The regent, as usual, passed the evening with Helene. He had not missed for four or five days, and the hours he passed with her were his happy hours, but this time he found her very much shaken by her visit to her lover in the Bastille.
"Come," said the regent, "take courage, Helene; to-morrow you shall be his wife."
"To-morrow is distant," replied she.
"Helene, believe in my word, which has never failed you. I tell you that to-morrow shall dawn happily for you and for him."
Helene sighed deeply.
A servant entered and spoke to the regent.
"What is it?" asked Helene, who was alarmed at the slightest thing.
"Nothing, my child," said the duke; "it is only my secretary, who wishes to see me on some pressing business."
"Shall I leave you?"
"Yes; do me that favor for an instant."
Helene withdrew into her room.
At the same time the door opened and Dubois entered, out of breath.
"Where do you come from in such a state?"
"Parbleu! from the Bastille."
"And our prisoner?"
"Well."
"Is everything arranged for the marriage."
"Yes, everything but the hour, which you did not name."
"Let us say eight in the morning."
"At eight in the morning," said Dubois, calculating.
"Yes, what are you calculating?"
"I am thinking where he will be."
"Who?"
"The prisoner."
"What! the prisoner!"
"Yes; at eight o'clock he will be forty leagues from Paris!"
"From Paris!"
"Yes; if he continues to go at the pace at which I saw him set out."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, monseigneur, that there will be one thing only wanting at the marriage; the husband."
"Gaston?"
"Has escaped from the Bastille half-an-hour ago."
"You lie, abbe; people do not escape from the Bastille."
"I beg your pardon, monseigneur; people escape from any place when they are condemned to death."
"He escaped, knowing that to-morrow he was to wed her whom he loved?"
"Listen, monseigneur, life is a charming thing, and we all cling to it; then your son-in-law has a charming head which he wishes to keep on his shoulders—what more natural?"
"And where is he?"
"Perhaps I may be able to tell you to-morrow evening; at present, all I know is that he is at some distance, and that I will answer for it he will not return."
The regent became deeply thoughtful.
"Really, monseigneur, your naïveté causes me perpetual astonishment; you must be strangely ignorant of the human heart if you suppose that a man condemned to death would remain in prison when he had a chance of escape."
"Oh! Monsieur de Chanlay!" cried the regent.
"Eh, mon Dieu! this chevalier has acted as the commonest workman would have done, and quite right too."
"Dubois! and my daughter?"
"Well, your daughter, monseigneur?"
"It will kill her," said the regent.
"Oh no, monseigneur, not at all; when she finds out what he is, she will be consoled, and you can marry her to some small German or Italian prince—to the Duke of Modena, for instance, whom Mademoiselle de Valois will not have."
"Dubois! and I meant to pardon him."
"He has done it for himself, monseigneur, thinking it safer, and ma foi! I should have done the same."
"Oh you; you are not noble, you had not taken an oath."
"You mistake, monseigneur; I had taken an oath, to prevent your highness from committing a folly, and I have succeeded."
"Well, well, let us speak of it no more, not a word of this before Helene—I will undertake to tell her."
"And I, to get back your son-in-law."
"No, no, he has escaped, let him profit by it."
As the regent spoke these words a noise was heard in the neighboring room, and a servant entering, hurriedly announced—
"Monsieur Gaston de Chanlay."
Dubois turned pale as death, and his face assumed an expression of threatening anger. The regent rose in a transport of joy, which brought a bright color into his face—there was as much pleasure in this face, rendered sublime by confidence, as there was compressed fury inDubois's sharp and malignant countenance.
THE REGENT.
THE REGENT.—Page544.
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"Let him enter," said the regent.
"At least, give me time to go," said Dubois.
"Ah! yes, he would recognize you."
Dubois retired with a growling noise, like a hyena disturbed in its feast, or in its lair; he entered the next room. There he sat down by a table on which was every material for writing, and this seemed to suggest some new and terrible idea, for his face suddenly lighted up.
He rang.
"Send for the portfolio which is in my carriage," said he to the servant who appeared.
This order being executed at once, Dubois seized some papers, wrote on them some words with an expression of sinister joy, then, having ordered his carriage, drove to the Palais Royal.
Meanwhile the chevalier was led to the regent, and walked straight up to him.
"How! you here, monsieur!" said the duke, trying to look surprised.
"Yes, monseigneur, a miracle has been worked in my favor by La Jonquiere; he had prepared all for flight, he asked for me under pretense of consulting me as to confessions; then, when we were alone, he told me all and we escaped together and in safety."
"And instead of flying, monsieur, gaining the frontier, and placing yourself in safety, you are here at the peril of your life."
"Monseigneur," said Gaston, blushing, "I must confess that for a moment liberty seemed to me the most precious and the sweetest thing the world could afford. The first breath of air I drew seemed to intoxicate me, but I soon reflected."
"On one thing, monsieur?"
"On two, monseigneur."
"You thought of Helene, whom you were abandoning."
"And of my companions, whom I left under the ax."
"And then you decided?"
"That I was bound to their cause till our projects were accomplished."
"Our projects!"
"Yes, are they not yours as well as mine?"
"Listen, monsieur," said the regent; "I believe that man must keep within the limits of his strength. There are things which God seems to forbid him to execute; there are warnings which tell him to renounce certain projects. I believe that it is sacrilege to despise these warnings, to remain deaf to this voice; our projects have miscarried, monsieur, let us think no more of them."
"On the contrary, monseigneur," said Gaston, sadly shaking his head, "let us think of them more than ever."
"But you are furious, monsieur," said the regent, "to persist in an undertaking which has now become so difficult that it is almost madness."
"I think, monseigneur, of our friends arrested, tried, condemned; M. d'Argenson told me so; of our friends who are destined to the scaffold, and who can be saved only by the death of the regent; of our friends who would say, if I were to leave France, that I purchased my safety by their ruin, and that the gates of the Bastille were opened by my revelations."
"Then, monsieur, to this point of honor you sacrifice everything, even Helene?"
"Monseigneur, if they be still alive I must save them."
"But if they be dead?"
"Then it is another thing," replied Gaston; "then I must revenge them."
