He entered the room; it was empty, but in the grate still lay some ashes, the remains of the furniture which had adorned it, and which he had burned there. Among it several pieces of gold and silver still sparkled. As he turned, he saw something glittering on the floor; he picked it up. It was one of those silver arrows with which the Italian women were in the habit of confining their hair. He pressed it to his lips, and a tear stood in his eyes as he murmured, "Lorenza!" It was but for a moment; then he opened the window and threw it out, saying to himself, "Adieu! this last souvenir, which would soften me. This house is about to be profaned—another woman will ascend the staircase, and perhaps even into this room, where Lorenza's last sigh still vibrates; but to serve my end the sacrifice shall be made. I must, however, have some alterations made."

He then wrote on his tablets the following words: "To M. Lenoir, my architect,—Clean out the court and vestibule, restore the coach-house and stable, and demolish the interior of the pavilion. To be done in eight days."

"Now, let us see," said he to himself, "if we can perfectly distinguish the window of the countess. It is infallible," said he, after looking out; "the women must see each other."

The next day fifty workmen had invaded the house and commenced the projected alterations, which were completed within the given time. Some of the passers-by saw a large rat hung up by the tail.



CHAPTER XLVI.

JEANNE THE PROTECTRESS.

M. le Cardinal de Rohan received, two days after his visit to M. Boehmer, the following note:

"His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan knows, doubtless, where he will sup this evening."

"From the little countess," said he; "I will go."

Among the footmen given to her by the cardinal, Jeanne had distinguished one, black-haired and dark-eyed, and, as she thought, active and intelligent. She set this man to watch the cardinal, and learned from him that he had been twice to M. Boehmer's. Therefore she concluded the necklace was bought, and yet he had not communicated it to her. She frowned at the thought, and wrote the note which we have seen.

M. de Rohan sent before him a basket of Tokay and other rarities, just as if he was going to sup with La Guimard or Mademoiselle Dangeville. Jeanne determined not to use any of it at supper.

"When they were alone, she said to him:

"Really, monseigneur, one thing afflicts me."

"What, countess?"

"To see, not only that you no longer love me, but that you never have loved me."

"Oh, countess! how can you say so?"

"Do not make excuses, monseigneur; it would be lost time."

"Oh, countess!"

"Do not be uneasy; I am quite indifferent about it now."

"Whether I love you or not?"

"Yes, because I do not love you."

"That is not flattering."

"Indeed, we are not exchanging compliments, but facts. We have never loved each other."

"Oh, as for myself, I cannot allow that; I have a great affection for you, countess."

"Come, monseigneur, let us esteem each other enough to speak the truth, and that is, that there is between us a much stronger bond than love—that is, interest."

"Oh, countess, what a shame!"

"Monseigneur, if you are ashamed, I am not."

"Well, countess, supposing ourselves interested, how can we serve each other?"

"First, monseigneur, I wish to ask you a question. Why have you failed in confidence towards me?"

"I! How so, pray?"

"Will you deny that, after skilfully drawing from me the details—which, I confess, I was not unwilling to give you—concerning the desire of a certain great lady for a certain thing, you have taken means to gratify that desire without telling me?"

"Countess, you are a real enigma, a sphinx."

"Oh, no enigma, cardinal; I speak of the queen, and of the diamonds which you bought yesterday of MM. Boehmer and Bossange."

"Countess!" cried he, growing pale.

"Oh, do not look so frightened," continued she. "Did you not conclude your bargain yesterday?"

He did not speak, but looked uncomfortable, and half angry. She took his hand.

"Pardon, prince," she said, "but I wished to show you your mistake about me; you believe me foolish and spiteful."

"Oh, countess, now I understand you perfectly. I expected to find you a pretty woman and a clever one, but you are better than this. Listen to me: you have, you say, been willing to become my friend without loving me?"

"I repeat it," replied she.

"Then you had some object?"

"Assuredly. Do you wish me to tell it to you?"

"No; I understand it. You wished to make my fortune; that once done, you are sure that my first care would be for yours. Am I right?"

"Yes, monseigneur; but I have not pursued my plans with any repugnance—the road has been a pleasant one."

"You are an amiable woman, countess, and it is a pleasure to discuss business with you. You have guessed rightly that I have a respectful attachment towards a certain person."

"I saw it at the Opera ball," she said.

"I know well that this affection will never be returned."

"Oh, a queen is only a woman, and you are surely equal to Cardinal Mazarin."

"He was a very handsome man," said M. de Rohan, laughing.

"And an excellent minister," said Jeanne.

"Countess, it is superfluous trouble to talk to you; you guess and know everything. Yes, I do wish to become prime minister. Everything entitles me to it—my birth, my knowledge of business, my standing with foreign courts, and the affection which is felt for me by the French people."

"There is but one obstacle," said Jeanne.

"An antipathy."

"Yes, of the queen's; and the king always ends by liking what she likes, and hating what she hates."

"And she hates me? Be frank, countess."

"Well, monseigneur, she does not love you."

"Then I am lost! Of what use is the necklace?"

"You deceive yourself, prince."

"It is bought."

"At least, it will show the queen that you love her. You know, monseigneur, we have agreed to call things by their right names."

"Then you say you do not despair of seeing me one day prime minister?"

"I am sure of it."

"And what are your own ambitions?"

"I will tell you, prince, when you are in a position to satisfy them."

"We will hope for that day."

"Now let us sup."

"I am not hungry."

"Then let us talk."

"I have nothing more to say."

"Then go."

"How! is that what you call our alliance? Do you send me away?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Well, countess, I will not deceive myself again about you." Before leaving, however, he turned, and said, "What must I do now, countess?"

"Nothing; wait for me to act. I will go to Versailles."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"And when shall I hear from you?"

"Immediately."

"Then I abandon myself to your protection; au revoir, countess."



CHAPTER XLVII.

JEANNE PROTECTED.

Mistress of such a secret, rich in such a future, and supported by such a friend, Jeanne felt herself strong against the world. To appear at court, no longer as a suppliant, as the poor mendicant, drawn from poverty by Madame de Boulainvilliers, but as a Valois, with an income of 100,000 francs; to be called the favorite of the queen, and consequently governing the king and state through her.—Such was the panorama that floated before the eyes of Jeanne.

She went to Versailles. She had no audience promised, but she trusted to her good fortune, and as the queen had received her so well before, all the officials were anxious to serve her. Therefore, one of the doorkeepers said aloud, as the queen came from chapel, to one of her gentlemen, "Monsieur, what am I to do? Here is Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois asking admission, and she has no letter of audience."

The queen heard and turned round. "Did you say Madame de la Motte Valois was here?" she asked.

"Your majesty, the doorkeeper says so."

"I will receive her; bring her to the bath-room."

The man told Jeanne what he had done. She drew out her purse; but he said, "Will Madame la Comtesse allow this debt to accumulate? Some day she can pay me with interest."

"You are right, my friend; I thank you."

Marie Antoinette looked serious when Jeanne entered.

"She supposes I am come again to beg," thought Jeanne.

"Madame," said the queen, "I have not yet had an opportunity to speak to the king."

"Oh, your majesty has already done too much for me; I ask nothing more. I came——" she hesitated.

"Is it something urgent, that you did not wait to ask for an audience?"

"Urgent! Yes, madame; but not for myself."

"For me, then?" and the queen conducted her into the bath-room, where her women were waiting for her. Once in the bath, she sent them away.

"Now, countess."

"Madame," said Jeanne, "I am much embarrassed."

"Why so?"

"Your majesty knows the kindness I have received from M. de Rohan."

The queen frowned. "Well, madame?"

"Yesterday his eminence came to see me, and spoke to me as usual of your majesty's goodness and kindness."

"What does he want?"

"I expressed to him all my sense of your generosity, which constantly empties your purse, and told him that I felt almost guilty in thinking of your majesty's gift to myself, and remembering that were it not for such liberality your majesty need not have been forced to deny yourself the beautiful necklace which became you so well. When I related this circumstance to M. de Rohan, I saw him grow pale and the tears came into his eyes. Indeed, madame, his fine face, full of admiration for, and emotion caused by, your noble conduct, is ever before my eyes."

"Well, countess, if he has impressed you so deeply, I advise you not to let him see it. M. de Rohan is a worldly prelate, and gathers the sheep as much for himself as for his Lord."

"Oh, madame!"

"It is not I who say it: that is his reputation; he almost glories in it; his trophies are numerous, and some of them have made no little scandal."

"Well, madame, I am sure he thought then of no one but your majesty."

The queen laughed.

"Your majesty's modesty will not allow you to listen to praises."

"Not from the cardinal—I suspect them all."

"It is not my part," replied Jeanne, respectfully, "to defend any one who has incurred your majesty's displeasure."

"M. de Rohan has offended me, but I am a queen and a Christian, and do not wish to dwell on offenses."

Jeanne was silent.

"You think differently to me on this subject?"

"Completely, your majesty."

"You would not speak so if you knew what he has done against me; but as you have so great a friendship for him, I will not attack him again before you. You have not, then, forgotten the diamonds?"

"Oh, madame, I have thought of them night and day. They will look so well on your majesty."

"What do you mean? They are sold to the Portuguese ambassador."

Jeanne shook her head.

"Not sold!" cried the queen.

"Yes, madame, but to M. de Rohan."

"Oh," said the queen, becoming suddenly cold again.

