before I rise from the table, to share with your royal highness one of those tempting-looking peaches."
And with these words she stretched out her hand toward a basket of gold filagree work, in which twenty peaches were tastefully arranged, and took one.
Then, taking from her girdle a beautiful little dagger, with a silver blade and a handle of malachite, she divided the peach into two portions, and offered one of them to the prince, who seized it and carried it eagerly to his lips, as though he would thus have kissed Diana's.
This impassioned action produced so deep an impression on himself, that a cloud seemed to obscure his sight at the very moment he bit into the fruit. Diana looked at him with her clear steady gaze, and her fixed immovable smile.
Remy, leaning his back against a pillar of carved wood, also looked on with a gloomy expression of countenance.
The prince passed one of his hands across his forehead, wiped away the perspiration which had gathered there, and swallowed the piece that he had bitten.
This perspiration was most probably the symptom of a sudden indisposition; for while Diana ate the other half of the peach, the prince let fall on his plate what remained of the portion he had taken, and with difficulty rising from his seat, seemed to invite his beautiful companion to accompany him into the garden in order to enjoy the cool night air.
Diana rose, and without pronouncing a single word, took the duke's arm, which he offered her.
Remy gazed after them, particularly after the prince, whom the air seemed completely to revive.
As she walked along, Diana wiped the small blade of her knife on a handkerchief embroidered with gold, and restored it to its shagreen sheath.
In this manner they approached the clump of trees where Henri was concealed.
The prince, with a passionate gesture, pressed his companion's arm against his heart.
"I feel better," he said, "and yet I hardly know what heavy weight seems to press down on my brain; I love too deeply, madame, I perceive."
Diana plucked several sprigs of jasmine and of clematis, and two beautiful roses which bordered the whole of one side of the pedestal of the statue behind which Henri was shrinking terrified.
"What are you doing, madame?" inquired the prince.
"I have always understood, monseigneur," she said, "that the perfume of flowers was the best remedy for attacks of giddiness; I am gathering a bouquet with the hope that this bouquet, if presented by me, will have the magical influence which I wish it to possess."
But, while she was arranging the flowers, she let a rose fall from her hand, which the prince eagerly hastened to pick up.
The movement that Francois made was rapid, but not so rapid, however, but that it gave Diana sufficient time to pour upon the other rose a few drops of a liquid contained in a small gold bottle which she drew from her bosom.
She then took from his hand the rose which the prince had picked up, and placing it in her girdle, said—
"That one is for me, let us change."
And in exchange for the rose which she received from the prince's hand, she held out the bouquet to him.
The prince seized it eagerly, inhaled its perfume with delight, and passed his arm around Diana's waist. But this latter action, in all probability, completely overwhelmed the already troubled senses of the prince, for his knees trembled under him, and he was obliged to seat himself on a bank of green turf, beside which he happened to be standing.
Henri did not lose sight of these two persons, and yet he had a look for Remy also, who in the pavilion awaited the termination of this scene, or rather seemed to devour every minute incident of it.
When he saw the prince totter, he advanced toward the threshold of the pavilion. Diana, on her side, perceiving Francois stagger, sat herself down beside him on the bank.
The giddiness from which Francois suffered continued on this occasion longer than on the former; the prince's head was resting on his chest. He seemed to have lost all connection in his ideas, and almost the perception of his own existence; and yet the convulsive movement of his fingers on Diana's hand seemed to indicate that he was instinctively pursuing his wild dream of love. At last he slowly raised his head, and his lips being almost on a level with Diana's face, he made an effort to touch those of his lovely guest, but as if unobservant of the movement, she rose from her seat.
"You are suffering, monseigneur," she said; "it would be better if we were to go in."
"Oh! yes, let us go in," exclaimed the prince in a transport of joy.
And he arose, staggering, to his feet; then, instead of Diana leaning on his arm, it was he who leaned on Diana's arm; and thanks to this support, walking with less difficulty, he seemed to forget fever and giddiness too, for suddenly drawing himself up, he, in an unexpected manner, pressed his lips on her neck. She started as if, instead of a kiss, she had received the impression of a red hot iron.
"Remy!" she exclaimed, "a flambeau, a flambeau!"
Remy immediately returned to the salle-a-manger, and lighted, by the candle on the table, a flambeau which he took from a small round table, and then, hurrying to the entrance to the pavilion, and holding the torch in his hand, he cried out:
"Here is one, madame."