"Really, monsieur," said the duke, "this seems to me a somewhat exaggerated idea of heroism. It seems to me that you have, in your own person, already paid your share. Believe me, take the word of a man who is a good judge in affairs of honor; you are absolved in the eyes of the whole world, my dear Brutus."
"I am not in my own, monseigneur."
"Then you persist?"
"More than ever; the regent must die, and," added he in a hollow voice, "die he shall."
"But do you not first wish to see Mademoiselle de Chaverny?" asked the regent.
"Yes, monseigneur, but first I must have your promise to aid me in my project. Remember, monseigneur; there is not an instant to lose; my companions are condemned, as I was. Tell me at once, before I see Helene, that you will not abandon me. Let me make a new engagement with you—I am a man; I love, and therefore I am weak. I shall have to struggle against her tears and against my own weakness; monseigneur, I will only see Helene under the condition that you will enable me to see the regent."
"And if I refuse that condition?"
"Then, monseigneur, I will not see Helene; I am dead to her; it is useless to renew hope in her which she must lose again, it is enough that she must weep for me once."
"And you would still persist?"
"Yes, but with less chance."
"Then what would you do?"
"Wait for the regent wherever he goes, and strike him whenever I can find him."
"Think once more," said the duke.
"By the honor of my name," replied Gaston, "I once more implore your aid, or I declare that I will find means to dispense with it."
"Well, monsieur, go and see Helene, and you shall have my answer on your return."
"Where?"
"In that room."
"And the answer shall be according to my desire?"
"Yes."
Gaston went into Helene's room; she was kneeling before a crucifix, praying that her lover might be restored to her. At the noise which Gaston made in opening the door she turned round.
Believing that God had worked a miracle, and uttering a cry, she held out her arms toward the chevalier, but without the strength to raise herself.
"Oh, mon Dieu! is it himself? is it his shade?"
"It is myself, Helene," said the young man, darting toward her, and grasping her hands.
"But how? a prisoner this morning—free, this evening?"
"I escaped, Helene."
"And then you thought of me, you ran to me, you would not fly without me. Oh! I recognize my Gaston there. Well—I am ready, take me where you will—I am yours—I am—"
"Helene," said Gaston, "you are not the bride of an ordinary man; if I had been only like all other men you would not have loved me."
"Oh, no!"
"Well, Helene, to superior souls superior duties are allotted, and consequently greater trials; before I can be yours I have to accomplish the mission on which I came to Paris; we have both a fatal destiny to fulfill. Our life or death hangs on a single event which must be accomplished to-night."
"What do you mean?" cried the young girl.
"Listen, Helene," replied Gaston, "if in four hours, that is to say, by daybreak, you have no news of me, do not expect me, believe that all that has passed between us is but a dream—and, if you can obtain permission to do so, come again and see me in the Bastille."
Helene trembled, Gaston took her back to her prie-Dieu, where she knelt.
Then, kissing her on the forehead as a brother might have done—"Pray on, Helene;" said he, "for in praying for me you pray also for Bretagne and for France." Then he rushed out of the room.
"Alas! alas!" murmured Helene, "savehim, my God! and what care I for the rest of the world."
Gaston was met by a servant who gave him a note, telling him the duke was gone.
The note was as follows:
"There is a bal masque to-night at Monceaux; the regent will be there. He generally retires toward one o'clock in the morning into a favorite conservatory, which is situated at the end of the gilded gallery. No one enters there ordinarily but himself, because this habit of his is known and respected. The regent will be dressed in a black velvet domino, on the left arm of which is embroidered a golden bee. He hides this sign in a fold when he wishes to remain incognito. The card Iinclose is an ambassador's ticket. With this you will be admitted, not only to the ball, but to this conservatory, where you will appear to seek a private interview. Use it for your encounter with the regent. My carriage is below, in which you will find my own domino. The coachman is at your orders."
"There is a bal masque to-night at Monceaux; the regent will be there. He generally retires toward one o'clock in the morning into a favorite conservatory, which is situated at the end of the gilded gallery. No one enters there ordinarily but himself, because this habit of his is known and respected. The regent will be dressed in a black velvet domino, on the left arm of which is embroidered a golden bee. He hides this sign in a fold when he wishes to remain incognito. The card Iinclose is an ambassador's ticket. With this you will be admitted, not only to the ball, but to this conservatory, where you will appear to seek a private interview. Use it for your encounter with the regent. My carriage is below, in which you will find my own domino. The coachman is at your orders."
On reading this note, which, as it were, brought him face to face with the man he meant to assassinate, a cold perspiration passed over Gaston's forehead, and he was obliged for a moment to lean against a chair for support; but suddenly, as if taking a violent resolution, he darted down the staircase, jumped into the carriage, and cried—
"To Monceaux!"
Scarcely had he quitted the room, when a secret door in the woodwork opened, and the duke entered. He went to Helene's door, who uttered a cry of delight at seeing him.
"Well," said the regent sadly, "are you content, Helene?"
"Oh! it is you, monseigneur?"
"You see, my child, that my predictions are fulfilled—believe me when I say, 'Hope.'"
"Ah! monseigneur, are you then an angel come down to earth to stand to me in the place of the father whom I have lost?"
"Alas," said the regent, smiling. "I am not an angel, my dear Helene; but such as I am, I will indeed be to you a father, and a tender one."
Saying this, the regent took Helene's hand, and was about to kiss it respectfully, but she raised her head and presented her forehead to him.
"I see that you love him truly," said he.
"Monseigneur, I bless you."
"May your blessing bring me happiness," said the regent, then, going down to his carriage—
"To the Palais Royal," said he, "but remember you have only a quarter of an hour to drive to Monceaux."
The horses flew along the road.
As the carriage entered under the peristyle, a courier on horseback was setting out.
Dubois, having seen him start, closed the window and went back to his apartments.
Meanwhile Gaston went toward Monceaux.
He had found the duke's domino and mask in the carriage. The mask was of black velvet—the domino of violet satin. He put them both on, and suddenly remembered that he was without arms.