"Oh! your majesty," cried Jeanne; "do not be ungenerous towards him. It was the impulse of a generous heart that your majesty should understand and sympathize with. When he heard my account he cried,—'What! the queen refuse herself such a thing, and perhaps see it one day worn by one of her subjects!' And when I told him that it was bought for the Queen of Portugal, he was more indignant than ever. He cried, 'It is no longer a simple question of pleasure for the queen, but of the dignity of the French crown. I know the spirit of foreign courts; they will laugh at our queen because they happen to have more money to spare: and I will never suffer this.' And he left me abruptly. An hour after I heard that he had bought the necklace."

"For 1,500,000 francs?"

"1,600,000, madame."

"With what intention?"

"That at least if your majesty would not have them no one else should."

"Are you sure it is not for some mistress?"

"I am sure he would rather break it to pieces than see it on any other neck than your own."

Marie Antoinette reflected, and her expressive countenance showed clearly every thought that passed through her mind. At last she said:

"What M. de Rohan has done is a noble trait of a delicate devotion, and you will thank him for me."

"Oh yes, madame."

"You will add, that he has proved to me his friendship, and that I accept it, but not his gift."

"But, madame——"

"No, but as a loan. He has advanced his money and his credit to please me, and I will repay him. Boehmer has asked for money down?"

"Yes, madame."

"How much?"

"100,000 francs."

"That is my quarter's allowance from the king. I received it this morning; it is in advance, but still I have it." She rang the bell. Her woman came and wrapped her in warm sheets, and then she dressed herself. Once more alone in her bedroom with Jeanne, she said:

"Open that drawer, and you will see a portfolio."

"Here it is, madame."

"It holds the 100,000 francs—count them."

Jeanne obeyed.

"Take them to the cardinal with my thanks; each quarter I will pay the same. In this manner I shall have the necklace which pleased me so much, and if it embarrasses me to pay it, at least it will not hurt the king; and I shall have gained the knowledge that I have a friend who has guessed my wishes." Then, after a pause, "You will add, countess, that M. de Rohan will be welcome at Versailles to receive my thanks."

Jeanne went away full of joy and delight.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE QUEEN'S PORTFOLIO.

The cardinal was at home when Madame de la Motte came to his hotel. She had herself announced, and was immediately admitted.

"You come from Versailles?" said he.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Well, monseigneur, what do you expect?"

"Ah, countess, you say that with an air that frightens me."

"You wished me to see the queen, and I have seen her; and that I should speak to her of you whom she has always so much disliked."

"And you did?"

"Yes, and her majesty listened."

"Say no more, countess, I see she will not overcome her repugnance."

"Oh! as to that, I spoke of the necklace."

"And did you dare to say that I wished——"

"To buy it for her? Yes."

"Oh, countess, you are sublime; and she listened?"

"Yes, but she refused."

"Oh, I am lost."

"Refused to accept it as a gift, but not as a loan."

"I lend to the queen! countess, it is impossible."

"It is more than giving, is it not?"

"A thousand times."

"So I thought."

The cardinal rose and came towards her. "Do not deceive me," he said.

"One does not play with the affections of a man like you, monseigneur."

"Then it is true?"

"The exact truth."

"I have a secret with the queen!" and he pressed Jeanne's hand.

"I like that clasp of the hand," she said, "it is like one man to another."

"It is that of a happy man to a protecting angel."

"Monseigneur, do not exaggerate."

"Oh, my joy! my gratitude! impossible."

"But lending a million and a half to the queen is not all you wish for? Buckingham would have asked for more."

"Buckingham believed what I dare not even dream of."

"The queen sends you word that she will see you with pleasure at Versailles."

The cardinal looked as pale as a youth who gives his first kiss of love.

"Ah," thought she, "it is still more serious than I imagined. I can get what I please from him, for he acts really not from ambition but from love."

He quickly recovered himself, however: "My friend," said he, "how does the queen mean to act about this loan she talks of?"

"Ah, you think she has no money. But she will pay you as she would have paid Boehmer. Only if she had paid him all Paris must have known it, which she would not have liked, after the credit she has had for her refusal of it. You are a cashier for her, and a solvent one if she becomes embarrassed. She is happy and she pays. Ask no more."

"She pays?"

"Yes, she knows you have debts; and when I told her you had advanced 100,000 francs——"

"You told her?"

"Yes; why not?" Jeanne put her hand in her pocket, and drew out the portfolio. "The queen sends you this with thanks; it is all right, for I have counted it."

"Who cares for that? But the portfolio?"

"Well, it is not handsome."

"It pleases me, nevertheless."

"You have good taste."

"Ah, you quiz me."

"You have the same taste as the queen, at all events."

"Then it was hers?"

"Do you wish for it?"

"I cannot deprive you of it."

"Take it."

"Oh, countess, you are a precious friend; but while you have worked for me, I have not forgotten you."

Jeanne looked surprised.

"Yes," said he, "my banker came to propose to me some plan of a marsh to drain, which must be profitable. I took two hundred shares, and fifty of them are for you."

"Oh, monseigneur!"

"He soon returned, he had realized already on them cent. per cent. He gave me 100,000 francs, and here is your share, dear countess;" and from the pocket-book she had just given him he slid 25,000 francs into her hand.

"Thanks, monseigneur. What gratifies me most is, that you thought of me."

"I shall ever do so," said he, kissing her hand.

"And I of you, at Versailles."



CHAPTER XLIX.

IN WHICH WE FIND DR. LOUIS.

Perhaps our readers, remembering in what a position we left M. de Charny, will not dislike to return with us to that little ante-chamber at Versailles into which this brave seaman, who feared neither men nor elements, had fled, lest he should show his weakness to the queen. Once arrived there, he felt it impossible to go further; he stretched out his arms, and was only saved from falling to the ground by the aid of those around. He then fainted, and was totally ignorant that the queen had seen him, and would have run to his assistance had Andree not prevented her, more even from a feeling of jealousy than from regard for appearances. Immediately after the king entered, and seeing a man lying supported by two guards, who, unaccustomed to see men faint, scarcely knew what to do, advanced, saying, "Some one is ill here."

At his voice the men started and let their burden fall.

"Oh!" cried the king, "it is M. de Charny. Place him on this couch, gentlemen." Then they brought him restoratives, and sent for a doctor.

The king waited to hear the result. The doctor's first care was to open the waistcoat and shirt of the young man to give him air, and then he saw the wound.

"A wound!" cried the king.

"Yes," said M. de Charny, faintly, "an old wound, which has reopened;" and he pressed the hand of the doctor to make him understand.

But this was not a court doctor, who understands everything; so, willing to show his knowledge, "Old, sir! this wound is not twenty-four hours old."

Charny raised himself at this, and said, "Do you teach me, sir, when I received my wound?" Then, turning round, he cried, "The king!" and hastened to button his waistcoat.

"Yes, M. de Charny, who fortunately arrived in time to procure you assistance."

"A mere scratch, sire," stammered Charny, "an old wound."

"Old or new," replied Louis, "it has shown me the blood of a brave man."

"Whom a couple of hours in bed will quite restore," continued Charny, trying to rise; but his strength failed him, his head swam, and he sank back again.

"He is very ill," said the king.

"Yes, sire," said the doctor, with importance, "but I can cure him."

The king understood well that M. de Charny wished to hide some secret from him, and determined to respect it. "I do not wish," said he, "that M. de Charny should run the risk of being moved; we will take care of him here. Let M. de Suffren be called, this gentleman recompensed, and my own physician, Dr. Louis, be sent for."

While one officer went to execute these orders, two others carried Charny into a room at the end of the gallery. Dr. Louis and M. de Suffren soon arrived. The latter understood nothing of his nephew's illness. "It is strange," said he; "do you know, doctor, I never knew my nephew ill before."

"That proves nothing," replied the doctor.

"The air of Versailles must be bad for him."

"It is his wound," said one of the officers.

"His wound!" cried M. de Suffren; "he never was wounded in his life."

"Oh, excuse me," said the officer, opening the shirt, covered with blood, "but I thought——"

"Well," said the doctor, who began to see the state of the case, "do not let us lose time disputing over the cause, but see what can be done to cure him."

"Is it dangerous, doctor?" asked M. de Suffren, with anxiety.

"Not at all," replied he.

M. de Suffren took his leave, and left Charny with the doctor. Fever commenced, and before long he was delirious. Three hours after the doctor called a servant, and told him to take Charny in his arms, who uttered doleful cries. "Roll the sheet over his head," said the doctor.

"But," said the man, "he struggles so much that I must ask assistance from one of the guards."

"Are you afraid of a sick man, sir? If he is too heavy for you, you are not strong enough for me. I must send you back to Auvergne." This threat had its effect. Charny, crying, fighting, and gesticulating, was carried by the man through the guards.

Some of the officers questioned the doctor.

"Oh! gentlemen," said he, "this gallery is too far off for me; I must have him in my own rooms."

"But I assure you, doctor, we would all have looked after him here. We all love M. de Suffren."

"Oh yes, I know your sort of care! The sick man is thirsty, and you give him something to drink, and kill him."

"Now there remains but one danger," said the doctor to himself, as he followed Charny, "that the king should want to visit him, and if he hear him—— Diable! I must speak to the queen." The good doctor, therefore, having bathed the head and face of his patient with cold water, and seen him safe in bed, went out and locked the door on him, leaving his servant to look after him. He went towards the queen's apartments, and met Madame de Misery, who had just been despatched to ask after the patient.

"Come with me," he said.

"But, doctor, the queen waits for intelligence."

"I am going to her."

"The queen wishes——"

"The queen shall know all she wishes. I will take care of that."



CHAPTER L.

AEGRI SOMNIA

The queen was expecting the return of Madame de Misery. The doctor entered with his accustomed familiarity. "Madame," he said, "the patient in whom your majesty and the king are interested is as well as any one can be who has a fever."

"Is it a slight wound?" asked the queen.

