Александр Дюма
The Regent's Daughter
"Monseigneur," said Dubois (who did not fail to notice this expression), in an undertone to the regent, "I think I am de trop here, and had better retire; you do not want me, do you?"
"No; but I shall presently; do not go away." – "I will be at your orders."
This conversation was too low for Helene to hear; besides, she had stepped back, and continued watching the doors, in the hope of seeing Gaston return.
It was a consolation to Dubois to know she would be disappointed.
When Dubois was gone, they breathed more freely.
"Seat yourself, mademoiselle," said the duke; "I have much to tell you."
"Monsieur, one thing before all. Is the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay in any danger?"
"We will speak of him directly, but first of yourself; he brought you to me as a protector. Now, tell me against whom I am to protect you?"
"All that has happened to me for some days is so strange, that I do not know whom to fear or whom to trust. If Gaston were there – "
"Yes, I understand; if he authorized you to tell me, you would keep nothing back. But if I can prove to you that I know nearly all concerning you?"
"You, monsieur!"
"Yes, I; are you not called Helene de Chaverny? Were you not brought up in the Augustine convent between Nantes and Clisson? Did you not one day receive an order to leave the convent from a mysterious protector who watches over you? Did you not travel with one of the sisters, to whom you gave a hundred louis for her trouble? At Rambouillet, did not a person called Madame Desroches await you? Did she not announce to you a visit from your father? The same evening, did not some one arrive who loved you, and who thought you loved him?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur, it is all true," said Helene, astonished that a stranger should thus know the details of her history.
"Then the next day," continued the regent, "did not Monsieur de Chanlay, who followed you under the name of De Livry, pay you a visit, which was vainly opposed by Madame Desroches?"
"You are right, monsieur, and I see that Gaston has told you all."
"Then came the order to leave for Paris. You would have opposed it, but were forced to obey. You were taken to a house in the Faubourg St. Antoine; but there your captivity became insupportable."
"You are mistaken, monsieur; it was not the captivity, but the prison."
"I do not understand you."
"Did not Gaston tell you of his fears, which I laughed at at first, but shared afterward?"
"No, tell me what did you fear?"
"But if he did not tell you, how shall I?"
"Is there anything one cannot tell to a friend?"
"Did he not tell you that this man whom I at first believed to be my father – ?"
"Believed!"
"Yes; I swear it, monsieur. Hearing his voice, feeling my hand pressed by his, I had at first no doubt, and it almost needed evidence to bring fear instead of the filial love with which he at first inspired me."
"I do not understand you, mademoiselle; how could you fear a man who – to judge by what you tell me – had so much affection for you?"
"You do not understand, monsieur; as you say, under a frivolous pretext, I was removed from Rambouillet to Paris, shut in a house in the Faubourg Saint Antoine, which spoke more clearly to my eyes than Gaston's fears had done. Then I thought myself lost – and that this feigned tenderness of a father concealed the wiles of a seducer. I had no friend but Gaston – I wrote to him – he came."
"Then," said the regent, filled with joy, "when you left that house it was to escape those wiles, not to follow your lover?"
"Oh, monsieur, if I had believed in that father whom I had seen but once, and then surrounded by mysteries, I swear to you that nothing would have led me from the path of duty."
"Oh, dear child!" cried the duke, with an accent which made Helene start.
"Then Gaston spoke to me of a person who could refuse him nothing – who would watch over me and be a father to me. He brought me here, saying he would return to me. I waited in vain for more than an hour, and at length, fearing some accident had happened to him, I asked for you." The regent's brow became clouded.
"Thus," said he, "it was Gaston's influence that turned you from your duty – his fears aroused yours?"
"Yes; he suspected the mystery which encircled me, and feared that it concealed some fatal project."
"But he must have given you some proof to persuade you."
"What proof was needed in that abominable house? Would a father have placed his daughter in such a habitation?"
"Yes, yes," murmured the regent, "he was wrong; but confess that without the chevalier's suggestions, you, in the innocence of your soul, would have had no suspicion."
"No," said Helene, "but happily Gaston watched over me."