He thought, however, he should easily procure some weapon at Monceaux. As he approached, he found it was not a weapon that he needed, but courage. There passed in his mind a terrible contest. Pride and humanity struggled against each other, and, from time to time, he represented to himself his friends in prison, condemned to a cruel and infamous death.
As the carriage entered the courtyard of Monceaux, he murmured, "Already!"
However, the carriage stopped, the door was opened, he must alight. The prince's private carriage and coachman had been recognized, and all the servants overwhelmed him with attentions.
Gaston did not remark it—a kind of mist passed before his eyes—he presented his card.
It was the custom then for both men and women to be masked: but it was more frequently the women than the men who went to these reunions unmasked. At this period women spoke not only freely, but well, and the mask hid neither folly nor inferiority of rank, for the women of that day were all witty, and if they were handsome, they were soon titled: witness, the Duchesse de Chateauroux and the Comtesse Dubarry.
Gaston knew no one, but he felt instinctively that he was among the most select society of the day. Among the men were Novilles, Brancas, Broglie, St. Simon, and Biron. The women might be more mixed, but certainly not less spirituelles, nor less elegant.
No one knew how to organize a fete like the regent. The luxury of good taste, the profusion of flowers, the lights, the princes and ambassadors, the charming and beautiful women who surrounded him, all had their effect on Gaston, who now recognized in the regent, not only a king, but a king at once powerful, gay, amiable, beloved, and above all, popular and national.
Gaston's heart beat when, seeking among these heads the one for which his blows were destined, he saw a black domino.
Without the mask which hid his face and concealed from all eyes its changing expression, he would not have taken four steps through the rooms without some one pointing him out as an assassin.
Gaston could not conceal from himself that there was something cowardly in coming to a prince, his host, to change those brilliant lights into funeral torches, to stain those dazzling tapestries with blood, to arouse the cry of terror amid the joyous tumult of a fete—and at this thought his courage failed him, and he stepped toward the door.
"I will kill him outside," said he, "but not here."
Then he remembered the duke's directions, his card would open to him the isolated conservatory, and he murmured—
"He foresaw that I should be a coward."
He approached a sort of gallery containing buffets where the guests came for refreshment. He went also, not that he was hungry or thirsty, but because he was unarmed. He chose a long, sharp and pointed knife, and put it under his domino, where he was sure no one could see it.
"The likeness to Ravaillac will be complete," said he.
At this moment, as Gaston turned, he heard a well-known voice say—
"You hesitate?"
Gaston opened his domino and showed the duke the knife which it concealed.
"I see the knife glisten, but I also see the hand tremble."
"Yes, monseigneur, it is true," said Gaston; "I hesitated, I trembled, I felt inclined to fly—but thank God you are here."
"And your ferocious courage?" said the duke in a mocking voice.
"It is not that I have lost it."
"What has become of it then?"
"Monseigneur, I am under his roof."
"Yes; but in the conservatory you are not."
"Could you not show him to me first, that I might accustom myself to his presence, that I may be inspired by the hatred I bear him, for I do not know how to find him in this crowd?"
"Just now he was near you."
Gaston shuddered.
"Near me?" said he.
"As near as I am," replied the duke, gravely.
"I will go to the conservatory, monseigneur."
"Go then."
"Yet a moment, monseigneur, that I may recover myself."
"Very well, you know the conservatory is beyond that gallery; stay, the doors are closed."
"Did you not say that with this card the servants would open them to me?"
"Yes; but it would be better to open them yourself—a servant might wait for your exit. If you are thus agitated before you strike the blow, what will it be afterward? Then the regent probably will not fall without defending himself—without a cry; they will all run to him, you will be arrested, and adieu your hope of the future. Think of Helene, who waits for you."
It is impossible to describe what was passing in Gaston's heart during this speech. The duke, however, watched its effect upon his countenance.
"Well," said Gaston, "what shall I do? advise me."
"When you are at the door of the conservatory, the one which opens on to the gallery turning to the left—do you know?"
"Yes."
"Under the lock you will find a carved button—push it, and the door will open, unless it be fastened within. But theregent, who has no suspicion, will not take this precaution. I have been there twenty times for a private audience. If he be not there, wait for him. You will know him, if there, by the black domino and the golden bee."
"Yes, yes; I know," said Gaston; not knowing, however, what he said.
"I do not reckon much on you this evening," replied the duke.
"Ah! monseigneur, the moment approaches which will change my past life into a doubtful future, perhaps of shame, at least of remorse."
"Remorse!" replied the duke. "When we perform an action which we believe to be just, and commanded by conscience, we do not feel remorse. Do you doubt the sanctity of your cause?"
"No, monseigneur, but it is easy for you to speak thus. You have the idea—I, the execution. You are the head, but I am the arm. Believe me, monseigneur," continued he in a hollow voice, and choking with emotion, "it is a terrible thing to kill a man who is before you defenseless—smiling on his murderer. I thought myself courageous and strong; but it must be thus with every conspirator who undertakes what I have done. In a moment of excitement, of pride, of enthusiasm, or of hatred, we take a fatal vow; then there is a vast extent of time between us and our victim; but the oath taken, the fever is calmed, the enthusiasm cools, the hatred diminishes. Every day brings us nearer the end to which we are tending, and then we shudder when we feel what a crime we have undertaken. And yet inexorable time flows on; and at every hour which strikes, we see our victim take another step, until at length the interval between us disappears, and we stand face to face. Believe me, monseigneur, the bravest tremble—for murder is always murder. Then we see that we are not the ministers of our consciences, but the slaves of our oaths. We set out with head erect, saying 'I am the chosen one:' we arrive with head bowed down, saying, 'I am accursed.'"
"There is yet time, monsieur."
"No, no; you well know, monseigneur, that fate urges me onward. I shall accomplish my task, terrible though it be. My heart will shudder, but my hand will still be firm. Yes, I tell you, were it not for my friends, whose lives hang on the blow I am about to strike, were there no Helene, whom I should cover with mourning, if not with blood, oh, I would prefer the scaffold, even the scaffold, with all its shame, for that does not punish, it absolves."
"Come," said the duke, "I see that though you tremble, you will act."
"Do not doubt it, monseigneur; pray for me, for in half an hour all will be over."