"Where is your highness going to?" inquired Diana, seizing hold of the flambeau and turning her head aside.
"Oh! we will return to my own room, and you will lead me, I venture to hope, madame?" replied the prince, in a frenzy of passion.
"Willingly, monseigneur," replied Diana, and she raised the torch in the air, and walked before the prince.
Remy opened, at the end of the pavilion, a window through which the fresh air rushed inward, in such a manner that the flame and smoke of the flambeau, which Diana held, were carried back toward Francois' face, which happened to be in the very current of the air. The two lovers, as Henri considered them to be, proceeded in this manner, first crossing a gallery to the duke's own room, and disappeared behind the fleur-de-lized hangings, which served the purpose of a portière.
Henri had observed everything that had passed with increasing fury, and yet this fury was such that it almost deprived him of life. It seemed as if he had no strength left except to curse the fate which had imposed so cruel a trial upon him. He had quitted his place of concealment, and in utter despair, his arms hanging by his side, and with a haggard gaze, he was on the point of returning, with life ebbing fast, to his apartment in the chateau, when suddenly the hangings behind which he had seen Diana and the prince disappear were thrown aside, and Diana herself rushed into the supper-room, and seized hold of Remy, who, standing motionless and erect, seemed only to be waiting her return.
"Quick! quick!" she said to him; "all is finished."
And they both darted into the garden as if they had been drunk, or mad, or raging with passion.
No sooner did Henri observe them, however, than he seemed to have recovered all his strength; he hastened to place himself in their way, and they came upon him suddenly in the middle of the path, standing erect, his arms crossed, and more terrible in his silence than any one could ever have been in his loudest menaces. Henri's feelings had indeed arrived at such a pitch of exasperation, that he would readily have slain any man who would have ventured to maintain that women were not monsters sent from hell to corrupt the world. He seized Diana by the arm, and stopped her suddenly, notwithstanding the cry of terror which she uttered, and notwithstanding the dagger which Remy put to his breast, and which even grazed his flesh.
"Oh! doubtless you do not recognize me," he said furiously, gnashing his teeth; "I am that simple-hearted young man who loved you, and whose love you would not return, because for you there was no future, but merely the past. Ah! beautiful hypocrite that you are, and you, foul liar, I know you at last—I know and curse you. To the one I say, I despise and contemn you: to the other, I shrink from you with horror."
"Make way!" cried Remy, in a strangled voice; "make way, young fool, or if not—"
"Be it so," replied Henri; "finish your work, and slay my body, wretch, since you have already destroyed my soul."
"Silence!" muttered Remy, furiously, pressing the blade of his dagger more and more against Henri's breast.
Diana, however, violently pushed Remy aside, and seizing Du Bouchage by the arm, she drew him straight before her. She was lividly pale; her beautiful hair streamed over her shoulders; the contact of the hand on Henri's wrist seemed to the latter cold and damp as the dews of death.
"Monsieur," she said, "do not rashly judge of matters of which Heaven alone can judge. I am Diana de Meridor, the mistress of Monsieur de Bussy, whom the Duc d'Anjou miserably allowed to perish when he could have saved him. Eight days since Remy slew Aurilly, the duke's accomplice, and the prince himself I have just poisoned with a peach, a bouquet, and a torch. Move aside, monsieur—move aside, I say, for Diana de Meridor, who is on her way to the Convent des Hospitalieres."
With these words, and letting Henri's arm fall, she took hold of that of Remy, as he waited by her side.
Henri fell on his knees, following the retreating figures of the two assassins, who disappeared behind the thick copse, as though it had been a vision from hell. It was not till fully an hour afterward that Du Bouchage, overpowered with fatigue and overwhelmed with terror, with his brain on fire, was able to summon sufficient strength to drag himself to his apartment, nor was it until after he had made the attempt nearly a dozen times that he succeeded in escalading the window. He walked to and fro in his room several times, and then staggered toward the bed, on which he threw himself. Every one was sleeping quietly in the chateau.