"Do you then believe that all Gaston said to you was true?" asked the regent.
"We easily side with those we love, monsieur."
"And you love the chevalier?"
"Yes; for the last two years, monsieur."
"But how could he see you in the convent?"
"By night, with the aid of a boat."
"And did he see you often?"
"Every week."
"Then you love him?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"But how could you dispose of your heart, knowing that you were not your own mistress?"
"For sixteen years I had heard nothing of my family; how could I suppose that all at once it would reveal itself, or rather, that an odious maneuver should take me from my quiet retreat to my ruin?"
"Then you still think that that man lied, when he called himself your father?"
"I scarcely know what to think, and my mind becomes bewildered in contemplating this strange reality, which seems so like a dream."
"But you should not consult your mind here, Helene," said the regent; "you should consult your heart. When you were with this man, did not your heart speak to you?"
"Oh!" said Helene, "while he was there I was convinced, for I have never felt emotion such as I felt then."
"Yes," replied the regent, bitterly; "but when he was gone, this emotion disappeared, driven away by stronger influence. It is very simple, this man was only your father; Gaston was your lover."
"Monsieur," said Helene, drawing back, "you speak strangely."
"Pardon me," replied the regent, in a sweet voice; "I see that I allowed myself to be carried away by my interest. But what surprises me more than all, mademoiselle," continued he, "is that, being beloved as you are by Gaston, you could not induce him to abandon his projects."
"His projects, monsieur! what do you mean?"
"What! you do not know the object of his visit to Paris?"
"I do not, monsieur. When I told him, with tears in my eyes, that I was forced to leave Clisson, he said he must also leave Nantes. When I told him that I was coming to Paris, he answered, with a cry of joy, that he was about to set out for the same place."
"Then," cried the regent, his heart freed from an enormous load, "you are not his accomplice?"
"His accomplice!" cried Helene, alarmed; "ah, mon Dieu! what does this mean?"
"Nothing," said the regent, "nothing."
"Oh, yes, monsieur; you have used a word which explains all. I wondered what made so great a change in Gaston. Why, for the last year, whenever I spoke of our future, his brow became dark. Why, with so sad a smile, he said to me, 'Helene, no one is sure of the morrow.' Why he fell into such reveries, as though some misfortune threatened him. That misfortune you have shown me, monsieur. Gaston saw none but malcontents there – Montlouis, Pontcalec. Ah! Gaston is conspiring – that is why he came to Paris."
"Then you knew nothing of this conspiracy?"
"Alas, monsieur! I am but a woman, and, doubtless, Gaston did not think me worthy to share such a secret."
"So much the better," cried the regent; "and now, my child, listen to the voice of a friend, of a man who might be your father. Let the chevalier go on the path he has chosen, since you have still the power to go no further."
"Who? I, monsieur!" cried Helene; "I abandon him at a moment when you yourself tell me that a danger threatens him that I had not known! Oh, no, no, monsieur! We two are alone in the world, we have but each other: Gaston has no parents, I have none either; or if I have, they have been separated from me for sixteen years, and are accustomed to my absence. We may, then, lose ourselves together without costing any one a tear – oh, I deceived you, monsieur, and whatever crime he has committed, or may commit, I am his accomplice."
"Ah!" murmured the regent, in a choking voice, "my last hope fails me; she loves him."
Helene turned, with astonishment, toward the stranger who took so lively an interest in her sorrow. The regent composed himself.
"But," continued he, "did you not almost renounce him? Did you not tell him, the day you separated, that you could not dispose of your heart and person?"
"Yes, I told him so," replied the young girl, with exaltation, "because at that time I believed him happy, because I did not know that his liberty, perhaps his life, were compromised; then, my heart would have suffered, but my conscience would have remained tranquil; it was a grief to bear, not a remorse to combat; but since I know him threatened – unhappy – I feel that his life is mine."
"But you exaggerate your love for him," replied the regent, determined to ascertain his daughter's feelings. "This love would yield to absence."
"It would yield to nothing, monsieur; in the isolation in which my parents left me, this love has become my only hope, my happiness, my life. Ah! monsieur, if you have any influence with him – and you must have, since he confides to you the secrets which he keeps from me – in Heaven's name, induce him to renounce these projects, of which you speak; tell him what I dare not tell him myself, that I love him beyond all expression; tell him that his fate shall be mine; that if he be exiled, I exile myself; if he be imprisoned, I will be so too; and that if he dies, I die. Tell him that, monsieur; and add – add that you saw, by my tears and by my despair, that I spoke the truth."
"Unhappy child!" murmured the regent.
Indeed, Helene's situation was a pitiable one. By the paleness of her cheeks, it was evident that she suffered cruelly; while she spoke, her tears flowed ceaselessly, and it was easy to see that every word came from her heart, and that what she had said she would do.
"Well," said the regent, "I promise you that I will do all I can to save the chevalier."
Helene was about to throw herself at the duke's feet, so humbled was this proud spirit by the thought of Gaston's danger; but the regent received her in his arms. Helene trembled through her whole frame – there was something in the contact with this man which filled her with hope and joy. She remained leaning on his arm, and made no effort to raise herself.
"Mademoiselle," said the regent, watching her with an expression which would certainty have betrayed him if Helene had raised her eyes to his face, "Mademoiselle, the most pressing affair first – I have told you that Gaston is in danger, but not in immediate danger; let us then first think of yourself, whose position is both false and precarious. You are intrusted to my care, and I must, before all else, acquit myself worthily of this charge. Do you trust me, mademoiselle?"
"Oh, yes; Gaston brought me to you."
"Always Gaston," sighed the regent, in an undertone; then to Helene he said:
"You will reside in this house, which is unknown, and here you will be free. Your society will consist of excellent books, and my presence will not be wanting, if it be agreeable to you."
Helene made a movement as if to speak.
"Besides," continued the duke, "it will give you an opportunity to speak of the chevalier."
Helene blushed, and the regent continued:
"The church of the neighboring convent will be open to you, and should you have the slightest fear, such as you have already experienced, the convent itself might shelter you – the superior is a friend of mine."
"Ah, monsieur," said Helene, "you quite reassure me; I accept the house you offer me – and your great kindness to Gaston and myself will ever render your presence agreeable to me."
The regent bowed.
"Then, mademoiselle," said he, "consider yourself at home here; I think there is a sleeping-room adjoining this room – the arrangement of the ground-floor is commodious, and this evening I will send you two nuns from the convent, whom, doubtless, you would prefer to servants, to wait on you."
"Ah, yes, monsieur."
"Then," continued the regent, with hesitation, "then you have almost renounced your – father?"
"Ah, monsieur, do you not understand that it is for fear he should not be my father."
"However," replied the regent, "nothing proves it; that house alone is certainly an argument against him but he might not have known it."
"Oh," said Helene, "that is almost impossible."
"However, if he took any further steps, if he should discover your retreat and claim you, or at least ask to see you?"
"Monsieur, we would inform Gaston, and learn his opinion."
"It is well," said the regent, with a smile; and he held out his hand to Helene, and then moved toward the door.
"Monsieur," said Helene, in a scarcely audible voice.
"Do you wish for anything?" asked the duke, returning.
"Can I see him?"
The words seemed to die away on her lips as she pronounced them.
"Yes," said the duke, "but is it not better for your sake to do so as little as possible?" Helene lowered her eyes.
"Besides," said the duke, "he has gone on a journey, and may not be back for some days."
"And shall I see him on his return?"
"I swear it to you."
Ten minutes after, two nuns and a lay sister entered and installed themselves in the house.
When the regent quitted his daughter, he asked for Dubois, but he was told that, after waiting half an hour, Dubois had returned to the Palais Royal.
The duke, on entering the abbe's room, found him at work with his secretaries; a portfolio full of papers was on the table.
"I beg a thousand pardons," said Dubois, on seeing the duke, "but as you delayed, and your conference was likely to be prolonged greatly, I took the liberty of transgressing your orders, and returning here."
"You did rightly; but I want to speak to you."
"To me?"
"Yes, to you."
"To me alone?"
"Alone."
