"Oh, madame," cried Charny, "I cannot let you take away your heart from me! If you have once given it to me, I will keep it with my life; I cannot lose you. You reproached me with my doubts—oh, do not doubt me!"

"Ah," said she, "but you are weak, and I, alas, am so also."

"You are all I love you to be."

"What!" cried she, passionately, "this abused queen, this woman about to be publicly judged, that the world condemns, and that her king and husband may, perhaps, also in turn condemn, has she found one heart to love her?"

"A slave, who venerates her, and offers her his heart's blood in exchange for every pang he has caused her!"

"Then," cried she, "this woman is blessed and happy, and complains of nothing!"

Charny fell at her feet, and kissed her hands in transport. At that moment the door opened, and the king surprised, at the feet of his wife, the man whom he had just heard accused by the Comte de Provence.



CHAPTER LXXX.

THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

The queen and Charny exchanged a look so full of terror, that their most cruel enemy must have pitied them.

Charny rose slowly, and bowed to the king, whose heart might almost have been seen to beat.

"Ah!" cried he, in a hoarse voice, "M. de Charny!"

The queen could not speak—she thought she was lost.

"M. de Charny," repeated the king, "it is little honorable for a gentleman to be taken in the act of theft."

"Of theft?" murmured Charny.

"Yes, sir, to kneel before the wife of another is a theft; and when this woman is a queen, his crime is called high treason!"

The count was about to speak, but the queen, ever impatient in her generosity, forestalled him.

"Sire," said she, "you seem in the mood for evil suspicions and unfavorable suppositions, which fall falsely, I warn you; and if respect chains the count's tongue, I will not hear him wrongfully accused without defending him." Here she stopped, overcome by emotion, frightened at the falsehood she was about to tell, and bewildered because she could not find one to utter.

But these few words had somewhat softened the king, who replied more gently, "You will not tell me, madame, that I did not see M. de Charny kneeling before you, and without your attempting to raise him?"

"Therefore you might think," replied she, "that he had some favor to ask me."

"A favor?"

"Yes, sire, and one which I could not easily grant, or he would not have insisted with so much less warmth."

Charny breathed again, and the king's look became calmer. Marie Antoinette was searching for something to say, with mingled rage at being obliged to lie, and grief at not being able to think of anything probable to say. She half hoped the king would be satisfied, and ask no more, but he said:

"Let us hear, madame, what is the favor so warmly solicited, which made M. de Charny kneel before you; I may, perhaps, more happy than you, be able to grant it."

She hesitated; to lie before the man she loved was agony to her, and she would have given the world for Charny to find the answer. But of this he was incapable.

"Sire, I told you that M. de Charny asked an impossible thing."

"What is it?"

"What can one ask on one's knees?"

"I want to hear."

"Sire, it is a family secret."

"There are no secrets from the king—a father interested in all his subjects, who are his children, although, like unnatural children, they may sometimes attack the honor and safety of their father."

This speech made the queen tremble anew.

"M. de Charny asked," replied she, "permission to marry."

"Really," cried the king, reassured for a moment. Then, after a pause, he said, "But why should it be impossible for M. de Charny to marry? Is he not noble? Has he not a good fortune? Is he not brave and handsome? Really, to refuse him, the lady ought to be a princess, or already married. I can see no other reason for an impossibility. Therefore, madame, tell me the name of the lady who is loved by M. de Charny, and let me see if I cannot remove the difficulty."

The queen, forced to continue her falsehood, replied:

"No, sire; there are difficulties which even you cannot remove, and the present one is of this nature."

"Still, I wish to hear," replied the king, his anger returning.

Charny looked at the queen—she seemed ready to faint. He made a step towards her and then drew back. How dared he approach her in the king's presence?

"Oh!" thought she, "for an idea—something that the king can neither doubt nor disbelieve." Then suddenly a thought struck her. She who has dedicated herself to heaven the king cannot influence. "Sire!" she cried, "she whom M. de Charny wishes to marry is in a convent."

"Oh! that is a difficulty; no doubt. But this seems a very sudden love of M. de Charny's. I have never heard of it from any one. Who is the lady you love, M. de Charny?"

The queen felt in despair, not knowing what he would say, and dreading to hear him name any one. But Charny could not reply: so, after a pause, she cried, "Sire, you know her; it is Andree de Taverney."

Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her heart, and could hardly support herself.

"Mademoiselle de Taverney? but she has gone to St. Denis."

"Yes, sire," replied the queen.

"But she has taken no vows."

"No, but she is about to do so."

"We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows?"

"She is poor," said the queen.

"That I can soon alter, madame, if M. de Charny loves her."

The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging him to deny it. He did not speak.

"And I dare say," continued the king, taking his silence for consent, "that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves M. de Charny. I will give her as dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank the queen, M. de Charny, for telling me of this, and ensuring your happiness."

Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received an instant's life.

"Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!" said the king.

The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who left on it a burning kiss.

"Now," said the king, "come with me."

M. de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen.



CHAPTER LXXXI.

ST. DENIS.

The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andree even the chance of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she refused, would not the king's suspicions reawaken, and everything seem only the worse for this falsehood? She dared not risk this—she must go to Andree and confess, and implore her to make this sacrifice; or if she would only temporize, the king's suspicions might pass away, and he might cease to interest himself about it. Thus the liberty of Mlle. de Taverney would not be sacrificed, neither would that of M. de Charny; and she would be spared the remorse of having sacrificed the happiness of two people to her honor. She longed to speak again to Charny, but feared discovery; and she knew she might rely upon him to ratify anything she chose to say. Three o'clock arrived—the state dinner and the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her carriage, and, without any guards, and only one companion, drove to St. Denis, and asked to see Andree. Andree was at that moment kneeling, dressed in her white peignoir; and praying with fervor. She had quitted the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen occupied all his thoughts? Yet, when she heard that the queen was asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavoring to think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.

"Come here, Andree," said the queen, with a smile, as she entered.



CHAPTER LXXXII.

A DEAD HEART.

"Andree," continued the queen, "it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb."

"Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty."

"That was never my wish," said the queen; "tell me truly, Andree, had you to complain of me when you were at court?"

"Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame."

"But often," said the queen, "a grief hurts us which is not personal; have I injured any one belonging to you? Andree, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such."

Andree felt touched. "Your majesty knows," said she, "that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies."

"I understand," replied the queen; "you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of caprice."

"My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen," said Andree, coldly.

The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andree on this subject; so she said only, "Well, at least, I am ever your friend."

"Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness."

"Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?"

"I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world." She colored as she spoke.

"You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed place."

"Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead."

"Your heart dead, Andree? you, so young and beautiful."

"I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day."

"Then you like the convent?"

"I embrace with pleasure a solitary life."

"Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?"

"Nothing!"

"Mon dieu!" thought the queen; "shall I fail? If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de Charny—heavens, how unhappy I am!—Andree," she said, "what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived."

"What hope, madame?"

"Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak."

"If your majesty would explain——"

"You never regret what you have done?"

"Never, madame."

"Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations."

"Still, if your majesty would tell me——"

"Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court."

"Never!"

"You refuse me?"

"Oh, madame, why should you wish me?—sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present."

"But," said the queen, "what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies."

"A marriage?" stammered Andree.

"Yes."

"Oh, I refuse, I refuse!"

"Andree!" cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.

"Ah, no, I refuse!"

Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andree said, "But, madame, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life."

"M. de Charny," said the queen, with an effort.

"M. de Charny?"——

"Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren."

"It is he!" cried Andree, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; "he consents——"

"He asks you in marriage."

"Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him."

The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andree kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. "Oh, I am ready," murmured she.

"Come, then!" cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.

Andree left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, "Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering? and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame?"



CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT.

Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure. He did not wish to witness the dishonor of the queen, his first and only passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father. For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to feed on the scandals circulating at the court—they were meat and drink to him. When he received his son's message, instead of sending for him, he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andree had already left him, and it was one less to torment, and he must feel a blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear his father call out, with a burst of laughter, "Oh, mon Dieu! he is going away, I was sure of it, I would have bet upon it. Well played, Philippe, well played."

"What is well played, sir?"

"Admirable!" repeated the old man.

"You give me praises, sir, which I neither understand nor merit, unless you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me."

"Oh! oh!" laughed the old man again, "I am not your dupe. Do you think I believe in your departure?"

"You do not believe? really, sir, you surprise me."

"Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right to pretend to leave; without this ruse all, probably, would have been discovered."

"Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to me."

"Where do you say you go to?"

"I go first to Taverney Maison Rouge."

"Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she is so fiery and incautious, that you must be prudent for both. What is your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news?"

"Taverney, monsieur."

"Taverney, nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have managed so well for your love, can easily manage this."

"Sir, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution."

"Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets, tell me nothing of the huntsman's house, nor the nightly walks with two dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses."

"Monsieur!" cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, "will you hold your tongue?"

"Well, I know it all—your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in the baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever."

"Monsieur, you cause me horror!" cried poor Philippe, hiding his face in his hands. And, indeed, he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself all the happiness of another. All the rumors that the father had heard, he had assigned to his son, and believed that it was he that the queen loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.

"Yes," he went on, "some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny; not one that it was Taverney. Oh, you have acted well."

At this moment a carriage was heard to drive up, and a servant entering, said, "Here is mademoiselle."

"My sister!" cried Philippe.

Then another servant appeared, and said that Mademoiselle de Taverney wished to speak to her brother in the boudoir. Another carriage now came to the door.

"Who the devil comes now?" muttered the baron; "it is an evening of adventures."

"M. le Comte de Charny," cried the powerful voice of the porter at the gate.

"Conduct M. le Comte to the drawing-room; my father will see him; and I will go to my sister—What can he want here?" thought Philippe, as he went down.



CHAPTER LXXXIV.

THE FATHER AND THE FIANCEE.

Philippe hastened to the boudoir, where his sister awaited him. She ran to embrace him with a joyous air.

"What is it, Andree?" cried he.

"Something which makes me happy. Oh! very happy, brother."

"And you come back to announce it to me."

"I come back for ever," said Andree.

"Speak low, sister; there is, or is going to be, some one in the next room who might hear you."

"Who?"

"Listen."

"M. le Comte de Charny," announced the servant.

"He! oh, I know well what he comes for."

"You know!"

"Yes, and soon I shall be summoned to hear what he has to say."

"Do you speak seriously, my dear Andree?"

"Listen, Philippe. The queen has brought me suddenly back, and I must go and change my dress for one fit for a fiancee." And saying this, with a kiss to Philippe, she ran off.

Philippe remained alone. He could hear what passed in the adjoining room. M. de Taverney entered, and saluted the count with a recherche though stiff politeness.

"I come, monsieur," said Charny, "to make a request, and beg you to excuse my not having brought my uncle with me, which I know would have been more proper."

"A request?"

"I have the honor," continued Charny, in a voice full of emotion, "to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Andree, your daughter."

The baron opened his eyes in astonishment—"My daughter?"

"Yes, M. le Baron, if Mademoiselle de Taverney feels no repugnance."

"Oh," thought the old man, "Philippe's favor is already so well-known, that one of his rivals wishes to marry his sister." Then aloud, he said, "This request is such an honor to us, M. le Comte, that I accede with much pleasure; and as I should wish you to carry away a perfectly favorable answer, I will send for my daughter."

"Monsieur," interrupted the count, rather coldly, "the queen has been good enough to consult Mademoiselle de Taverney already, and her reply was favorable."

"Ah!" said the baron, more and more astonished, "it is the queen then——"

"Yes, monsieur, who took the trouble to go to St. Denis."

"Then, sir, it only remains to acquaint you with my daughter's fortune. She is not rich, and before concluding——"

"It is needless, M. le Baron; I am rich enough for both."

At this moment the door opened, and Philippe entered, pale and wild looking.

"Sir," said he, "my father was right to wish to discuss these things with you. While he goes up-stairs to bring the papers I have something to say to you."

When they were left alone, "M. de Charny," said he, "how dare you come here to ask for the hand of my sister?" Charny colored. "Is it," continued Philippe, "in order to hide better your amours with another woman whom you love, and who loves you? Is it, that by becoming the husband of a woman who is always near your mistress, you will have more facilities for seeing her?"

"Sir, you pass all bounds."

"It is, perhaps; and this is what I believe, that were I your brother-in-law, you think my tongue would be tied about what I know of your past amours."

"What you know?"

"Yes," cried Philippe, "the huntsman's house hired by you, your mysterious promenades in the park at night, and the tender parting at the little gate."

"Monsieur, in heaven's name——"

"Oh, sir, I was concealed behind the baths of Apollo when you came out, arm in arm with the queen."

Charny was completely overwhelmed for a time; then, after a few moments, he said, "Well, sir, even after all this, I reiterate my demand for the hand of your sister. I am not the base calculator you suppose me; but the queen must be saved."

