The next day she received the following answer:

"MY DEAREST,

"To-night, at eleven o'clock, you will descend and unlock the door, when you will find yourself in the arms of your faithful friend."

Oliva felt more charmed than with the most tender love-letter that she had ever received. At the appointed time she went down and met Jeanne, who embraced her tenderly, and made her get into a carriage that waited a little way off; they remained out two hours, and parted with kisses and protestations of affection. Jeanne learned the name of Oliva's protector; she feared this man, and determined to preserve the most perfect mystery as to her plans. Oliva had confided everything to her about Beausire, the police, and all. Jeanne gave herself out for a young lady of rank, living here secretly, without the knowledge of her friends. One knew all, the other nothing. From this day, then, it was no longer necessary to throw out notes; Jeanne had her key, and carried off Oliva whenever she pleased. "M. de Cagliostro suspects nothing?" she often asked Oliva.

"Oh! no," she would reply; "I do not think he would believe it if I told him."

A week passed thus.



CHAPTER LXIV.

THE RENDEZVOUS.

When Charny arrived at his estates, the doctor ordered him to keep within doors, and not receive visitors; orders which he rigorously obeyed, to the great disappointment of all the young ladies in the neighborhood, who were most anxious to see this young man, reputed to be at once so brave and so handsome. His malady, however, was more mental than bodily; he was devoured by regrets, by longings, and by ennui; so, after a week, he set off one night on horseback, and, before the morning, was at Versailles. He found a little house there, outside the park, which had been empty for some time; it had been inhabited by one of the king's huntsmen, who had cut his throat, and since then the place had been deserted. There Charny lived in profound solitude; but he could see the queen from afar when she walked in the park with her ladies, and when she went in again he could see her windows from his own, and watch her lights every evening until they disappeared; and he even fancied he could see her shadow pass before the window. One evening he had watched all this as usual, and after sitting two hours longer at his window, was preparing to go to bed, for midnight was striking from a neighboring clock, when the sound of a key turning in a lock arrested his attention. It was that of a little door leading into the park, only twenty paces from his cottage, and which was never used, except sometimes on hunting-days. Whoever it was that entered did not speak, but closed it again quietly, and entered an avenue under his windows. At first Charny could not distinguish them through the thick wood, though he could hear the rustling of dresses; but as they emerged into an open space, and bright moonlight, he almost uttered a cry of joy in recognizing the tournure of Marie Antoinette, and a glimpse of her face; she held in her hand a beautiful rose. Stifling his emotion, he stepped down as quietly as possible into the park, and hid behind a clump of trees, where he could see her better. "Oh!" thought he, "were she but alone, I would brave tortures, or death itself, that I might once fall on my knees before her, and tell her, 'I love you!'" Oh, were she but menaced by some danger, how gladly would he have risked his life to save hers. Suddenly the two ladies stopped, and the shortest, after saying a few words to her companion in a low voice, left her. The queen, therefore, remained alone, and Charny felt inclined to run towards her; but he reflected that the moment she saw him she would take fright, and call out, and that her cries would first bring back her companion, and then the guards; that his retreat would be discovered, and he should be forced to leave it. In a few minutes the other lady reappeared, but not alone. Behind her came a man muffled up in a large cloak, and whose face was concealed by a slouch hat.

This man advanced with an uncertain and hesitating step to where the queen stood, when he took off his hat and made a low bow. The surprise which Charny felt at first soon changed into a more painful feeling. Why was the queen in the park at this time of night? Who was this man who was waiting for her, and whom she had sent her companion to fetch? Then he remembered that the queen often occupied herself with foreign politics, much to the annoyance of the king. Was this a secret messenger from Schoenbrunn, or from Berlin? This idea restored him to some degree of composure. The queen's companion stood a few steps off, anxiously watching lest they should be seen; but it was as necessary to guard against spies in a secret political rendezvous as in one of love. After a short time Charny saw the gentleman bow to the ground, and turn to leave, when the companion of the queen said to him, "Stop." He stopped, and the two ladies passed close to Charny, who could even recognize the queen's favorite scent, vervain, mixed with mignonette. They passed on, and disappeared. A few moments after the gentleman passed; he held in his hand a rose, which he pressed passionately to his lips. Did this look political? Charny's head turned; he felt a strong impulse to rush on this man and tear the flower from him, when the queen's companion reappeared, and said, "Come, monseigneur." He joined her quickly, and they went away. Charny remained in a distracted state, leaning against the tree.



CHAPTER LXV.

THE QUEEN'S HAND.

When Charny reentered the house, he felt overwhelmed by what he had seen—that he should have discovered this retreat, which he had thought so precious, only to be the witness of a crime, committed by the queen against her conjugal duty and royal dignity. This man must be a lover; in vain did he try to persuade himself that the rose was the pledge of some political compact, given instead of a letter, which might have been too compromising. The passionate kiss which he had seen imprinted on it forbade this supposition. These thoughts haunted him all night and all the next day, through which he waited with a feverish impatience, fearing the new revelations which the night might bring forth. He saw her taking her ordinary walk with her ladies, then watched the lights extinguished one by one, and he waited nervously for the stroke of midnight, the hour of the rendezvous of the preceding night. It struck, and no one had appeared. He then wondered how he could have expected it; she surely would not repeat the same imprudence two nights following. But as these thoughts passed through his mind, he heard the key turn again and saw the door open. Charny grew deadly pale when he recognized the same two figures enter the park. "Oh, it is too much," he said to himself, and then repeated his movements of the night before, swearing that, whatever happened, he would restrain himself, and remember that she was his queen. All passed exactly as the night before: the confidante left and returned with the same man; only this time, instead of advancing with his former timid respect, he almost ran up to the queen, and kneeled down before her. Charny could not hear what he said, but he seemed to speak with passionate energy. She did not reply, but stood in a pensive attitude; then he spoke again, and at last she said a few words, in a low voice, when the unknown cried out, in a loud voice, so that Charny could hear, "Oh! thanks, your majesty, till to-morrow, then." The queen drew her hood still more over her face, and held out both her hands to the unknown, who imprinted on them a kiss so long and tender that Charny gnashed his teeth with rage. The queen then took the arm of her companion and walked quickly away; the unknown passed also. Charny remained in a state of fury not to be described; he ran about the park like a madman: at last he began to wonder where this man came from; he traced his steps to the door behind the baths of Apollo. He comes not from Versailles, but from Paris, thought Charny, and to-morrow he will return, for he said, "to-morrow." Till then let me devour my tears in silence, but to-morrow shall be the last day of my life, for we will be four at the rendezvous.



CHAPTER LXVI.

WOMAN AND QUEEN.

The next night the door opened at the same time, and the two ladies appeared. Charny had taken his resolution—he would find out who this lover was; but when he entered the avenue he could see no one—they had entered the baths of Apollo. He walked towards the door, and saw the confidante, who waited outside. The queen, then, was in there alone with her lover; it was too much. Charny was about to seize this woman, and force her to tell him everything; but the rage and emotion he had endured were too much for him—a mist passed over his eyes, internal bleeding commenced, and he fainted. When he came to himself again, the clock was striking two, the place was deserted, and there was no trace of what had passed there. He went home, and passed a night almost of delirium. The next morning he arose, pale as death, and went towards the Castle of Trianon just as the queen was leaving the chapel. All heads were respectfully lowered as she passed. She was looking beautiful, and when she saw Charny she colored, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"I thought you were in the country, M. de Charny," she said.

"I have returned, madame," said he, in a brusque and almost rude tone.

She looked at him in surprise; then, turning to the ladies, "Good morning, countess," she said to Madame de la Motte, who stood near.

Charny started as he caught sight of her, and looked at her almost wildly. "He has not quite recovered his reason," thought the queen, observing his strange manner. Then, turning to him again, "How are you now, M. de Charny?" said she, in a kind voice.

"Very well, madame."

She looked surprised again; then said:

"Where are you living?"

"At Versailles, madame."

"Since when?"

"For three nights," replied he, in a marked manner.

The queen manifested no emotion, but Jeanne trembled.

"Have you not something to say to me?" asked the queen again, with kindness.

"Oh, madame, I should have too much to say to your majesty."

"Come," said she, and she walked towards her apartments; but to avoid the appearance of a tete-a-tete, she invited several ladies to follow her. Jeanne, unquiet, placed herself among them; but when they arrived, she dismissed Madame de Misery, and the other ladies, understanding that she wished to be alone, left her. Charny stood before her.

"Speak," said the queen; "you appear troubled, sir."

"How can I begin?" said Charny, thinking aloud; "how can I dare to accuse honor and majesty?"

"Sir!" cried Marie Antoinette, with a flaming look.

"And yet I should only say what I have seen."

The queen rose. "Sir," said she, "it is very early in the morning for me to think you intoxicated, but I can find no other solution for this conduct."

Charny, unmoved, continued, "After all, what is a queen?—a woman. And am I not a man as well as a subject?"

"Monsieur!"

"Madame, anger is out of place now. I believe I have formerly proved that I had respect for your royal dignity. I fear I proved that I had an insane love for yourself. Choose, therefore, to whom I shall speak. Is it to the queen, or the woman, that I shall address my accusation of dishonor and shame?"

"Monsieur de Charny," cried the queen, growing pale, "if you do not leave this room, I must have you turned out by my guards!"

"But I will tell you first," cried he, passionately, "why I call you an unworthy queen and woman! I have been in the park these three nights!"

Instead of seeing her tremble, as he believed she would on hearing these words, the queen rose, and, approaching him, said, "M. de Charny, your state excites my pity. Your hands tremble, you grow pale; you are suffering. Shall I call for help?"

"I saw you!" cried he again; "saw you with that man to whom you gave the rose! saw you when he kissed your hands! saw you when you entered the baths of Apollo with him!"

The queen passed her hands over her eyes, as if to make sure that she was not dreaming.

"Sit down," said she, "or you will fall."

Charny, indeed, unable to keep up, fell upon the sofa.

She sat down by him. "Be calm," said she, "and repeat what you have just said."

"Do you want to kill me?" he murmured.

"Then let me question," she said. "How long have you returned from the country?"

"A fortnight."

"Where do you live?"

