Александр Дюма
The Regent's Daughter
CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH DUBOIS PROVES THAT HIS POLICE WAS BETTER ORGANIZED AT AN EXPENSE OF 300,000 FRANCS THAN THE GENERAL POLICE FOR THREE MILLIONS
Whatever might have been the fatigues of the preceding night, the Duc d'Orleans still gave his mornings to business. He generally began to work with Dubois before he was dressed; then came a short and select levée, followed again by audiences, which kept him till eleven or twelve o'clock; then the chiefs of the councils (La Valliere and Le Blanc) came to give an account of their espionage, then Torcy, to bring any important letters which he had abstracted. At half-past two the regent had his chocolate, which he always took while laughing and chatting. This lasted half an hour, then came the audience hour for ladies, after that he went to the Duchesse d'Orleans, then to the young king, whom he visited every day, and to whom he always displayed the greatest reverence and respect.
Once a week he received foreign ministers, and on Sundays heard mass in his private chapel.
At six, on council days, at five on others, all business was over; then the regent would go to the opera, or to Madame de Berry, with whom, however, he had quarreled now, on account of her marriage with Riom. Then came those famous suppers.
They were composed of from ten to fifteen persons, and the regent's presence among them sometimes added to their license and freedom, but never restrained it. At these suppers, kings, ministers, chancellors, ladies of the court, were all passed in review, discussed, abused; everything might be said, everything told, everything done; provided only that it were wittily said, told, or done. When all the guests had arrived, the doors were closed and barred, so that it was impossible to reach the regent until the following morning, however urgent might be the necessity.
Dubois was seldom of the number, his bad health forbade it; and this was the time chosen to pick him to pieces, at which the regent would laugh as heartily as any one. Dubois knew that he often furnished the amusement of these suppers, but he also knew that by the morning the regent invariably forgot what had been said the night before, and so he cared little about it.
Dubois, however, watched while the regent supped or slept, and seemed indefatigable; he appeared to have the gift of ubiquity.
When he returned from Rambouillet, he called Maitre Tapin, who had returned on horseback, and talked with him for an hour, after which he slept for four or five, then, rising, he presented himself at the door of his royal highness; the regent was still asleep.
Dubois approached the bed and contemplated him with a smile which at once resembled that of an ape and a demon.
At length he decided to wake him.
"Hola, monseigneur, wake up!" he cried.
The duke opened his eyes, and seeing Dubois, he turned his face to the wall, saying —
"Ah! is that you, abbe; go to the devil!"
"Monseigneur, I have just been there, but he was too busy to receive me, and sent me to you."
"Leave me alone; I am tired."
"I dare say, the night was stormy."
"What do you mean?" asked the duke, turning half round.
"I mean that the way you spent the night does not suit a man who makes appointments for seven in the morning."
"Did I appoint you for seven in the morning?"
"Yes, yesterday morning, before you went to St. Germains."
"It is true," said the regent.
"Monseigneur did not know that the night would be so fatiguing."
"Fatiguing! I left table at seven."
"And afterward?"
"Well! what afterward?"
"Are you satisfied, monseigneur, and was the young person worth the journey?"
"What journey?"
"The journey you took after you left the table at seven."
"One would think, to hear you, that from St. Germains here, was a long distance."
"No, monseigneur is right; it is but a few steps, but there is a method of prolonging the distance."
"What is that?"
"Going round by Rambouillet."
"You are dreaming, abbe."
"Possibly, monseigneur. I will tell you my dream; it will at least prove to your highness that even in my dreams I do not forget you."
"Some new nonsense."
"Not at all. I dreamed that monseigneur started the stag at Le Treillage, and that the animal, after some battling, worthy of a stag of high birth, was taken at Chambourcy."
"So far, your dream resembles the truth; continue, abbe."
"After which, monseigneur returned to St. Germains, sat down to table at half-past five, and ordered that the carriage without arms should be prepared and harnessed, with four horses, at half-past seven."