"The queen is not lost, because I saw her on your arm, raising to heaven her eyes full of happiness; because I know that she loves you. That is no reason why my sister should be sacrificed, M. de Charny."

"Monsieur," replied Charny, "this morning the king surprised me at her feet——"

"Mon Dieu!"

"And she, pressed by his jealous questions, replied that I was kneeling to ask the hand of your sister. Therefore if I do not marry her, the queen is lost. Do you now understand?"

A cry from the boudoir now interrupted them, followed by another from the ante-chamber. Charny ran to the boudoir; he saw there Andree, dressed in white like a bride: she had heard all, and had fainted. Philippe ran to where the other cry came from; it was his father, whose hopes this revelation of the queen's love for Charny had just destroyed; struck by apoplexy, he had given his last sigh. Philippe, who understood it, looked at the corpse for a few minutes in silence, and then returned to the drawing-room, and there saw Charny watching the senseless form of his sister. He then said, "My father has just expired, sir; I am now the head of the family; if my sister survive, I will give her to you in marriage."

Charny regarded the corpse of the baron with horror, and the form of Andree with despair. Philippe uttered a groan of agony, then continued, "M. de Charny, I make this engagement in the name of my sister, now lying senseless before us; she will give her happiness to the queen, and I, perhaps, some day shall be happy enough to give my life for her. Adieu, M. de Charny——" and taking his sister in his arms, he carried her into the next room.



CHAPTER LXXXV.

AFTER THE DRAGON, THE VIPER.

Oliva was preparing to fly, as Jeanne had arranged, when Beausire, warned by an anonymous letter, discovered her and carried her away. In order to trace them, Jeanne put all her powers in requisition—she preferred being able to watch over her own secret—and her disappointment was great when all her agents returned announcing a failure. At this time she received in her hiding-place numerous messages from the queen.

She went by night to Bar-sur-Aube, and there remained for two days. At last she was traced, and an express sent to take her. Then she learnt the arrest of the cardinal. "The queen has been rash," thought she, "in refusing to compromise with the cardinal, or to pay the jewelers; but she did not know my power."

"Monsieur," said she to the officer who arrested her, "do you love the queen?"

"Certainly, madame."

"Well, in the name of that love I beg you to conduct me straight to her. Believe me, you will be doing her a service."

The man was persuaded, and did so. The queen received her haughtily, for she began to suspect that her conduct had not been straightforward. She called in two ladies as witnesses of what was about to pass.

"You are found at last, madame," said the queen; "why did you hide?"

"I did not hide, madame."

"Run away, then, if that pleases you better."

"That is to say, that I quitted Paris. I had some little business at Bar-sur-Aube, and, to tell the truth, I did not know I was so necessary to your majesty as to be obliged to ask leave for an absence of eight days."

"Have you seen the king?"

"No, madame."

"You shall see him."

"It will be a great honor for me; but your majesty seems very severe towards me—I am all trembling."

"Oh, madame, this is but the beginning. Do you know that M. de Rohan has been arrested?"

"They told me so, madame."

"You guess why?"

"No, madame."

"You proposed to me that he should pay for a certain necklace; did I accept or refuse?"

"Refuse."

"Ah!" said the queen, well pleased.

"Your majesty even paid 100,000 francs on account."

"Well, and afterwards?"

"Afterwards, as your majesty could not pay, you sent it back to M. Boehmer."

"By whom?"

"By me."

"And what did you do with it?"

"I took it to the cardinal."

"And why to the cardinal instead of to the jewelers, as I told you?"

"Because I thought he would be hurt if I returned it without letting him know."

"But how did you get a receipt from the jewelers?"

"M. de Rohan gave it to me."

"But why did you take a letter to them as coming from me?"

"Because he gave it to me, and asked me to do so."

"It is, then, all his doing?"

"What is, madame?"

"The receipt and the letter are both forged."

"Forged, madame!" cried Jeanne, with much apparent astonishment.

"Well, you must be confronted with him to prove the truth."

"Why, madame?"

"He himself demands it. He says he has sought you everywhere, and that he wishes to prove that you have deceived him."

"Oh! then, madame, let us meet."

"You shall. You deny all knowledge of where the necklace is?"

"How should I know, madame?"

"You deny having aided the cardinal in his intrigues?"

"I am a Valois, madame."

"But M. de Rohan maintained before the king many calumnies, which he said you would confirm."

"I do not understand."

"He declares he wrote to me."

Jeanne did not reply.

"Do you hear?" said the queen.

"Yes, madame."

"What do you reply?"

"I will reply when I have seen him."

"But speak the truth now."

"Your majesty overwhelms me."

"That is no answer."

"I will give no other here;" and she looked at the two ladies. The queen understood, but would not yield; she scorned to purchase anything by concession.

"M. de Rohan," said the queen, "was sent to the Bastile for saying too much; take care, madame, that you are not sent for saying too little."

Jeanne smiled. "A pure conscience can brave persecution," she replied; "the Bastile will not convict me of a crime I did not commit."

"Will you reply?"

"Only to your majesty."

"Are you not speaking to me?"

"Not alone."

"Ah! you fear scandal, after being the cause of so much to me."

"What I did," said Jeanne, "was done for you."

"What insolence!"

"I submit to the insults of my queen."

"You will sleep in the Bastile to-night, madame!"

"So be it; I will first pray to God to preserve your majesty's honor."

The queen rose furiously, and went into the next room.

"After having conquered the dragon," she said, "I can crush the viper!"



CHAPTER LXXXVI.

HOW IT CAME TO PASS THAT M. BEAUSIRE WAS TRACKED BY THE AGENTS OF M. DE CROSNE.