"In the huntsman's house, which I have hired."

"At the end of the park?"

"Yes."

"You speak of some one whom you saw with me."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In the park."

"When?"

"At midnight. Tuesday, for the first time, I saw you and your companion."

"Oh, I had a companion! Do you know her also?"

"I thought just now I recognized her, but I could not be positive, because it was only the figure—she always hid her face, like all who commit crimes."

"And this person to whom you say I gave a rose?"

"I have never been able to meet him."

"You do not know him, then?"

"Only that he is called monseigneur."

The queen stamped her foot.

"Go on!" said she. "Tuesday I gave him a rose——"

"Wednesday you gave him your hands to kiss, and yesterday you went alone with him into the baths of Apollo, while your companion waited outside."

"And you saw me?" said she, rising.

He lifted his hands to heaven, and cried, "I swear it!"

"Oh, he swears!"

"Yes. On Tuesday you wore your green dress, moiree, with gold; Wednesday, the dress with great blue and brown leaves; and yesterday, the same dress that you wore when I last kissed your hand. Oh, madame, I am ready to die with grief and shame while I repeat that, on my life, my honor, it was really you!"

"What can I say?" cried the queen dreadfully agitated. "If I swore, he would not believe me."

Charny shook his head.

"Madman!" cried she, "thus to accuse your queen—to dishonor thus an innocent woman! Do you believe me when I swear, by all I hold sacred, that I was not in the park on either of those days after four o'clock? Do you wish it to be proved by my women—by the king? No; he does not believe me."

"I saw you," replied he.

"Oh, I know!" she cried. "Did they not see me at the ball at the Opera, at Mesmer's, scandalizing the crowd? You know it—you, who fought for me!"

"Madame, then I fought because I did not believe it; now I might fight, but I believe."

The queen raised her arms to heaven, while burning tears rolled down her cheeks.

"My God," she cried, "send me some thought which will save me! I do not wish this man to despise me."

Charny, moved to the heart, hid his face in his hands.

Then, after a moment's silence, the queen continued:

"Sir, you owe me reparation. I exact this from you. You say you have seen me three nights with a man; I have been already injured through the resemblance to me of some woman, I know not whom, but who is like her unhappy queen; but you are pleased to think it was me. Well, I will go with you into the park; and if she appears again, you will be satisfied? Perhaps we shall see her together; then, sir, you will regret the suffering you have caused me."

Charny pressed his hands to his heart.

"Oh, madame, you overwhelm me with your kindness!"

"I wish to overwhelm you with proofs. Not a word, to any one, but this evening, at ten o'clock, wait alone at the door of the park. Now go, sir."

Charny kneeled, and went away without a word.

Jeanne, who was waiting in the ante-chamber, examined him attentively as he came out. She was soon after summoned to the queen.



CHAPTER LXVII.

WOMAN AND DEMON.

Jeanne had remarked the trouble of Charny, the solicitude of the queen, and the eagerness of both for a conversation.

After what we have already told of the meetings between Jeanne and Oliva, our readers will have been at no loss to understand the scenes in the park. Jeanne, when she came in to the queen, watched her closely, hoping to gather something from her; but Marie Antoinette was beginning to learn caution, and she guarded herself carefully. Jeanne was, therefore, reduced to conjectures. She had already ordered one of her footmen to follow M. de Charny; the man reported that he had gone into a house at the end of the park.

"There is, then, no more doubt," thought Jeanne; "it is a lover who has seen everything, it is clear. I should be a fool not to understand. I must undo what I have done."

On leaving Versailles, she drove to the Rue St. Claude; there she found a superb present of plate, sent to her by the cardinal. She then drove to his house, and found him radiant with joy and pride. On her entrance he ran to meet her, calling her "Dear countess," and full of protestations and gratitude.

"Thank you also, for your charming present. You are more than a happy man; you are a triumphant victor."

"Countess, it frightens me; it is too much."

Jeanne smiled.

"You come from Versailles?" continued he.

"Yes."

"You have seen her?"

"I have just left her."

"And she said nothing?"

"What do you expect that she said?"

"Oh, I am insatiable."

"Well, you had better not ask."

"You frighten me. Is anything wrong? Have I come to the height of my happiness, and is the descent to begin?"

"You are very fortunate not to have been discovered."

"Oh! with precautions, and the intelligence of two hearts and one mind——"

"That will not prevent eyes seeing through the trees."

"We have been seen?"

"I fear so."

"And recognized?"

"Oh, monseigneur, if you had been—if this secret had been known to any one, Jeanne de Valois would be out of the kingdom, and you would be dead."

"True; but tell me quickly. They have seen people walking in the park; is there any harm in that?"

"Ask the king."

"The king knows?"

"I repeat to you, if the king knew, you would be in the Bastile. But I advise you not to tempt Providence again."

"What do you mean, dear countess?"

"Do you not understand?"

"I fear to understand," he replied.

"I shall fear, if you do not promise to go no more to Versailles."

"By day?"

"Or by night."

"Impossible!"

"Why so, monseigneur?"

"Because I have in my heart a love which will end only with my life."

"So I perceive," replied she, ironically; "and it is to arrive more quickly at this result that you persist in returning to the park; for most assuredly, if you do, your love and your life will end together."

"Oh, countess, how fearful you are—you who were so brave yesterday!"

"I am always brave when there is no danger."

"But I have the bravery of my race, and am happier in the presence of danger."

"But permit me to tell you——"

"No, countess, the die is cast. Death, if it comes; but first, love. I shall return to Versailles."

"Alone, then."

"You abandon me?"

"And not I alone."

"She will come?"

"You deceive yourself; she will not come."

"Is that what you were sent to tell me?"

"It is what I have been preparing you for."

"She will see me no more?"

"Never; and it is I who have counseled it."

"Madame, do not plunge the knife into my heart!" cried he, in a doleful voice.

"It would be much more cruel, monseigneur, to let two foolish people destroy themselves for want of a little good advice."

"Countess, I would rather die."

"As regards yourself, that is easy; but, subject, you dare not dethrone your queen; man, you will not destroy a woman."

"But confess that you do not come in her name, that she does not throw me off."

"I speak in her name."

"It is only a delay she asks?"

"Take it as you wish; but obey her orders."

"The park is not the only place of meeting. There are a hundred safer spots—the queen can come to you, for instance."

"Monseigneur, not a word more. The weight of your secret is too much for me, and I believe her capable, in a fit of remorse, of confessing all to the king."

"Good God! impossible."

"If you saw her, you would pity her."

"What can I do then?"

"Insure your safety by your silence."

"But she will think I have forgotten her, and accuse me of being a coward."

"To save her."

"Can a woman forgive him who abandons her?"

"Do not judge her like others."

"I believe her great and strong. I love her for her courage and her noble heart. She may count on me, as I do on her. Once more I will see her, lay bare my heart to her; and whatever she then commands, I will sacredly obey."

Jeanne rose. "Go, then," said she, "but go alone. I have thrown the key of the park into the river. You can go to Versailles—I shall go to Switzerland or Holland. The further off I am when the shell bursts the better."

"Countess, you abandon me. With whom shall I talk of her?"

"Oh! you have the park and the echoes. You can teach them her name!"

"Countess, pity me; I am in despair."

"Well, but do not act in so childish and dangerous a manner. If you love her so much, guard her name, and if you are not totally without gratitude, do not involve in your own ruin those who have served you through friendship. Swear to me not to attempt to see or speak to her for a fortnight, and I will remain, and may yet be of service to you. But if you decide to brave all, I shall leave at once, and you must extricate yourself as you can."

"It is dreadful," murmured the cardinal; "the fall from so much happiness is overwhelming. I shall die of it."

"Suffering is always the consequence of love. Come, monseigneur, decide. Am I to remain here, or start for Lausanne?"

"Remain, countess."

"You swear to obey me."

"On the faith of a Rohan."

"Good. Well, then, I forbid interviews, but not letters."

"Really! I may write?"

"Yes."

"And she will answer."

"Try."

The cardinal kissed Jeanne's hand again, and called her his guardian angel. The demon within her must have laughed.



CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE NIGHT.

That day, at four o'clock, a man on horseback stopped in the outskirts of the park, just behind the baths of Apollo, where M. de Rohan used to wait. He got off, and looked at the places where the grass had been trodden down. "Here are the traces," thought he; "it is as I supposed. M. de Charny has returned for a fortnight, and this is where he enters the park." And he sighed. "Leave him to his happiness. God gives to one, and denies to another. But I will have proof to-night. I will hide in the bushes, and see what happens."

As for Charny, obedient to the queen's commands, he waited for orders; but it was half-past ten, and no one appeared. He waited with impatient anxiety. Then he began to think she had deceived him, and had promised what she did not mean to perform. "How could I be so foolish—I, who saw her—to be taken in by her words and promises!" At last he saw a figure approaching, wrapped in a large black mantle, and he uttered a cry of joy, for he recognized the queen. He ran to her, and fell at her feet.

"Ah, here you are, sir! it is well."

"Ah, madame! I scarcely hoped you were coming."

"Have you your sword?"

"Yes, madame."

"Where do you say those people came in?"

"By this door."

"At what time?"

"At midnight each time."

"There is no reason why they should not come again to-night. You have not spoken to any one."

"To no one."

"Come into the thick wood, and let us watch, I have not spoken of this to M. de Crosne. I have already mentioned this creature to him, and if she be not arrested, he is either incapable, or in league with my enemies. It seems incredible that any one should dare to play such tricks under my eyes, unless they were sure of impunity. Therefore, I think it is time to take the care of my reputation on myself. What do you think?"

"Oh, madame! allow me to be silent! I am ashamed of all I have said."

"At least you are an honest man," replied the queen, "and speak to the accused face to face. You do not stab in the dark."

"Oh, madame, it is eleven o'clock! I tremble."

"Look about, that no one is here."

Charny obeyed.

"No one," said he.

"Where did the scenes pass that you have described?"

"Oh, madame! I had a shock when I returned to you; for she stood just where you are at this moment."

"Here!" cried the queen, leaving the place with disgust.

"Yes, madame; under the chestnut tree."

"Then, sir, let us move, for they will most likely come here again."