"Slight or not, he is in a fever."

"Poor fellow!—a bad fever?"

"Terrible!"

"You frighten me; dear doctor; you, who are generally so cheering. Besides, you look about you, as though you had a secret to tell."

"So I have."

"About the fever?"

"Yes."

"To tell me?"

"Yes."

"Speak, then, for I am curious."

"I wait for you to question me, madame."

"Well, how does the fever go on?"

"No; ask me why I have taken him away from the guard's gallery, where the king left him, to my own room."

"Well, I ask. Indeed it is strange."

"Then, madame, I did so, because it is not an ordinary fever."

The queen looked surprised. "What do you mean?"

"M. de Charny is delirious already, and in his delirium he says a number of things rather delicate for the gentlemen of the guard to hear."

"Doctor!"

"Oh, madame! you should not question me, if you do not wish to hear my answers."

"Well, then, dear doctor, is he an atheist? Does he blaspheme?"

"Oh, no! he is on the contrary a devotee."

The queen assumed a look of sang-froid. "M. de Charny," she said, "interests me. He is the nephew of M. de Suffren, and has besides rendered me personal services. I wish to be a friend to him. Tell me, therefore, the exact truth."

"But I cannot tell you, madame. If your majesty wishes to know, the only way is to hear him yourself."

"But if he says such strange things?"

"Things which your majesty ought to hear."

"But," said the queen, "I cannot move a step here, without some charitable spy watching me."

"I will answer for your security. Come through my private way, and I will lock the door after us."

"I trust to you, then, dear doctor." And she followed him, burning with curiosity.

When they reached the second door the doctor put his ear to the keyhole.

"Is your patient in there, doctor?"

"No, madame, or you would have heard him at the end of the corridor. Even here you can hear his voice."

"He groans."

"No, he speaks loud and distinct."

"But I cannot go in to him."

"I do not mean you to do so. I only wish you to listen in the adjoining room, where you will hear without being seen." They went on, and the doctor entered the sick-room alone.

Charny, still dressed in his uniform, was making fruitless efforts to rise, and was repeating to himself his interview with the German lady in the coach. "German!" he cried—"German! Queen of France!"

"Do you hear, madame?"

"It is frightful," continued Charny, "to love an angel, a woman—to love her madly—to be willing to give your life for her; and when you come near her, to find her only a queen—of velvet and of gold, of metal and of silk, and no heart."

"Oh! oh!" cried the doctor again.

"I love a married woman!" Charny went on, "and with that wild love which, makes me forget everything else. Well, I will say to her, there remain for us still some happy days on this earth. Come, my beloved, and we will live the life of the blessed, if we love each other. Afterwards there will be death—better than a life like this. Let us love at least."

"Not badly reasoned for a man in a fever," said the doctor.

"But her children!" cried Charny suddenly, with fury; "she will not leave her children. Oh! we will carry them away also. Surely I can carry her, she is so light, and her children too." Then he gave a terrible cry: "But they are the children of a king!"

The doctor left his patient and approached the queen.

"You are right, doctor," said she; "this young man would incur a terrible danger if he were overheard."

"Listen again," said the doctor.

"Oh, no more."

But just then Charny said, in a gentler voice:

"Marie, I feel that you love me, but I will say nothing about it. Marie, I felt the touch of your foot in the coach; your hand touched mine, but I will never tell; I will keep this secret with my life. My blood may all flow away, Marie, but my secret shall not escape with it. My enemy steeped his sword in my blood, but if he has guessed my secret, yours is safe. Fear nothing, Marie, I do not even ask you if you love me; you blushed, that is enough."

"Oh!" thought the doctor; "this sounds less like delirium than like memory."

"I have heard enough," cried the queen, rising and trembling violently; and she tried to go.

The doctor stopped her. "Madame," said he, "what do you wish?"

"Nothing, doctor, nothing."

"But if the king ask to see my patient?"

"Oh! that would be dreadful!"

"What shall I say?"

"Doctor, I cannot think; this dreadful spectacle has confused me."

"I think you have caught his fever," said the doctor, feeling her pulse.

She drew away her hand, and escaped.



CHAPTER LI.

ANDREE.

The doctor remained thoughtful, then said to himself,—"There are other difficulties here besides those I can contend with by science." He bathed again the temples of his patient, who for the time began to grow calmer.

All at once the doctor heard the rustling of a dress outside. "Can it be the queen returned?" thought he; and opening the door softly, he saw before him the motionless figure of a woman, looking like a statue of despair. It was almost dark; he advanced suddenly along the corridor to the place where the figure was standing. On seeing him, she uttered a cry.

"Who is there?" asked Doctor Louis.

"I, doctor!" replied a sweet and sorrowful voice—a voice that he knew but could not immediately recognize. "I, Andree de Taverney," continued she.

"Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter?" cried the doctor; "is she ill?"

"She! who?"

The doctor felt that he had committed an imprudence.

"Excuse me, but I saw a lady going away just now, perhaps it was you."

"Oh, yes, there has been a lady here before me, has there not?" asked Andree, in a tone of emotion.

"My dear child," replied the doctor, "of whom do you speak? what do you want to know?"

"Doctor," answered Andree, in a sorrowful voice, "you always speak the truth, do not deceive me now; I am sure there was a woman here before me."

"Doubtless. Why should I deceive you? Madame de Misery was here."

"It was Madame de Misery who came?"

"Certainly; what makes you doubt? What inexplicable beings women are."

"Dear doctor."

"Well, but to the point. Is she worse?"

"Who?"

"Pardieu, the queen."

"The queen!"

"Yes, the queen, for whom Madame de Misery came to fetch me, and who was troubled with her palpitations. If you come from her, tell me, and we will go back together."

"No, doctor, I do not come from the queen, and was even ignorant that she was suffering. But pardon me, doctor, I scarcely know what I an saying." In fact, she seemed on the point of fainting.

The doctor supported her. She rallied by a strong effort. "Doctor," she said, "you know I am nervous in the dark; I lost my way in these intricate passages, and have grown frightened and foolish."

"And why the devil should you be wandering about these dark passages, since you came for nothing?"

"I did not say I came for nothing, only that no one sent me."

"Well, if you have anything to say to me, come away from here, for I am tired of standing."

"Oh, I shall not be ten minutes; can any one hear us?"

"No one."

"Not even your patient in there?"

"Oh, no fear of his hearing anything."

Andree clasped her hands. "Oh, mon Dieu!" she cried, "he is, then, very ill?"

"Indeed he is not well. But tell me quickly what brings you here, for I cannot wait."

"Well, doctor, we have spoken of it; I came to ask after him."

Doctor Louis received this confession with a solemn silence, which Andree took for a reproach.

"You may excuse this step, doctor," she said, "as he was wounded in a duel with my brother."

"Your brother! I was ignorant of that."

"But now that you know it, you understand why I inquire after him."

"Oh, certainly, my child," said the good doctor, enchanted to find an excuse for being indulgent; "I could not know this."

"A duel between two gentlemen is a thing of everyday occurrence, doctor."

"Certainly; the only thing that could make it of importance would be that they have fought about a lady!"

"About a lady!"

"About yourself, for example."

Andree sighed.

"Oh, doctor! they did not fight about me."

"Then," said the doctor, "is it your brother that has sent you for news of M. de Charny?"

"Oh, yes, my brother, doctor."

Dr. Louis looked at her scrutinizingly.

"I will find out the truth," thought he. Then he said, "Well, I will tell you the truth, that your brother may make his arrangements accordingly; you understand."

"No, doctor."

"Why, a duel is never a very agreeable thing to the king, and if it makes a scandal, he often banishes or imprisons the actors; but when death ensues, he is always inflexible. Therefore counsel your brother to hide for a time."

"Then," cried Andree, "M. de Charny is—dangerously ill?"

"My dear young lady, if he is not out of danger by this time to-morrow, if before that time I cannot quell the fever that devours him, M. de Charny is a dead man."

Andree bit her lips till the blood came, and clenched her hands till the nails stuck into the flesh, to stifle the cry that was ready to burst from her. Having conquered herself, she said, "My brother will not fly; he wounded M. de Charny in fair fight, and if he has killed him, he will take his chance."

The doctor was deceived. She did not come on her own account, he thought.

"How does the queen take it?" he asked.

"The queen? I know not. What is it to her?"

"But she likes your brother."

"Well, he is safe; and perhaps she will defend him if he is accused."

"Then, mademoiselle, you have learned what you wished. Let your brother fly, or not, as he pleases; that is your affair. Mine is to do the best to-night for the wounded man; without which, death will infallibly carry him off. Adieu."

Andree fled back to her room, locked herself in, and falling on her knees by the side of her bed, "My God!" cried she, with a torrent of burning tears, "you will not leave this young man to die who has done no wrong, and who is so loved in this world. Oh! save him, that I may see a God of mercy, and not of vengeance." Her strength gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. When her senses returned to her, her first muttered words were, "I love him! oh, I love him!"



CHAPTER LII.

DELIRIUM.

M. De Charny conquered the fever. The next day the report was favorable. Once out of danger, Doctor Louis ceased to take so much interest in him; and after the lapse of a week, as he had not forgotten all that had passed in his delirium, he wished to have him removed from Versailles: but Charny, at the first hint of this, rebelled, and said angrily, "that his majesty had given him shelter there, and that no one had a right to disturb him."

The doctor, who was not patient with intractable convalescents, ordered four men to come in and move him; but Charny caught hold of his bed with one hand, and struck furiously with the other at every one who approached; and with the effort, the wound reopened, the fever returned, and he began to cry out that the doctor wished to deprive him of the visions that he had in his sleep, but that it was all in vain; for that she who sent them to him was of too high rank to mind the doctor.