The next morning, about nine o'clock, the beautiful rays of the sun were glistening like gold on the graveled walks of Chateau-Thierry. Numerous gangs of workmen, who had the previous evening been directed to be in attendance, had been actively at work from daybreak upon the preparations in the park, as well as in the decoration of the apartments destined to receive the king, whose arrival was momentarily expected. As yet nothing was stirring in the pavilion where the duke reposed, for he had on the previous evening forbidden his two old servants to awaken him. They were to wait until he summoned them. Toward half-past nine two couriers rode at full speed into the town, announcing his majesty's near arrival. The civic authorities, the governor, and the garrison formed themselves in ranks on either side of the road, leaving a passage for the royal procession. At ten o'clock the king appeared at the foot of the hill; he had mounted his horse when they had taken their last relays. He never neglected an opportunity of doing so, especially when entering towns, as he rode admirably. The queen-mother followed him in a litter; fifty gentlemen belonging to the court, richly clad and admirably mounted, followed in their suite. A company of the guards, followed by Crillon himself, a hundred and twenty of the Swiss, and as many of the Scotch guards, commanded by Larchant, and all the members of the royal household who accompanied the king in his excursions, mules, coffers, and domestic servants, formed a numerous army, the files of which followed the windings of the road leading from the river to the summit of the hill. Lastly, the cortege entered the town amid the ringing of the church bells, the roar of cannon, and bursts of music. The acclamations of the inhabitants were enthusiastic; for a visit from the king was of such rare occurrence at that time that, seen thus closely, he seemed to be a living embodiment of divine right. The king, as he progressed through the crowd, looked on all sides for his brother, but in vain. He only found Henri du Bouchage waiting for him at the gate of the chateau.
When once within the chateau, Henri III. inquired after the health of the Duc d'Anjou from the officer who had assumed the high distinction of receiving the king.
"Sire," replied the latter, "his highness, during the last few days, has been residing in the pavilion in the park, and we have not yet seen him this morning. It is most probable, however, that as he was well yesterday, he is well also to-day."
"This pavilion is in a very retired part of the park, it seems," said Henri, in a tone of displeasure, "since the sound of the cannon does not seem to have been heard."
"Sire," one of the duke's two aged attendants ventured to remark, "his highness did not, perhaps, expect your majesty so soon."
"Old fool," growled Henri, "do you think, then, that a king presents himself in this way at other people's residences without informing them of it? Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou has been aware of my intended arrival since yesterday."
And then, afraid of casting a gloom over those around him by a grave or sullen countenance, Henri, who wished to appear gentle and amiable at the expense of his brother Francois, exclaimed, "Well, then, since he has not come to meet us, we will go to meet him."
"Show us the way there," said Catherine, from the litter.
All the escort followed the road leading to the old park.
At the very moment that the guards, who were in advance, approached the hedge, a shrill and piercing cry rent the air.
"What is that?" said the king, turning toward his mother.
"Great Heaven!" murmured Catherine, endeavoring to read the faces of those around her, "it sounded like a cry of distress or despair."
"My prince! my poor master!" cried Francois' other aged attendant, appearing at the window, and exhibiting signs of the most passionate grief.
Every one hastened toward the pavilion, the king himself being hurried along with the others. He arrived at the very moment when they were raising from the floor the Duc d'Anjou's body, which his valet-de-chambre, having entered without authority, in order to announce the king's arrival, had just perceived lying on the carpet of the bedroom. The prince was cold, stiff, and perfectly inanimate, and it was only by a strange movement of the eyelids and a nervous contraction of the lips that it could be observed he was still alive. The king paused at the threshold of the door, and those behind him followed his example.
THE PRINCE WAS COLD, STIFF, AND PERFECTLY INANIMATE.
THE PRINCE WAS COLD, STIFF, AND PERFECTLY INANIMATE.
"This is an ugly omen," he murmured.
"Do not enter, my son, I implore you," said Catherine to him.
"Poor Francois!" said Henri, delighted at being sent away, and thus being spared the spectacle of this agonizing scene.
The crowd, too, followed the king as he withdrew.
"Strange! strange!" murmured Catherine, kneeling down by the side of the prince, or rather of the corpse, no one being in the room, with her but the two old servants; and while the messengers were dispatched in every quarter of the town to find the prince's physician, and while a courier galloped off to Paris in order to hasten the attendance of the king's physicians, who had remained at Meaux with the queen, Catherine, with less knowledge, very probably, but not with less perspicacity than Miron himself could possibly have shown, examined the diagnostics of that singular malady which had struck down her son so suddenly.
Her experience was by no means indifferent; in the first place, therefore, she interrogated calmly, and without confusing them, the two attendants, who were tearing their hair and wringing their hands in the wildest despair.
Both of them replied that the prince had returned on the previous evening about nightfall, after having been disturbed at an inconvenient hour by Monsieur du Bouchage, who had arrived with a message from the king.