He followed the queen to a different place. She, silent and proud, waited for the proof of her innocence to appear. Midnight struck. The door did not open. Half an hour passed, during which the queen asked ten times if they had always been punctual.

Three-quarters struck—the queen stamped with impatience. "They will not come," she cried; "these misfortunes only happen to me;" and she looked at Charny, ready to quarrel with him, if she saw any expression of triumph or irony: but he, as his suspicions began to return, grew so pale and looked so melancholy, that he was like the figure of a martyr.

At last she took his arm, and led him under the chestnut tree. "You say," she murmured, "that it was here you saw her?"

"Yes, madame."

"Here that she gave the rose?" And the queen, fatigued and wearied with waiting and disappointment leaned against the tree, and covered her face with her hands, but Charny could see the tears stealing through. At last she raised her head:

"Sir," said she, "I am condemned. I promised to prove to you to-day that I was calumniated; God does not permit it, and I submit. I have done what no other woman, not to say queen, would have done. What a queen! who cannot reign over one heart, who cannot obtain the esteem of one honest man. Come, sir, give me your arm, if you do not despise me too much."

"Oh, madame!" cried he, falling at her feet, "if I were only an unhappy man who loves you, could you not pardon me?"

"You!" cried she, with a bitter laugh, "you love me! and believe me infamous!"

"Oh, madame!"

"You accuse me of giving roses, kisses, and love. No, sir, no falsehoods! you do not love me."

"Madame, I saw these phantoms. Pity me, for I am on the rack."

She took his hands. "Yes, you saw, and you think it was I. Well, if here under this same tree, you at my feet, I press your hands, and say to you, 'M, de Charny, I love you, I have loved, and shall love no one else in this world, may God pardon me'—will that convince you? Will you believe me then?" As she spoke, she came so close to him that he felt her breath on his lips. "Oh!" cried Charny, "now I am ready to die."

"Give me your arm," said she, "and teach me where they went, and where she gave the rose,"—and she took from her bosom a rose and held it to him. He took it and pressed it to his heart.

"Then," continued she, "the other gave him her hand to kiss."

"Both her hands," cried Charny, pressing his burning lips passionately on hers.

"Now they visited, the baths—so will we; follow me to the place." He followed her, like a man in a strange, happy dream. They looked all round, then opened the door, and walked through. Then they came out again: two o'clock struck. "Adieu," said she; "go home until to-morrow." And she walked away quickly towards the chateau.

When they were gone, a man rose from among the bushes. He had heard and seen all.



CHAPTER LXIX.

THE CONGE.

The queen went to mass the next day, which was Sunday, smiling and beautiful. When she woke in the morning she said, "It is a lovely day, it makes me happy only to live." She seemed full of joy, and was generous and gracious to every one. The road was lined as usual on her return with ladies and gentlemen. Among them were Madame de la Motte and M. de Charny, who was complimented by many friends on his return, and on his radiant looks. Glancing round, he saw Philippe standing near him, whom he had not seen since the day of the duel.

"Gentlemen," said Charny, passing through the crowd, "allow me to fulfil an act of politeness;" and, advancing towards Philippe, he said, "Allow me, M. de Taverney, to thank you now for the interest you have taken in my health. I shall have the honor to pay you a visit to-morrow. I trust you preserve no enmity towards me."

"None, sir," replied Philippe.

Charny held out his hand, but Philippe, without seeming to notice it, said, "Here comes the queen, sir." As she approached, she fixed her looks on Charny with that rash openness which she always showed in her affections, while she said to several gentlemen who were pressing round her, "Ask me what you please, gentlemen, for to-day I can refuse nothing." A voice said, "Madame." She turned, and saw Philippe, and thus found herself between two men, of whom she almost reproached herself with loving one too much and the other too little.

"M. de Taverney, you have something to ask me; pray speak——"

"Only ten minutes' audience at your majesty's leisure," replied he, with grave solemnity.

"Immediately, sir—follow me." A quarter of an hour after, Philippe was introduced into the library, where the queen waited for him.

"Ah! M. de Taverney, enter," said she in a gay tone, "and do not look so sorrowful. Do you know I feel rather frightened whenever a Taverney asks for an audience. Reassure me quickly, and tell me that you are not come to announce a misfortune."

"Madame, this time I only bring you good news."

"Oh! some news."

"Alas, yes, your majesty."

"There! an 'alas' again."

"Madame, I am about to assure your majesty that you need never again fear to be saddened by the sight of a Taverney; for, madame, the last of this family, to whom you once deigned to show some kindness, is about to leave the court of France forever."

The queen, dropping her gay tone, said, "You leave us?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"You also!"

Philippe bowed. "My sister, madame, has already had that grief; I am much more useless to your majesty."

The queen started as she remembered that Andree had asked for her conge on the day following her first visit to Charny in the doctor's apartments. "It is strange," she murmured, as Philippe remained motionless as a statue, waiting his dismissal. At last she said abruptly, "Where are you going?"

"To join M. de la Perouse, madame."

"He is at Newfoundland."

"I have prepared to join him there."

"Do you know that a frightful death has been predicted for him?"

"A speedy one," replied Philippe; "that is not necessarily a frightful one."

"And you are really going?"

"Yes, madame, to share his fate."

The queen was silent for a time, and then said, "Why do you go?"

"Because I am anxious to travel."

"But you have already made the tour of the world."

"Of the New World, madame, but not of the Old."

"A race of iron, with hearts of steel, are you Taverneys. You and your sister are terrible people—you go not for the sake of traveling, but to leave me. Your sister said she was called by religions duty; it was a pretext. However, she wished to go, and she went. May she be happy! You might be happy here, but you also wish to go away."

"Spare us, I pray you, madame; if you could read our hearts, you would find them full of unlimited devotion towards you."

"Oh!" cried the queen, "you are too exacting; she takes the world for a heaven, where one should only live as a saint; you look upon it as a hell—and both fly from it; she because she finds what she does not seek, and you because you do not find what you do seek. Am I not right? Ah! M. de Taverney, allow human beings to be imperfect, and do not expect royalty to be superhuman. Be more tolerant, or, rather, less egotistical." She spoke earnestly, and continued: "All I know is, that I loved Andree, and that she left me; that I valued you, and you are about to do the same. It is humiliating to see two such people abandon my court."

"Nothing can humiliate persons like your majesty. Shame does not reach those placed so high."

"What has wounded you?" asked the queen.

"Nothing, madame."

"Your rank has been raised, your fortune was progressing."

"I can but repeat to your majesty that the court does not please me."

"And if I ordered you to stay here?"

"I should have the grief of disobeying your majesty."

"Oh! I know," cried she impatiently, "you bear malice; you quarreled with a gentleman here, M. de Charny, and wounded him; and because you see him returned to-day, you are jealous, and wish to leave."

Philippe turned pale, but replied, "Madame, I saw him sooner than you imagine, for I met him at two o'clock this morning by the baths of Apollo."

It was now the queen's time to grow pale, but she felt a kind of admiration for one who had retained so much courtesy and self-command in the midst of his anger and grief. "Go," murmured she at length, in a faint voice, "I will keep you no longer."

Philippe bowed, and left the room, while the queen sank, terrified and overwhelmed, on the sofa.



CHAPTER LXX.

THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL.

The cardinal passed three nights very different to those when he went to the park, and which he constantly lived over again in his memory. No news of any one, no hope of a visit; nothing but a dead silence, and perfect darkness, after such brightness and happiness. He began to fear that, after all, his sacrifice had been displeasing to the queen. His uneasiness became insupportable. He sent ten times in one day to Madame de la Motte: the tenth messenger brought Jeanne to him. On seeing her he cried out, "How! you live so tranquilly; you know my anxiety, and you, my friend, never come near me."

"Oh, monseigneur, patience, I beg. I have been far more useful to you at Versailles than I could have been here."

"Tell me," replied he, "what does she say? Is she less cruel?"

"Absence is equal pain, whether borne at Versailles or at Paris."

"Oh, I thank you, but the proofs——"

"Proofs! Are you in your senses, monseigneur, to ask a woman for proofs of her own infidelity?"

"I am not speaking of proofs for a lawsuit, countess, only a token of love."

"It seems to me that you are either very exacting or very forgetful."

"Oh! I know you will tell me that I might be more than satisfied. But judge by yourself, countess; would you like to be thrown on one side, after having received assurances of favor?"

"Assurances!"

"Oh, certainly, I have nothing to complain of, but still——"

"I cannot be answerable for unreasonable discontents."

"Countess, you treat me ill. Instead of reproaching me for my folly, you should try to aid me."

"I cannot aid you. I see nothing to do."

"Nothing to do?"

"No."

"Well, madame, I do not say the same."

"Ah, monseigneur, anger will not help you; and besides, you are unjust."

"No, countess; if you do not assist me any longer, I know it is because you cannot. Only tell me the truth at once."

"What truth?"

"That the queen is a perfidious coquette, who makes people adore her, and then drives them to despair."

Jeanne looked at him with an air of surprise, although she had expected him to arrive at this state, and she felt really pleased, for she thought that it would help her out of her difficult position. "Explain yourself," she said.

"Confess that the queen refuses to see me."

"I do not say so, monseigneur."

"She wishes to keep me away lest I should rouse the suspicions of some other lover."

"Ah, monseigneur!" cried Jeanne in a tone which gave him liberty to suspect anything.

"Listen," continued he; "the last time I saw her, I thought I heard steps in the wood——"

"Folly!"

"And I suspect——"

"Say no more, monseigneur. It is an insult to the queen; besides, even if it were true that she fears the surveillance of another lover, why should you reproach her with a past which she has sacrificed to you?"

"But if this past be again a present, and about to be a future?"

"Fie, monseigneur, your suspicions are offensive both to the queen and to me."

"Then, countess, bring me a proof—does she love me at all?"

"It is very simple," replied Jeanne, pointing to his writing table, "to ask her."

"You will give her a note?"

"Who else would, if not I?"

"And you will bring me an answer?"

"If possible."

"Ah! now you are a good creature, countess."

He sat down, but though he was an eloquent writer, he commenced and destroyed a dozen sheets of paper before he satisfied himself.