Madame de la Motte was imprisoned as the queen had threatened, and the whole affair created no little talk and excitement through France. M. de Rohan lived at the Bastile like a prince: he had everything but liberty. He demanded to be confronted with Madame de la Motte as soon as he heard of her arrest. This was done. She whispered to him, "Send every one away, and I will explain." He asked this, but was refused; they said his counsel might communicate with her. She said to this gentleman that she was ignorant of what had become of the necklace, but that they might well have given it to her in recompense for the services she had rendered the queen and the cardinal, which were well worth a million and a half. The cardinal turned pale on hearing this repeated, and felt how much they were in Jeanne's power. He was determined not to accuse the queen, although his friends endeavored to convince him that it was his only way to prove his innocence of the robbery. Jeanne said that she did not wish to accuse either the queen or the cardinal, but that, if they persisted in making her responsible for the necklace, she would do so to show that they were interested in accusing her of falsehood. Then M. de Rohan expressed all his contempt for her, and said that he began to understand much of Jeanne's conduct, but not the queen's. All this was reported to Marie Antoinette. She ordered another private examination of the parties, but gained nothing from it. Jeanne denied everything to those sent by the queen; but when they were gone she altered her tone, and said, "If they do not leave me alone I will tell all." The cardinal said nothing, and brought no accusations; but rumors began to spread fast, and the question soon became, not "Has the queen stolen the necklace?" but "Has she allowed some one else to steal it because she knew all about her amours?" Madame de la Motte had involved her in a maze, from which there seemed no honorable exit; but she determined not to lose courage. She began to come to the conclusion that the cardinal was an honest man, and did not wish to ruin her, but was acting like herself, only to preserve his honor. They strove earnestly but ineffectually to trace the necklace. All opinions were against Jeanne, and she began to fear that, even if she dragged down the queen and cardinal, she should be quite overwhelmed under the ruins she had caused; and she had not even at hand the fruits of her dishonesty to corrupt her judges with. Affairs were in this state when a new episode changed the face of things. Oliva and M. Beausire were living, happy and rich, in a country house, when one day Beausire, going out hunting, fell into the company of two of the agents of M. de Crosne, whom he had scattered all over the country. They recognized Beausire immediately, but, as it was Oliva whom they most wanted, they did not arrest him there, but only joined the chase. Beausire, seeing two strangers, called the huntsman, and asked who they were. He replied that he did not know, but, if he had permission, would send them away. On his questioning them, they said they were friends of that gentleman, pointing to M. Beausire. Then the man brought them to him, saying, "M. de Linville, these gentlemen say they are friends of yours."

"Ah, you are called De Linville now, dear M. Beausire!"

Beausire trembled; he had concealed his name so carefully. He sent away the huntsman, and asked them who they were.

"Take us home with you, and we will tell you."

"Home?"

"Yes; do not be inhospitable." Beausire was frightened, but still feared to refuse these men who knew him.



CHAPTER LXXXVII.

THE TURTLES ARE CAGED.

Beausire, on entering the house, made a noise to attract Oliva's attention, for, though he knew nothing about her later escapades, he knew enough about the ball at the Opera, and the morning at M. Mesmer's, to make him fear letting her be seen by strangers. Accordingly, Oliva, hearing the dogs bark, looked out, and, seeing Beausire returning with two strangers, did not come to meet him as usual. Unfortunately the servant asked if he should call madame. The men rallied him about the lady whom he had concealed; he let them laugh, but did not offer to call her. They dined; then Beausire asked where they had met him before. "We are," replied they, "friends of one of your associates in a little affair about the Portuguese embassy."

Beausire turned pale.

"Ah!" said he: "and you came on your friend's part?"

"Yes, dear M. Beausire, to ask for 10,000 francs."

"Gentlemen," replied Beausire, "you cannot think I have such a sum in the house."

"Very likely not, monsieur; we do not ask for impossibilities. How much have you?"

"Not more than fifty or sixty louis."

"We will take them to begin with."

"I will go and fetch them," said Beausire. But they did not choose to let him leave the room without them, so they caught hold of him by the coat, saying:

"Oh no, dear M. Beausire, do not leave us."

"But how am I to get the money if I do not leave you?"

"We will go with you."

"But it is in my wife's bedroom."

"Ah," cried one of them, "you hide your wife from us!"

"Are we not presentable?" asked the other. "We wish to see her."

"You are tipsy, and I will turn you out!" said Beausire.

They laughed.

"Now you shall not even have the money I promised," said he, emboldened by what he thought their intoxication; and he ran out of the room.

They followed and caught him; he cried out, and at the sound a door opened, and a woman looked out with a frightened air. On seeing her, the men released Beausire, and gave a cry of exultation, for they recognized her immediately who resembled the Queen of France so strongly.

Beausire, who believed them for a moment disarmed by the sight of a woman, was soon cruelly undeceived.

One of the men approached Oliva, and said:

"I arrest you."

"Arrest her! Why?" cried Beausire.

"Because it is M. de Crosne's orders."

A thunderbolt falling between the lovers would have frightened them less than this declaration.

At last Beausire said, "You came to arrest me?"

"No; it was a chance."

"Never mind, you might have arrested me, and for sixty louis you were about to leave me at liberty."

"Oh no, we should have asked another sixty; however, for one hundred we will do so."

"And madame?"

"Oh, that is quite a different affair."

"She is worth two hundred louis," said Beausire.

They laughed again, and this time Beausire began to understand this terrible laugh.

"Three hundred, four hundred, a thousand—see, I will give you one thousand louis to leave her at liberty!"

They did not answer.

"Is not that enough? Ah, you know I have money, and you want to make me pay. Well, I will give you two thousand louis; it will make both your fortunes!"

"For 100,000 crowns we would not give up this woman. M. de Rohan will give us 500,000 francs for her, and the queen 1,000,000. Now we must go. You doubtless have a carriage of some kind here; have it prepared for madame. We will take you also, for form's sake; but on the way you can escape, and we will shut our eyes."

Beausire replied, "Where she goes, I will go; I will never leave her."

"Oh, so much the better; the more prisoners we bring M. de Crosne, the better he will be pleased."

A quarter of an hour after, Beausire's carriage started, with the two lovers in it. One may imagine the effect of this capture on M. de Crosne. The agents probably did not receive the 1,000,000 francs they hoped for, but there is reason to believe they were satisfied. M. de Crosne went to Versailles, followed by another carriage well guarded. He asked to see the queen, and was instantly admitted. She judged from his face that he had good news for her, and felt the first sensation of joy she had experienced for a month.

"Madame," said M. de Crosne, "have you a room here where you can see without being seen?"

"Oh yes—my library."

"Well, madame, I have a carriage below, in which is some one whom I wish to introduce into the castle unseen by any one."

"Nothing more easy," replied the queen, ringing to give her orders.

All was executed as he wished. Then she conducted M. de Crosne to the library, where, concealed from view behind a large screen, she soon saw enter a form which made her utter a cry of surprise. It was Oliva, dressed in one of her own favorite costumes—a green dress with broad stripes of black moiree, green satin slippers with high heels, and her hair dressed like her own. It might have been herself reflected in the glass.