They then added that when the audience had terminated, which had been held in the chateau itself, the prince had ordered supper to be prepared, and had desired that no one should venture to approach the pavilion without being summoned; and lastly, that he had given the strictest injunctions not to be awakened in the morning, and that no one should enter without a positive summons.
"He probably expected a visit from a lady?" observed the queen-mother, inquiringly.
"We think so, madame," replied the valet respectfully, "but we could not discreetly assure ourselves of the fact."
"But in removing the things from the table, you must have seen whether my son had supped alone?"
"We have not yet removed the things, madame, since the orders of monseigneur were that no one should enter the pavilion."
"Very good," said Catherine; "no one, therefore, has been here?"
"No one, madame."
"You may go."
And Catherine was now left quite alone in the room. Leaving the prince lying on the bed where he had been placed, she immediately commenced the minutest investigation of each symptom or of each of the traces to which her attention was directed, as the result of her suspicions or apprehensions.
She had remarked that Francois' forehead was stained or dyed of a bister color, his eyes were bloodshot and encircled with blue lines, his lips marked with furrows, like the impression which burning sulphur leaves on living flesh.
She observed the same sign upon his nostrils and upon the sides of the nose.
"Now let me look carefully," she said, gazing about her on every side.
The first thing she remarked was the candlestick in which the flambeau which Remy had lighted the previous evening had burned away.
"This candle has burned for a length of time," she said, "and shows that Francois was a long time in this room. Ah! here is a bouquet lying on the carpet."
Catherine picked it up eagerly, and then, remarking that all its flowers were still fresh, with the exception of a rose, which was blackened and dried up:
"What does this mean?" she said; "what has been poured on the leaves of this flower? If I am not mistaken, I know a liquid which withers roses in this manner." She threw aside the bouquet, shuddering as she did so.
"That explains to me the state of the nostrils and the manner in which the flesh of the face is affected; but the lips?"
Catherine ran to the dining-room. The valets had spoken the truth, for there was nothing to indicate that anything on the table had been touched since the previous evening's repast had been finished.
Upon the edge of the table lay the half of a peach, in which the impression of a row of teeth was still visible. Catherine's attention was drawn to this in a particular manner, for the fruit, usually of a rich crimson near the core, had become as black as the rose, and was discolored by violet and brown spots. The corrosive action was more especially visible upon the part which had been cut, and particularly so where the knife must have passed.
"This explains the state of the lips," she said; "but Francois had only bitten one piece out of this peach. He did not keep the bouquet long in his hand, for the flowers are still fresh; the evil may yet be repaired, for the poison cannot have penetrated very deeply.
"And yet, if the evil be merely superficial, why should this paralysis of the senses be so complete, and why indeed should the decomposition of the flesh have made so much progress? There must be more that I have not seen."
And as she spoke Catherine again looked all round her, and observed, hanging by a silver chain to its pole, the red and blue parrot to which Francois was so attached.
The bird was dead, stiff, and the feathers of its wings rough and erect.
Catherine again looked closely and attentively at the torch which she had once before already narrowly inspected, to satisfy herself that, by its having burned out completely, the prince had returned early in the evening.
"The smoke," said Catherine to herself; "the smoke! the wick of that torch was poisoned; my son is a dead man."
She called out immediately, and the chamber was in a minute filled with attendants and officers of the household.
"Miron, Miron!" cried some of them.
"A priest!" exclaimed the others.
But Catherine had, in the meantime, placed to the lips of Francois one of the small bottles which she always carried in her alms-bag, and narrowly watched her son's features to observe the effect of the antidote she applied.
The duke immediately opened his eyes and mouth, but no glance of intelligence gleamed in his eyes, no voice or sound escaped from his lips.
Catherine, in sad and gloomy silence, quitted the apartment, beckoning to the two attendants to follow her, before they had as yet had an opportunity of communicating with any one.
She then led them into another chamber, where she sat down, fixing her eyes closely and watchfully on their faces.
"Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou," she said, "has been poisoned some time during his supper last evening; and it was you who served the supper."
At these words the two men turned as pale as death.
"Torture us, kill us, if you will," they said; "but do not accuse us."
"Fools that you are; do you suppose that if I suspected you, that would have already been done? You have not yourselves, I know, assassinated your master, but others have killed him; and I must know who the murderers are. Who has entered the pavilion?"