"In that case, will monseigneur go into my cabinet, or into your own room?"
"Let us go into your cabinet."
The abbe made a respectful bow and opened the door – the regent passed in first, and Dubois followed when he had replaced the portfolio under his arm. These papers had probably been got together in expectation of this visit.
When they were in the cabinet, the duke looked round him.
"The place is safe?" asked he.
"Pardieu, each door is double, and the walls are two feet thick."
The regent sat down and fell into a deep reverie.
"I am waiting, monseigneur," said Dubois, in a few minutes.
"Abbe," said the regent, in a quick decided tone, as of a man determined to be answered, "is the chevalier in the Bastille?"
"Monseigneur," replied Dubois, "he must have been there about half an hour."
"Then write to M. de Launay. I desire that he be set free at once."
Dubois did not seem surprised; he made no reply, but he placed the portfolio on the table, opened it, took out some papers, and began to look over them quietly.
"Did you hear me?" asked the regent, after a moment's silence.
"I did, monseigneur."
"Obey, then."
"Write yourself, monseigneur," said Dubois.
"And why?"
"Because nothing shall induce this hand to sign your highness's ruin," said Dubois.
"More words," said the regent, impatiently.
"Not words, but facts, monseigneur. Is M. de Chanlay a conspirator, or is he not?"
"Yes, certainly! but my daughter loves him."
"A fine reason for setting him at liberty."
"It may not be a reason to you, abbe, but to me it is, and a most sacred one. He shall leave the Bastille at once."
"Go and fetch him, then; I do not prevent you."
"And did you know this secret?"
"Which?"
"That M. de Livry and the chevalier were the same?"
"Yes, I knew it. What, then?"
"You wished to deceive me."
"I wished to save you from the sentimentality in which you are lost at this moment. The regent of France – already too much occupied by whims and pleasures – must make things worse by adding passion to the list. And what a passion! Paternal love, dangerous love – an ordinary love may be satisfied, and then dies away – but a father's tenderness is insatiable, and above all, intolerable. It will cause your highness to commit faults which I shall prevent, for the simple reason that I am happy enough not to be a father; a thing on which I congratulate myself daily, when I see the misfortunes and stupidity of those who are."
"And what matters a head more or less?" cried the regent. "This De Chanlay will not kill me, when he knows it was I who liberated him."
"No; neither will he die from a few days in the Bastille; and there he must stay."
"And I tell you he shall leave it to-day."
"He must, for his own honor," said Dubois, as though the regent had not spoken; "for if he were to leave the Bastille to-day, as you wish, he would appear to his accomplices, who are now in the prison at Nantes, and whom I suppose you do not wish to liberate also, as a traitor and spy who has been pardoned for the information he has given."
The regent reflected.
"You are all alike," pursued Dubois, "you kings and reigning princes; a reason stupid enough, like all reasons of honor, such as I have just given, closes your mouth; but you will never understand true and important reasons of state. What does it matter to me or to France that Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny, natural daughter of the regent, should weep for her lover, Monsieur Gaston de Chanlay? Ten thousand wives, ten thousand mothers, ten thousand daughters, may weep in one year for their sons, their husbands, their fathers, killed in your highness's service by the Spaniard who threaten you, who takes your gentleness for weakness, and who becomes emboldened by impunity. We know the plot; let us do it justice. M. de Chanlay – chief or agent of this plot, coming to Paris to assassinate you – do not deny it, no doubt he told you so himself – is the lover of your daughter; so much the worse – it is a misfortune which falls upon you, but may have fallen upon you before, and will again. I knew it all. I knew that he was beloved; I knew that he was called De Chanlay, and not De Livry; yes, I dissimulated, but it was to punish him exemplarily with his accomplices, because, it must be understood that the regent's head is not one of those targets which any one may aim at through excitement or ennui, and go away unpunished if they fail."
"Dubois, Dubois, I shall never sacrifice my daughter's life to save my own, and I should kill her in executing the chevalier; therefore no prison, no dungeon; let us spare the shadow of torture to him whom we cannot treat with entire justice; let us pardon completely; no half pardon, any more than half justice."
"Ah, yes; pardon, pardon; there it is at last; are you not tired of that word, monseigneur; are you not weary of harping eternally on one string?"
"This time, at least, it is a different thing, for it is not generosity. I call Heaven to witness that I should like to punish this man, who is more beloved as a lover than I as a father; and who takes from me my last and only daughter; but, in spite of myself, I stop, I can go no farther; Chanlay shall be set free."
"Chanlay shall be set free; yes, monseigneur; mon Dieu! who opposes it? Only it must be later, some days hence. What harm shall we do him? Diable! he will not die of a week in the Bastille; you shall have your son-in-law; be at peace; but do act so that our poor little government shall not be too much ridiculed. Remember that at this moment the affairs of the others are being looked into, and somewhat roughly too. Well, these others have also mistresses, wives, mothers. Do you busy yourself with them? No, you are not so mad. Think, then, of the ridicule if it were known that your daughter loved the man who was to stab you; the bastards would laugh for a month; it is enough to revive La Maintenon, who is dying, and make her live a year longer. Have patience, monseigneur; let the chevalier eat chicken and drink wine with De Launay. Pardieu! Richelieu does very well there; he is loved by another of your daughters, which did not prevent you from putting him in the Bastille."
"But," said the regent, "when he is in the Bastille, what will you do with him?"
"Oh, he only serves this little apprenticeship to make him your son-in-law. But, seriously, monseigneur, do you think of raising him to that honor?"
"Oh, mon Dieu! at this moment I think of nothing, Dubois, but that I do not want to make my poor Helene unhappy; and yet I really think that giving him to her as a husband is somewhat derogatory, though the De Chanlays are a good family."
"Do you know them, monseigneur? Parbleu! it only wanted that."
"I heard the name long ago, but I cannot remember on what occasion; we shall see; but, meanwhile, whatever you may say, one thing I have decided – he must not appear as a traitor; and remember, I will not have him maltreated."
"In that case he is well off with M. de Launay. But you do not know the Bastille, monseigneur. If you had ever tried it, you would not want a country house. Under the late king it was a prison – oh, yes, I grant that, but under the gentle reign of Philippe d'Orleans, it is a house of pleasure. Besides, at this moment, there is an excellent company there. There are fetes, balls, vocal concerts; they drink champagne to the health of the Duc de Maine and the king of Spain. It is you who pay, but they wish aloud that you may die, and your race become extinct. Pardieu! Monsieur de Chanlay will find some acquaintances there, and be as comfortable as a fish in the water. Ah, pity him, monseigneur, for he is much to be pitied, poor fellow!"
"Yes, yes," cried the duke, delighted; "and after the revelations in Bretagne we shall see."
Dubois laughed.
"The revelations in Bretagne. Ah, pardieu! monseigneur, I shall be anxious to know what you will learn that the chevalier did not tell you. Do you not know enough yet, monseigneur? Peste! if it were me, I should know too much."
"But it is not you, abbe."
"Alas, unfortunately not, monseigneur, for if I were the Duc d'Orleans and regent, I would make myself cardinal. But do not let us speak of that, it will come in time, I hope; besides, I have found a way of managing the affair which troubles you."
"I distrust you, abbe. I warn you."
"Stay, monseigneur; you only love the chevalier because your daughter does?"
"Well?"
"But if the chevalier repaid her fidelity by ingratitude. Mon Dieu! the young woman is proud, monseigneur; she herself would give him up. That would be well played, I think."
"The chevalier cease to love Helene! impossible; she is an angel."
"Many angels have gone through that, monseigneur; besides, the Bastille does and undoes many things, and one soon becomes corrupted there, especially in the society he will find there."
"Well, we shall see, but not a step without my consent."
"Fear nothing, monseigneur. Will you now examine the papers from Nantes?"
"Yes, but first send me Madame Desroches."
"Certainly."
Dubois rang and gave the regent's orders.
Ten minutes after Madame Desroches entered timidly; but instead of the storm she had expected, she received a smile and a hundred louis.
"I do not understand it," thought she; "after all, the young girl cannot be his daughter."