"What says your majesty to this resemblance?" asked M. de Crosne, triumphantly.

"Incredible," said the queen. She then thought to herself, "Ah! Charny; why are you not here?"

"What does your majesty wish?"

"Nothing, sir, but that the king should know."

"And M. de Provence see her? shall he not, madame?"

"Thanks, M. de Crosne, you hold now, I think, the clue to the whole plot."

"Nearly so, madame."

"And M. de Rohan?"

"Knows nothing yet."

"Ah!" cried the queen; "in this woman, doubtless, lies all his error."

"Possibly, madame; but if it be his error it is the crime of some one else."

"Seek well, sir; the honor of France is in your hands."

"Believe me worthy of the trust. At present, the accused parties deny everything. I shall wait for the proper time to overwhelm them with this living witness that I now hold."

"Madame de la Motte?"

"Knows nothing of this capture. She accuses M. de Cagliostro of having excited the cardinal to say what he did."

"And what does M. de Cagliostro say?"

"He has promised to come to me this morning. He is a dangerous man, but a useful one, and attacked by Madame de la Motte, I am in hopes he will sting back again."

"You hope for revelations?"

"I do."

"How so, sir? Tell me everything which can reassure me."

"These are my reasons, madame. Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue St. Claude, and M. de Cagliostro just opposite her. So I think her movements cannot have been unnoticed by him; but if your majesty will excuse me, it is close to the time he appointed to meet me."

"Go, monsieur, go; and assure yourself of my gratitude."

When he was gone the queen burst into tears. "My justification begins," said she; "I shall soon read my triumph in all faces; but the one I most cared to know me innocent, him I shall not see."

M. de Crosne drove back to Paris, where M. de Cagliostro waited for him. He knew all; for he had discovered Beausire's retreat, and was on the road to see him, and induce him to leave France, when he met the carriage containing Beausire and Oliva. Beausire saw the count, and the idea crossed his mind that he might help them. He therefore accepted the offer of the police-agents, gave them the hundred louis, and made his escape, in spite of the tears shed by Oliva; saying, "I go to try and save you." He ran after M. de Cagliostro's carriage, which he soon overtook, as the count had stopped, it being useless to proceed. Beausire soon told his story; Cagliostro listened in silence, then said, "She is lost."

"Why so?" Then Cagliostro told him all he did not already know—all the intrigues in the park.

"Oh! save her," cried Beausire; "and I will give her to you, if you love her still."

"My friend," replied Cagliostro, "you deceive yourself; I never loved Mademoiselle Oliva; I had but one aim—that of weaning her from the life of debauchery she was leading with you."

"But——" said Beausire.

"That astonishes you—know that I belong to a society whose object is moral reform. Ask her if ever she heard from my mouth one word of gallantry, or if my services were not disinterested."

"Oh, monsieur! but will you save her?"

"I will try, but it will depend on yourself."

"I will do anything."

"Then return with me to Paris, and if you follow my instructions implicitly, we may succeed in saving her. I only impose one condition, which I will tell you when I reach home."

"I promise beforehand. But can I see her again?"

"I think so, and you can tell her what I say to you." In two hours they overtook the carriage containing Oliva, and Beausire bought for fifty louis permission to embrace her, and tell her all the count had said. The agents admired this violent love, and hoped for more louis, but Beausire was gone. Cagliostro drove him to Paris.

We will now return to M. de Crosne.

This gentleman knew a good deal about Cagliostro, his former names, his pretensions to ubiquity and perpetual regeneration, his secrets in alchemy and magnetism, and looked upon him as a great charlatan.

"Monsieur," said he to Cagliostro, "you asked me for an audience; I have returned from Versailles to meet you."

"Sir, I thought you would wish to question me about what is passing, so I came to you."

"Question you?" said the magistrate, affecting surprise. "On what?"

"Monsieur," replied Cagliostro, "you are much occupied about Madame de la Motte, and the missing necklace."

"Have you found it?" asked M. de Crosne, laughing.

"No, sir, but Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue St. Claude——"

"I know, opposite you."

"Oh, if you know all about Oliva, I have nothing more to tell you."

"Who is Oliva?"

"You do not know? Then, sir, imagine a young girl very pretty, with blue eyes, and an oval face, a style of beauty something like her majesty, for instance."

"Well, sir?"

"This young girl led a bad life; it gave me pain to see it; for she was once in the service of an old friend of mine, M. de Taverney—but I weary you."

"Oh no, pray go on."

"Well, Oliva led not only a bad life, but an unhappy one, with a fellow she called her lover, who beat and robbed her."

"Beausire," said the magistrate.

"Ah! you know him. You are still more a magician than I am. Well, one day when Beausire had beaten the poor girl more than usual, she fled to me for refuge; I pitied her, and gave her shelter in one of my houses."

"In your house!" cried M. de Crosne in surprise.

"Oh! why not? I am a bachelor," said Cagliostro, with an air which quite deceived M. de Crosne.

"That is then the reason why my agents could not find her."

"What! you were seeking this little girl? Had she then been guilty of any crime?"

"No, sir, no; pray go on."

"Oh! I have done. I lodged her at my house, and that is all."

"No, sir, for you just now associated her name with that of Madame de la Motte."

"Only as neighbors."

"But, sir, this Oliva, whom you say you had in your house, I found in the country with Beausire."

"With Beausire? Ah! then I have wronged Madame de la Motte."

"How so, sir?"

"Why just as I thought I had hopes of reforming Oliva, and bringing her back to an honest life, some one carried her away from me."

"That is strange."

"Is it not? And I firmly believed it to be Madame de la Motte. But as you found her with Beausire, it was not she, and all her signals and correspondence with Oliva meant nothing."

"With Oliva?"

"Yes."

"They met?"

"Yes, Madame de la Motte found a way to take Oliva out every night."

"Are you sure of this?"

"I saw and heard her."

"Oh, sir, you tell me what I would have paid for with one thousand francs a word. But you are a friend of M. de Rohan?"

"Yes."

"You ought to know how far he was connected with this affair."

"I do not wish to know."

"But you know the object of these nightly excursions of Madame de la Motte and Oliva?"

"Of that also I wish to be ignorant."

"Sir, I only wish to ask you one more question. Have you proofs of the correspondence of Madame de la Motte and Oliva?"

"Plenty."

"What are they?"

"Notes which Madame de la Motte used to throw over to Oliva with a cross-bow. Several of them did not reach their destination, and were picked up either by myself, or my servants, in the street."