Then the doctor, frightened, sent the men away, and dressed the wound again; but as the delirium returned stronger than ever, he determined to go once more to the queen.

Marie Antoinette received him with a smile; she expected to hear that the patient was cured, but on hearing that he was very ill, she cried:

"Why, yesterday you said he was going on so well!"

"It was not true, madame."

"And why did you deceive me? Is there, then, danger?"

"Yes, madame, to himself and others; but the evil is moral, not physical. The wound in itself is nothing; but, madame, M. de Charny is fast becoming a monomaniac, and this I cannot cure. Madame, you will have ruined this young man."

"I, doctor! Am I the cause, if he is mad?"

"If you are not now, you soon will be."

"What must I do, then? Command me, doctor."

"This young man must be cured either with kindness or coercion. The woman whose name he evokes every instant must kill or cure him."

"Doctor, you exaggerate. Can you kill a man with a hard word, or cure a madman with a smile?"

"If your majesty be incredulous, I have only to pay my respects, and take leave."

"No, doctor; tell me what you wish."

"Madame, if you desire to free this palace from his cries, and from scandal, you must act."

"You wish me to come and see him?"

"Yes."

"Then I will call some one—Mademoiselle de Taverney, for example—and you have all ready to receive us. But it is a dreadful responsibility to run the risk of kill or cure, as you say."

"It is what I have to do every day. Come, madame, all is ready."

The queen sighed, and followed the doctor, without waiting for Andree, who was not to be found.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Charny was asleep, after the troubled night he had gone through. The queen, attired in an elegant morning dress, entered the corridor. The doctor advised her to present herself suddenly, determined to produce a crisis, either for good or ill; but at the door they found a woman standing, who had not time to assume her usual unmoved tranquillity, but showed an agitated countenance, and trembled before them.

"Andree!" cried the queen.

"Yes, your majesty; you are here too!"

"I sent for you, but they could not find you."

Andree, anxious to hide her feelings, even at the price of a falsehood, said, "I heard your majesty had asked for me, and came after you."

"How did you know I was here?"

"They said you were gone with Doctor Louis, so I guessed it."

"Well guessed," replied the queen, who was little suspicious, and forgot immediately her first surprise.

She went on, leaving Andree with the doctor.

Andree, seeing her disappear, gave a look full of anger and grief. The doctor said to her:

"Do you think she will succeed?"

"Succeed in what?"

"In getting this poor fellow removed, who will die here."

"Will he live elsewhere?" asked Andree, surprised.

"I believe so."

"Oh, then, may she succeed!"



CHAPTER LIII.

CONVALESCENCE.

The queen walked straight up to where Charny lay, dressed, on a couch. He raised his head, wakened by her entrance.

"The queen!" cried he, trying to rise.

"Yes, sir, the queen," she replied, "who knows how you strive to lose both reason and life; the queen, whom you offend both dreaming and waking; the queen, who cares for your honor and your safety, and therefore comes to you. Is it possible," continued she, "that a gentleman, formerly renowned like you for his loyalty and honor, should become such an enemy as you have been to the reputation of a woman? What will my enemies do, if you set them the example of treason?"

"Treason!" stammered Charny.

"Yes, sir. Either you are a madman, and must be forcibly prevented from doing harm; or you are a traitor, and must be punished."

"Oh, madame, do not call me a traitor! From the mouth of a king, such an accusation would precede death; from the mouth of a woman, it is dishonor. Queen, kill me, or spare me!"

"Are you in your right mind, M. de Charny?" said the queen, in a moved voice.

"Yes, madame."

"Do you remember your wrongs towards me, and towards the king?"

"Mon Dieu!" he murmured.

"For you too easily forget, you gentlemen, that the king is the husband of the woman whom you insult, by raising your eyes to her—that he is the father of your future master, the dauphin; you forget, also, that he is a greater and better man than any of you—a man whom I esteem and love."

"Oh!" murmured Charny, with a groan, and seemed ready to faint.

This cry pierced the queen's heart; she thought he was about to die, and was going to call for assistance; but, after an instant's reflection, she went on: "Let us converse quietly, and be a man. Doctor Louis has vainly tried to cure you; your wound, which was nothing, has been rendered dangerous through your own extravagances. When will you cease to present to the good doctor the spectacle of a scandalous folly which disquiets him? When will you leave the castle?"

"Madame," replied Charny, "your majesty sends me away; I go, I go!" And he rose with a violent effort, as though he would have fled that instant, but, unable to stand, fell almost into the arms of the queen, who had risen to stop him.

She replaced him on the sofa; a bloody foam rose to his lips. "Ah, so much the better!" cried he; "I die, killed by you!" The queen forgot everything but his danger; she supported his drooping head on her shoulders, and pressed her cold hands to his forehead and heart. Her touch seemed to revive him as if by magic—he lived again; then she wished to fly, but he caught hold of her dress, saying:

"Madame, in the name of the respect which I feel for you——"

"Adieu, adieu!" cried the queen.

"Oh, madame, pardon me!"

"I do pardon you."

"Madame, one last look."

"M. de Charny," said the queen, trembling, "if you are not the basest of men, to-morrow you will be dead, or have left this castle."

He threw himself at her feet; she opened the door, and rushed away.

Andree saw for an instant the young man on his knees before her, and felt struck with both hate and despair. She thought, as she saw the queen return, that God had given too much to this woman in adding to her throne and her beauty this half-hour with M. de Charny.

The doctor, occupied only with the success of the negotiation, said, "Well, madame, what will he do?"

"He will leave," replied the queen; and, passing them quickly, she returned to her apartment.

The doctor went to his patient, and Andree to her room.

Doctor Louis found Charny a changed man, declaring himself perfectly strong, asking the doctor how he should be moved, and when he should be quite well, with so much energy that the doctor feared it was too much, and that he must relapse after it. He was, however, so reasonable as to feel the necessity of explaining this sudden change. "The queen has done me more good by making me ashamed of myself," he said, "than you, dear doctor, with all your science. She has vanquished me by an appeal to my amour propre."

"So much the better," said the doctor.

"Yes. I remember that a Spaniard—they are all boasters—told me one day, to prove the force of his will, that it sufficed for him in a duel which he had fought, and in which he had been wounded, to will that the blood should not flow in the presence of his adversary in order to retain it. I laughed at him. However, I now feel something like it myself; I think that if my fever and delirium wished to return, I could chase them away, saying, Fever and delirium, I forbid you to appear!"

"We know such things are possible," replied the doctor. "Allow me to congratulate you, for you are cured morally."

"Oh yes."

"Well, the physical cure will soon follow. Once sound in mind, you will be sound in body within a week."

"Thanks, doctor."

"And, to begin, you must leave this place."

"I am ready immediately."

"Oh, we will not be rash; we will wait till this evening. Where will you go?"

"Anywhere—to the end of the world if you like."

"That is too far for a first journey; we will content ourselves with Versailles. I have a house there where you shall go to-night."

Accordingly, that evening the four valets, who had been so rudely repulsed before, carried him to his carriage. The king had been hunting all day; Charny felt somewhat uneasy at leaving without apprizing him; but the doctor promised to make his excuses.

Andree, concealed behind her curtains, saw the carriage drive off.

"If he resumes his desire to die," thought the doctor, "at least it will not be in my rooms, and under my care."

Charny arrived safely, however, and the next day the doctor found him so well, that he told him he thought he would require him no longer.

He received a visit from his uncle, and from an officer sent by the king to inquire after him. At the end of a week he could ride slowly on horseback: then the doctor advised him to go for a time to his estates in Picardy to regain strength. He accordingly took leave of the king, charged M. de Suffren with his adieus to the queen, who was ill that evening, and set off for his chateau at Boursonnes.



CHAPTER LIV.

TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.

On the day following the queen's visit to M. de Charny, Madlle. de Taverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petite toilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de la Motte. Andree, paler than usual, looked cold and grave: the queen, however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her head, said in her usual friendly tone, "Bon jour, petite." At last, however, Andree's silence struck her, and looking up she saw her sad expression and said, "Mon Dieu! Andree, what is the matter? Has any misfortune happened to you?"

"Yes, madame, a great one."

"What is it?"

"I am going to leave your majesty."

"Leave me!"

"Yes, madame."

"Where are you going? and what is the cause of this sudden departure?"

"Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, I mean," added Andree, blushing.

"I do not understand you—you seemed happy yesterday."

"No, madame," replied Andree, firmly. "Yesterday was one of the unhappy days of my life."

"Explain yourself."

"It would but fatigue your majesty, and the details are not worthy of your hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in my family—that I have no good to expect in this world. I come, therefore, to beg your majesty's permission to retire into a convent."

The queen rose, and although with some effort to her pride, took Andree's hand, and said: "What is the meaning of this foolish resolution? Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a brother? and were they different yesterday from to-day? Tell me your difficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother?"

Andree, trembling, and bowing low, said, "Madame, your kindness penetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolved to quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give up the vocation to which I feel called."

"Since yesterday?"

"I beg your majesty not to make me speak on this point."

"Be free, then," said the queen, rather bitterly; "only I have always shown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. But it is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets, and I trust you will be happier away than you have been here. Remember one thing, however, that my friendship does not expire with people's caprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go, Andree; you are at liberty. But where are you going to?"

"To the convent of St. Denis, madame."

"Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude and forgetfulness."

Andree, however, left the room and the castle without giving any of those explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, and without in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived at home, she found Philippe in the garden—the brother dreamed, while the sister acted. At the sight of Andree, whose duties always kept her with the queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened, which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.

He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave the service of the queen, and go into a convent.

He clasped his hands, and cried, "What! you also, sister?"

"I also! what do you mean?"

"'Tis a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to take religious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the least fitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queen with?"

"I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected, and had the right to expect, so much—why did not you remain at court? You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years."

"She is capricious, Andree."

"You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do not wish to do so."

"All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had with her."

"None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her? Oh, she is ungrateful!"

"We must pardon her, Andree; she is a little spoiled by flattery, but she has a good heart."

"Witness what she has done for you, Philippe."

"What has she done?"

"You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one stroke pay off your debts and my own."

"Very dear, it seems to me, Andree—to renounce the world at your age, and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister, if you renounce it young, you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will be passed, and you have outlived all your friends."

"You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little careful of your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have acquired titles and gold, you have only said—she is capricious, she is perfidious, and a coquette, and I prefer not to serve her. Therefore, you have renounced the world, though you have not entered into a monastery."

"You are right, sister; and were it not for our father——"

"Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him," replied Andree, bitterly. "A father should be a support to his children, or accept their support. But what does ours do? Could you confide a secret to M. de Taverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you? M. de Taverney is made to live alone in this world."

"True, Andree, but not to die alone."

"Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only to have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts respond; those whom we choose prefer others."

Philippe looked at her with astonishment. "What do you mean?" said he.

"Nothing," replied Andree, shrinking from a confidence. "I think my brain is wandering; do not attend to my words."

"But——"

Andree took his hand. "Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy, I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish. Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator. He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant to me."

"Still, Andree, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not confided to me the cause of your despair!"

"Despair!" said she, with a disdainful air. "No, thank God, I am not despairing; no, a thousand times, no."

"This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you reject the word 'despair,' I must use that of 'pique.'"

"Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the world through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your determination?"

"I should call it an incurable grief."

"Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me."

"Then," he replied, "brother and sister are alike in their lives: happy together, they have become unhappy at the same time." Then, thinking further remonstrance useless, he asked, "When do you want to go?"

"To-morrow, even to-day, if it were possible."

"I shall be ready whenever you require me."

Andree retired to make her preparations. Soon she received this note from Philippe:

"You can see our father at five o'clock this evening. You must be prepared for reproaches, but an adieu is indispensable."

She answered:

"At five o'clock I will be with M. de Taverney all ready to start, and by seven we can be at St. Denis, if you will give me up your evening."



CHAPTER LV.

THE MINISTER OF FINANCE.

We have seen that the queen, before receiving Andree, was smiling over a note from Madame de la Motte. She was, however, rendered serious by the interview with Mademoiselle de Taverney. Scarcely had she gone, when Madame de Misery came to announce M. de Calonne. He was a man of much intellect, but, foreseeing that disaster was hanging over France, determined to think only of the present, and enjoy it to the utmost. He was a courtier, and a popular man. M. de Necker had shown the impossibility of finding finances, and called for reforms which would have struck at the estates of the nobility and the revenues of the clergy; he exposed his designs too openly, and was overwhelmed by a torrent of opposition; to show the enemy your plan of attack is half to give them the victory. Calonne, equally alive to the danger, but seeing no way of escape, gave way to it. He completely carried with him the king and queen, who implicitly believed in his system, and this is, perhaps, the only political fault which Louis XVI was guilty of towards posterity. M. de Calonne was handsome, and had an ingratiating manner; he knew how to please a queen, and always arrived with a smile on his face, when others might have worn a frown.

The queen received him graciously, and said, "Have we any money, M. de Calonne?"

"Certainly, madame; we have always money."

"You are perfectly marvelous," replied she, "an incomparable financier, for you seem always ready when we want money."

"How much does your majesty require?"

"Explain to me first how you manage to find money, when M. Necker declared that there was none."

"M. Necker was right, madame; for when I became minister on the 3d of November, 1783, there were but one thousand and two hundred francs in the public treasury. Had M. Necker, madame, instead of crying out, 'There is no money,' done as I have done, and borrowed 100,000,000 the first year, and 125,000,000 the second, and had he been as sure as I am of a new loan of 80,000,000 for the third, he would have been a true financier. Every one can say there is no money, but not that there is plenty."

"That is what I compliment you on, sir; but how to pay all this?"

"Oh, madame, be sure we shall pay it," replied he, with a strange smile.

"Well, I trust to you," said the queen.

"I have now a project, madame," replied he, bowing, "which will put 20,000,000 into the pockets of the nation, and 7,000,000 or 8,000,000 into your own."

"They will be welcome, but where are they to come from?"

"Your majesty is aware that money is not of the same value in all the countries of Europe."

"Certainly. In Spain gold is dearer than in France."

"Your majesty is perfectly right. Gold in Spain has been for the last five or six years worth considerably more than in France; it results that the exporters gain on eight ounces of gold, that they send from here, about the value of fourteen ounces of silver."

"That is a great deal."

"Well, madame, I mean to raise the price of gold one-fifth of this difference, and where we have now thirty louis we shall then have thirty-two."

"It is a brilliant idea!" cried the queen.

"I believe it, and am happy that it meets your majesty's approbation."

"Always have such, and I am sure you will soon pay our debts."

"But allow me, madame, to return to what you want of me," said the minister.

"Would it be possible to have at present—I am afraid it is too much——"

Calonne smiled in an encouraging manner.

"500,000 francs?" continued the queen.

"Oh, madame, really your majesty frightened me; I was afraid it was something great."

"Then you can?"

"Assuredly."

"Without the king's knowledge?"

"Oh, madame, that is impossible. Every month all my accounts are laid before the king; however, he does not always read them."

"When can I have it?"

"What day does your majesty wish for it?"

"On the fifth of next month."

"Your majesty shall have it on the third."

"Thanks, M. de Calonne."

"My greatest happiness is to please your majesty, and I beg you never will allow yourself to be embarrassed for want of money." He rose, the queen gave him her hand to kiss, and then said, "After all, this money causes me some remorse, for it is for a caprice."

"Never mind; some one will gain by it."

"That is true; you have a charming mode of consoling one."

"Oh, madame, if we had none of us more reasons for remorse than you, we should all go straight to heaven."

"But it will be cruel to make the poor people pay for my caprices."

"Have no scruples, madame; it is not the poor who will pay."

"How so?" asked the queen, in some surprise.

"Because, madame, they have nothing to pay with."

He bowed and retired.



CHAPTER LVI.

THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

Hardly had M. de Calonne traversed the gallery, when Madame de la Motte was shown in to the queen.

"Madame," said she, "the cardinal is here." She then introduced him, and took her leave.

The cardinal, finding himself alone with the queen, bowed respectfully, without raising his eyes.

"Monsieur," said the queen, "I have heard of you what has effaced many wrongs."

"Permit me, madame," said he, trembling with real emotion, "to assure your majesty that these wrongs of which you speak I could explain in a few words."

"I do not forbid you to justify yourself," replied she, with dignity; "but if what you are about to say throws the smallest shade upon my family or country, you will only wound me still more. Let us leave this subject; and I will only see you under the fresh light, which shows you to me obliging, respectful, and devoted."

"Devoted until death," replied he.

"But," said Marie Antoinette, with a smile, "at present it is a question not of death, but of ruin; and I do not wish you devoted even so far. You shall live, and not be ruined, at least, not by me; for they say you are ruining yourself."

"Madame!"

"Oh! that is your own business; only, as a friend, I would counsel you to be economical—the king would like you better."

"I would become a miser to please your majesty."

"Oh, the king," replied she, with an accent on the word, "does not love misers either."

"I will become whatever your majesty desires," replied he, with a hardly-disguised passion.

"I said, then," continued she, "that you shall not be ruined for me. You have advanced money on my account, and I have the means of meeting the calls; therefore, regard the affair for the future as in my hands."

"To finish it, then, it only remains for me to offer the necklace to your majesty;" and drawing out the case, he presented it to her.

She took it, but did not open it, and laid it down by her side. She received kindly all his polite speeches, but as she was longing to be left alone with her diamonds, she began to answer somewhat absently.

He thought she was embarrassed, and was delighted, thinking it showed, at least, an absence of indifference. He then kissed her hand, and took leave, going away full of enthusiasm and hope.

Jeanne was waiting for him in the carriage, and received his ardent protestations with pleasure. "Well," said she, "shall you be Richelieu or Mazarin? Have her lips given you encouragement in ambition or love? Are you launched in politics or intrigue?"

"Do not laugh, dear countess; I am full of happiness."

"Already!"

"Assist me, and in three weeks I may be a minister."

"Peste! that is a long time; the next payment is in a fortnight."

"Ah! the queen has money, and will pay, and I shall have only the merit of the intention. It is too little; I would willingly have paid for this reconciliation with the whole sum."

"Make yourself easy," replied the countess; "you shall have this merit if you desire it."

"I should have preferred it; the queen would then have been under an obligation to me."

"Monseigneur, something tells me you will have this satisfaction. Are you prepared for it?"

"I have mortgaged all my revenue for the ensuing year."

"Then you have the money?"

"Certainly, for this payment; after that, I do not know what I shall do."

"Oh, this payment will give you three quiet months; who knows what may happen in three months?"

"That is true; but she said that the king wished me to incur no more debt."

"Two months in the ministry would set all straight."

"Countess!"

"Oh, do not be fastidious; if you do not assist yourself, others will."

"You are right. Where are you going now?"

"Back to the queen, to hear what she says of your interview."

"Good! I go to Paris."

"Why? You should go this evening to the 'jeu du roi;' it is good policy to keep your ground."

"No, countess; I must attend a rendezvous, for which I received a note this morning."

"A rendezvous?"

"Yes, and a serious one, by the contents of the note. Look."