"Not bad, abbe, not bad; go on."
"At half-past seven, monseigneur dismissed every one except Lafare, with whom he entered the carriage. Am I right?"
"Go on; go on."
"The carriage went toward Rambouillet, and arrived there at a quarter to ten, but at the entrance of the town it stopped, Lafare went on in the carriage to the Tigre-Royal, monseigneur following as an outrider."
"Here your dream becomes confused, abbe."
"No, no, not at all."
"Continue, then."
"Well, while Lafare pretended to eat a bad supper, which was served by waiters who called him Excellency, monseigneur gave his horse to a page and went to a little pavilion."
"Demon, where were you hidden?"
"I, monseigneur, have not left the Palais Royal, where I slept like a dormouse, and the proof is, that I am telling you my dream."
"And what was there in the pavilion?"
"First, at the door, a horrible duenna, tall, thin, dry, and yellow."
"Dubois, I will recommend you to Desroches, and the first time she sees you, she will tear your eyes out."
"Then inside, mon Dieu! inside."
"You could not see that, even in a dream, abbe."
"Monseigneur, you may take away the 300,000 francs which you allow me for my secret police, if – by their aid – I did not see into the interior."
"Well, what did you see?"
"Ma foi, monseigneur, a charming little Bretonne, sixteen or seventeen years old, beautiful, coming direct from the Augustine convent at Clisson, accompanied to Rambouillet by one of the sisters, whose troublesome presence was soon dispensed with, was it not?"
"Dubois, I have often thought you were the devil, who has taken the form of an abbe to ruin me."
"To save you, monseigneur, to save you."
"To save me; I do not believe it."
"Well," said Dubois, "are you pleased with her?"
"Enchanted, Dubois; she is charming."
"Well, you have brought her from so far, that if she were not, you would be quite cheated."
The regent frowned, but, reflecting that probably Dubois did not know the rest, the frown changed to a smile.
"Dubois," said he, "certainly, you are a great man."
"Ah, monseigneur, no one but you doubts it, and yet you disgrace me – "
"Disgrace you!"
"Yes, you hide your loves from me."
"Come, do not be vexed, Dubois."
"There is reason, however, you must confess, monseigneur."
"Why?"
"Why did you not tell me you wanted a Bretonne. Could not I have sent for one?"
"Yes."
"Yes, of course I could."
"As good?"
"Yes, and better. You think you have found a treasure, perhaps?"
"Hola, hola!"
"Well, when you know what she is, and to what you expose yourself."
"Do not jest, abbe, I beg."
"Ah! monseigneur, you distress me."
"What do you mean?"
"That you are taken by a glance, a single night fascinates you, and there is no one to compare to the new comer. Is she then very pretty?"
"Charming."
"And discreet: virtue itself, I suppose."
"You are right."
"Well, I tell you, monseigneur, you are lost."
"I?"
"Yes; your Bretonne is a jade."
"Silence, abbe."
"Why silence?"
"I forbid you to say another word."
"Monseigneur, you, too, have had a dream – let me explain it."
"Monsieur Joseph, I will send you to the Bastille."
"As you please, monseigneur, but still you must know that this girl – "
"Is my daughter, abbe."
Dubois drew back stupefied.
"Your daughter; and who is her mother?"
"An honest woman, who had the honor of dying without knowing you."
"And the child?"
"The child has been concealed, that she might not be sullied by the looks of such creatures as you."
Dubois bowed, and retired, respectfully.
The regent looked triumphant.
"Ah!" said Dubois, who had not quite closed the door, "I thought this plot would bring me my archbishop's miter – if I am careful, it will bring me my cardinal's hat."
CHAPTER XI.
RAMBOUILLET AGAIN
At the appointed hour Gaston presented himself at Helene's domicile, but Madame Desroches made some difficulty about admitting him; Helene, however, said firmly that she was quite at liberty to judge for herself what was right, and that she was quite determined to see M. de Livry, who had come to take leave of her. It will be remembered that this was the name which Gaston had assumed during the journey, and which he intended to retain, except when with those connected with his mission to Paris.