"Sir, you will be ready to produce them, if called upon?"

"Certainly; they are perfectly innocent, and cannot injure any one."

"And have you any other proofs of intimacy?"

"I know that she had a method of entering my house to see Oliva. I saw her myself, just after Oliva had disappeared, and my servants saw her also."

"But what did she come for, if Oliva was gone?"

"I did not know. I saw her come out of a carriage at the corner of the street. My idea was that she wished to attach Oliva to her, and keep her near her."

"And you let her do it?"

"Why not? She is a great lady, and received at court. Why should I have prevented her taking charge of Oliva, and taking her off my hands?"

"What did she say when she found that Oliva was gone?"

"She appeared distressed."

"You suppose that Beausire carried her off?"

"I suppose so, for you tell me you found them together. I did not suspect him before, for he did not know where she was."

"She must have let him know herself."

"I think not, as she had fled from him. I think Madame de la Motte must have sent him a key."

"Ah! what day was it?"

"The evening of St. Louis."

"Monsieur, you have rendered a great service to me and to the state."

"I am happy to hear it."

"You shall be thanked as you deserve. I may count on the production of the proofs you mention?"

"I am ready, sir, to assist justice at all times."

As Cagliostro left, he muttered, "Ah, countess! you tried to accuse me—take care of yourself."

Meanwhile, M. de Breteuil was sent by the king to examine Madame de la Motte. She declared that she had proofs of her innocence, which she would produce at the proper time; she also declared, that she would only speak the truth in the presence of the cardinal. She was told that the cardinal laid all the blame upon her. "Tell him then," she said, "that I advise him not to persist in such a foolish system of defense."

"Whom then do you accuse?" asked M. Breteuil.

"I accuse no one," was her reply.

A report was spread at last that the diamonds were being sold in England by M. Reteau de Villette. This man was soon found and arrested, and brought over and confronted with Jeanne. To her utter confusion, he acknowledged that he had forged a receipt from the jewelers, and a letter from the queen at the request of Madame de la Motte. She denied furiously, and declared that she had never seen M. Reteau. M. de Crosne produced as witness a coachman, who swore to having driven her, on the day named, to the house of M. Reteau. Also, one of the servants of M. de Cagliostro deposed to having seen this man on the box of Jeanne's carriage on the night that she came to his master's house. Now, Jeanne began to abuse the count, and accused him of having inspired M. de Rohan with the ideas inimical to the royal dignity. M. de Rohan defended him, and Jeanne at once plainly accused the cardinal of a violent love for the queen. M. de Cagliostro requested to be incarcerated, and allowed to prove his innocence publicly. Then the queen caused to be published all the reports made to the king about the nocturnal promenades, and requested M. de Crosne to state all that he knew about it. This public avowal overturned all Jeanne's plans, and she denied having assisted at any meetings between the queen and the cardinal. This declaration would have cleared the queen, had it been possible to attach any credence to what this woman said. While Jeanne continued to deny that she had ever been in the park, they brought forward Oliva at last, a living witness of all the falsehoods of the countess. When Oliva was shown to the cardinal the blow was dreadful. He saw at last how infamously he had been played upon. This man, so full of delicacy and noble passions, discovered that an adventuress had led him to insult and despise the Queen of France; a woman whom he loved, and who was innocent. He would have shed all his blood at the feet of Marie Antoinette to make atonement. But he could not even acknowledge his mistake without owning that he loved her—even his excuse would involve an offense; so he was obliged to keep silent, and allow Jeanne to deny everything. Oliva confessed all without reserve. At last Jeanne, driven from every hold, confessed that she had deceived the cardinal, but declared that it was done with the consent of the queen, who watched and enjoyed the scene, hidden behind the trees. To this story she kept; the queen could never disprove it, and there were plenty of people willing to believe it true.



CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

THE LAST HOPE LOST.

Here the affair therefore rested, for Jeanne was determined to share the blame with some one, as she could not turn it from herself. All her calculations had been defeated by the frankness with which the queen had met, and made public, every accusation against her.

At last Jeanne wrote the following letter to the queen:

"MADAME,

"In spite of my painful position and rigorous treatment, I have not uttered a complaint; all that has been tried to extort avowals from me has failed to make me compromise my sovereign. However, although persuaded that my constancy and discretion will facilitate my release from my present position, the friends of the cardinal make me fear I shall become his victim. A long imprisonment, endless questions, and the shame and despair of being accused of such crimes, begin to exhaust my courage, and I tremble lest my constancy should at last give way. Your majesty might end all this by a few words to M. de Breteuil, who could give the affair in the king's eyes any color your majesty likes without compromising you. It is the fear of being compelled to reveal all which makes me beg your majesty to take steps to relieve me from my painful position. I am, with profound respect,

"Your humble servant,

"JEANNE DE LA MOTTE."

Jeanne calculated either that this letter would frighten the queen, or, what was more probable, would never reach her hands, but be carried by the messenger to the governor of the Bastile, where it could hardly fail to tell against the queen. She then wrote to the cardinal:

"I cannot conceive, monseigneur, why you persist in not speaking plainly. It seems to me that your best plan would be to confide fully in our judges. As for me, I am resolved to be silent if you will not second me; but why do you not speak? Explain all the circumstances of this mysterious affair, for if I were to speak first, and you not support me, I should be sacrificed to the vengeance of her who wishes to ruin us. But I have written her a letter which will perhaps induce her to spare us, who have nothing to reproach ourselves with."

This letter she gave to the cardinal at their last confrontation. He grew pale with anger at her audacity, and left the room. Then Jeanne produced her letter to the queen, and begged the Abbe Lekel, chaplain of the Bastile, who had accompanied the cardinal, and was devoted to him, to take charge of it and convey it to the queen. He refused to take it. She declared that if he did not she would produce M. de Rohan's letters to the queen. "And take care, sir," added she, "for they will cause his head to fall on the scaffold."

At this moment the cardinal reappeared.

"Madame," said he, "let my head fall, so that I have the satisfaction of seeing also the scaffold which you shall mount as a thief and a forger. Come, Abbe." He went away, leaving Jeanne devoured with rage and disappointment at her failures at every turn.



CHAPTER LXXXIX.

THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE.