"If you go on so, you will never have done," said Jeanne.

"You see, countess, I fear my own tenderness, lest I displease the queen."

"Oh," replied Jeanne, "if you write a business letter, you will get one in reply. That is your own affair."

"You are right, countess; you always see what is best." He then wrote a letter, so full of loving reproaches and ardent protestations, that Jeanne, when he gave it to her to read, thought, "He has written of his own accord what I never should have dared to dictate."

"Will it do?" asked he.

"If she loves you. You will see to-morrow: till then be quiet."

"Till to-morrow, then."

On her return home Jeanne gave way to her reflections. This letter was just what she wanted. How could the cardinal ever accuse her, when he was called on to pay for the necklace? Even admitting that the queen and cardinal met, and that everything was explained, how could they turn against her while she held in her hands such proofs of a scandalous secret? No, they must let her go quietly off with her fortune of a million and a half of francs. They would know she had stolen the diamonds, but they never would publish all this affair; and if one letter was not enough, she would have seven or eight. The first explosion would come from the jewelers, who would claim their money. Then she must confess to M. de Rohan, and make him pay by threatening to publish his letters. Surely they would purchase the honor of a queen and a prince at the price of a million and a half! The jewelers once paid, that question was at an end; Jeanne felt sure of her fortune. She knew that the cardinal had a conviction so firm that nothing could shake it, that he had met the queen. There was but one living witness against her, and that one she would soon cause to disappear. Arrived at this point, she went to the window and saw Oliva, who was watching in her balcony. She made the accustomed sign for her to come down, and Oliva replied joyfully. The great thing now was to get rid of her. To destroy the instrument that has served them in the constant endeavor of those who intrigue; but here it is that they generally fail; they do not succeed in doing so before there has been time to disclose the secret. Jeanne knew that Oliva would not be easy to get rid of, unless she could think of something that would induce her to fly willingly. Oliva, on her part, much as she enjoyed her nocturnal promenades at first, after so much confinement, was already beginning to weary of them, and to sigh once more for liberty and Beausire.

The night came, and they went out together; Oliva disguised under a large cloak and hood, and Jeanne dressed as a grisette; besides which the carriage bore the respectable arms of Valois, which prevented the police, who alone might have recognized Oliva, from searching it.

"Oh! I have been so ennuyee," cried Oliva, "I have been expecting you so long."

"It was impossible to come and see you, I should have run, and made you run, a great danger."

"How so?" said Oliva, astonished.

"A terrible danger at which I still tremble. You know how ennuyee you were, and how much you wished to go out."

"Yes; and you assisted me like a friend."

"Certainly; I proposed that we should have some amusement with that officer who is rather mad, and in love with the queen, whom you resemble a little; and endeavor to persuade him that it was the queen he was walking with."

"Yes," said Oliva.

"The first two nights you walked in the park, and you played your part to perfection; he was quite taken in."

"Yes," said Oliva, "but it was almost a pity to deceive him, poor fellow, he was so delightful."

"Yes, but the evil is not there. To give a man a rose, to let him kiss your hands, and call you 'your majesty,' was all good fun; but, my little Oliva, it seems you did not stop here."

Oliva colored.

"How?" stammered she.

"There was a third interview."

"Yes," replied Oliva, hastily, "you know, for you were there."

"Excuse me, dear friend; I was there, but at a distance. I neither saw nor heard what passed within, I only know what you told me, that he talked and kissed your hands."

"Oh, mon Dieu!" murmured Oliva.

"You surely could not have exposed us both to such a terrible danger without telling me of it."

Oliva trembled from head to foot.

Jeanne continued. "How could I imagine that you, who said you loved M. Beausire, and were courted by a man like Count Cagliostro, whom you refused; oh! it cannot be true."

"But where is the danger?" asked Oliva.

"The danger! Have we not to manage a madman, one who fears nothing, and will not be controlled. It was no great thing for the queen to give him her hand to kiss or to give him a rose; oh, my dear child, I have not smiled since I heard this."

"What do you fear?" asked Oliva, her teeth chattering with terror.

"Why, as you are not the queen, and have taken her name, and in her name have committed a folly of this kind, that is unfortunately treason. He has no proof of this—they may be satisfied with a prison or banishment."

"A prison! banishment!" shrieked Oliva.

"I, at least, intend to take precautions and hide myself."

"You fear also?"

"Oh! will not this madman divulge my share also? My poor Oliva, this trick of yours will cost us dear."

Oliva burst into tears.

"Oh!" she cried, "I think I am possessed of a demon, that I can never rest: just saved from one danger, I must rush into another. Suppose I confess all to my protector?"

"A fine story to confess to him, whose advances you refused, that you have committed this imprudence with a stranger."

"Mon Dieu! you are right."

"Soon this report will spread, and will reach his ears; then do you not think he will give you up to the police? Even if he only send you away, what will become of you?"

"Oh! I am lost."

"And M. Beausire, when he shall hear this——?"

Oliva started, and wringing her hands violently, cried out, "Oh, he would kill me; but no, I will kill myself. You cannot save me, since you are compromised also."

"I have," replied Jeanne, "in the furthest part of Picardy, a little farm. If you can gain this refuge, you might be safe."

"But you?"

"Oh, once you were gone, I should not fear him."

"I will go whenever you like."

"I think you are wise."

"Must I go at once?"

"Wait till I have prepared everything to insure safety; meanwhile, hide yourself, and do not come near the window."

"Oh yes, dear friend."

"And to begin, let us go home, as there is no more to say."

"How long will your preparations take?"

"I do not know, but remember henceforth, until the day of your departure I shall not come to the window. When you see me there, you will know that the day has arrived, and be prepared."

They returned in silence. On arriving, Oliva begged pardon humbly of her friend for bringing her into so much danger through her folly.

"I am a woman," replied Jeanne, "and can pardon a woman's weakness."



CHAPTER LXXI.

THE FLIGHT.

Oliva kept her promise, and Jeanne also. Oliva hid herself from every one, and Jeanne made her preparations, and in a few days made her appearance at the window as a sign to Oliva to be ready that evening for flight.

Oliva, divided between joy and terror, began immediately to prepare. Jeanne went to arrange about the carriage that was to convey her away. Eleven o'clock at night had just struck when Jeanne arrived with a post-chaise to which three strong horses were harnessed. A man wrapped in a cloak sat on the box, directing the postilions. Jeanne made them stop at the corner of the street, saying, "Remain here—half an hour will suffice—and then I will bring the person whom you are to conduct with all possible speed to Amiens. There you will give her into the care of the farmer who is my tenant; he has his instructions."

"Yes, madame."

"I forgot—are you armed? This lady is menaced by a madman; he might, perhaps, try to stop her on the road."

"What should I do?"

"Fire on any one who tries to impede your journey."

"Yes, madame."

"You asked me seventy louis; I will give you a hundred, and will pay the expenses of the voyage which you had better make to London. Do not return here; it is more prudent for you to go to St. Valery, and embark at once for England."

"Rely on me, madame."

"Well, I will go and bring the lady."

All seemed asleep in that quiet house. Jeanne lighted the lamp which was to be the signal to Oliva, but received no answering sign. "She will come down in the dark," thought Jeanne; and she went to the door, but it did not open. Oliva was perhaps bringing down her packages. "The fool!" murmured the countess, "how much time she is wasting over her rubbish!" She waited a quarter of an hour—no one came; then half-past eleven struck. "Perhaps she did not see my signal," thought Jeanne; and she went up and lighted it again, but it was not acknowledged. "She must be ill," cried Jeanne, in a rage, "and cannot move." Then she took the key which Oliva had given her; but just as she was about to open the door, she thought, "Suppose some one should be there? But I should hear voices on the staircase, and could return. I must risk something." She went up, and on arriving outside Oliva's door she saw a light inside and heard footsteps, but no voices. "It is all right," she thought; "she was only a long time getting ready." "Oliva," said she softly, "open the door." The door opened, and Jeanne found herself face to face with a man holding a torch in his hand.

"Oliva," said he, "is this you?" Then, with a tone of admirably-feigned surprise, cried, "Madame de la Motte!"

"M. de Cagliostro!" said she in terror, feeling half inclined to run away; but he took her hand politely, and begged her to sit down.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, madame?"

"Monsieur," said she, stammering, "I came—I sought——"

"Allow me, madame, to inquire which of my servants was guilty of the rudeness of letting you come up unattended?"

Jeanne trembled.

"You must have fallen to the lot of my stupid German porter, who is always tipsy."

"Do not scold him, I beg you, sir," replied Jeanne, who could hardly speak.

"But was it he?"

"I believe so. But you promise me not to scold him?"

"I will not; only, madame, will you now explain to me——"

Jeanne began to gather courage.

"I came to consult you, sir, about certain reports."

"What reports?"

"Do not hurry me, sir; it is a delicate subject."

"Ah! you want time to invent," thought he.

"You are a friend of M. le Cardinal de Rohan?"

"I am acquainted with him, madame."

"Well, I came to ask you——"

"What?"

"Oh, sir, you must know that he has shown me much kindness, and I wish to know if I may rely upon it. You understand me, sir? You read all hearts."

"You must be a little more explicit before I can assist you, madame."

"Monsieur, they say that his eminence loves elsewhere in a high quarter."

"Madame, allow me first to ask you one question. How did you come to seek me here, since I do not live here?" Jeanne trembled. "How did you get in?—for there are neither porter nor servants in this part of my hotel. It could not be me you sought here—who was it? You do not reply; I must aid you a little. You came in by the help of a key which you have now in your pocket. You came to seek a young woman whom from pure kindness I had concealed here."

Jeanne trembled visibly, but replied, "If it were so, it is no crime; one woman is permitted to visit another. Call her; she will tell you if my friendship is a hurtful one."

"Madame, you say that because you know she is not here."

"Not here! Oliva not here?"

"Oh you do not know that—you, who helped her to escape!"

"I!" cried Jeanne; "you accuse me of that?"

"I convict you," replied Cagliostro; and he took a paper from the table, and showed her the following words, addressed to himself:

"MONSIEUR, and my generous protector, forgive me for leaving you; but above all things I love M. Beausire. He came and I follow him. Adieu! Believe in my gratitude!"

"Beausire!" cried Jeanne, petrified; "he, who did not even know her address?"

"Oh, madame, here is another paper, which was doubtless dropped by M. Beausire." The countess read, shuddering:

"M. Beausire will find Mademoiselle Oliva, Rue St. Claude, at the corner of the boulevard. He had better come for her at once; it is time. This is the advice of a sincere friend."

"Oh!" groaned the countess.

"And he has taken her away," said Cagliostro.

"But who wrote this note?"

"Doubtless yourself."

"But how did he get in?"

"Probably with your key."

"But as I have it here, he could not have it."

"Whoever has one can easily have two."

"You are convinced," replied she, "while I can only suspect." She turned and went away, but found the staircase lighted and filled with men-servants. Cagliostro called out loudly before them, "Madame la Comtesse de la Motte!" She went out full of rage and disappointment.



CHAPTER LXXII.

THE LETTER AND THE RECEIPT.

The day arrived for the payment of the first 500,000 francs. The jewelers had prepared a receipt, but no one came with the money in exchange for it. They passed the day and night in a state of cruel anxiety. The following day M. Boehmer went to Versailles, and asked to see the queen; he was told that he could not be admitted without a letter of audience. However, he begged so hard, and urged his solicitations so well among the servants, that they consented to place him in the queen's way when she went out. Marie Antoinette, still full of joy from her interview with Charny, came along, looking bright and happy, when she caught sight of the somewhat solemn face of M. Boehmer. She smiled on him, which he took for a favorable sign, and asked for an audience, which was promised him for two o'clock. On his return to Bossange, they agreed that no doubt the money was all right, only the queen had been unable to send it the day before. At two o'clock Boehmer returned to Versailles.

"What is it now, M. Boehmer?" asked the queen, as he entered. Boehmer thought some one must be listening, and looked cautiously around him.

"Have you any secret to tell?" asked the queen, in surprise. "The same as before, I suppose—some jewels to sell. But make yourself easy; no one can hear you."

"Ahem!" murmured Boehmer, startled at his reception.

"Well, what?"

"Then I may speak out to your majesty?"

"Anything; only be quick."

"I only wished to say that your majesty probably forgot us yesterday."

"Forgot you! what do you mean?"

"Yesterday the sum was due——"

"What sum?"

"Pardon me, your majesty, if I am indiscreet. Perhaps your majesty is not prepared. It would be a misfortune; but still——"

"But," interrupted the queen, "I do not understand a word of what you are saying. Pray explain yourself."

"Yesterday the first payment for the necklace was due."

"Have you sold it, then?"

"Certainly, your majesty," replied Boehmer, looking stupefied.

"And those to whom you have sold it have not paid, my poor Boehmer? So much the worse; but they must do as I did, and, if they cannot pay, send it you back again."

The jeweler staggered like a man who had just had a sunstroke. "I do not understand your majesty," he said.

"Why, Boehmer, if ten purchasers were each to send it back, and give you 100,000 francs, as I did, you would make a million, and keep your necklace also."

"Your majesty says," cried Boehmer, ready to drop, "that you sent me back the necklace!"

"Certainly. What is the matter?"

"What! your majesty denies having bought the necklace?"

"Ah! what comedy is this, sir?" said the queen, severely. "Is this unlucky necklace destined to turn some one's brain?"

"But did your majesty really say that you had returned the necklace?"

"Happily," replied the queen, "I can refresh your memory, as you are so forgetful, to say nothing more." She went to her secretaire, and, taking out the receipt, showed it to him, saying, "I suppose this is clear enough?"

Boehmer's expression changed from incredulity to terror. "Madame," cried he, "I never signed this receipt!"

"You deny it!" said the queen, with flashing eyes.

"Positively, if I lose my life for it. I never received the necklace; I never signed the receipt. Were the headsman here, or the gallows, I would repeat the same thing!"

"Then, sir," said the queen, "do you think I have robbed you? do you think I have your necklace?"

Boehmer drew out a pocket-book, and in his turn produced a letter. "I do not believe," said he, "that if your majesty had wished to return the necklace, you would have written this."

"I write! I never wrote to you; that is not my writing."

"It is signed," said Boehmer.

"Yes, 'Marie Antoinette of France.' You are mad! Do you think that is the way I sign? I am of Austria. Go, M. Boehmer; you have played this game unskilfully; your forgers have not understood their work."

"My forgers!" cried the poor Boehmer, ready to faint at this new blow. "You suspect me?"

"You accuse me, Marie Antoinette?" replied she.

"But this letter?"

"This receipt? Give it me back, and take your letter; the first lawyer you ask will tell you how much that is worth." And taking the receipt from his trembling hands, and throwing the letter indignantly down, she left the room.

The unfortunate man ran to communicate this dreadful blow to his partner, who was waiting in the carriage for him; and on their way home their gestures and cries of grief were so frantic as to attract the attention of every passer-by. At last they decided to return to Versailles.

Immediately they presented themselves they were admitted by the order of the queen.



CHAPTER LXXIII.

"Roi ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis."[B]

[B] The motto of the Rohans.

"Ah!" cried the queen, immediately they entered, "you have brought a reinforcement, M. Boehmer; so much the better."

Boehmer kneeled at her feet, and Bossange followed his example.

"Gentlemen," said she, "I have now grown calm, and an idea has come into my head which has modified my opinion with regard to you. It seems to me that we have both been duped."

"Ah, madame, you suspect me no longer. Forger was a dreadful word."

"No, I do not suspect you now."

"Does your majesty suspect any one else?"

"Reply to my questions. You say you have not these diamonds?"

"No, madame, we have not."

"It then matters little to you that I sent them—that is my affair. Did you not see Madame de la Motte?"

"Yes, madame."

"And she gave you nothing from me?"

"No, madame; she only said to us, 'Wait.'"

"But this letter—who brought it?"

"An unknown messenger, during the night."

She rang, and a servant entered.

"Send for Madame de la Motte. And," continued the queen to M. Boehmer, "did you see M. de Rohan?"

"Yes, madame; he paid us a visit in order to ask."

"Good!" said the queen. "I wish to hear no more now; but if he be mixed up with this affair, I think you need not despair. I think I can guess what Madame de la Motte meant by saying 'Wait.' Meanwhile, go to M. de Rohan, and tell him all you have told us, and that I know it."

The jewelers had a renewed spark of hope; only Bossange said that the receipt was a false one, and that that was a crime.

"True," replied Marie Antoinette, "if you did not write it, it is a crime; but to prove this I must confront you with the person whom I charged to return you the jewels."

"Whenever your majesty pleases; we do not fear the test."

"Go first to M. de Rohan; he alone can enlighten you."

"And will your majesty permit us to bring you his answer?"

"Yes; but I dare say I shall know all before you do."

When they were gone she was restless and unquiet, and despatched courier after courier for Madame de la Motte.

We will, however, leave her for the present, and follow the jewelers in their search after the truth.

The cardinal was at home, reading, with a rage impossible to describe, a little note which Madame de la Motte had just sent him, as she said, from Versailles. It was harsh, forbidding any hope, ordering him to think no more of the past, not to appear again at Versailles, and ending with an appeal to his loyalty not to attempt to renew relations which were become impossible.

"Coquette, capricious, perfidious!" cried he. "Here are four letters which she has written to me, each more unjust and tyrannical than the other. She encouraged me only for a caprice, and now sacrifices me to a new one."

It was at this moment that the jewelers presented themselves. Three times he refused them admittance, and each time the servant came back, saying that they would not go without an audience. "Let them come in, then," said he.

"What means this rudeness, gentlemen? No one owes you anything here."

The jewelers, driven to despair, made a half-menacing gesture.

"Are you mad?" asked the cardinal.

"Monseigneur," replied Boehmer, with a sigh, "do us justice, and do not compel us to be rude to an illustrious prince."

"Either you are not mad, in which case my servants shall throw you out of the window; or you are mad, and they shall simply push you out of the door."

"Monseigneur, we are not mad, but we have been robbed."

"What is that to me? I am not lieutenant of police."

"But you have had the necklace in your hands, and in justice——"

"The necklace! is it the necklace that is stolen?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Well, what does the queen say about it?"

"She sent me to you."

"She is very amiable; but what can I do, my poor fellows?"

"You can tell us, monseigneur, what has been done with it."

"I?"

"Doubtless."

"Do you think I stole the necklace from the queen?"

"It is not the queen from whom it was stolen."

"Mon Dieu! from whom, then?"

"The queen denies having had it in her possession."

"How! she denies it? But I thought you had an acknowledgment from her."

"She says it is a forged one."

"Decidedly, you are mad!" cried the cardinal.

"We simply speak the truth."

"Then she denied it because some one was there."

"No, monseigneur. And this is not all: not only does the queen deny her own acknowledgment, but she produced a receipt from us, purporting that we had received back the necklace."

"A receipt from you?"

"Which also is a forgery, M. le Cardinal—you know it."

"A forgery, and I know it!"

"Assuredly, for you came to confirm what Madame de la Motte had said; and you knew that we had sold the necklace to the queen."

"Come," said the cardinal, "this seems a serious affair. This is what I did: first, I bought the necklace of you for her majesty, and paid you 100,000 francs."

"True, monseigneur."

"Afterwards you told me that the queen had acknowledged the debt in writing, and fixed the periods of payment."

"We said so. Will your eminence look at this signature?"

He looked at it, and said directly, "'Marie Antoinette of France:' you have been deceived, gentlemen; this is not her signature; she is of the House of Austria."

"Then," cried the jewelers, "Madame de la Motte must know the forger and the robber."

The cardinal appeared struck with this. He acted like the queen; he rang, and said, "Send for Madame de la Motte." His servants went after Jeanne's carriage, which had not long left the hotel.

M. Boehmer continued, "But where is the necklace?"

"How can I tell?" cried the cardinal; "I gave it to the queen. I know no more."

"We must have our necklace, or our money," cried the jewelers.

"Gentlemen, this is not my business."

"It is Madame de la Motte," cried they in despair, "who has ruined us."

"I forbid you to accuse her here."

"Some one must be guilty; some one wrote the forged papers."

"Was it I?" asked M. de Rohan, haughtily.

"Monseigneur, we do not wish to say so."

"Well, who then?"

"Monseigneur, we desire an explanation."

"Wait till I have one myself."

"But, monseigneur, what are we to say to the queen? For she accused us at first."

"What does she say now?"

"She says that either you or Madame de la Motte has the necklace, for she has not."

"Well," replied the cardinal, pale with rage and shame, "go and tell her—no, tell her nothing; there is scandal enough. But to-morrow I officiate at the chapel at Versailles: when I approach the queen, come to us; I will ask her again if she has the necklace, and you shall hear what she replies; if she denies it before me, then, gentlemen, I am a Rohan, and will pay." And with these words, pronounced with an indescribable dignity, he dismissed them.



CHAPTER LXXIV.

LOVE AND DIPLOMACY.

The next morning, about ten o'clock, a carriage bearing the arms of M. de Breteuil entered Versailles. Our readers will not have forgotten that this gentleman was a personal enemy of M. de Rohan, and had long been on the watch for an opportunity of injuring him. He now requested an audience from the king, and was admitted.

"It is a beautiful day," said Louis to his minister; "there is not a cloud in the sky."

"Sire, I am sorry to bring with me a cloud on your tranquillity."

"So am I," replied the king, "but what is it?"

"I feel very much embarrassed, sire, more especially as, perhaps, this affair naturally concerns the lieutenant of police rather than myself, for it is a sort of theft."

"A theft! well, speak out."

"Sire, your majesty knows the diamond necklace?"

"M. Boehmer's, which the queen refused?"

"Precisely, sire," said M. de Breteuil; and ignorant of all the mischief he was about to do, he continued, "and this necklace has been stolen."

"Ah! so much the worse. But diamonds are very easy to trace."

"But, sire, this is not an ordinary theft; it is pretended that the queen has kept the necklace."

"Why, she refused it in my presence."

"Sire, I did not use the right word; the calumnies are too gross."

"Ah!" said the king with a smile, "I suppose they say now that the queen has stolen the necklace."

"Sire," replied M. Breteuil, "they say that the queen recommenced the negotiation for the purchase privately, and that the jewelers hold a paper signed by her, acknowledging that she kept it. I need not tell your majesty how much I despise all such scandalous falsehoods."

"They say this!" said the king, turning pale. "What do they not say? Had the queen really bought it afterwards, I should not have blamed her. She is a woman, and the necklace is marvelously beautiful; and, thank God, she could still afford it, if she wished for it. I shall only blame her for one thing, for hiding her wishes from me. But that has nothing to do with the king, only with the husband. A husband may scold his wife if he pleases, and no one has a right to interfere. But then," continued he, "what do you mean by a robbery?"

"Oh! I fear I have made your majesty angry."

The king laughed. "Come, tell me all; tell me even that the queen sold the necklace to the Jews. Poor woman, she is often in want of money, oftener than I can give it to her."

"Exactly so; about two months ago the queen asked for 500,000 francs, and your majesty refused it."

"True."

"Well, sire, they say that this money was to have been the first payment for the necklace. The queen, being denied the money, could not pay——"

"Well!"

"Well, sire, they say the queen applied to some one to help her."

"To a Jew?"

"No, sire; not to a Jew."

"Oh! I guess, some foreign intrigue. The queen asked her mother, or some of her family, for money."

"It would have been better if she had, sire."

"Well, to whom, then, did she apply?"

"Sire, I dare not——"

"Monsieur, I am tired of this. I order you to speak out at once. Who lent this money to the queen?"

"M. de Rohan."

"M. de Rohan! Are you not ashamed to name to me the most embarrassed man in my kingdom?"

"Sire," said M. de Breteuil, lowering his eyes.

"M. de Breteuil, your manner annoys me. If you have anything to say, speak at once."

"Sire, I cannot bring myself to utter things so compromising to the honor of my king and queen."

"Speak, sir; if there are calumnies, they must be refuted."

"Then, sire, M. de Rohan went to the jewelers, and arranged for the purchase of the necklace, and the mode of payment."

"Really!" cried the king, annoyed and angry.

"It is a fact, sire, capable of being proved with the greatest certainty. I pledge my word for this."

"This is most annoying," said the king; "but still, sir, we have not heard of a theft."

"Sire, the jewelers say that they have a receipt signed by the queen, and she denies having the necklace."

"Ah!" cried the king, with renewed hope; "she denies it, you see, M. de Breteuil."

"Oh, sire! I never doubted her majesty's innocence. I am indeed unfortunate, if your majesty does not see all my respect for the purest of women."

"Then you only accuse M. de Rohan?"

"Yes, sire. And appearances demand some inquiry into his conduct. The queen says she has not the necklace—the jewelers say they sold it to her. It is not to be found, and the word 'theft' is used as connected both with the queen and M. de Rohan."

"You are right, M. de Breteuil; this affair must be cleared up. But who is that passing below? Is it not M. de Rohan going to the chapel?"

"Not yet, sire; he does not come till eleven o'clock, and he will be dressed in his robes, for he officiates to-day."

"Then I will send for him and speak to him."

"Permit me to advise your majesty to speak first to the queen."

"Yes, she will tell me the truth."

"Doubtless, sire."

"But first tell me all you know about it."

M. de Breteuil, with ingenious hate, mentioned every particular which he thought could injure M. de Rohan. They were interrupted by an officer, who approached the king, and said, "Sire, the queen begs you will come to her."

"What is it?" asked the king, turning pale. "Wait here, M. de Breteuil."



CHAPTER LXXV.

CHARNY, CARDINAL, AND QUEEN.

At the same moment as M. de Breteuil asked for an audience of the king, M. de Charny, pale and agitated, begged one of the queen. He was admitted, and touching tremblingly the hand she held out to him, said in an agitated voice, "Oh! madame, what a misfortune!"

"What is the matter?"

"Do you know what I have just heard? What the king has perhaps already heard, or will hear to-morrow."

She trembled, for she thought of her night with Charny, and fancied they had been seen. "Speak," said she; "I am strong."

"They say, madame, that you bought a necklace from M. Boehmer."

"I returned it," said she quickly.

"But they say that you only pretended to do so, when the king prevented you from paying for it by refusing you the money, and that you went to borrow the amount from some one else, who is your lover."

"And," cried the queen, with her usual impetuous confidence, "you, monsieur—you let them say that?"

"Madame, yesterday I went to M. Boehmer's with my uncle, who had brought some diamonds from the Indies, and wished to have them valued. There we heard this frightful story now being spread abroad by your majesty's enemies. Madame, I am in despair; if you bought the necklace, tell me; if you have not paid, tell me; but do not let me hear that M. de Rohan paid for you."

"M. de Rohan!"

"Yes, M. de Rohan, whom they call your lover—whom they say lent the money—and whom an unhappy man, called Charny, saw in the park in Versailles, kneeling before the queen, and kissing her hand."

"Monsieur," cried Marie Antoinette, "if you believe these things when you leave me, you do not love me."

"Oh!" cried the young man, "the danger presses. I come to beg you to do me a favor."

"What danger?"

"Oh, madame! the cardinal paying for the queen dishonors her. I do not speak now of the grief such a confidence in him causes to me. No; of these things one dies, but does not complain."

"You are mad!" cried Marie Antoinette, in anger.

"I am not mad, madame, but you are unhappy and lost. I saw you in the park—I told you so—I was not deceived. To-day all the horrible truth has burst out. M. de Rohan boasts, perhaps——"

The queen seized his arm. "You are mad," repeated she, with inexpressible anguish. "Believe anything—believe the impossible—but, in the name of heaven, after all I have said to you, do not believe me guilty. I, who never even thought of you without praying to God to pardon me for my fault. Oh, M. de Charny! if you do not wish to kill me, do not tell me that you think me guilty."

Charny wrung his hands with anguish. "Listen," said he, "if you wish me to serve you efficaciously."

"A service from you?—from you, more cruel than my enemies? A service from a man who despises me? Never, sir—never."

Charny approached, and took her hands in his. "This evening it will be too late. Save me from despair, by saving yourself from shame."

"Monsieur!"

"Oh, I cannot pick my words with death, before me! If you do not listen to me, we shall both die; you from shame, and I from grief. You want money to pay for this necklace."

"I?"

"Do not deny it."

"I tell you——"

"Do not tell me that you have not the necklace."

"I swear!"

"Do not swear, if you wish me to love you. There remains one way to save at once your honor and my love. The necklace is worth 1,600,000 francs—you have paid 100,000. Here is the remainder; take it, and pay."

"You have sold your possessions—you have ruined yourself for me! Good and noble heart, I love you!"

"Then you accept?"

"No; but I love you."

"And let M. de Rohan pay. Remember, madame, this would be no generosity towards me, but the refinement of cruelty."

"M. de Charny, I am a queen. I give to my subjects, but do not accept from them."

"What do you mean to do, then?"

"You are frank. What do the jewelers say?"

"That as you cannot pay, M. de Rohan will pay for you."

"What does the public say?"

"That you have the necklace hidden, and will produce it when it shall have been paid for; either by the cardinal, in his love for you, or by the king, to prevent scandal."

"And you, Charny; in your turn, I ask, what do you say?"

"I think, madame, that you have need to prove your innocence to me."

The Prince Louis, Cardinal de Rohan, was at that moment announced by an usher.

"You shall have your wish," said the queen.

"You are going to receive him?"

"Yes."

"And I?"

"Go into my boudoir, and leave the door ajar, that you may hear. Be quick—here he is."

M. de Rohan appeared in his robes of office. The queen advanced towards him, attempting a smile, which died away on her lips.

He was serious, and said, "Madame, I have several important things to communicate to you, although you shun my presence."

"I shun you so little, monsieur, that I was about to send for you."

"Am I alone with your majesty?" said he, in a low voice. "May I speak freely?"

"Perfectly, monseigneur. Do not constrain yourself," said she aloud, for M. de. Charny to hear.

"The king will not come?"

"Have no fear of the king, or any one else."

"Oh, it is yourself I fear," said he, in a moved voice.