The duke gave an involuntary start; however, approving Gaston's determination, he once more mixed with the crowd.
Gaston found an open window with a balcony. He stepped out for a moment to cool the fever in his veins, but it was in vain; the flame which consumed him was not to be extinguished thus.
He heard one o'clock strike.
"Now," he murmured, "the time is come, and I cannot draw back. My God, to thee I recommend my soul—Helene, adieu!"
Then, slowly but firmly, he went to the door, and pressing the button, it opened noiselessly before him.
A mist came before his eyes. He seemed in a new world. The music sounded like a distant and charming melody. Around him breathed the sweetly perfumed flowers, and alabaster lamps half hidden in luxuriant foliage shed a delicious twilight over the scene, while through the interlacing leaves of tropical plants could just be seen the leafless gloomy trees beyond, and the snow covering the earth as with a winding sheet. Even the temperature was changed, and a sudden shiver passed through his veins. The contrast of all this verdure, these magnificent and blossoming orange trees—these magnolias, splendid with the waxy blooms, with the gilded salons he had left, bewildered him. It seemed difficult to connect the thought of murder with this fair-smiling and enchanted scene. The soft gravel yielded to his tread, andplashing fountains murmured forth a plaintive and monotonous harmony.
Gaston was almost afraid to look for a human form. At length he glanced round.
Nothing! he went on.
At length, beneath a broad-leaved palm, surrounded by blooming rhododendrons, he saw the black phantom seated on a bank of moss, his back turned toward the side from whence he was approaching.
The blood rushed to Gaston's cheeks, his hand trembled, and he vainly sought for some support.
The domino did not move.
Gaston involuntarily drew back. All at once he forced his rebellious limbs to move on, and his trembling fingers to grasp the knife they had almost abandoned, and he stepped toward the regent, stifling a sob which was about to escape him.
At this moment the figure moved, and Gaston saw the golden bee, which seemed like a burning gem before his eyes.
The domino turned toward Gaston, and as he did so, the young man's arm grew rigid, the foam rose to his lips, his teeth chattered, for a vague suspicion entered his breast.
Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry. The domino had risen, and was unmasked—his face was that of the Duc d'Olivares.
Gaston, thunderstruck, remained livid and mute. The regent and the duke were one and the same. The regent retained his calm majestic attitude; looked at the hand which held the knife, and the knife fell. Then, looking at his intended murderer with a smile at once sweet and sad, Gaston fell down before him like a tree cut by the ax.
Not a word had been spoken; nothing was heard but Gaston's broken sobs, and the water of the fountains plashing monotonously as it fell.
"Rise, monsieur," said the regent.
"No, monseigneur," cried Gaston, bowing his forehead to the ground, "oh, no, it is at your feet that I should die."
"Die! Gaston! you see that you are pardoned."
"Oh, monseigneur, punish me, in Heaven's name; for you must indeed despise me if you pardon me."
"But have you not guessed?" asked the regent.
"What?"
"The reason why I pardon you."
Gaston cast a retrospective glance upon the past, his sad and solitary youth, his brother's despairing death, his love for Helene, those days that seemed so long away from her, those nights that passed so quickly beneath the convent window, his journey to Paris, the duke's kindness to the young girl, and last, this unexpected clemency; but in all this he beheld nothing, he divined nothing.
"Thank Helene," said the duke, who saw that Gaston vainly sought the cause of what had happened; "thank Helene, for it is she who saves your life."
"Helene! monseigneur."
"I cannot punish my daughter's affianced husband."
"Helene, your daughter! oh, monseigneur, and I would have killed you!"
"Yes, remember what you said just now. We set out the chosen one, we return the murderer. And sometimes you see more than a murderer—a parricide—for I am almost your father," said the duke, holding out his hand to Gaston.
"Monseigneur, have mercy on me."
"You have a noble heart, Gaston."
"And you, monseigneur, are a noble prince. Henceforth, I am yours body and soul. Every drop of my blood for one tear of Helene's, for one wish of your highness's."
"Thanks, Gaston," said the duke, smiling, "I will repay your devotion by your happiness."
"I, happy, through your highness! Ah! monseigneur, God revenges himself in permitting you to return me so much good for the evil I intended you."
The regent smiled at this effusion of simple joy, when the door opened and gave entrance to a green domino.
"Captain la Jonquiere!" cried Gaston.
"Dubois!" murmured the duke, frowning.
"Monseigneur," said Gaston, hiding his face in his hands, pale with affright; "monseigneur, I am lost. It is no longer I who must be saved. I forgot my honor, I forgot my friends."
"Your friends, monsieur?" said the duke, coldly. "I thought you no longer made common cause with such men."
"Monseigneur, you said I had a noble heart; believe me when I say that Pontcalec, Montlouis, Du Couëdic, and Talhouet have hearts as noble as my own."
"Noble!" repeated the duke, contemptuously.
"Yes, monseigneur, I repeat what I said."
"And do you know what they would have done, my poor child? you, who were their blind tool, the arm that they placed at the end of their thoughts. These noble hearts would have delivered their country to the stranger, they would have erased the name of France from the list of sovereign nations. Nobles, they were bound to set an example of courage and loyalty—they have given that of perfidy and cowardice; well, you do not reply—you lower your eyes; if it be your poniard you seek, it is at your feet; take it up, there is yet time."
"Monsieur," said Gaston, clasping his hands, "I renounce my ideas of assassination, I detest them, and I ask your pardon for having entertained them; but if you will not save my friends, I beg of you at least to let me perish with them. If I live when they die, my honor dies with them; think of it, monseigneur, the honor of the name your daughter is to bear."
The regent bent his head as he replied:
"It is impossible, monsieur; they have betrayed France; and they must die."
"Then I die with them!" said Gaston, "for I also have betrayed France, and, moreover, would have murdered your highness."
The regent looked at Dubois; the glance they exchanged did not escape Gaston. He understood that he had dealt with a false La Jonquiere as well as a false Duc d'Olivares.
"No," said Dubois, addressing Gaston, "you shall not die for that, monsieur; but you must understand that there are crimes which the regent has neither the power nor the right to pardon."