Madame de la Motte had deceived herself on all points, Cagliostro upon none. Once in the Bastile, he saw a good opportunity for working at the ruin of the monarchy, which he had been trying to undermine for so many years. He prepared the famous letter, dated from London, which appeared a month after. In this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal, and even M. de Breteuil, he said, "Yes, I repeat, now free after my imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six months in the Bastile. They ask me if I shall ever return to France? Yes, I reply, when the Bastile becomes a public promenade. You have all that is necessary to happiness, you Frenchmen; a fertile soil and genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. You only want, my friends, one little thing—to feel sure of sleeping quietly in your beds when you are innocent."

Oliva kept her word faithfully to Cagliostro, and uttered no word that could compromise him. She threw all the blame on Madame de la Motte, and asserted vehemently her own innocent participation in what she believed to be a joke, played on a gentleman unknown to her. All this time she did not see Beausire, but she had a souvenir of him; for in the month of May she gave birth to a son. Beausire was allowed to attend the baptism, which took place in the prison, which he did with much pleasure, swearing that if Oliva ever recovered her liberty he would make her his wife.



CHAPTER XC.

THE TRIAL.

The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to the Conciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent; Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent, menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.

The first who took his place on the wooden stool, which was appropriated for the accused, was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois, threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was best able to answer this question himself. "Ask him to produce them," said she; "I wish to say nothing about them." She inspired in nearly all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her; and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an armchair brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four attendants, and the governor of the Bastile walked by his side. At his entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it was echoed by loud shouts from without—it was the people who cheered him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him, and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not pronounced till the following day. Jeanne seated herself early at the window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she distinctly heard a passer-by say, "A grand day for the cardinal!" "For the cardinal," thought Jeanne; "then he is acquitted;" and she ran to M. Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. "He must be acquitted!" she said; "they said it was a grand day for him. But I——"

"Well, madame," said he, "if he is acquitted, why should you not be acquitted also?"

Jeanne returned to the window. "You are wrong, madame," said Madame Hubert to her; "you only become agitated, without perfectly understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel comes to communicate your fate."

"I cannot," said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the street.

A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. "He shall have my bouquet, the dear man!" said she. "Oh, I would embrace him if I could!"

"And I also," said another.

"He is so handsome!" said a third.

"It must be the cardinal," said Jeanne; "he is acquitted."

And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, "But, madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released?"

Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, "Oh, you misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish ill to my companions in misfortune? Oh no; I trust he is free. It is only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing."

"We do not know," replied they.

Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of "Vive Cagliostro!" were mingled with the shouts for M. de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the queen's victims; but suddenly the thought flashed on her, "They are already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!" and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach, which was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognized Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her, holding her child in her arms. Then Jeanne, seeing all these people free, happy, and feted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not also liberated, or at least told her fate.

"Calm yourself, madame," said Madame Hubert.

"But tell me, for you must know."

"Madame."

"I implore you! You see how I suffer."

"We are forbidden, madame."

"Is it so frightful that you dare not?"

"Oh no; calm yourself."

"Then speak."

"Will you be patient, and not betray us?"

"I swear."

"Well, the cardinal is acquitted."

"I know it."

"M. de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are also acquitted, M. Reteau condemned to the galleys——"

"And I?" cried Jeanne, furiously.

"Madame, you promised to be patient."

"See—speak—I am calm."

"Banished," said the woman, feebly.

A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame Hubert. "What would it have been," thought she, "if I had told her the truth!"

"Banishment!" thought Jeanne; "that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it is what I hoped for. I have won!"



CHAPTER XCI.

THE EXECUTION.

Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being now at ease, said to herself, "What do I care that I am thought more guilty than M. de Rohan? I am banished—that is to say, I can carry away my million and a half with me, and live under the orange trees of Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer. Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as I please among my friends."

Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her future plans, the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in London. This brought to her mind M. Reteau. "Poor fellow!" thought she, "it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes, and now it terminates with the galleys." She dined with M. and Madame Hubert, and was quite gay; but they did not respond, and were silent and uneasy. Jeanne, however, felt so happy that she cared little for their manner towards her. After dinner, she asked when they were coming to read her sentence.

M. Hubert said they were probably waiting till she returned to her room. She therefore rose to go, when Madame Hubert ran to her and took her hands, looking at her with an expression of so much pity and sympathy, that it struck her for a moment with terror. She was about to question her, but Hubert took her hand, and led her from the room. When she reached her own apartment, she found eight soldiers waiting outside; she felt surprised, but went in, and allowed the man to lock her up as usual. Soon, however, the door opened again, and one of the turnkeys appeared.

"Will madame please to follow me?" he said.

"Where?"

"Below."

"What for? What do they want with me?"

"Madame, M. Viollet, your counsel, wishes to speak to you."

"Why does he not come here?"

"Madame, he has received letters from Versailles, and wishes to show them to you."

"Letters from Versailles," thought Jeanne; "perhaps the queen has interested herself for me, since the sentence was passed. Wait a little," she said; "Till I arrange my dress." In five minutes she was ready. "Perhaps," she thought, "M. Viollet has come to get me to leave France at once, and the queen is anxious to facilitate the departure of so dangerous an enemy."

She followed the turnkey down-stairs, and they entered a room, which looked like a vault; it was damp, and almost dark.

"Sir," said she, trying to overcome her terror, "where is M. Viollet?"

The man did not reply.

"What do you want?" continued she; "have you anything to say to me? you have chosen a very singular place for a rendezvous."

"We are waiting for M. Viollet," he replied.

"It is not possible that M. Viollet should wish for me to wait for him here." All at once, another door, which Jeanne had not before observed, opened, and three men entered. Jeanne looked at them in surprise, and with growing terror. One of them, who was dressed in black, with a roll of papers in his hand, advanced, and said:

"You are Jeanne de St. Remy de Valois, wife of Marie Antoine, Count de la Motte?"

"Yes, sir."

"Born at Fontette, on the 22d of July, 1756?"

"Yes, sir."

"You live at Paris, Rue St. Claude?"

"Yes, sir; but why these questions?"

"Madame, I am the registrar of the court, and I am come to read to you the sentence of the court of the 31st of May, 1786."

Jeanne trembled again, and now looked at the other two men; one had a gray dress with steel buttons, the other a fur cap on and an apron, which seemed to her spotted with blood. She drew back, but the registrar said, "On your knees, madame, if you please."

"On my knees?" cried Jeanne; "I, a Valois!"

"It is the order, madame."

"But, sir, it is an unheard-of thing, except where some degrading sentence has been pronounced; and banishment is not such."

"I did not tell you you were sentenced to banishment," said he gravely.

"But to what, then?"

"I will tell you, madame, when you are on your knees."

"Never!"

"Madame, I only follow my instructions."