"Well, I am not formidable. Say quickly and openly what you have to say. I like frankness, and want no reserve. They say you complain of me; what have you to reproach me with?"

The cardinal sighed.



CHAPTER LXXVI.

EXPLANATIONS.

"Madame," said the cardinal, bowing, "you know what is passing concerning the necklace?"

"No, monsieur; I wish to learn it from you."

"Why has your majesty for so long only deigned to communicate with me through another? If you have any reason to hate me, why not explain it?"

"I do not know what you mean. I do not hate you; but that is not, I think, the subject of our interview. I wish to hear all about this unlucky necklace; but first, where is Madame de la Motte?"

"I was about to ask your majesty the same question."

"Really, monsieur, if any one knows, I think it ought to be you."

"I, madame! why?"

"Oh! I do not wish to receive your confessions about her, but I wish to speak to her, and have sent for her ten times without receiving any answer."

"And I, madame, am astonished at her disappearance, for I also sent to ask her to come, and, like your majesty, received no answer."

"Then let us leave her, monsieur, and speak of ourselves."

"Oh no, madame; let us speak of her first, for a few words of your majesty's gave me a painful suspicion; it seemed to me that your majesty reproached me with my assiduities to her."

"I have not reproached you at all, sir."

"Oh! madame, such a suspicion would explain all to me; then I should understand all your rigor towards me, which I have hitherto found so inexplicable."

"Here we cease to understand each other, and I beg of you not to still further involve in obscurity what I wished you to explain to me."

"Madame," cried the cardinal, clasping his hands, "I entreat you not to change the subject; allow me only two words more, and I am sure we shall understand each other."

"Really, sir, you speak in language that I do not understand. Pray return to plain French; where is the necklace that I returned to the jewelers?"

"The necklace that you sent back?"

"Yes; what have you done with it?"

"I! I do not know, madame."

"Listen, and one thing is simple; Madame de la Motte took away the necklace, and returned it to the jewelers in my name. The jewelers say they never had it, and I hold in my hands a receipt which proves the contrary; but they say the receipt is forged; Madame de la Motte, if sincere, could explain all, but as she is not to be found, I can but conjecture. She wished to return it, but you, who had always the generous wish to present me the necklace, you, who brought it to me, with the offer to pay for it——"

"Which your majesty refused."

"Yes. Well, you have persevered in your idea, and you kept back the necklace, hoping to return it to me at some other time. Madame de la Motte was weak; she knew my inability to pay for it, and my determination not to keep it when I could not pay; she therefore entered into a conspiracy with you. Have I guessed right? Say yes. Let me believe in this slight disobedience to my orders, and I promise you both pardon; so let Madame de la Motte come out from her hiding-place. But, for pity's sake, let there be perfect clearness and openness, monsieur. A cloud rests over me; I will have it dispersed."

"Madame," replied the cardinal, with a sigh, "unfortunately it is not true. I did not persevere in my idea, for I believed the necklace was in your own hands; I never conspired with Madame de la Motte about it, and I have it no more than you say you or the jewelers have it."

"Impossible! you have not got it?"

"No, madame."

"Is it not you who hide it?"

"No, madame."

"You do not know what has become of it?"

"No, madame."

"But, then, how do you explain its disappearance?"

"I do not pretend to explain it, madame; and, moreover, it is not the first time that I have had to complain that your majesty did not understand me."

"How, sir?"

"Pray, madame, have the goodness to retrace my letters in your memory."

"Your letters!—you have written to me?"

"Too seldom, madame, to express all that was in my heart."

The queen rose.

"Terminate this jesting, sir. What do you mean by letters? How can you dare to say such things?"

"Ah! madame, perhaps I have allowed myself to speak too freely the secret of my soul."

"What secret? Are you in your senses, monsieur?"

"Madame!"

"Oh! speak out. You speak now like a man who wishes to embarrass one before witnesses."

"Madame, is there really any one listening to us?"

"No, monsieur. Explain yourself, and prove to me, if you can, that you are in your right senses."

"Oh! why is not Madame de la Motte here? she could aid me to reawaken, if not your majesty's attachment, at least your memory."

"My attachment! my memory!"

"Ah, madame," cried he, growing excited, "spare me, I beg. It is free to you to love no longer, but do not insult me."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" cried the queen, turning pale: "hear what this man says."

"Well, madame," said he, getting still more excited, "I think I have been sufficiently discreet and reserved not to be ill-treated. But I should have known that when a queen says, 'I will not any longer,' it is as imperious as when a woman says, 'I will.'"

"But, sir, to whom, or when, have I said either the one or the other?"

"Both, to me."

"To you! You are a liar, M. de Rohan. A coward, for you calumniate a woman; and a traitor, for you insult the queen."

"And you are a heartless woman and a faithless queen. You led me to feel for you the most ardent love. You let me drink my fill of hopes——"

"Of hopes! My God! am I mad, or what is he?"

"Should I have dared to ask you for the midnight interviews which you granted me?"

The queen uttered a cry of rage, as she fancied she heard a sigh from the boudoir.

"Should I," continued M. de Rohan, "have dared to come into the park if you had not sent Madame de la Motte for me?"

"Mon Dieu!"

"Should I have dared to steal the key? Should I have ventured to ask for this rose, which since then I have worn here on my heart, and burned up with my kisses? Should I have dared to kiss your hands? And, above all, should I have dared even to dream of sweet but perfidious love."

"Monsieur!" cried she, "you blaspheme."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the cardinal, "heaven knows that to be loved by this deceitful woman I would have given my all, my liberty, my life."

"M. de Rohan, if you wish to preserve either, you will confess immediately that you invented all these horrors; that you did not come to the park at night."

"I did come," he replied.

"You are a dead man if you maintain this."

"A Rohan cannot lie, madame; I did come."

"M. de Rohan, in heaven's name say that you did not see me there."

"I will die if you wish it, and as you threaten me; but I did come to the park at Versailles, where Madame de la Motte brought me."

"Once more, confess it is a horrible plot against me."

"No."

"Then believe that you were mistaken—deceived—that it was all a fancy."

"No."

"Then we will have recourse," said she, solemnly, "to the justice of the king."

The cardinal bowed.

The queen rang violently. "Tell his majesty that I desire his presence."

The cardinal remained firm. Marie Antoinette went ten times to the door of the boudoir, and each time returned without going in.

At last the king appeared.



CHAPTER LXXVII.

THE ARREST.

"Sire," cried the queen, "here is M. de Rohan, who says incredible things, which I wish him to repeat to you."

At these unexpected words the cardinal turned pale. Indeed, it was a strange position to hear himself called upon to repeat to the king and the husband all the claims which he believed he had over the queen and the wife.

But the king, turning towards him, said, "About a certain necklace, is it not, sir?"

M. de Rohan took advantage of the king's question, and chose the least of two evils. "Yes, sire," he murmured, "about the necklace."

"Then, sir, you have brought the necklace?"

"Sire——"

"Yes, or no, sir."

The cardinal looked at the queen, and did not reply.

"The truth, sir," said the queen, answering his look. "We want nothing but the truth."

M. de Rohan turned away his head, and did not speak.

"If M. de Rohan will not reply, will you, madame, explain?" said the king. "You must know something about it; did you buy it?"

"No."

M. de Rohan smiled rather contemptuously.

"You say nothing, sir," said the king.

"Of what am I accused, sire?"

"The jewelers say they sold the necklace either to you or the queen. They show a receipt from her majesty——"

"A forged one," interrupted the queen.

"The jewelers," continued the king, "say that in case the queen does not pay, you are bound to do so by your engagements."

"I do not refuse to pay, sire. It must be the truth, as the queen permits it to be said." And a second look, still more contemptuous than the first, accompanied this speech.

The queen trembled, for she began to think his behavior like the indignation of an honest man.

"Well, M. le Cardinal, some one has imitated the signature of the Queen of France," said the king.

"The queen, sire, is free to attribute to me whatever crimes she pleases."

"Sir," said the king, "instead of justifying yourself, you assume the air of an accuser."

The cardinal paused a moment, and then cried, "Justify myself?—impossible!"

"Monsieur, these people say that this necklace has been stolen under a promise to pay for it; do you confess the crime?"

"Who would believe it, if I did?" asked the cardinal, with a haughty disdain.

"Then, sir, you think they will believe——"

"Sire, I know nothing of what is said," interrupted the cardinal; "all that I can affirm is, that I have not the necklace; some one has it who will not produce it; and I can but say, let the shame of the crime fall on the person who knows himself guilty."

"The question, madame, is between you two," said the king. "Once more, have you the necklace?"

"No, by the honor of my mother, by the life of my son."

The king joyfully turned towards the cardinal. "Then, sir, the affair lies between you and justice, unless you prefer trusting to my clemency."

"The clemency of kings is for the guilty, sire; I prefer the justice of men!"

"You will confess nothing?"

"I have nothing to say."

"But, sir, your silence compromises my honor," cried the queen.

The cardinal did not speak.

"Well, then, I will speak," cried she. "Learn, sire, that M. de Rohan's chief crime is not the theft of this necklace."

M. de Rohan turned pale.

"What do you mean?" cried the king.

"Madame!" murmured the cardinal.

"Oh! no reasons, no fear, no weakness shall close my mouth. I would proclaim my innocence in public if necessary."

"Your innocence," said the king. "Oh, madame, who would be rash enough, or base enough, to compel you to defend that?"

"I beg you, madame," said the cardinal.

"Ah! you begin to tremble. I was right: such plots bear not the light. Sire, will you order M. de Rohan to repeat to you what he has just said to me."

"Madame," cried the cardinal, "take care; you pass all bounds."

"Sir," said the king, "do you dare to speak thus to the queen?"

"Yes, sire," said Marie Antoinette; "this is the way he speaks to me, and pretends he has the right to do so."

"You, sir!" cried the king, livid with rage.

"Oh! he says he has letters——"

"Let us see them, sir," said the king.

"Yes, produce them," cried the queen.

The cardinal passed his hands over his burning eyes, and asked himself how heaven could ever have created a being so perfidious and so audacious; but he remained silent.

"But that is not all," continued the queen, getting more and more excited: "M. le Cardinal says he has obtained interviews——"

"Madame, for pity's sake," cried the king.

