The Queen's Necklace

CHAPTER LXIX.
THE CONGE

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

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

"None, sir," replied Philippe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! some news."

"Alas, yes, your majesty."

"There! an 'alas' again."

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

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

"Yes, your majesty."

"You also!"

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

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

"To join M. de la Pérouse, madame."

"He is at Newfoundland."

"I have prepared to join him there."

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

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

"And you are really going?"

"Yes, madame, to share his fate."

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

"Because I am anxious to travel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What has wounded you?" asked the queen.

"Nothing, madame."

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

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

"And if I ordered you to stay here?"

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER LXX.
THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I thank you, but the proofs – "

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

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

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

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

"Assurances!"

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

"I cannot be answerable for unreasonable discontents."

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

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

"Nothing to do?"

"No."

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

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

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

"What truth?"

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

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

"Confess that the queen refuses to see me."

"I do not say so, monseigneur."

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

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

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

"Folly!"

"And I suspect – "

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

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

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

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

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

"You will give her a note?"

"Who else would, if not I?"

"And you will bring me an answer?"

"If possible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will it do?" asked he.

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

"Till to-morrow, then."

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

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

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

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

"How so?" said Oliva, astonished.

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

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

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

"Yes," said Oliva.

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

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

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

Oliva colored.

"How?" stammered she.

"There was a third interview."

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

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

"Oh, mon Dieu!" murmured Oliva.

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

Oliva trembled from head to foot.

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

"But where is the danger?" asked Oliva.

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

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

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

"A prison! banishment!" shrieked Oliva.

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

"You fear also?"

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

Oliva burst into tears.

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

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

"Mon Dieu! you are right."

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

"Oh! I am lost."

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

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

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

"But you?"

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

"I will go whenever you like."

"I think you are wise."

"Must I go at once?"

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

"Oh yes, dear friend."

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

"How long will your preparations take?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER LXXI.
THE FLIGHT

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

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

"Yes, madame."

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

"What should I do?"

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

"Yes, madame."

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

"Rely on me, madame."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeanne trembled.

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

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

"But was it he?"

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

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

Jeanne began to gather courage.

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

"What reports?"

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

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

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

"I am acquainted with him, madame."

"Well, I came to ask you – "

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not here! Oliva not here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!" groaned the countess.

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

"But who wrote this note?"

"Doubtless yourself."

"But how did he get in?"

"Probably with your key."

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

"Whoever has one can easily have two."

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