Александр Дюма
The Regent's Daughter
"Well," said the regent sadly, "are you content, Helene?"
"Oh! it is you, monseigneur?"
"You see, my child, that my predictions are fulfilled – believe me when I say, 'Hope.'"
"Ah! monseigneur, are you then an angel come down to earth to stand to me in the place of the father whom I have lost?"
"Alas," said the regent, smiling. "I am not an angel, my dear Helene; but such as I am, I will indeed be to you a father, and a tender one."
Saying this, the regent took Helene's hand, and was about to kiss it respectfully, but she raised her head and presented her forehead to him.
"I see that you love him truly," said he.
"Monseigneur, I bless you."
"May your blessing bring me happiness," said the regent, then, going down to his carriage —
"To the Palais Royal," said he, "but remember you have only a quarter of an hour to drive to Monceaux."
The horses flew along the road.
As the carriage entered under the peristyle, a courier on horseback was setting out.
Dubois, having seen him start, closed the window and went back to his apartments.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MONCEAUX
Meanwhile Gaston went toward Monceaux.
He had found the duke's domino and mask in the carriage. The mask was of black velvet – the domino of violet satin. He put them both on, and suddenly remembered that he was without arms.
He thought, however, he should easily procure some weapon at Monceaux. As he approached, he found it was not a weapon that he needed, but courage. There passed in his mind a terrible contest. Pride and humanity struggled against each other, and, from time to time, he represented to himself his friends in prison, condemned to a cruel and infamous death.
As the carriage entered the courtyard of Monceaux, he murmured, "Already!"
However, the carriage stopped, the door was opened, he must alight. The prince's private carriage and coachman had been recognized, and all the servants overwhelmed him with attentions.
Gaston did not remark it – a kind of mist passed before his eyes – he presented his card.
It was the custom then for both men and women to be masked: but it was more frequently the women than the men who went to these reunions unmasked. At this period women spoke not only freely, but well, and the mask hid neither folly nor inferiority of rank, for the women of that day were all witty, and if they were handsome, they were soon titled: witness, the Duchesse de Chateauroux and the Comtesse Dubarry.
Gaston knew no one, but he felt instinctively that he was among the most select society of the day. Among the men were Novilles, Brancas, Broglie, St. Simon, and Biron. The women might be more mixed, but certainly not less spirituelles, nor less elegant.
No one knew how to organize a fete like the regent. The luxury of good taste, the profusion of flowers, the lights, the princes and ambassadors, the charming and beautiful women who surrounded him, all had their effect on Gaston, who now recognized in the regent, not only a king, but a king at once powerful, gay, amiable, beloved, and above all, popular and national.
Gaston's heart beat when, seeking among these heads the one for which his blows were destined, he saw a black domino.
Without the mask which hid his face and concealed from all eyes its changing expression, he would not have taken four steps through the rooms without some one pointing him out as an assassin.
Gaston could not conceal from himself that there was something cowardly in coming to a prince, his host, to change those brilliant lights into funeral torches, to stain those dazzling tapestries with blood, to arouse the cry of terror amid the joyous tumult of a fete – and at this thought his courage failed him, and he stepped toward the door.
"I will kill him outside," said he, "but not here."
Then he remembered the duke's directions, his card would open to him the isolated conservatory, and he murmured —
"He foresaw that I should be a coward."
He approached a sort of gallery containing buffets where the guests came for refreshment. He went also, not that he was hungry or thirsty, but because he was unarmed. He chose a long, sharp and pointed knife, and put it under his domino, where he was sure no one could see it.
"The likeness to Ravaillac will be complete," said he.
At this moment, as Gaston turned, he heard a well-known voice say —
"You hesitate?"
Gaston opened his domino and showed the duke the knife which it concealed.
"I see the knife glisten, but I also see the hand tremble."
"Yes, monseigneur, it is true," said Gaston; "I hesitated, I trembled, I felt inclined to fly – but thank God you are here."
"And your ferocious courage?" said the duke in a mocking voice.
"It is not that I have lost it."
"What has become of it then?"
"Monseigneur, I am under his roof."
"Yes; but in the conservatory you are not."
"Could you not show him to me first, that I might accustom myself to his presence, that I may be inspired by the hatred I bear him, for I do not know how to find him in this crowd?"
"Just now he was near you."
Gaston shuddered.
"Near me?" said he.
"As near as I am," replied the duke, gravely.
"I will go to the conservatory, monseigneur."
"Go then."
"Yet a moment, monseigneur, that I may recover myself."
"Very well, you know the conservatory is beyond that gallery; stay, the doors are closed."
"Did you not say that with this card the servants would open them to me?"
"Yes; but it would be better to open them yourself – a servant might wait for your exit. If you are thus agitated before you strike the blow, what will it be afterward? Then the regent probably will not fall without defending himself – without a cry; they will all run to him, you will be arrested, and adieu your hope of the future. Think of Helene, who waits for you."