"Never! I tell you."

"Madame, it is the order that when the condemned refuse to kneel, they should be forced to do it."

"Force—to a woman!"

"There is no distinction in the eyes of justice."

"Ah!" cried Jeanne, "this is the queen's doings; I recognize the hands of an enemy."

"You are wrong to accuse the queen; she has nothing to do with the orders of the court. Come, madame, I beg you to spare me the necessity of violence, and kneel down."

"Never!" and she planted herself firmly in a corner of the room.

The registrar then signed to the two other men, who, approaching, seized her, and in spite of her cries dragged her into the middle of the room. But she bounded up again.

"Let me stand," said she, "and I will listen patiently."

"Madame, whenever criminals are punished by whipping, they kneel to receive the sentence."

"Whipping!" screamed Jeanne; "miserable wretch, how dare you——"

The men forced her on her knees once more, and held her down, but she struggled so furiously that they called out, "Read quickly, monsieur, for we cannot hold her."

"I will never hear such an infamous sentence," she cried; and indeed she drowned his voice so effectually with her screams, that although he read, not a word could be heard.

He replaced his papers in his pocket, and she, thinking he had finished, stopped her cries. Then he said, "And the sentence shall be executed at the place of executions, Cour de Justice."

"Publicly!" screamed she.

"Monsieur de Paris, I deliver you this woman," said the registrar, addressing the man with the leathern apron.

"Who is this man?" cried Jeanne, in a fright.

"The executioner," replied the registrar.

The two men then took hold of her to lead her out, but her resistance was so violent that they were obliged to drag her along by force, and she never ceased uttering the most frantic cries. They took her thus into the court called Cour de Justice, where there was a scaffold and which was crowded with spectators. On a platform, raised about eight feet, was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount to it. This place was surrounded with soldiers. When she appeared, cries of "Here she is!" mingled with much abuse, were heard from the crowd. Numbers of the partisans of M. de Rohan had assembled to hoot her, and cries of "A bas la Motte, the forger!" were heard on every side, and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced. Then she cried in a loud voice, "Do you know who I am? I am of the blood of your kings. They strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival; not only a rival, but an accomplice. Yes," repeated she, as the people kept silence to kept listen, "an accomplice. They punish one who knows the secrets of——"

"Take care," interrupted the registrar.

She turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. At this sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her hatred, and sinking on her knees she said, "Have pity!" and seized his hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her shoulders. She jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a hot iron. At this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by the people.

"Help! help!" she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they were tying her hands. The executioner at last forced her on her knees, and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard through all the tumult, "Cowardly Frenchmen! you do not defend me, but let me be tortured; oh! it is my own fault. If I had said all I knew of the queen I should have been——"

She could say no more, for she was gagged by the attendants: then two men held her, while the executioner performed his office. At the touch of the iron she fainted, and was carried back insensible to the Conciergerie when the crowd gradually dispersed.



CHAPTER XCII.

THE MARRIAGE.

On the same day at noon the king entered a drawing-room, where the queen was sitting in full dress, but pale through her rouge, and surrounded by a party of ladies and gentlemen. He glanced frequently towards the door. "Are not the young couple ready? I believe it is noon," he said.

"Sire, M. de Charny is waiting in the gallery for your majesty's orders," said the queen, with a violent effort.

"Oh! let him come in." The queen turned from the door. "The bride ought to be here also," continued the king, "it is time."

"Your majesty must excuse Mademoiselle de Taverney, if she is late," replied M. de Charny, advancing; "for since the death of her father she has not left her bed until to-day, and she fainted when she did so."

"This dear child loved her father so much," replied the king, "but we hope a good husband will console her. M. de Breteuil," said he, turning to that gentleman, "have you made out the order of banishment for M. de Cagliostro?"

"Yes, sire."

"And that De la Motte. Is it not to-day she is to be branded?"

At this moment, Andree appeared, dressed in white like a bride, and with cheeks nearly as white as her dress. She advanced leaning on her brother's arm. M. de Suffren, leading his nephew, came to meet her, and then drew back to allow her to approach the king.

"Mademoiselle," said Louis, taking her hand, "I begged of you to hasten this marriage, instead of waiting until the time of your mourning had expired, that I might have the pleasure of assisting at the ceremony; for to-morrow I and the queen commence a tour through France." And he led Andree up to the queen, who could hardly stand, and did not raise her eyes. The king then, putting Andree's hand into Philippe's, said, "Gentlemen, to the chapel,"—and they began to move. The queen kneeled on her prie Dieu, her face buried in her hands, praying for strength. Charny, though pale as death, feeling that all eyes were upon him, appeared calm and strong. Andree remained immovable as a statue; she did not pray—she had nothing to ask, to hope for, or to fear. The ceremony over, the king kissed Andree on the forehead, saying, "Madame la Comtesse, go to the queen, she wishes to give you a wedding present."

"Oh!" murmured Andree to Philippe, "it is too much; I can bear no more; I cannot do that."

"Courage, sister, one effort more."

"I cannot, Philippe; if she speaks to me, I shall die."

"Then, you will be happier than I, for I cannot die."

Andree said no more, but went to the queen. She found her in her chair with closed eyes and clasped hands, seeming more dead than alive, except for the shudders which, shook her from time to time. Andree waited tremblingly to hear her speak; but, after a minute, she rose slowly, and took from the table a paper, which she put into Andree's hands. Andree opened it, and read:

"Andree, you have saved me. My honor comes from you; my life belongs to you. In the name of this honor, which has cost you so dear, I swear to you that you may call me sister without blushing. This paper is the pledge of my gratitude, the dowry which I give you. Your heart is noble and will thank me for this gift.

"MARIE ANTOINETTE DE LORRAINE D'AUTRICHE."

Andree looked at the queen, and saw tears falling from her eyes; she seemed expecting an answer, but Andree, putting the letter in the fire, turned and left the room. Then Charny, who was waiting for her, took her hand, and they, each pale and silent, left the room. Two traveling-carriages were in the courtyard; Andree got into one, and then said:

"Sir, I believe you go to Picardy."

"Yes, madame."

"And I to where my mother lies dead. Adieu, monsieur."

Charny bowed, but did not reply, and Andree drove off.

Charny himself, after giving his hand to Philippe, got into the other, and also drove off.

Then Philippe cried, in a tone of anguish, "My task is done!" and he too vanished.

THE END.



List of illustrations:

CAGLIOSTRO AND OLIVA

THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE