Александр Дюма
The Queen's Necklace
CHAPTER LXXX.
THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
The queen and Charny exchanged a look so full of terror, that their most cruel enemy must have pitied them.
Charny rose slowly, and bowed to the king, whose heart might almost have been seen to beat.
"Ah!" cried he, in a hoarse voice, "M. de Charny!"
The queen could not speak – she thought she was lost.
"M. de Charny," repeated the king, "it is little honorable for a gentleman to be taken in the act of theft."
"Of theft?" murmured Charny.
"Yes, sir, to kneel before the wife of another is a theft; and when this woman is a queen, his crime is called high treason!"
The count was about to speak, but the queen, ever impatient in her generosity, forestalled him.
"Sire," said she, "you seem in the mood for evil suspicions and unfavorable suppositions, which fall falsely, I warn you; and if respect chains the count's tongue, I will not hear him wrongfully accused without defending him." Here she stopped, overcome by emotion, frightened at the falsehood she was about to tell, and bewildered because she could not find one to utter.
But these few words had somewhat softened the king, who replied more gently, "You will not tell me, madame, that I did not see M. de Charny kneeling before you, and without your attempting to raise him?"
"Therefore you might think," replied she, "that he had some favor to ask me."
"A favor?"
"Yes, sire, and one which I could not easily grant, or he would not have insisted with so much less warmth."
Charny breathed again, and the king's look became calmer. Marie Antoinette was searching for something to say, with mingled rage at being obliged to lie, and grief at not being able to think of anything probable to say. She half hoped the king would be satisfied, and ask no more, but he said:
"Let us hear, madame, what is the favor so warmly solicited, which made M. de Charny kneel before you; I may, perhaps, more happy than you, be able to grant it."
She hesitated; to lie before the man she loved was agony to her, and she would have given the world for Charny to find the answer. But of this he was incapable.
"Sire, I told you that M. de Charny asked an impossible thing."
"What is it?"
"What can one ask on one's knees?"
"I want to hear."
"Sire, it is a family secret."
"There are no secrets from the king – a father interested in all his subjects, who are his children, although, like unnatural children, they may sometimes attack the honor and safety of their father."
This speech made the queen tremble anew.
"M. de Charny asked," replied she, "permission to marry."
"Really," cried the king, reassured for a moment. Then, after a pause, he said, "But why should it be impossible for M. de Charny to marry? Is he not noble? Has he not a good fortune? Is he not brave and handsome? Really, to refuse him, the lady ought to be a princess, or already married. I can see no other reason for an impossibility. Therefore, madame, tell me the name of the lady who is loved by M. de Charny, and let me see if I cannot remove the difficulty."
The queen, forced to continue her falsehood, replied:
"No, sire; there are difficulties which even you cannot remove, and the present one is of this nature."
"Still, I wish to hear," replied the king, his anger returning.
Charny looked at the queen – she seemed ready to faint. He made a step towards her and then drew back. How dared he approach her in the king's presence?
"Oh!" thought she, "for an idea – something that the king can neither doubt nor disbelieve." Then suddenly a thought struck her. She who has dedicated herself to heaven the king cannot influence. "Sire!" she cried, "she whom M. de Charny wishes to marry is in a convent."
"Oh! that is a difficulty; no doubt. But this seems a very sudden love of M. de Charny's. I have never heard of it from any one. Who is the lady you love, M. de Charny?"
The queen felt in despair, not knowing what he would say, and dreading to hear him name any one. But Charny could not reply: so, after a pause, she cried, "Sire, you know her; it is Andrée de Taverney."
Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her heart, and could hardly support herself.
"Mademoiselle de Taverney? but she has gone to St. Denis."
"Yes, sire," replied the queen.
"But she has taken no vows."
"No, but she is about to do so."
"We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows?"
"She is poor," said the queen.
"That I can soon alter, madame, if M. de Charny loves her."
The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging him to deny it. He did not speak.
"And I dare say," continued the king, taking his silence for consent, "that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves M. de Charny. I will give her as dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank the queen, M. de Charny, for telling me of this, and ensuring your happiness."
Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received an instant's life.
"Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!" said the king.
The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who left on it a burning kiss.
"Now," said the king, "come with me."