It is impossible to describe what was passing in Gaston's heart during this speech. The duke, however, watched its effect upon his countenance.
"Well," said Gaston, "what shall I do? advise me."
"When you are at the door of the conservatory, the one which opens on to the gallery turning to the left – do you know?"
"Yes."
"Under the lock you will find a carved button – push it, and the door will open, unless it be fastened within. But the regent, who has no suspicion, will not take this precaution. I have been there twenty times for a private audience. If he be not there, wait for him. You will know him, if there, by the black domino and the golden bee."
"Yes, yes; I know," said Gaston; not knowing, however, what he said.
"I do not reckon much on you this evening," replied the duke.
"Ah! monseigneur, the moment approaches which will change my past life into a doubtful future, perhaps of shame, at least of remorse."
"Remorse!" replied the duke. "When we perform an action which we believe to be just, and commanded by conscience, we do not feel remorse. Do you doubt the sanctity of your cause?"
"No, monseigneur, but it is easy for you to speak thus. You have the idea – I, the execution. You are the head, but I am the arm. Believe me, monseigneur," continued he in a hollow voice, and choking with emotion, "it is a terrible thing to kill a man who is before you defenseless – smiling on his murderer. I thought myself courageous and strong; but it must be thus with every conspirator who undertakes what I have done. In a moment of excitement, of pride, of enthusiasm, or of hatred, we take a fatal vow; then there is a vast extent of time between us and our victim; but the oath taken, the fever is calmed, the enthusiasm cools, the hatred diminishes. Every day brings us nearer the end to which we are tending, and then we shudder when we feel what a crime we have undertaken. And yet inexorable time flows on; and at every hour which strikes, we see our victim take another step, until at length the interval between us disappears, and we stand face to face. Believe me, monseigneur, the bravest tremble – for murder is always murder. Then we see that we are not the ministers of our consciences, but the slaves of our oaths. We set out with head erect, saying 'I am the chosen one:' we arrive with head bowed down, saying, 'I am accursed.'"
"There is yet time, monsieur."
"No, no; you well know, monseigneur, that fate urges me onward. I shall accomplish my task, terrible though it be. My heart will shudder, but my hand will still be firm. Yes, I tell you, were it not for my friends, whose lives hang on the blow I am about to strike, were there no Helene, whom I should cover with mourning, if not with blood, oh, I would prefer the scaffold, even the scaffold, with all its shame, for that does not punish, it absolves."
"Come," said the duke, "I see that though you tremble, you will act."
"Do not doubt it, monseigneur; pray for me, for in half an hour all will be over."
The duke gave an involuntary start; however, approving Gaston's determination, he once more mixed with the crowd.
Gaston found an open window with a balcony. He stepped out for a moment to cool the fever in his veins, but it was in vain; the flame which consumed him was not to be extinguished thus.
He heard one o'clock strike.
"Now," he murmured, "the time is come, and I cannot draw back. My God, to thee I recommend my soul – Helene, adieu!"
Then, slowly but firmly, he went to the door, and pressing the button, it opened noiselessly before him.
A mist came before his eyes. He seemed in a new world. The music sounded like a distant and charming melody. Around him breathed the sweetly perfumed flowers, and alabaster lamps half hidden in luxuriant foliage shed a delicious twilight over the scene, while through the interlacing leaves of tropical plants could just be seen the leafless gloomy trees beyond, and the snow covering the earth as with a winding sheet. Even the temperature was changed, and a sudden shiver passed through his veins. The contrast of all this verdure, these magnificent and blossoming orange trees – these magnolias, splendid with the waxy blooms, with the gilded salons he had left, bewildered him. It seemed difficult to connect the thought of murder with this fair-smiling and enchanted scene. The soft gravel yielded to his tread, and plashing fountains murmured forth a plaintive and monotonous harmony.
Gaston was almost afraid to look for a human form. At length he glanced round.
Nothing! he went on.
At length, beneath a broad-leaved palm, surrounded by blooming rhododendrons, he saw the black phantom seated on a bank of moss, his back turned toward the side from whence he was approaching.
The blood rushed to Gaston's cheeks, his hand trembled, and he vainly sought for some support.
The domino did not move.
Gaston involuntarily drew back. All at once he forced his rebellious limbs to move on, and his trembling fingers to grasp the knife they had almost abandoned, and he stepped toward the regent, stifling a sob which was about to escape him.
At this moment the figure moved, and Gaston saw the golden bee, which seemed like a burning gem before his eyes.
The domino turned toward Gaston, and as he did so, the young man's arm grew rigid, the foam rose to his lips, his teeth chattered, for a vague suspicion entered his breast.
Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry. The domino had risen, and was unmasked – his face was that of the Duc d'Olivares.
Gaston, thunderstruck, remained livid and mute. The regent and the duke were one and the same. The regent retained his calm majestic attitude; looked at the hand which held the knife, and the knife fell. Then, looking at his intended murderer with a smile at once sweet and sad, Gaston fell down before him like a tree cut by the ax.
Not a word had been spoken; nothing was heard but Gaston's broken sobs, and the water of the fountains plashing monotonously as it fell.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE PARDON
"Rise, monsieur," said the regent.
"No, monseigneur," cried Gaston, bowing his forehead to the ground, "oh, no, it is at your feet that I should die."
"Die! Gaston! you see that you are pardoned."
"Oh, monseigneur, punish me, in Heaven's name; for you must indeed despise me if you pardon me."
"But have you not guessed?" asked the regent.
"What?"
"The reason why I pardon you."
Gaston cast a retrospective glance upon the past, his sad and solitary youth, his brother's despairing death, his love for Helene, those days that seemed so long away from her, those nights that passed so quickly beneath the convent window, his journey to Paris, the duke's kindness to the young girl, and last, this unexpected clemency; but in all this he beheld nothing, he divined nothing.
"Thank Helene," said the duke, who saw that Gaston vainly sought the cause of what had happened; "thank Helene, for it is she who saves your life."
"Helene! monseigneur."
"I cannot punish my daughter's affianced husband."
"Helene, your daughter! oh, monseigneur, and I would have killed you!"
"Yes, remember what you said just now. We set out the chosen one, we return the murderer. And sometimes you see more than a murderer – a parricide – for I am almost your father," said the duke, holding out his hand to Gaston.
"Monseigneur, have mercy on me."
"You have a noble heart, Gaston."
"And you, monseigneur, are a noble prince. Henceforth, I am yours body and soul. Every drop of my blood for one tear of Helene's, for one wish of your highness's."
"Thanks, Gaston," said the duke, smiling, "I will repay your devotion by your happiness."
"I, happy, through your highness! Ah! monseigneur, God revenges himself in permitting you to return me so much good for the evil I intended you."
The regent smiled at this effusion of simple joy, when the door opened and gave entrance to a green domino.
"Captain la Jonquiere!" cried Gaston.
"Dubois!" murmured the duke, frowning.
"Monseigneur," said Gaston, hiding his face in his hands, pale with affright; "monseigneur, I am lost. It is no longer I who must be saved. I forgot my honor, I forgot my friends."
"Your friends, monsieur?" said the duke, coldly. "I thought you no longer made common cause with such men."
"Monseigneur, you said I had a noble heart; believe me when I say that Pontcalec, Montlouis, Du Couëdic, and Talhouet have hearts as noble as my own."
"Noble!" repeated the duke, contemptuously.
"Yes, monseigneur, I repeat what I said."
"And do you know what they would have done, my poor child? you, who were their blind tool, the arm that they placed at the end of their thoughts. These noble hearts would have delivered their country to the stranger, they would have erased the name of France from the list of sovereign nations. Nobles, they were bound to set an example of courage and loyalty – they have given that of perfidy and cowardice; well, you do not reply – you lower your eyes; if it be your poniard you seek, it is at your feet; take it up, there is yet time."
"Monsieur," said Gaston, clasping his hands, "I renounce my ideas of assassination, I detest them, and I ask your pardon for having entertained them; but if you will not save my friends, I beg of you at least to let me perish with them. If I live when they die, my honor dies with them; think of it, monseigneur, the honor of the name your daughter is to bear."
The regent bent his head as he replied:
"It is impossible, monsieur; they have betrayed France; and they must die."
"Then I die with them!" said Gaston, "for I also have betrayed France, and, moreover, would have murdered your highness."
The regent looked at Dubois; the glance they exchanged did not escape Gaston. He understood that he had dealt with a false La Jonquiere as well as a false Duc d'Olivares.
"No," said Dubois, addressing Gaston, "you shall not die for that, monsieur; but you must understand that there are crimes which the regent has neither the power nor the right to pardon."
"But he pardoned me!" exclaimed Gaston. – "You are Helene's husband," said the duke.
"You mistake, monseigneur; I am not; and I shall never be; and as such a sacrifice involves the death of him who makes it, I shall die, monseigneur."
"Bah!" said Dubois, "no one dies of love nowadays; it was very well in the time of M. d'Urfe and Mademoiselle de Scuderi."
"Perhaps you are right, monsieur; but in all times men die by the dagger;" and Gaston stopped and picked up the knife with an expression which was not to be mistaken. Dubois did not move.
The regent made a step.
"Throw down that weapon, monsieur," said he, with hauteur.
Gaston placed the point against his breast.
"Throw it down, I say," repeated the regent.
"The life of my friends, monseigneur," said Gaston.