"A man's writing," said the countess; and, opening the note, she read:

"MONSEIGNEUR,—Some one wishes to see you about raising an important sum of money. This person will wait on you this evening, at Paris, to solicit the honor of an interview."

"Anonymous—some beggar?"

"No, countess; no beggar would expose himself to the risk of being beaten by my servants. Besides, I fancy I have seen the writing before. So au revoir, countess."

"Apropos, monseigneur, if you are going to get a windfall, some large sum, I understand we are to share."

"Countess, you have brought me luck; I shall not be ungrateful." And they separated.

The cardinal was full of happy dreams: the queen had received him kindly. He would place himself at the head of her party, and make it a popular one; he would protect her, and for her sake would abandon his slothful life, and live an active one.

As soon as he arrived at his hotel, he commenced burning a box full of love-letters; then he called his steward to order some economical reforms, and sat down to his history of English politics. Soon he heard a ring, and a servant entered to announce the person who had written to him that morning.

"Ask his name," said the cardinal.

The man, having inquired, returned and said:

"M. le Comte de Cagliostro."

"Let him come in."

The count entered.

"Mon Dieu!" cried the cardinal, "is it possible? Joseph Balsamo, who was supposed to have perished in the flames?"

"Yes, monseigneur, more alive than ever."

"But, sir, you have taken a new name."

"Yes, monseigneur; the other recalled too many painful recollections. Possibly, you yourself would not have opened your door to Joseph Balsamo."

"I! oh yes, sir."

"Then monseigneur has a better memory and more honesty than most men."

"Monsieur, you once rendered me a service."

"Am I not, monseigneur, a good specimen of the results of my elixir?"

"I confess it, sir; but you seem above humanity—you, who distribute health and gold to all."

"Health perhaps, monseigneur, but not gold."

"You make no more gold."

"No, monseigneur."

"Why?"

"Because I lost the parcel of an indispensable ingredient which Althotas discovered, but of which I never had the receipt. He has carried that secret with him to the grave."

"He is dead, then? How, could you not preserve the life of this man, so useful to you, as you have kept yourself through so many centuries?"

"Because I can guard against illness, but not against such accidents as kill before I can act."

"He died from an accident, then?"

"The fire in which you thought I died killed him; or rather he, weary of life, chose to die."

"It is strange."

"No, it is natural; I have a hundred times thought of ending my life."

"But you have not done so."

"Because I enjoy a state of youth, in which health and pleasure kept me from ennui; but he had chosen one of old age. He was a savant, and cared only for science; and thus youth, with its thousand pleasures, would have constantly drawn him from its study. An old man meditates better than a young one. Althotas died a victim to his love of science: I lead a worldly life, and do nothing—I live like a planet."

"Oh, sir, your words and appearance bring to me dreams of my youth. It is ten years since I saw you."

"Yes; but if you are no longer a fine young man, you are a prince. Do you remember the day when, in my cabinet, I promised you the love of the woman whose fair locks I consulted?"

The cardinal turned from pale to red. Terror and joy almost stopped the beating of his heart.

"I remember," said he.

"Ah, let me try if I can still play the magician. This fair child of your dreams——"

"What is she doing now?"

"Ah, I suspect you yourself have seen her to-day; indeed, you have not long left her."

The cardinal could hardly stand.

"Oh, I beg, sir——" he cried.

"Let us speak of something else," said Cagliostro, sitting down.



CHAPTER LVII.

DEBTOR AND CREDITOR.

"Now that we have renewed our acquaintance, let us converse," said Cagliostro.

"Yes," replied the cardinal, "about the money you wrote of; it was a pretext, was it not?"

"No, monsieur, a serious matter, as it concerns a sum of 500,000 francs."

"The sum which you lent me?" cried the cardinal, growing pale.

"Yes, monseigneur; I love to see so good a memory in a great prince like you."

The cardinal felt overwhelmed by the blow. At last, trying to smile, he said:

"I thought that Joseph Balsamo had carried his debt with him to the tomb, as he threw the receipt into the fire."

"Monseigneur," replied the count, "the life of Joseph Balsamo is as indestructible as the sheet on which you wrote. Death cannot conquer the elixir of life; fire is powerless against asbestos."

"I do not understand," said the cardinal.

"You soon will," replied Cagliostro, producing a folded paper, which he offered to the prince.

He, before opening it, cried, "My receipt!"

"Yes, monseigneur, your receipt."

"But I saw you burn it."

"True, I threw it on the fire, but by accident you had written on a piece of asbestos, so that the receipt remained uninjured among the cinders."

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, haughtily, for he thought this a proof that he had been suspected, "believe me, I should not have denied my debt, even without this paper; therefore you were wrong to deceive me."

"I deceived you?"

"Yes; you made me think the paper was destroyed."

"To leave you the calm enjoyment of 500,000 francs."

"But, sir, why have you left such a sum for ten years unclaimed?"

"I knew, monseigneur, that it was safe. Various events have deprived me of my wealth; but, knowing that I had this sum in reserve, I have waited patiently until the last moment."

"And has that arrived?"

"Alas! yes, monseigneur."

"So that you can really wait no longer?"

"No, monseigneur."

"You want it at once?"

"If it please you to pay it."

The cardinal was at first silent, through despair. Then he said, in a hoarse voice:

"M. le Comte, we unhappy princes of the earth do not improvise fortunes as quickly as you enchanters."

"Oh, monseigneur," said Cagliostro, "I would not have asked you for this sum, had I not known beforehand that you had it."

"I have 500,000 francs?"

"30,000 in gold, 11,000 in silver, and the rest in notes, which are in this buhl cabinet."

The cardinal turned white. "You knew this?"

"Yes, monseigneur, and I know you have made great sacrifices to obtain it. I have heard that you will pay heavily for it."

"Oh, it is too true!"

"But, monseigneur, during these ten years I have often been in want and embarrassment, yet I have kept this paper back, so as not to trouble you; therefore I do not think you can complain."

"Complain! oh, no, sir; when you graciously lent me such a sum, I must ever remain your debtor. But during those ten years there were twenty occasions when I could have repaid you with ease, while to-day the restitution you demand embarrasses me dreadfully. You, who know everything, who read even hearts, and penetrate the doors of cabinets, doubtless, know also the purpose for which this money was destined."

"You are wrong, monseigneur," said Cagliostro, coldly. "My knowledge has brought me so much misery and disappointment, that I no longer seek to penetrate the secrets of others. It concerned me to know whether you had this money, as I wished to claim it; but once having ascertained that, I did not trouble myself to think for what purpose it was destined. Besides, did I know it, it might seem so grave a matter as almost to force me to waive my claim, which really at present I cannot afford to do. Therefore, I prefer to be ignorant."

"Oh, monsieur," cried the cardinal, "do not think I wish to parade my embarrassments in order to elude my debt! You have your own interests to look to; they are guaranteed by this paper, which bears my signature—that is enough. You shall have your money, although I do not think there was any promise to pay."

"Your eminence is mistaken;" and opening the paper he read these words:

"I acknowledge the receipt of 500,000 francs from M. Joseph Balsamo, which I will repay on demand.

"LOUIS DE ROHAN."

"You see, monseigneur, that I only ask my right; besides, as this was a spontaneous loan by me to a man I hardly knew, the payment might have been equally spontaneous, without waiting for me to claim it. But you did not think so. Well, monseigneur, I withdraw this paper, and bid you adieu."

"No, count," replied the cardinal; "a Rohan must not receive lessons in generosity; besides, this is a mere question of honesty. Give me the paper, sir, and I will discharge my debt."

For a moment Cagliostro hesitated, for the pale face and distressed air of the cardinal inclined him to pity; but quickly hardening himself he handed him the paper. M. de Rohan went to the cabinet, and took out the money. "There," said he, "are your 500,000 francs; and I owe you 250,000 more for interest, which you shall have if you will give me time."

"Monseigneur," said Cagliostro, "I lent 500,000 francs to M. de Rohan, which he has paid me; he therefore owes me nothing more. I will take the notes with me, and send for the money. I thank you for your compliance with my request." Then, bowing, he left the room.

"Well," sighed M. de Rohan, "it is likely, at least, that the queen has the money, and no Joseph Balsamo will come and take it from her."



CHAPTER LVIII.

FAMILY ACCOUNTS.

It was the day before the first payment was due, and M. de Calonne had so much to do, that he had forgotten his promise. The queen had up to this time waited patiently, relying on his word; she now, however, was beginning to grow uneasy, when she received the following note:

"This evening the business with which your majesty has charged me will be settled by the Council; the money will be with the queen to-morrow evening."

Marie Antoinette recovered all her gaiety directly.

After dinner the king went to the Council, but in a rather bad humor. The news from Russia was bad; a vessel had been lost; some of the provinces refused to pay the taxes; also a beautiful map of the world, made by himself, had that day split into two pieces. Vainly, therefore, M. de Calonne produced his accounts, with his usual smiling air; the king continued out of temper. For a long time he sat, as usual, drawing hieroglyphics on a piece of paper, whilst the foreign correspondence was being read, and paying little attention to what passed around him.

At last, however, M. de Calonne began to speak of the loan to be raised for the ensuing year. The king became attentive, and said, "Always borrowing; but how is it to be repaid? That is a problem, M. de Calonne, for you to solve."

"Sire, a loan is only turning a stream from one direction, to cause it to flow more abundantly in another. In deepening the channel, you only increase the supply; therefore, let us not think of paying, but only of obtaining present supplies." M. de Calonne then explained his plans, which were approved by his colleagues.

The king agreed, with a sigh.