M. de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
ST. DENIS
The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andrée even the chance of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she refused, would not the king's suspicions reawaken, and everything seem only the worse for this falsehood? She dared not risk this – she must go to Andrée and confess, and implore her to make this sacrifice; or if she would only temporize, the king's suspicions might pass away, and he might cease to interest himself about it. Thus the liberty of Mlle. de Taverney would not be sacrificed, neither would that of M. de Charny; and she would be spared the remorse of having sacrificed the happiness of two people to her honor. She longed to speak again to Charny, but feared discovery; and she knew she might rely upon him to ratify anything she chose to say. Three o'clock arrived – the state dinner and the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her carriage, and, without any guards, and only one companion, drove to St. Denis, and asked to see Andrée. Andrée was at that moment kneeling, dressed in her white peignoir; and praying with fervor. She had quitted the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen occupied all his thoughts? Yet, when she heard that the queen was asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavoring to think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.
"Come here, Andrée," said the queen, with a smile, as she entered.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
A DEAD HEART
"Andrée," continued the queen, "it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb."
"Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty."
"That was never my wish," said the queen; "tell me truly, Andrée, had you to complain of me when you were at court?"
"Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame."
"But often," said the queen, "a grief hurts us which is not personal; have I injured any one belonging to you? Andrée, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such."
Andrée felt touched. "Your majesty knows," said she, "that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies."
"I understand," replied the queen; "you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of caprice."
"My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen," said Andrée, coldly.
The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andrée on this subject; so she said only, "Well, at least, I am ever your friend."
"Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness."
"Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?"
"I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world." She colored as she spoke.
"You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed place."
"Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead."
"Your heart dead, Andrée? you, so young and beautiful."
"I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day."
"Then you like the convent?"
"I embrace with pleasure a solitary life."
"Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?"
"Nothing!"
"Mon dieu!" thought the queen; "shall I fail? If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de Charny – heavens, how unhappy I am! – Andrée," she said, "what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived."
"What hope, madame?"
"Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak."
"If your majesty would explain – "
"You never regret what you have done?"
"Never, madame."
"Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy."
"Me?"
"Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations."
"Still, if your majesty would tell me – "
"Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court."
"Never!"
"You refuse me?"
"Oh, madame, why should you wish me? – sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present."
"But," said the queen, "what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies."
"A marriage?" stammered Andrée.
"Yes."
"Oh, I refuse, I refuse!"
"Andrée!" cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.
"Ah, no, I refuse!"
Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andrée said, "But, madame, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life."
"M. de Charny," said the queen, with an effort.
"M. de Charny?" —
"Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren."
"It is he!" cried Andrée, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; "he consents – "
"He asks you in marriage."
"Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him."
The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andrée kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. "Oh, I am ready," murmured she.
"Come, then!" cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.
Andrée left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, "Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering? and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame?"
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT
Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure. He did not wish to witness the dishonor of the queen, his first and only passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father. For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to feed on the scandals circulating at the court – they were meat and drink to him. When he received his son's message, instead of sending for him, he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andrée had already left him, and it was one less to torment, and he must feel a blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear his father call out, with a burst of laughter, "Oh, mon Dieu! he is going away, I was sure of it, I would have bet upon it. Well played, Philippe, well played."
"What is well played, sir?"
"Admirable!" repeated the old man.
"You give me praises, sir, which I neither understand nor merit, unless you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me."
"Oh! oh!" laughed the old man again, "I am not your dupe. Do you think I believe in your departure?"
"You do not believe? really, sir, you surprise me."
"Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right to pretend to leave; without this ruse all, probably, would have been discovered."
"Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to me."
"Where do you say you go to?"
"I go first to Taverney Maison Rouge."
"Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she is so fiery and incautious, that you must be prudent for both. What is your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news?"
"Taverney, monsieur."
"Taverney, nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have managed so well for your love, can easily manage this."
"Sir, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution."
"Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets, tell me nothing of the huntsman's house, nor the nightly walks with two dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses."
"Monsieur!" cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, "will you hold your tongue?"
"Well, I know it all – your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in the baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever."
"Monsieur, you cause me horror!" cried poor Philippe, hiding his face in his hands. And, indeed, he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself all the happiness of another. All the rumors that the father had heard, he had assigned to his son, and believed that it was he that the queen loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.
"Yes," he went on, "some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny; not one that it was Taverney. Oh, you have acted well."
At this moment a carriage was heard to drive up, and a servant entering, said, "Here is mademoiselle."
"My sister!" cried Philippe.
Then another servant appeared, and said that Mademoiselle de Taverney wished to speak to her brother in the boudoir. Another carriage now came to the door.
"Who the devil comes now?" muttered the baron; "it is an evening of adventures."
"M. le Comte de Charny," cried the powerful voice of the porter at the gate.
"Conduct M. le Comte to the drawing-room; my father will see him; and I will go to my sister – What can he want here?" thought Philippe, as he went down.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
THE FATHER AND THE FIANCÉE
Philippe hastened to the boudoir, where his sister awaited him. She ran to embrace him with a joyous air.