The regent turned again to Dubois, who smiled a sardonic smile.
"'Tis well," said the regent, "they shall live."
"Ah! monsieur," said Gaston, seizing the duke's hand, and trying to raise it to his lips, "you are the image of God on earth."
"Monseigneur, you commit an irreparable fault," said Dubois.
"What!" cried Gaston, astonished, "you are then – "
"The Abbe Dubois, at your service," said the false La Jonquiere, bowing.
"Oh! monseigneur, listen only to your own heart – I implore."
"Monseigneur, sign nothing," said Dubois.
"Sign! monseigneur, sign!" repeated Gaston, "you promised they should live; and I know your promise is sacred."
"Dubois, I shall sign," said the duke.
"Has your highness decided?"
"I have given my word."
"Very well; as you please."
"At once, monseigneur, at once; I know not why, but I am alarmed in spite of myself; monseigneur, their pardon, I implore you."
"Eh! monsieur," said Dubois, "since his highness has promised, what signify five minutes more or less?"
The regent looked uneasily at Dubois.
"Yes, you are right," said he, "this very moment; your portfolio, abbe, and quick, the young man is impatient."
Dubois bowed assent, called a servant, got his portfolio, and presented to the regent a sheet of paper, who wrote an order on it and signed it.
"Now a courier."
"Oh, no! monseigneur, it is useless."
"Why so?"
"A courier would never go quickly enough. I will go myself, if your highness will permit me; every moment I gain will save those unhappy men an age of torture."
Dubois frowned.
"Yes! yes! you are right," said the regent, "go yourself;" and he added in a low voice, "and do not let the order leave your hands."
"But, monseigneur," said Dubois, "you are more impatient than the young man himself; you forget that if he goes thus there is some one in Paris who will think he is dead."
These words struck Gaston, and recalled to him Helene, whom he had left, expecting him from one moment to another, in the fear of some great event, and who would never forgive him should he leave Paris without seeing her. In an instant his resolution was taken; he kissed the duke's hand, took the order, and was going, when the regent said —
"Not a word to Helene of what I told you; the only recompense I ask of you is to leave me the pleasure of telling her she is my child."
"Your highness shall be obeyed," said Gaston, moved to tears, and again bowing, he hastily went out.
"This way," said Dubois; "really, you look as if you had assassinated some one, and you will be arrested; cross this grove, at the end is a path which will lead you to the street."
"Oh, thank you; you understand that delay – "
"Might be fatal. That is why," added he to himself, "I have shown you the longest way – go."
When Gaston had disappeared, Dubois returned to the regent.
"What is the matter, monseigneur?" asked he; "you seem uneasy."
"I am."
"And why?"
"You made no resistance to my performing a good action – this frightened me." Dubois smiled.
"Dubois," said the duke, "you are plotting something."
"No, monseigneur, it is all arranged."
"What have you done?"
"Monseigneur, I know you."
"Well."
"I knew what would happen. That you would never be satisfied till you had signed the pardon of all these fellows."
"Go on."
"Well, I also have sent a courier."
"You!"
"Yes, I; have I not the right to send couriers?"
"Yes; but, in Heaven's name, tell me what order your courier carried."
"An order for their execution."
"And he is gone?"
Dubois took out his watch.
"Two hours ago," said he.
"Wretch!"
"Ah, monseigneur! always big words. Every man to his trade, save M. de Chanlay, if you like; he is your son-in-law; as for me, I save you."
"Yes; but I know De Chanlay. He will arrive before the courier."
"No, monseigneur."
"Two hours are nothing to a man like him; he will soon have made them up."
"Were my courier only two hours in advance," said Dubois, "De Chanlay might overtake him, but he will be three."
"How so?"
"Because the worthy young man is in love; and if I reckon an hour for taking leave of your daughter, I am sure it is not too much."
"Serpent! I understand the meaning of what you said just now."
"He was in an excess of enthusiasm – he might have forgotten his love. You know my principle, monseigneur: distrust first impulses, they are always good."
"It is an infamous principle."
"Monseigneur, either one is a diplomatist or one is not."
"Well," said the regent, stepping toward the door, "I shall go and warn him."
"Monseigneur," said Dubois, stopping the duke with an accent of extreme resolution, and taking a paper out of his portfolio, already prepared, "if you do so, have the kindness in that case to accept my resignation at once. Joke, if you will, but, as Horace said, 'est modus in rebus.' He was a great as well as a courteous man. Come, come, monseigneur, a truce to politics for this evening – go back to the ball, and to-morrow evening all will be settled – France will be rid of four of her worst enemies, and you will retain a son-in-law whom I greatly prefer to M. de Riom, I assure you."
And with these words they returned to the ballroom, Dubois joyous and triumphant, the duke sad and thoughtful, but convinced that his minister was right.