"But he pardoned me!" exclaimed Gaston.——"You are Helene's husband," said the duke.
"You mistake, monseigneur; I am not; and I shall never be; and as such a sacrifice involves the death of him who makes it, I shall die, monseigneur."
"Bah!" said Dubois, "no one dies of love nowadays; it was very well in the time of M. d'Urfe and Mademoiselle de Scuderi."
"Perhaps you are right, monsieur; but in all times men die by the dagger;" and Gaston stopped and picked up the knife with an expression which was not to be mistaken. Dubois did not move.
The regent made a step.
"Throw down that weapon, monsieur," said he, with hauteur.
Gaston placed the point against his breast.
"Throw it down, I say," repeated the regent.
"The life of my friends, monseigneur," said Gaston.
The regent turned again to Dubois, who smiled a sardonic smile.
"'Tis well," said the regent, "they shall live."
"Ah! monsieur," said Gaston, seizing the duke's hand, and trying to raise it to his lips, "you are the image of God on earth."
"Monseigneur, you commit an irreparable fault," said Dubois.
"What!" cried Gaston, astonished, "you are then—"
"The Abbe Dubois, at your service," said the false La Jonquiere, bowing.
"Oh! monseigneur, listen only to your own heart—I implore."
"Monseigneur, sign nothing," said Dubois.
"Sign! monseigneur, sign!" repeated Gaston, "you promised they should live; and I know your promise is sacred."
"Dubois, I shall sign," said the duke.
"Has your highness decided?"
"I have given my word."
"Very well; as you please."
"At once, monseigneur, at once; I know not why, but I am alarmed in spite of myself; monseigneur, their pardon, I implore you."
"Eh! monsieur," said Dubois, "since his highness has promised, what signify five minutes more or less?"
The regent looked uneasily at Dubois.
"Yes, you are right," said he, "this very moment; your portfolio, abbe, and quick, the young man is impatient."
Dubois bowed assent, called a servant, got his portfolio, and presented to the regent a sheet of paper, who wrote an order on it and signed it.
"Now a courier."
"Oh, no! monseigneur, it is useless."
"Why so?"
"A courier would never go quickly enough. I will go myself, if your highness will permit me; every moment I gain will save those unhappy men an age of torture."
Dubois frowned.
"Yes! yes! you are right," said the regent, "go yourself;" and he added in a low voice, "and do not let the order leave your hands."
"But, monseigneur," said Dubois, "you are more impatient than the young man himself; you forget that if he goes thus there is some one in Paris who will think he is dead."
These words struck Gaston, and recalled to him Helene, whom he had left, expecting him from one moment to another, in the fear of some great event, and who would never forgive him should he leave Paris without seeing her. In an instant his resolution was taken; he kissed the duke's hand, took the order, and was going, when the regent said—
"Not a word to Helene of what I told you; the only recompense I ask of you is to leave me the pleasure of telling her she is my child."
"Your highness shall be obeyed," said Gaston, moved to tears, and again bowing, he hastily went out.
"This way," said Dubois; "really, you look as if you had assassinated some one, and you will be arrested; cross this grove, at the end is a path which will lead you to the street."
"Oh, thank you; you understand that delay—"
"Might be fatal. That is why," added he to himself, "I have shown you the longest way—go."
When Gaston had disappeared, Dubois returned to the regent.
"What is the matter, monseigneur?" asked he; "you seem uneasy."
"I am."
"And why?"
"You made no resistance to my performing a good action—this frightened me." Dubois smiled.
"Dubois," said the duke, "you are plotting something."
"No, monseigneur, it is all arranged."
"What have you done?"
"Monseigneur, I know you."
"Well."
"I knew what would happen. That you would never be satisfied till you had signed the pardon of all these fellows."
"Go on."
"Well, I also have sent a courier."
"You!"
"Yes, I; have I not the right to send couriers?"
"Yes; but, in Heaven's name, tell me what order your courier carried."
"An order for their execution."
"And he is gone?"
Dubois took out his watch.
"Two hours ago," said he.
"Wretch!"
"Ah, monseigneur! always big words. Every man to his trade, save M. de Chanlay, if you like; he is your son-in-law; as for me, I save you."
"Yes; but I know De Chanlay. He will arrive before the courier."
"No, monseigneur."
"Two hours are nothing to a man like him; he will soon have made them up."
"Were my courier only two hours in advance," said Dubois, "De Chanlay might overtake him, but he will be three."
"How so?"
"Because the worthy young man is in love; and if I reckon an hour for taking leave of your daughter, I am sure it is not too much."
"Serpent! I understand the meaning of what you said just now."
"He was in an excess of enthusiasm—he might have forgotten his love. You know my principle, monseigneur: distrust first impulses, they are always good."
"It is an infamous principle."
"Monseigneur, either one is a diplomatist or one is not."
"Well," said the regent, stepping toward the door, "I shall go and warn him."
"Monseigneur," said Dubois, stopping the duke with an accent of extreme resolution, and taking a paper out of his portfolio, already prepared, "if you do so, have the kindness in that case to accept my resignation at once. Joke, if you will, but, as Horace said, 'est modus in rebus.' He was a great as well as a courteous man. Come, come, monseigneur, a truce to politics for this evening—go back to the ball, and to-morrow evening all will be settled—France will be rid of four of her worst enemies, and you will retain a son-in-law whom I greatly prefer to M. de Riom, I assure you."
And with these words they returned to the ballroom, Dubois joyous and triumphant, the duke sad and thoughtful, but convinced that his minister was right.
Gaston left the conservatory, his heart bounding with joy. The enormous weight which had oppressed him since the commencement of the conspiracy, and which Helene's love had scarcely been able to alleviate, now seemed to disappear as at the touch of an angel.
To dreams of vengeance, dreams both terrible and bloody, succeeded visions of love and glory. Helene was not only a charming and a loving woman, she was also a princess of the blood royal—one of those divinities whose tenderness men would purchase with their hearts' blood, if they did not, being after all weak as mortals, give this inestimable tenderness away.