"For modesty's sake," murmured the cardinal.

"One word, sir. If you are not the basest of men; if you hold anything sacred in this world; if you have proofs, produce them."

"No, madame," replied he, at length, "I have not."

"You said you had a witness."

"Who?" asked the king.

"Madame de la Motte."

"Ah!" cried the king, whose suspicions against her were easily excited; "let us see this woman."

"Yes," said the queen, "but she has disappeared. Ask monsieur what he has done with her."

"Others have made her disappear who had more interest in doing so than I had."

"But, sir, if you are innocent, help us to find the guilty."

The cardinal crossed his hands and turned his back.

"Monsieur," cried the king, "you shall go to the Bastile."

"As I am, sire, in my robes? Consider, sire, the scandal will commence, and will fall heavily on whomsoever it rests."

"I wish it to do so, sir."

"It is an injustice, sire."

"It shall be so." And the king looked round for some one to execute his orders. M. de Breteuil was near, anticipating the fall of his rival; the king spoke to him, and he cried immediately, "Guards! arrest M. le Cardinal de Rohan."

The cardinal passed by the queen without saluting her; then, bowing to the king, went towards the lieutenant of the guards, who approached timidly, seeming to wait for a confirmation of the order he had received.

"Yes, sir," said M. de Rohan, "it is I whom you are to arrest."

"Conduct monsieur to his apartment until I have written the order;" said the king.

When they were alone, the king said, "Madame, you know this must lead to a public trial, and that scandal will fall heavily on the heads of the guilty."

"I thank you, sire; you have taken the only method of justifying me."

"You thank me."

"With all my heart; believe me, you have acted like a king, and I as a queen."

"Good," replied the king, joyfully; "we shall find out the truth at last, and when once we have crushed the serpent, I hope we may live in more tranquillity." He kissed the queen, and left her.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal to the officer who conducted him, "can I send word home that I have been arrested?"

"If no one sees, monseigneur."

The cardinal wrote some words on a page of his missal, then tore it out, and let it fall at the feet of the officer.

"She ruins me," murmured the cardinal; "but I will save her, for your sake, oh! my king, and because it is my duty to forgive."



CHAPTER LXXVIII.

THE PROCES-VERBAL.

When the king reentered his room he signed the order to consign M. de Rohan to the Bastile. The Count de Provence soon came in and began making a series of signs to M. de Breteuil, who, however willing, could not understand their meaning. This, however, the count did not care for, as his sole object was to attract the king's attention. He at last succeeded, and the king, after dismissing M. de Breteuil, said to him, "What was the meaning of all those signs you were making just now? I suppose they meant something."

"Undoubtedly, but——"

"Oh, you are quite free to say or not."

"Sire, I have just heard of the arrest of M. de Rohan."

"Well, and what then? Am I wrong to do justice even on him?"

"Oh no, brother; I did not mean that."

"I should have been surprised had you not taken part somehow against the queen. I have just seen her, and am quite satisfied."

"Oh, sire, God forbid that I should accuse her! The queen has no friend more devoted than myself."

"Then you approve of my proceedings? which will, I trust, terminate all the scandals which have lately disgraced our court."

"Yes, sire, I entirely approve your majesty's conduct, and I think all is for the best as regards the necklace——"

"Pardieu, it is clear enough. M. de Rohan has been making himself great on a pretended familiarity with the queen; and conducting in her name a bargain for the diamonds, and leaving it to be supposed that she had them. It is monstrous. And then these tales never stop at the truth, but add all sorts of dreadful details which would end in a frightful scandal on the queen."

"Yes, brother, I repeat as far as the necklace is concerned you were perfectly right."

"What else is there, then?"

"Sire, you embarrass me. The queen has not, then, told you?"

"Oh, the other boastings of M. de Rohan? The pretended correspondence and interviews he speaks of? All that I know is, that I have the most absolute confidence in the queen, which she merits by the nobleness of her character. It was easy for her to have told me nothing of all this; but she always makes an immediate appeal to me in all difficulties, and confides to me the care of her honor. I am her confessor and her judge."

"Sire, you make me afraid to speak, lest I should be again accused of want of friendship for the queen. But it is right that all should be spoken, that she may justify herself from the other accusations."

"Well, what have you to say?"

"Let me first hear what she told you?"

"She said she had not the necklace; that she never signed the receipt for the jewels; that she never authorized M. de Rohan to buy them; that she had never given him the right to think himself more to her than any other of her subjects; and that she was perfectly indifferent to him."

"Ah! she said that——?"

"Most decidedly."

"Then these rumors about other people——"

"What others?"

"Why, if it were not M. de Rohan, who walked with the queen——"

"How! do they say he walked with her?"

"The queen denies it, you say? but how came she to be in the park at night, and with whom did she walk?"

"The queen in the park at night!"

"Doubtless, there are always eyes ready to watch every movement of a queen."

"Brother, these are infamous things that you repeat, take care."

"Sire, I openly repeat them, that your majesty may search out the truth."

"And they say that the queen walked at night in the park?"

"Yes, sire, tete-a-tete."

"I do not believe any one says it."

"Unfortunately I can prove it but too well. There are four witnesses: one is the captain of the hunt, who says he saw the queen go out two following nights by the door near the kennel of the wolf-hounds; here is his declaration signed."

The king, trembling, took the paper.

"The next is the night watchman at Trianon, who says he saw the queen walking arm in arm with a gentleman. The third is the porter of the west door, who also saw the queen going through the little gate; he states how she was dressed, but that he could not recognize the gentleman, but thought he looked like an officer; he says he could not be mistaken, for that the queen was accompanied by her friend, Madame de la Motte."

"Her friend!" cried the king, furiously.

"The last is from the man whose duty it is to see that all the doors are locked at night. He says that he saw the queen go into the baths of Apollo with a gentleman."

The king, pale with anger and emotion, snatched the paper from the hands of his brother.

"It is true," continued the count, "that Madame de la Motte was outside, and that the queen did not remain more than an hour."

"The name of the gentleman?" cried the king.

"This report does not name him; but here is one dated the next day, by a forester, who says it was M. de Charny."

"M. de Charny!" cried the king. "Wait here; I will soon learn the truth of all this."



CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE LAST ACCUSATION.

As soon as the king left the room, the queen ran towards the boudoir, and opened the door; then, as if her strength failed her, sank down on a chair, waiting for the decision of M. de Charny, her last and most formidable judge.

He came out more sad and pale than ever.

"Well?" said she.

"Madame," replied he, "you see, everything opposes our friendship. There can be no peace for me while such scandalous reports circulate in public, putting my private convictions aside."

"Then," said the queen, "all I have done, this perilous aggression, this public defiance of one of the greatest nobles in the kingdom, and my conduct being exposed to the test of public opinion, does not satisfy you?"

"Oh!" cried Charny, "you are noble and generous, I know——"

"But you believe me guilty—you believe the cardinal. I command you to tell me what you think."

"I must say, then, madame, that he is neither mad nor wicked, as you called him, but a man thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he said—a man who loves you, and the victim of an error which will bring him to ruin, and you——"

"Well?"

"To dishonor."

"Mon Dieu!"

"This odious woman, this Madame de la Motte, disappearing just when her testimony might have restored you to repose and honor—she is the evil genius, the curse, of your reign; she whom you have, unfortunately, admitted to partake of your intimacy and your secrets."

"Oh, sir!"

"Yes, madame, it is clear that you combined with her and the cardinal to buy this necklace. Pardon if I offend you."

"Stay, sir," replied the queen, with a pride not unmixed with anger; "what the king believes, others might believe, and my friends not be harder than my husband. It seems to me that it can give no pleasure to any man to see a woman whom he does not esteem. I do not speak of you, sir; to you I am not a woman, but a queen; as you are to me, not a man, but a subject. I had advised you to remain in the country, and it was wise; far from the court, you might have judged me more truly. Too ready to condescend, I have neglected to keep up, with those whom I thought loved me, the prestige of royalty. I should have been a queen, and content to govern, and not have wished to be loved."

"I cannot express," replied Charny, "how much your severity wounds me. I may have forgotten that you were a queen, but never that you were the woman most in the world worthy of my respect and love."

"Sir, I think your absence is necessary; something tells me that it will end by your name being mixed up in all this."

"Impossible, madame!"

"You say 'impossible'; reflect on the power of those who have for so long played with my reputation. You say that M. de Rohan is convinced of what he asserts; those who cause such convictions would not be long in proving you a disloyal subject to the king, and a disgraceful friend for me. Those who invent so easily what is false will not be long in discovering the truth. Lose no time, therefore; the peril is great. Retire, and fly from the scandal which will ensue from the approaching trial; I do not wish that my destiny should involve yours, or your future be ruined. I, who am, thank God, innocent, and without a stain on my life—I, who would lay bare my heart to my enemies, could they thus read its purity, will resist to the last. For you might come ruin, defamation, and perhaps imprisonment. Take away the money you so nobly offered me, and the assurance that not one movement of your generous heart has escaped me, and that your doubts, though they have wounded, have not estranged me. Go, I say, and seek elsewhere what the Queen of France can no longer give you—hope and happiness. From this time to the convocation of Parliament, and the production of witnesses must be a fortnight; your uncle has vessels ready to sail—go and leave me; I bring misfortunes on my friends." Saying this, the queen rose, and seemed to give Charny his conge.

He approached quickly, but respectfully. "Your majesty," cried he, in a moved voice, "shows me my duty. It is here that danger awaits you, here that you are to be judged, and, that you may have one loyal witness on your side, I remain here. Perhaps we may still make your enemies tremble before the majesty of an innocent queen, and the courage of a devoted man. And if you wish it, madame, I will be equally hidden and unseen as though I went. During a fortnight that I lived within a hundred yards of you, watching your every movement, counting your steps, living in your life, no one saw me; I can do so again, if it please you."

"As you please," replied she; "I am no coquette, M. de Charny, and to say what I please is the true privilege of a queen. One day, sir, I chose you from every one. I do not know what drew my heart towards you, but I had need of a strong and pure friendship, and I allowed you to perceive that need; but now I see that your soul does not respond to mine, and I tell you so frankly."