"What is it, Andrée?" cried he.
"Something which makes me happy. Oh! very happy, brother."
"And you come back to announce it to me."
"I come back for ever," said Andrée.
"Speak low, sister; there is, or is going to be, some one in the next room who might hear you."
"Who?"
"Listen."
"M. le Comte de Charny," announced the servant.
"He! oh, I know well what he comes for."
"You know!"
"Yes, and soon I shall be summoned to hear what he has to say."
"Do you speak seriously, my dear Andrée?"
"Listen, Philippe. The queen has brought me suddenly back, and I must go and change my dress for one fit for a fiancée." And saying this, with a kiss to Philippe, she ran off.
Philippe remained alone. He could hear what passed in the adjoining room. M. de Taverney entered, and saluted the count with a recherché though stiff politeness.
"I come, monsieur," said Charny, "to make a request, and beg you to excuse my not having brought my uncle with me, which I know would have been more proper."
"A request?"
"I have the honor," continued Charny, in a voice full of emotion, "to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Andrée, your daughter."
The baron opened his eyes in astonishment – "My daughter?"
"Yes, M. le Baron, if Mademoiselle de Taverney feels no repugnance."
"Oh," thought the old man, "Philippe's favor is already so well-known, that one of his rivals wishes to marry his sister." Then aloud, he said, "This request is such an honor to us, M. le Comte, that I accede with much pleasure; and as I should wish you to carry away a perfectly favorable answer, I will send for my daughter."
"Monsieur," interrupted the count, rather coldly, "the queen has been good enough to consult Mademoiselle de Taverney already, and her reply was favorable."
"Ah!" said the baron, more and more astonished, "it is the queen then – "
"Yes, monsieur, who took the trouble to go to St. Denis."
"Then, sir, it only remains to acquaint you with my daughter's fortune. She is not rich, and before concluding – "
"It is needless, M. le Baron; I am rich enough for both."
At this moment the door opened, and Philippe entered, pale and wild looking.
"Sir," said he, "my father was right to wish to discuss these things with you. While he goes up-stairs to bring the papers I have something to say to you."
When they were left alone, "M. de Charny," said he, "how dare you come here to ask for the hand of my sister?" Charny colored. "Is it," continued Philippe, "in order to hide better your amours with another woman whom you love, and who loves you? Is it, that by becoming the husband of a woman who is always near your mistress, you will have more facilities for seeing her?"
"Sir, you pass all bounds."
"It is, perhaps; and this is what I believe, that were I your brother-in-law, you think my tongue would be tied about what I know of your past amours."
"What you know?"
"Yes," cried Philippe, "the huntsman's house hired by you, your mysterious promenades in the park at night, and the tender parting at the little gate."
"Monsieur, in heaven's name – "
"Oh, sir, I was concealed behind the baths of Apollo when you came out, arm in arm with the queen."
Charny was completely overwhelmed for a time; then, after a few moments, he said, "Well, sir, even after all this, I reiterate my demand for the hand of your sister. I am not the base calculator you suppose me; but the queen must be saved."
"The queen is not lost, because I saw her on your arm, raising to heaven her eyes full of happiness; because I know that she loves you. That is no reason why my sister should be sacrificed, M. de Charny."
"Monsieur," replied Charny, "this morning the king surprised me at her feet – "
"Mon Dieu!"
"And she, pressed by his jealous questions, replied that I was kneeling to ask the hand of your sister. Therefore if I do not marry her, the queen is lost. Do you now understand?"
A cry from the boudoir now interrupted them, followed by another from the ante-chamber. Charny ran to the boudoir; he saw there Andrée, dressed in white like a bride: she had heard all, and had fainted. Philippe ran to where the other cry came from; it was his father, whose hopes this revelation of the queen's love for Charny had just destroyed; struck by apoplexy, he had given his last sigh. Philippe, who understood it, looked at the corpse for a few minutes in silence, and then returned to the drawing-room, and there saw Charny watching the senseless form of his sister. He then said, "My father has just expired, sir; I am now the head of the family; if my sister survive, I will give her to you in marriage."
Charny regarded the corpse of the baron with horror, and the form of Andrée with despair. Philippe uttered a groan of agony, then continued, "M. de Charny, I make this engagement in the name of my sister, now lying senseless before us; she will give her happiness to the queen, and I, perhaps, some day shall be happy enough to give my life for her. Adieu, M. de Charny – " and taking his sister in his arms, he carried her into the next room.