And Gaston felt revive within his breast the slumbering instinct of ambition. What a brilliant fortune was his—one to be envied by such men as Richelieu and Lauzun. No Louis XIV., imposing, as on Lauzun, exile or the abandonment of his mistress—no irritated father combating the pretensions of a simple gentleman—but, on the contrary, a powerful friend, greedy of love, longing to prove his affection for his pure and noble daughter. A holy emulation between the daughter and the son-in-law to make themselves more worthy of so just a prince, so mild a conqueror.
In a quarter of an hour Gaston had gained the Rue du Bac.
The door opened before him—a cry was heard—Helene, at the window watching for his return, had recognized the carriage, and ran joyously to meet him.
"Saved!" cried Gaston, seeing her; "saved! my friends, I—you—all—saved!"
"Oh, God!" cried Helene, turning pale, "you have killed him, then?"
"No, no; thank God! Oh! Helene, what a heart, what a man is this regent! Oh, love him well, Helene; you will love him, will you not?"
"Explain yourself, Gaston."
"Come, and let us speak of ourselves; I have but a few moments to give you, Helene; but the duke will tell you all."
"One thing before all," said Helene, "what is your fate?"
"The brightest in the world, Helene—your husband, rich and honored. Helene, I am wild with joy."
"And you remain with me at last?"
"No, I leave you, Helene."
"Oh, heavens!"
"But to return."
"Another separation!"
"Three days at the most—three days only. I go to bring blessings on yourname, on mine, on that of our protector, our friend."
"Where are you going?"
"To Nantes!"
"To Nantes!"
"Yes. This order is the pardon of Pontcalec, Montlouis, and Talhouet and Du Couëdic. They are condemned to death, and they will owe me their lives. Oh, do not keep me here, Helene; think of what you suffered just now, when you were watching for me."
"And, consequently, what I am to suffer again."
"No, my Helene; for this time there is no fear, no obstacle: this time you are sure of my return."
"Gaston, shall I never see you, but at rare intervals and for a few minutes? Ah! Gaston, I have so much need of happiness."
"You shall be happy, Helene, be assured."
"My heart sinks."
"Ah! when you know all!"
"But tell me at once."
"Helene, the only thing wanting to my happiness is the permission to fall at your feet and tell you all—but I have promised—nay more, I have sworn."
"Always some secret!"
"This, at least, is a joyful one."
"Oh, Gaston, Gaston, I tremble."
"Look at me, Helene; can you fear when you see the joy that sparkles in my eyes?"
"Why do you not take me with you, Gaston?"
"Helene!"
"I beg of you to let us go together."
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Because, first, I must be at Nantes in twenty hours."
"I will follow you, even should I die with fatigue."
"Then, because you are no longer your own mistress; you have here a protector, to whom you owe respect and obedience."
"The duke?"
"Yes; the duke. Oh, when you know what he has done for me—for us."
"Let us leave a letter for him, and he will forgive us."
"No, no; he will say we are ungrateful; and he would be right. No, Helene; while I go to Bretagne, swift as a saving angel, you shall remain here and hasten the preparations for our marriage. And when I return I shall at once demand my wife; at your feet I shall bless you for the happiness and the honor you bestow on me."
"You leave me, Gaston?" cried Helene, in a voice of distress.
"Oh, not thus, Helene, not thus; I cannot leave you so. Oh, no—be joyous, Helene; smile on me; say to me—in giving me your hand—that hand so pure and faithful—'Go, Gaston—go—for it is your duty.'"
"Yes, my friend," said Helene, "perhaps I ought to speak thus, but I have not the strength. Oh! Gaston, forgive me."
"Oh, Helene, when I am so joyful."
"Gaston, it is beyond my power; remember that you take with you the half of my life."
Gaston heard the clock strike three and started.
"Adieu, Helene," said he.
"Adieu," murmured she.
Once more he pressed her hand and raised it to his lips, then dashed down the staircase toward the door.
But he heard Helene's sobs.
Rapidly he remounted the staircase and ran to her. She was standing at the door of the room he had just left. Gaston clasped her in his arms, and she hung weeping upon his neck.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried she, "you leave me again, Gaston; listen to what I say, we shall never meet more."
"My poor Helene," cried the young man, "you are mad."
"Despair has made me so."
And her tears ran down her cheeks.
All at once she seemed to make a violent effort, and pressing her lips on those of her lover, she clasped him tightly to her breast, then quickly repulsing him—
"Now go, Gaston," said she, "now I can die."
Gaston replied by passionate caresses. The clock struck the half hour.
"Another half hour to make up."
"Adieu, adieu, Gaston; you are right, you should already be away."
"Adieu for a time."
"Adieu, Gaston."
And Helene returned to the pavilion. Gaston procured a horse, saddled, mounted, and left Paris by the same gate by which he had entered some days previously.
The commission named by Dubois was to be permanent. Invested with unlimited powers, which in certain cases means that the decision is settled beforehand, they besieged the earth, supported by strong detachments of troops.
Since the arrest of the four gentlemen, Nantes, terrified at first, had risen in their favor. The whole of Bretagne awaited a revolt, but in the meanwhile was quiet.
However, the trial was approaching. On the eve of the public audience, Pontcalec held a serious conversation with his friends.
"Let us consider," said he, "whether in word or deed we have committed any imprudence."
"No," said the other three.
"Has any one of you imparted our projects to his wife, his brother, a friend? Have you, Montlouis?"
"No, on my honor."
"You, Talhouet?"
"No."
"You, Couëdic?"
"No."
"Then they have neither proof nor accusation against us. No one has surprised us, no one wishes us harm."
"But," said Montlouis, "meanwhile we shall be tried."
"On what grounds?"
"Oh, secret information," said Talhouet, smiling.
"Very secret," said Du Couëdic, "since they do not breathe a word."
"Ah, one fine night they will force us to escape, that they may not be obliged to liberate us some fine day."
"I do not believe it," said Montlouis, who had always been the most desponding, perhaps because he had the most at stake, having a young wife and two children who adored him. "I do not believe it. I have seen Dubois in England. I have talked with him; his face is like a ferret's, licking his lips when thirsty. Dubois is thirsty, and we are taken. Dubois's thirst will be slaked by our blood."