"Now we have money," said M. de Calonne, "let us dispose of it;" and he handed a paper to the king, with a list of pensions, gifts, and payments to be made.

The king glanced at the total,—"1,900,000 francs for this—enormous!"

"But, sire, one item is 500,000 francs."

"Which?"

"The advance to the queen."

"To the queen! 500,000 francs to the queen!—impossible!"

"Pardon, sire, it is correct."

"But there must be a mistake; a fortnight ago her majesty received her money."

"Sire, but if her majesty has need of money; and we all know how well she employs it."

"No," cried the king; "the queen does not want this money; she said to me that she preferred a vessel to jewels. The queen thinks but of France, and when France is poor, we that are rich ought to lend to France; and if she does require this money, it will be a greater merit to wait for it; and I guarantee that she will wait."

The ministers applauded this patriotic speech of the king,—only M. de Calonne insisted.

"Really, monsieur," said the king, "you are more interested for us than we are for ourselves."

"The queen, sire, will accuse us of having been backward when her interests were concerned."

"I will plead your cause."

"But, sire, the queen never asks without necessity."

"If the queen has wants, they are, I trust, less imperious than those of the poor, and she will be the first to acknowledge it."

"Sire!"

"I am resolved," said the king; "and I fancy I hear the queen in her generosity thanking me for having so well understood her heart."

M. de Calonne bit his lips, and Louis, content with this personal sacrifice, signed all the rest without looking at them.

"Calonne, you shall tell the queen yourself."

"Oh! sire, I beg to resign to you the honor."

"So be it then. Ah! here she comes, let us meet her."

"I beg your majesty to excuse me," he replied, and retired quickly.

The king approached the queen—she was leaning on the arm of the Comte d'Artois, and seemed very gay.

"Madame," said the king, "have you had a pleasant walk?"

"Yes, sire. And you an agreeable council?"

"Yes, madame, I have gained you 500,000 francs."

"M. de Calonne has kept his word," thought the queen.

"Only imagine, madame," continued the king; "M. de Calonne had put down 500,000 francs for you, and I have struck it out,—a clear gain, therefore, of that sum."

"Struck it through!" cried the queen, turning pale; "but, sire——"

"Oh! I am so hungry, I am going to supper;" and he went away delighted with his work.

"Brother," said the queen, "seek M. de Calonne for me."

At that moment a note from him was handed to her: "Your majesty will have learned that the king refused your grant. It was incomprehensible, and I retired from the council penetrated with grief."

"Read," said she, passing the note to the count.

"And there are people," said he, "who say that we squander the revenue! This is an extraordinary proceeding——"

"Quite husbandlike," said the queen. "Adieu, brother."

"I condole with you," he replied; "and it is a lesson for me. I was going to make a request to-morrow for myself."

"Send for Madame de la Motte," said the queen, when she returned to her room.



CHAPTER LIX.

MARIE ANTOINETTE AS QUEEN, AND MADAME DE LA MOTTE AS WOMAN.

The courier despatched for Madame de la Motte, not finding her at home, went to the hotel of the Cardinal de Rohan to inquire if she were there.

The well-tutored Swiss replied that she was not, but that he could get any message transmitted to her.

The courier, therefore, left word for her to come to the queen as soon as possible. The man had hardly left the door before the message was delivered to Jeanne as she sat at supper with the cardinal. She set off immediately, and was at once introduced into the queen's chamber.

"Oh!" cried the queen on seeing her, "I have something to tell you. The king has refused me 500,000 francs."

"Mon Dieu!" murmured the countess.

"Incredible, is it not? He struck through the item; but it is useless to talk of it; you must return to Paris, and tell the cardinal that since he is so kind I accept the 500,000 francs he offered me. It is selfish, I know, but what can I do?"

"Oh! madame!" cried Jeanne, "we are lost—the cardinal no longer has the money."

The queen started.

"No money!" stammered she.

"No, madame; an unexpected creditor claimed this money from him. It was a debt of honor, and he paid it."

"The whole 500,000 francs?

"Yes, madame."

"And he has no more?"

"No, madame, he told me this an hour and a half ago, and confessed to me that he had no other resources."

The queen leaned her head on her hands; then, after a few moments' reflection, she said:

"This, countess, is a terrible lesson for me, and a punishment for having done anything, great or small, without the king's knowledge. It was a folly; I had no need of this necklace."

"True, madame; but if the queen consulted only her absolute wants——"

"I must consult before everything the tranquillity and happiness of my household. I renounce forever what has begun with so much annoyance. I will sacrifice my vanity on the altar of duty, as M. de Provence would say; and beautiful as this necklace is, you shall carry it back to MM. Boehmer and Bossange."

"Carry it back?"

"Yes."

"But, madame, your majesty has already given 100,000 francs for it."

"Well, I shall gain all the rest that was to have been paid for it."

"But, madame, they will not like to return your money."

"I give it up on condition of their breaking the contract. Now, countess, that I have come to this determination, I feel at ease once more. This necklace brought with it cares and fears; diamonds cannot compensate for these. Take it away, countess; the jewelers must be satisfied; they will have their necklace, and 100,000 francs into the bargain."

"But M. de Rohan?"

"He only acted to give me pleasure, and when he is told it is my pleasure, not to have the necklace, he will understand me, I am sure; and if he is a good friend, he will approve and strengthen me in my sacrifice." Saying these words, the queen held out the casket to Jeanne.

She did not take it. "Why not ask for time, madame?"

"No, countess, it is humiliation. One may humiliate one's self for a person one loves, to save a living creature, were it only a dog; but only to keep some sparkling stones—never, countess; take it away."

"But, madame, it will surely become known that your majesty has had the jewels, and was obliged to return them."

"No one will know anything about it. The jewelers will surely hold their tongues for 100,000 francs. Take it away, countess, and thank M. de Rohan for his good-will towards me. There is no time to lose; go as soon as possible, and bring me back a receipt for them."

"Madame, it shall be done as you wish."

She first drove home, and changed her dress, which was too elegant for a visit to the jewelers. Meanwhile she reflected much; she thought still it was a fault for M. de Rohan to allow the queen to part with these jewels; and should she obey her orders without consulting him, would he not have reason to complain? Would he not rather sell himself than let the queen return them? "I must consult him," she thought; "but, after all, he never can get the money." She then took the necklace from the case, once more to look at and admire it. "1,600,000 francs in my possession; true, it is but for an hour. To carry away such a sum in gold I should want two horses, yet how easily I hold it here! But I must decide. Shall I go to the cardinal, or take it direct to the jewelers, as the queen ordered? And the receipt—in what form shall I get it, so as not to compromise the queen, the cardinal, or myself? Shall I consult—— Ah! if he loved me more, and could give me the diamonds."

She sat down again and remained nearly an hour in deep thought. Then she rose, with a strange look in her eyes, and rang the bell with a determined air.

She ordered a coach, and in a few minutes she reached the house of the journalist, M. Reteau de Villette.



CHAPTER LX.

THE RECEIPT OF MM. BOEHMER AND BOSSANGE, AND THE GRATITUDE OF THE QUEEN.

The result of Madame de la Motte's visit to M. Reteau de Villette appeared the next day. At seven o'clock in the morning she sent to the queen the following paper:

"We, the undersigned, acknowledge having received back again the diamond necklace sold to the queen for 1,600,000 francs, the diamonds not suiting her majesty, who has paid us for our loss and trouble 100,000 francs.

"BOEHMER AND BOSSANGE."

The queen, now tranquil about the whole affair, locked up the receipt, and thought no more of it.

But, in strange contradiction to this receipt, the jewelers received a visit two days after from M. de Rohan, who felt uneasy about the payment.

If the instalment had not been paid, he expected to find them naturally annoyed; but to his great satisfaction they received him with smiles.

"The queen has paid, then?" he asked.

"No, monseigneur, the queen could not procure the money, as the king had refused it to her; but she has guaranteed the debt, and that fully satisfies us."

"Ah! so much the better; but how? Through the countess?"

"No, monseigneur. On hearing of the king's refusal, which soon became public, we wrote to Madame de la Motte——"

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"And she replied?"

"By one word, 'Wait.' That evening we received from the queen, by a courier, a letter."

"A letter to you?"

"Or rather a guarantee, in due form."

"Let me see it."

"Oh! we would with pleasure, but her majesty enjoins that it is not to be shown to any one."

"Then you are safe?"

"Perfectly, monseigneur."

"The queen acknowledges the debt?"

"Fully."

"And engages to pay?"

"500,000 francs in three months, the rest in six;" and she adds, "let the affair rest between ourselves. You will have no cause to repent it."

"I am charmed that it is settled," said the cardinal.

We must now raise the veil, though, doubtless, our readers comprehend how Jeanne de la Motte had acted towards her benefactress, and how she had managed to satisfy both the queen and the jewelers by borrowing the pen of M. Reteau.

Three months were thus obtained for the completion of her design of crime and deception, and within three months everything would be arranged.

She went to M. de Rohan, and repeated to him what the jewelers had already told him.

He asked if the queen remembered his good intentions. She drew a picture of her gratitude, which enchanted him.

Her intention had been to sell some of the diamonds to the value of 100,000 crowns, and then pass over to England, where, when necessary, she could dispose of the remainder. But her first essay frightened her; some offered despicably small sums for the stones, others went into raptures, declaring they had never seen such diamonds but in the necklace of MM. Boehmer and Bossange.

She abandoned this course, therefore, which she saw might soon bring about her ruin. She shut up the diamonds carefully, and resolved to wait. But her position was critical. A few words of explanation between the queen and the cardinal, and all would be discovered. She consoled herself by thinking that the cardinal was too much in love not to fall into all the snares she might lay for him.