"An old man, wretchedly clothed, whom monseigneur has seen during the last two days."
"But the woman—"
"We have not seen her—what woman does your majesty mean?"
"A woman has been here, who made a bouquet—"
The two attendants looked at each other with an expression of such simple surprise that Catherine perceived, by this glance alone, how perfectly innocent they were.
"Let the governor of the town and the governor of the chateau be sent for," she said. The two valets hurried to the door.
"One moment!" exclaimed Catherine, fixing them in their places by this single word as they approached the threshold. "You only and myself are aware of what I have just told you; I shall not breathe a word about it; if any one learns it, therefore, it will be from or through one of you; on that very day both your lives shall be forfeited. Now, go!"
Catherine interrogated the two governors with more reserve. She told them that the duke had received from some person or persons a distressing intelligence which had deeply affected him; that that alone was the cause of his illness, and that if the duke had an opportunity of putting a few further questions to the persons again, he would in all probability soon recover from the alarm into which he had been thrown.
The governors instituted the minutest search in the town, the park, the environs, but no one knew what had become of Remy and Diana.
Henri alone knew the secret, and there was no danger of his betraying it.
Throughout the whole day, the terrible news, commented upon, exaggerated, and mutilated, circulated through Chateau-Thierry and the province; every one explained, according to his own individual character and disposition, the accident which had befallen the duke.
But no one, except Catherine and Du Bouchage, ventured to acknowledge that the chance of saving the duke's life was hopeless.
The unhappy prince did not recover either his voice or his senses, or rather, he ceased to give any sign of intelligence.
The king, who was immediately beset with the gloomiest fancies, which he dreaded more than anything, would very willingly have returned to Paris; but the queen-mother opposed his departure, and the court was obliged to remain at the chateau.
Physicians arrived in crowds; Miron alone guessed the cause of the illness, and formed an opinion upon its serious nature and extent; but he was too good a courtier to confess the truth, especially after he had consulted Catherine's looks.
He was questioned on all sides, and he replied that Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou must certainly have suffered from some seriously-disturbing cause, and had been subjected to some violent mental shock.
In this way he avoided compromising himself, therefore, which is a very difficult matter in such a case.
When Henri III. required him to answer affirmatively or negatively to his question, "Whether the duke would live?" he replied,
"I will answer your majesty in three days."
"And when will you tell me?" said Catherine, in a low voice.
"You, madame, are very different; I answer you unhesitatingly."—"Well?"
"Your majesty has but to interrogate me."
"On what day will my son die, Miron?"
"To-morrow evening, madame."
"So soon?"
"Ah! madame," murmured the physician, "the dose was by no means a slight one."
Catherine placed one of her fingers on her lips, looked at the dying man, and repeated in an undertone this sinister word, "Fatality!"
The count had passed a terrible night, in a state bordering on delirium and verging on death.
Faithful, however, to his duty, as soon as he had heard the king's arrival announced, he rose and received him at the gate, as we have described; but no sooner had he presented his homage to his majesty, saluted respectfully the queen-mother, and pressed the admiral's hand, than he shut himself up in his own room, not to die, but to carry determinedly into execution his long cherished project, which nothing could any longer interfere with.
Toward eleven o'clock in the morning, therefore—that is to say, as soon as, immediately after the terrible news had circulated that the Duc d'Anjou's life was in imminent danger, every one had dispersed, leaving the king completely bewildered by this fresh event—Henri went and knocked at his brother's door, who, having passed a part of the previous night traveling, had just retired to his own room.
"Ah! is that you?" asked Joyeuse, half asleep; "what is the matter?"
"I have come to bid you farewell, my brother," replied Henri.
"Farewell! What do you mean? Are you going away?"
"Yes, I am going away, brother, and nothing need keep me here any longer, I presume."
"Why nothing?"
"Of course, since the fetes at which you wished me to be present will not take place, I may now consider myself as freed from my promise."
"You are mistaken, Henri," replied the grand-admiral; "I have no greater reason for permitting you to leave to-day than I had yesterday."
"I regret that it is so; but in that case, for the first time in my life, I shall have the misfortune to disobey your orders, and to fail in the respect I owe you; for from this very moment I declare to you, Anne, that nothing shall restrain me any longer from taking religious vows."
"But the dispensation which is expected from Rome?"
"I can await it in a convent."
"You must positively be mad to think of such a thing." exclaimed Joyeuse, as he rose, with stupefaction depicted on his countenance.