"But," said Du Couëdic, "there is the parliament of Bretagne."
"Yes, to look on, while we lose our heads."
There was only one of the four who smiled; that was Pontcalec.
"My friends," said he, "take courage. If Dubois be thirsty, so much the worse for Dubois. He will go mad, that is all; but this time I answer for it he shall not taste our blood."
And, indeed, from the beginning the task of the commission seemed difficult. No confessions, no proofs, no witnesses. Bretagne laughed in the commissioners' faces, and when she did not laugh, she threatened. The president dispatched a courier to Paris to explain the state of things, and get further instructions.
"Judge by their projects," said Dubois; "they may have done little, because they were prevented, but they intended much, and the intention in matters of rebellion is equivalent to the act."
Armed with this terrible weapon, the commission soon overthrew the hopes of the province. There was a terrible audience, in which the accused commenced with raillery and ended with accusation. On re-entering the prison, Pontcalec congratulated them on the truths they had told the judge.
"Nevertheless," said Montlouis, "it is a bad affair. Bretagne does not revolt."
"She waits our condemnation," said Talhouet.
"Then she will revolt somewhat late," said Montlouis.
"But our condemnation may not take place," said Pontcalec. "Say, frankly, we are guilty, but without proofs who will dare to sentence us? The commission?"
"No, not the commission, but Dubois."
"I have a great mind to do one thing," said Du Couëdic.
"What?"
"At the first audience to cry, 'Bretagne to the rescue!' Each time we have seen faces of friends; we should be delivered or killed, but at least it would be decided. I should prefer death to this suspense."
"But why run the risk of being wounded by some satellite of justice?"
"Because such a wound might be healed; not so the wound the executioner would make."
"Oh!" said Pontcalec, "you will have no more to do with the executioner than I shall."
"Always the prediction," said Montlouis. "You know that I have no faith in it."
"You are wrong."
"This is sure, my friends," said Pontcalec. "We shall be exiled, we shall be forced to embark, and I shall be lost on the way. This is my fate. But yours may be different. Ask to go by a different vessel from me; or there is another chance. I may fall from the deck, or slip on the steps; at least, I shall die by the water. You know that is certain. I might be condemned to death, taken to the very scaffold, but if the scaffold were on dry ground I should be as easy as I am now."
His tone of confidence gave them courage. They even laughed at the rapidity with which the deliberations were carried on. They did not know that Dubois sent courier after courier from Paris to hasten them.
At length the commission declared themselves sufficiently enlightened, and retired to deliberate in secret session.
Never was there a more stormy discussion. History has penetrated the secrets of these deliberations, in which some of the least bold or least ambitious counselors revolted against the idea of condemning these gentlemen on presumptions which were supported solely by the intelligence transmitted to them by Dubois; but the majority were devoted to Dubois, and the committee came to abuse and quarrels, and almost to blows.
At the end of a sitting of eleven hours' duration, the majority declared their decision.
The commissioners associated sixteen others of the contumacious gentlemen with the four chiefs, and declared:
"That the accused, found guilty of criminal projects, of treason, and of felonious intentions, should be beheaded: those present, in person, those absent, in effigy. That the walls and fortifications of their castles should be demolished, their patents of nobility annuled, and their forests cut down to the height of nine feet."
An hour after the delivery of this sentence, an order was given to the usher to announce it to the prisoners.
The sentence had been given after the stormy sitting of which we have spoken, and in which the accused had experienced such lively marks of sympathy from the public. And so, having beaten the judges on all the counts of the indictment, never had they been so full of hope.
They were seated at supper in their common room, calling to mind all the details of the sitting, when suddenly the door opened, and in the shade appeared the pale and stern form of the usher.
The solemn apparition changed, on the instant, into anxious palpitations their pleasant conversation.
The usher advanced slowly, while the jailer remained at the door, and the barrels of muskets were seen shining in the gloom of the corridor.
"What is your will, sir?" asked Pontcalec, "and what signifies this deadly paraphernalia?"
"Gentlemen," said the usher, "I bear the sentence of the tribunal. On your knees and listen."
"How?" said Montlouis, "it is only sentences of death that must be heard kneeling."
"On your knees, gentlemen," replied the usher.
"Let the guilty and the base kneel," said Du Couëdic; "we are gentlemen, and innocent. We will hear our sentences standing."
"As you will, gentlemen; but uncover yourselves, for I speak in the king's name."
Talhouet, who alone had his hat on, removed it. The four gentlemen stood erect and bare-headed, leaning on each other, with pale faces and a smile upon their lips.
The usher read the sentence through, uninterrupted by a murmur, or by a single gesture of surprise.
When he had finished—
"Why was I told," asked Pontcalec, "to declare the designs of Spain against France, and that I should be liberated? Spain was an enemy's country. I declared what I believed I knew of her projects; and, lo! I am condemned. Why is this? Is the commission, then, composed of cowards who spread snares for the accused?"
The usher made no answer.
"But," added Montlouis, "the regent spared all Paris, implicated in the conspiracy of Cellamare; not a drop of blood was shed. Yet those who wished to carry off the regent, perhaps to kill him, were at least as guilty as men against whom no serious accusations even could be made. Are we then chosen to pay for the indulgence shown to the capital?"
The usher made no reply.
"You forget one thing, Montlouis," said Du Couëdic, "the old family hatred against Bretagne; and the regent, to make people believe that he belongs to the family, wishes to prove that he hates us. It is not we, personally, who are struck at; it is a province, which for three hundred years has claimed in vain its privileges and its rights, and which they wish to find guilty in order to have done with it forever."
The usher preserved a religious silence.
"Enough," said Talhouet, "we are condemned. 'Tis well. Now, have we, or have we not, the right of appeal?"
"No, gentlemen," said the usher.
"Then you can retire," said Couëdic.
The usher bowed and withdrew, followed by his escort, and the prison door, heavy and clanging, closed once more upon the four gentlemen.
"Well!" said Montlouis, when they were again alone.
"Well, we are condemned," said Pontcalec. "I never said there would be no sentence; I only said it would not be carried into execution."
"I am of Pontcalec's opinion," said Talhouet. "What they have done is but to terrify the province and test its patience."
"Besides," said Du Couëdic, "they will not execute us without the regent's ratification of the sentence. Now, without an extraordinary courier, it will take two days to reach Paris, one to examine into the affair, and two to return, altogether five days. We have, then, five days before us; and what may not happen in five days? The province will rise on hearing of our doom—"
Montlouis shook his head.
"Besides, there is Gaston," said Pontcalec, "whom you always forget."
"I am much afraid that Gaston has been arrested," said Montlouis. "I know Gaston, and were he at liberty, we should have heard of him ere now."
"Prophet of evil," said Talhouet, "at least you will not deny that we have some days before us."
"Who knows?" said Montlouis.
"And the waters?" said Pontcalec; "the waters? You always forget that I can only perish by the waters."
"Well, then, let us be seated again," said Du Couëdic, "and a last glass to our healths."
"There is no more wine," said Montlouis; "'tis an evil omen."
"Bah! there is more in the cellar," said Pontcalec.
And he called the jailer.
The man, on entering, found the four friends at table; he looked at them in astonishment.
"Well, what is there new, Master Christopher?" said Pontcalec.
Christopher came from Guer, and had a particular respect for Pontcalec, whose uncle Crysogon had been his seigneur.
"Nothing but what you know," he replied.
"Then go and fetch some wine."
"They wish to deaden their feelings," said the jailer to himself; "poor gentlemen."
Montlouis alone heard Christopher's remark, and he smiled sadly.
An instant afterward they heard steps rapidly approaching their room.
The door opened, and Christopher reappeared without any bottle in his hand.
"Well," said Pontcalec, "where is the wine?"
"Good news," cried Christopher, without answering Pontcalec's inquiry, "good news, gentlemen."
"What?" said Montlouis, starting. "Is the regent—dead?"
"And Bretagne in revolt?" asked Du Couëdic.
"No. I could not call that good news."
"Well, what is it then?" said Pontcalec.
"Monsieur de Chateauneuf has just ordered back to their barracks the hundred and fifty men who were under arms in the market-place, which had terrified everybody."
"Ah," said Montlouis, "I begin to believe it will not take place this evening."
At this moment the clock struck six.
"Well," said Pontcalec, "good news is no reason for our remaining thirsty; go and fetch our wine."
Christopher went out, and returned in ten minutes with a bottle.
The friends who were still at table filled their glasses.
"To Gaston's health," said Pontcalec, exchanging a meaning glance with his friends, to whom alone this toast was comprehensible.
And they emptied their glasses, all except Montlouis, who stopped as he was lifting his to his lips.
"Well, what is it?" said Pontcalec.
"The drum," said Montlouis, stretching out his hand in the direction where he heard the sound.
"Well," said Talhouet, "did you not hear what Christopher said? it is the troops returning."
"On the contrary, it is the troops going out; that is not a retreat, but the générale."
"The générale!" said Talhouet, "what on earth can that mean?"
"No good," said Montlouis, shaking his head.
"Christopher!" said Pontcalec, turning to the jailer.
"Yes, gentlemen, I will find out what it is," said he, "and be back in an instant."
He rushed out of the room, but not without carefully shutting the door behind him.
The four friends remained in anxious silence. After a lapse of ten minutes the door opened, and the jailer reappeared, pale with terror.
"A courier has just entered the castle court," said he; "he comes from Paris, he has delivered his dispatches, and immediately the guards were doubled, and the drums beat in all the barracks."
"Oh, oh," said Montlouis, "that concerns us."
"Some one is ascending the stairs," said the jailer, more pale and trembling than those to whom he spoke. In fact, they heard the butt ends of the muskets clanging on the stones of the corridor, and at the same time several voices were heard speaking hastily.
The door opened, and the usher reappeared.
"Gentlemen," said he, "how long do you desire to set your worldly affairs in order, and to undergo your sentence?"
A profound terror froze even the hearers.
"I desire," said Montlouis, "time forthe sentence to reach Paris and return, approved by the regent."
"I," said Talhouet, "only desire the time necessary for the commission to repent of its iniquity."
"As for me," said Du Couëdic, "I wish for time for the minister at Paris to commute the sentence into eight days' imprisonment, which we deserve for having acted somewhat thoughtlessly."
"And you," said the usher gravely, to Pontcalec, who was silent, "what do you ask?"
"I," said Pontcalec calmly, "I demand nothing."
"Then, gentlemen," said the usher, "this is the answer of the commission: you have two hours at your disposal to arrange your spiritual and temporal affairs; it is now half-past six, in two hours and a half you must be on the Place du Bouffay, where the execution will take place."
There was a profound silence; the bravest felt fear seizing the very roots of their hair.
The usher retired without any one having made any answer; only the condemned looked at each other, and pressed each other's hands.
They had two hours.
Two hours, in the ordinary course of life, seem sometimes an age, at others two hours are but a moment.
The priests arrived, after them the soldiers, then the executioners.
The situation was appalling. Pontcalec, alone, did not belie himself. Not that the others wanted courage, but they wanted hope; still Pontcalec reassured them by the calmness with which he addressed, not only the priests, but the executioners themselves.
They made the preparations for that terrible process called the toilet of the condemned. The four sufferers must proceed to the scaffold dressed in black cloaks, in order that in the eyes of the people, from whom they always feared some tumult, they might be confounded with the priests who exhorted them.
Then the question of tying their hands was discussed—an important question.
Pontcalec answered with his smile of sublime confidence.
"Oh, leave us at least our hands free; we will go without disturbance."
"That has nothing to do with us," replied the executioner who was attending to Pontcalec; "unless by special order, the rules are the same for all sufferers."
"And who gives these orders?" said Pontcalec, laughing, "the king?"
"No, marquis," answered the executioner, astonished by such unexampled presence of mind, "not the king, but our chief."
"And where is your chief?"
"That is he, talking with the jailer Christopher."
"Call him then," said Pontcalec.
"Ho, Monsieur Waters!" cried the executioner, "please to come this way; there is one of these gentlemen asking for you."
A thunderbolt falling in the midst of them would not have produced a more terrible effect upon the four gentlemen than did this name.