One thought alone occupied her—how to prevent their meeting. That he would not be long satisfied without an interview she knew—what should she do? Persuade him to ask for one, and offend the queen by his presumption?—but then the queen would speak her anger out, and all would come to light. She must compromise her, and endeavor so to close her lips. But if they met by chance, what remained for her but flight? That was easy; a few hours would suffice. Then, again, she thought of the name she would leave behind her, and bear with her; no longer a woman of rank, but a thief, whom justice only does not reach, because she is too far off. No, she would not fly, if she could help it. She would try what audacity and skill could do, remain here and act between them. "To prevent them from meeting—that is the difficulty, as he is in love, and a prince, who has a right to see the queen; and she is now grateful and will no longer fly from him; but if I excite him to too open an admiration and disgust her, I alienate them more than ever. She will take fire easily, but what I want is something to make the queen tremble as well as him; something which would give me power to say, 'If you accuse me, I will accuse you and ruin you—leave me my wealth, and I will you your honor.' This is what I must seek for, and what I must find."



CHAPTER LXI

THE PRISONER.

Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue St. Claude, where M. de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house, to keep her from the pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy: Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return. Only what did he want? she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air in which we must confess poor Beausire now very rarely had a place. Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her dreams, and playing the great lady. However, her books were soon read through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the attention of the passers-by; and her delightful promenades in the Quartier St. Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after her. True, the police-agents were formidable people, but what availed safety if she was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and then regretted Beausire.

Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had been used to walk every day.

One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice, "Monsieur, I am ennuyee here."

"This is unlucky, my dear child."

"I shall die here."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well," said he, soothingly, "do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of police, who persecutes you."

"You exasperate me with your sang froid, monsieur; I would rather you flew in a passion."

"Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable," said he, seating himself.

"It is all very well for you to talk," replied she; "you come and go as you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I vegetate in the space to which you have limited me, and your assistance, is useless to me if I am to die here."

"Die!" said the count, smiling.

"You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately."

"M. Beausire?"

"Yes, Beausire, I love him. I always told you so. Did you think I had forgotten him?"

"So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him."

"Ah!"

"He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not?"

"Full of imagination and fire, rather rough toward me, but that is his way of showing his love."

"Therefore I wished to take you back to him."

"You did not wish that a month ago."

"No, but when I see how you love him."

"Ah! you are laughing at me."

"Oh, no, you have resisted all my advances so well."

"Yes, have I not?"

"It was your love for him."

"But yours, then, was not very tenacious."

"No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would always have preferred Beausire."

"Oh, but," cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle so long, "this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked; did that give you no hope?"

Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her glances.

"Let us return to Beausire," she said, piqued at his indifference; "why have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is free——"

"Because," replied Cagliostro, "Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police."

"What has he done?"

"Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people—and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can be—call it a theft."

"A theft!" cried Oliva, frightened. "Is he arrested?"

"No, but he is pursued."

"And is he in danger?"

"That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled."

"Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here, I shall end by committing some imprudence."

"What do you call imprudence?"

"Oh, just getting some fresh air."

"I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your beauty, and M. Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as much as you like."

"Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me."

"Offended me—how?"

"Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, sir, I entreat;" and she put her arms round his neck.

"Poor little thing," said he, kissing her forehead; "do not be afraid; I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments. Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you."

Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended generosity of Cagliostro. "Oh, I shall say henceforth," she cried, "that there are men superior to what I ever thought."

"All women are good," thought Cagliostro, "if you only touch the right chord.—From this evening," he said aloud, "you shall move to other rooms, where the windows look on Menilmontant and the Bellevue. You need not fear to show yourself to the neighbors; they are all honest, simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At least you will have air and sunshine."

Oliva looked pleased.

"Shall I conduct you there now?"

"Oh, yes."

He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third story, and entered a room, completely furnished, and ready for occupation.

"One would think it was prepared for me," she said.

"Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your femme-de-chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour." And he left the room.

The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, "I understand nothing of all this."



CHAPTER LXII.

THE LOOK OUT.

Oliva went to bed, and slept better. She admired the count, whom she did not in the least understand. She could no longer think him timid; she did not suspect that he was only cold and insensible. She felt pleased at the perfect safety in which he assured her she was; and in the morning she examined her new rooms, and found them nobly and luxuriously furnished, and enjoyed immensely her privilege of going out into the balcony, filled with flowers, and where she got sunshine and fresh air, although she drew back whenever she saw any one approaching, or heard a carriage coming. There were not many, however, in the Rue St. Claude. She could see the chateau of Menilmontant, the great trees in the cemetery, myriads of houses of all colors; and she could see the fields beyond, full of children at play, and the peasants trotting along the roads on their donkeys. All this charmed Oliva, who had always a heart of love for the country, since she had left Taverney Maison-Rouge. At last, getting tired of this distant view, she began to examine the houses opposite to her. In some, she saw birds in cages; and in one, hung with yellow silk curtains, and ornamented with flowers, she thought she could distinguish a figure moving about. She called her femme-de-chambre to make inquiries about them; but the woman could only show her mistress all the churches, and tell her the names of the streets; she knew nothing of the neighbors. Oliva therefore sent her away again, and determined to watch for herself.

She saw some open their doors, and come out for a walk, and others variously occupied. At last she saw the figure of a woman seat herself in an armchair, in the room with the yellow curtains, and abandon her head for an hour and a half to a hair-dresser, while he built up one of those immense edifices worn at that time, in which minerals, vegetables, and even animals, were introduced. At last, it was complete: Oliva thought she looked pretty, and admired her little foot, encased in a rose-colored slipper, which rested on another chair. She began to construct all sorts of romances about this lady, and made various movements to attract her attention, but she never turned her eyes that way, as that room had never before been occupied, and she began to despair. The lady was, of course, Jeanne de Valois, who was deeply absorbed in devising some scheme for preventing the queen and the cardinal from meeting. At last, Oliva, turning suddenly round, knocked over a flower-pot which fell from the balcony with a crash: at the sound the lady turned and saw her, and clasping her hands she called out, "The Queen;" but looking again, she murmured, "Oh! I sought for a means to gain my end, and I have found one." Then, hearing a sound behind her, Oliva turned and saw Cagliostro, and came in directly.



CHAPTER LXIII.

THE TWO NEIGHBORS.

Cagliostro recommended her using the greatest circumspection, and, above all, not to make friends with her neighbors; but she did not feel disposed to relinquish the intercourse which she hoped for with her fair neighbor opposite. She, however, promised to obey him; but he was no sooner gone than she returned to her balcony, hoping to attract her attention again. Nor was she disappointed, for Jeanne, who was watching for her, acknowledged her with a bow and by kissing her hand. This went on for two days. Jeanne was ever ready to wave her a good morning, or an adieu when she went out.

Cagliostro, at his next visit, informed Oliva that an unknown person had paid a visit to her hotel.

"What do you mean?" cried Oliva.

"A very pretty and elegant lady presented herself here, and asked the servant who inhabited this story, and wished to see you. I fear you are discovered; you must take care, the police have female spies as well as male, and I warn you, that if M. de Crosne claims you, I cannot refuse to give you up."

Oliva was not at all frightened, she recognized the portrait of her opposite neighbor, and felt delighted at this advance, but she dissembled with the count, and said, "Oh! I am not at all frightened; no one has seen me; she could not have meant me."

"But she said a lady in these rooms."

"Well, I will be more careful than ever, and, besides, this house is so impenetrable."

"Yes, without climbing the wall, which is not easy, or opening the little door with a key like mine, which I never lend, no one can come in, so I think you are safe."

Oliva overwhelmed the count with thanks and protestations, but at six o'clock the next morning she was out in the balcony. She had not long to wait before Jeanne appeared, who, after looking cautiously up and down the street, and observing that all the doors and windows were still closed, and that everything was quiet, called across, "I wish to pay you a visit, madame; is it impossible to see you?"

"Alas, yes!" said Oliva.

"Can I send a letter?"

"Oh, no!"

Jeanne, after a moment's thought, left her balcony, but soon returned with a cross-bow, with which she shot a little wooden ball right through the open window of Oliva's room.

She picked it up and found wrapped round it the following note:

"You interest me, beautiful lady. I find you charming, and love you only by having seen you. Are you a prisoner? I vainly tried to obtain admission to you. Does the enchanter who guards you never let any one approach you? Will you be my friend? If you cannot go out, you can at least write, and as I go out when I please, wait till you see me pass, and then throw out your answer. Tie a thread to your balcony, and attach your note to it; I will take it off and fasten mine on, and in the dark no one will observe us. If your eyes have not deceived me, I count on a return of my affection and esteem, and between us we will outwit any one.

"YOUR FRIEND."

Oliva trembled with joy when she read this note. She replied as follows:

"I love you as you love me. I am a victim of the wickedness and cruelty of men; but he who keeps me here is a protector and not a tyrant; he comes to see me nearly every day. I will explain all this some day; but, alas! I cannot go out; I am locked up. Oh! if I could but see you; there is so much we cannot write.

"Your friend,

"OLIVA LEGAY."

Then, when evening came, she let the thread fall over the balcony. Jeanne, who was below, caught it, and half an hour afterwards attached to it the following answer:

"You seem generally alone. How is your house secured—with a key? Who has this key? Could you not borrow or steal it? It would be no harm, but would procure you a few hours of liberty, or a few walks with a friend, who would console you for all your misfortune."

Oliva devoured this eagerly. She had remarked that when the count came in he put down his lantern and the key on a chiffonier. So she prepared some wax to take the impression of the key at his first visit. This she accomplished without his once turning to look at her, and as soon as he was gone, she put it into a little box, and lowered it to Jeanne, with a note.