"On the contrary, my dear and honored brother, I am the wisest of you all, for I alone know what I am about."'
"Henri, you promised us a month."
"Impossible."
"A week, then, longer."
"Not an hour."
"You are suffering so much, then, poor boy?"
"On the contrary, I have ceased to suffer, and that is why the evil is without a remedy."
"But, at all events, this woman is not made of bronze; her feelings can be worked upon; I will undertake to persuade her."
"You cannot do impossibilities, Anne; besides, even were she to allow herself to be persuaded now, it is I who could no longer consent to love her."
"Well, that is quite another matter."
"Such is the case, however, my brother."
"What! if she were now willing, would you be indifferent? Why, this is sheer madness."
"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed Henri, with a shudder of horror, "nothing can any longer exist between that woman and myself."
"What does this mean?" inquired Joyeuse, with marked surprise; "and who can this woman really be? Come, tell me, Henri; you know very well that we have never had any secrets from each other."
Henri trembled lest he had said too much, and that, in yielding to the feeling which he had just exhibited, he had opened a channel by means of which his brother would be able to penetrate the terrible secret which he kept imprisoned in his breast. He therefore fell into an opposite extreme; and, as it happens in such cases, and in order to recall the imprudent words which had escaped him, he pronounced others which were more imprudent still.
"Do not press me further," he said; "this woman will never be mine, since she belongs to Heaven."
"Folly!—mere idle tales! This woman a nun! She has deceived you."
"No, no, this woman has not spoken falsely; she is now an Hospitaliere. Do not let us speak any further of her, but rather let us respect those who throw themselves at the feet of Heaven."
Anne had sufficient power over himself not to show the delight this revelation gave him.
He continued: "This is something new, for you have never spoken to me about it."
"It is indeed quite new, for she has only recently taken the veil; but I am sure that her resolution, like my own, is irrevocable. Do not therefore seek to detain me any longer, but embrace me, as you love me. Permit me to thank you for all your kindness, for all your patience, and for your unceasing affection for a poor heart-broken man, and farewell!"
Joyeuse looked his brother full and steadily in the face; he looked at him like one whose feelings had overcome him, and who relied upon a display of feeling to work upon the feelings of others. But Henri remained unmoved at this exhibition of emotion on his brother's part, and replied in no other way but by the same mournful smile.
Joyeuse embraced his brother, and allowed him to depart.
"Go," he said to himself, "all is not yet finished, and, however great your hurry may be, I shall not be long before I shall have overtaken you."
He went to the king, who was taking his breakfast in bed, with Chicot sitting by his side.
"Good-day! good-day!" said the king to Joyeuse. "I am very glad to see you, Anne; I was afraid you would lie in bed all day, you indolent fellow. How is my brother?"
"Alas! sire, I do not know; I am come to speak to you about mine."
"Which one?"—"Henri."
"Does he still wish to become a monk?"
"More so than ever."
"And will he take the vows?"
"Yes, sire."
"He is quite right, too."
"How so, sire?"
"Because men go straight to heaven that way."
"Oh!" said Chicot to the king, "men go much faster still by the way your brother is taking."
"Will your majesty permit me to ask a question?"
"Twenty, Joyeuse, twenty. I am as melancholy as I can possibly be at Chateau-Thierry, and your questions will distract my attention a little."
"You know all the religious houses in the kingdom, sire, I believe?"
"As well as I do a coat of arms."
"Is there one which goes by the name of Les Hospitalières, sire?"
"It is a very small, highly distinguished, excessively strict, and severe order, composed of twenty ladies, canonesses of Saint Joseph."
"Do they take the vows there?"
"Yes, as a matter of favor, and upon a presentation from the queen."
"Should I be indiscreet if I were to ask your majesty where this order is situated?"
"Not at all; it is situated in the Rue de Chevet Saint-Laudry, in the Cité, behind Le Cloitre Notre-Dame."
"At Paris?"—"Yes."
"Thank you, sire."
"But what the devil do you ask me that for? Has your brother changed his mind, and, instead of turning a Capuchin friar, does he now wish to become one of the Hospitalieres?"
"No, sire, I should not think he would be so mad, after what your majesty has done me the honor to tell me; but I suspect he has had his head turned by some one belonging to that order, and I should consequently like to discover who this person is, and speak to her."
"Par la mordieu!" said the king, with a self-satisfied expression, "some seven years ago I knew the superior of that convent, who was an exceedingly beautiful woman."
"Well, sire, it may perhaps be the very one."
"I cannot say; since that time, I too, Joyeuse, have assumed religious vows myself, or nearly so, indeed."
"Sire," said Joyeuse, "I entreat you to give me, at any rate, a letter to this lady, and my leave of absence for a couple of days."
"You are going to leave me!" exclaimed the king; "to leave me all alone here?"—"Oh! ungrateful king," said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, "am I not here?"
"My letter, if you please, sire," said Joyeuse. The king sighed, but wrote it notwithstanding.
"But you cannot have anything to do at Paris?" said Henri, handing the note to Joyeuse.
"I beg your pardon, sire, I ought to escort, or at least, to watch over, my brothers."
"You are right; away with you, but return as quickly as you can."
Joyeuse did not wait for this permission to be repeated; he quietly ordered his horses, and having satisfied himself that Henri had already set off, galloped all the way until he reached his destination.
Without even changing his dress, the young man went straight to the Rue de Chevet Saint-Laudry. At the end of this street was the Rue d'Enfer, and parallel with it the Rue des Marmouzets.
A dark and venerable-looking house, behind whose walls the lofty summits of a few trees could be distinguished, the windows of which were few, bad, barred, and a wicket at the side, completed the exterior appearance of the Convent des Hospitalières.
Upon the keystone of the arch of the porch an artisan had rudely engraved these Latin words with a chisel:—
MATRONÆ HOSPITES.
Time had partially destroyed both the inscription and the stone.
Joyeuse knocked at the wicket, and had his horses led away to the Rue des Marmouzets, fearing that their presence in the street might attract too much attention.
Then, knocking at the entrance gate, he said, "Will you be good enough to go and inform Madame la Supérieure that Monsieur le Duc de Joyeuse, Grand Amiral de France, is desirous of speaking to her on behalf of the king."
The face of the nun who had made her appearance behind the gate blushed beneath her veil, and she shut the gate.
Five minutes afterward a door was opened, and Joyeuse entered a room, set apart for the reception of visitors. A beautiful woman, of lofty stature, made Joyeuse a profound reverence, which the admiral returned gracefully and respectfully.
"Madame," said he, "the king is aware that you are about to admit, or that you have already admitted, among the number of the inmates here, a person with whom I require to speak. Will you be good enough to place me in communication with that person?"
"Will you tell me the name of the lady you wish to see, monsieur?"
"I am not aware of it."
"In that case, then, how can I possibly accede to your request?"
"Nothing is easier. Whom have you admitted during the last month?"
"You either tell me too precisely, or with not sufficient precision, who this person is," said the superior, "and I am unable to comply with your wish."
"Why so?"
"Because, during the last month I have received no one here until this morning."
"This morning?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Duc, and you can understand that your own arrival, two hours after hers, has too much the appearance of a pursuit to enable me to grant you permission to speak to her."
"I implore you, madame."
"Impossible, monsieur."
"Will you merely let me see this lady?"
"Impossible, I repeat. Although your name was sufficient for the doors of this house to be thrown open before you, yet in order to speak to any one here, except indeed to myself, a written order from the king is necessary."
"Here is the order you require, madame," replied Joyeuse, producing the letter that Henri had signed.
The superior read it and bowed.
"His majesty's will shall be obeyed," she said, "even when it is contrary to the will of Heaven."
And she advanced toward the courtyard of the convent.
"You now perceive, madame," said Joyeuse, courteously stopping her, "that I have right on my side; but I fear I may be under a mistake, and therefore may be abusing the permission I have received from the king. Perhaps the lady may not be the one I am in search of; will you be kind enough to tell me how she came here, why she came, and by whom she was accompanied?"
"All that is useless, Monsieur le Duc," replied the superior, "you are under no misapprehension for the lady, who arrived only this morning, after having been expected for the last fifteen days; this lady, I say, who was recommended by one who possesses the greatest authority over me, is indeed the very person with whom Monsieur le Duc de Joyeuse must wish to speak."
With these words the superior made another low courtesy to the duke and disappeared.
Ten minutes afterward she returned, accompanied by an hospitaliere, whose veil completely covered her face. It was Diana, who had already assumed the dress of the order.
The duke thanked the superior, offered a chair to her companion, himself sat down, and the superior quitted the room, closing with her own hands the doors of the deserted and gloomy-looking apartment.
"Madame," said Joyeuse, without any preface, "you are the lady of the Rue des Augustins; that mysterious person with whom my brother, Monsieur le Comte du Bouchage, is so passionately and madly in love."
The hospitaliere bowed her head in reply, but did not open her lips.
This affectation appeared to Joyeuse almost like an act of rudeness; he was already very indifferently disposed to his companion, and continued:
"You cannot have supposed, madame, that it is sufficient to be beautiful, or to appear beautiful; to have no heart lying hidden beneath that beauty, to inspire a wretched and despairing passion in the heart and mind of a young man of my name, and then one day calmly to tell him, 'So much the worse for you if you possess a heart. I have none; nor do I wish for any.'"
"That was not my reply, monsieur, and you have been incorrectly informed," said the hospitalière, in so noble and touching a tone of voice that Joyeuse's anger was in a moment subdued.
"The actual words are immaterial, madame, when their sense has been conveyed. You have rejected my brother, and have reduced him to despair."
"Innocently, monsieur: for I have always endeavored to keep Monsieur du Bouchage at a distance."
"That is termed the art of coquetry, madame; and the result proves the fault."
"No one has the right to accuse me, monsieur; I am guilty of nothing. Your feelings of irritation are aroused against me; I shall say no more."
"Oh, oh!" said Joyeuse, gradually working himself into a passion, "you have been the ruin of my brother, and you fancy you can justify yourself with this irritating majesty of demeanor. No, no! the steps I have taken must show you what my intentions are. I am serious, I assure you, and you see by the trembling of my hands and lips that you will need some good arguments to move me."
The hospitaliere rose.
"If you come here to insult a woman," she said, with the same calm self-possession, "insult me, monsieur; if, however, you have come to induce me to change my opinion, you are wasting your time, and can withdraw."
"Ah! you are no human creature!" exclaimed Joyeuse, exasperated. "You are possessed by an evil spirit."
"I have answered already; I will reply no further. Since that is not sufficient, I shall withdraw." And the hospitaliere advanced toward the door.
Joyeuse stopped her.
"One moment! I have sought you for too long a period to allow you to leave me in this manner; and, since I have succeeded in meeting with you—since your insensibility has confirmed me in the idea which had already occurred to me, that you are possessed by the foul fiend himself, sent hither by the enemy of mankind to destroy my brother—I wish to see that face whereon the bottomless pit has written its blackest traces; I wish to behold the fire of that fatal gaze which bewilders men's minds. Avaunt thee, Satan!"
And Joyeuse, making the sign of the cross with one hand, as if he were exorcising her, with the other tore aside the veil which covered the face of the hospitalière; the latter, silent and impassible, free from anger or ill-feeling, fixed her sweet and gentle gaze upon him who had so cruelly outraged her, and said: "Oh! Monsieur le Duc, what you have just done is unworthy a gentleman."
Joyeuse's heart was smitten by her reply.
"Oh! madame," he murmured after a long silence, "you are indeed beautiful, and truly must Henri have loved you. Surely Heaven can only have bestowed upon you loveliness such as you possess to cast it like perfume upon an existence devoted to your own."
"Monsieur, have you not conversed with your brother? or, if you have done so, he cannot have thought it expedient to make you his confidant; had not that been the case, he would have told you that I have done what you say—I have loved; I shall never love again; I have lived and must die."
Joyeuse had never taken his eyes from Diana's face, and the soft and gentle expression of her gaze penetrated the inmost recesses of his being.
Her look had destroyed all the baser material in the admiral's heart: the pure metal was alone left, and his heart seemed rent asunder, like a crucible which had been riven by the fusion of metal.
"Yes, yes," he repeated, in a still lower voice, and continuing to fix upon her a gaze from which the fire of his fierce anger had disappeared—"yes, yes, Henri must have loved you. Oh! madame, for pity's sake, on my knees I implore you to love my brother."
Diana remained cold and silent.
"Do not reduce a family to despair, do not sacrifice the future prospects of our race; be not the cause of the death of one from despair, of the others from regret."
Diana, still silent, continued to look sorrowfully on the suppliant bending before her.
"Oh!" exclaimed Joyeuse, madly pressing his hand against his heart, "have mercy on my brother, have mercy on me!"
He sprung to his feet like a man bereft of his senses, unfastened, or rather tore open the door of the room where they had been conversing, and, bewildered and almost beside himself, fled from the house toward his attendants, who were awaiting him at the corner of the Rue d'Enfer.