Madame Desroches went to her room somewhat out of humor, and even attempted to overhear the conversation, but Helene bolted the outer door.
"Ah, Gaston," said she, "I have been expecting you. I did not sleep last night."
"Nor I, Helene; but I must admire all this splendor."
Helene smiled.
"And your head-dress – how beautiful you are, like this."
"You do not appear much pleased."
Gaston made no reply, but continued his investigations.
"These rich hangings, these costly pictures, all prove that your protectors are opulent, Helene."
"I believe so," said Helene, smiling, "yet I am told that these hangings, and this gilding, which you admire, are old and unfashionable, and must be replaced by new."
"Ah, Helene, you will become a great lady," said Gaston, sighing; "already I am kept waiting for an audience."
"My dear Gaston, did you not wait for hours in your little boat on the lake?"
"You were then in the convent. I waited the abbess's pleasure."
"That title is sacred, is it not?"
"Yes."
"It gives security, imposes respect and obedience."
"Doubtless."
"Well, judge of my delight. Here I find the same protection, the same love, only more powerful, more lasting."
"What!" exclaimed Gaston, surprised.
"I find – "
"Speak, in Heaven's name."
"Gaston, I have found a father."
"A father – ah, my dear Helene, I share your joy; what happiness! a father to watch over my Helene, my wife!"
"To watch from afar."
"Is he separated from you?"
"Alas, it seems the world separates us."
"Is it a secret?"
"A secret even to me, or you may be sure you should know all. I have no secrets from you, Gaston."
"A misfortune of birth – a prescription in your family – some temporary obstacle?" – "I do not know."
"Decidedly, it is a secret; but," said he, smiling, "I permit you to be discreet with me, if your father ordered it. However, may I ask some more questions?"
"Oh, yes."
"Are you pleased? Is your father one you can be proud of?"
"I think so, his heart seems noble and good. His voice is sweet and melodious."
"His voice! but is he like you?"
"I do not know. I have not seen him."
"Not seen him?"
"No, it was dark."
"Your father did not wish to see his daughter; and you so beautiful; oh, what indifference!"
"No, Gaston, he is not indifferent; he knows me well; he has my portrait – that portrait which made you so jealous last spring."
"But I do not understand this."
"It was dark, I tell you."
"In that case one might light these girandoles," said Gaston.
"That is well, when one wishes to be seen; but when one has reasons for concealment – "
"What!" interrupted Gaston; "what reason can a father have for hiding from his own daughter?"
"Excellent reasons, I believe, and you should understand them better than I can."
"Oh, Helene!" said Gaston, "with what terrible ideas you fill my mind."
"You alarm me, Gaston!"
"Tell me – what did your father speak of!"
"Of his deep love for me."
Gaston started.
"He swore to me that in future I should be happy; that there should be no more uncertainty as to my fate, for that he would despise all those considerations which had induced him as yet to disown me as a daughter."
"Words, words; but what proof did he give you? Pardon me these questions, Helene. I dread misfortune. I wish that for a time your angel's innocence could give place to the sharpness and infernal sagacity of a fiend; you would then understand me. I should not need to subject you to this interrogatory, which now is so necessary."
"I do not understand your question, Gaston. I do not know how to reply to you."
"Did he show you much affection?"
"Yes."
"But in the darkness, when he wished to speak to you?"
"He took my hand, and his trembled the most."
Gaston clenched his hands with rage.
"He embraced you paternally, did he not?"
"He gave me a single kiss on the forehead, which I received on my knees."
"Helene!" he cried, "my fears were not groundless; you are betrayed – you are the victim of a snare. Helene, this man who conceals himself, who fears the light, who calls you his child, is not your father."
"Gaston, you distress me."
"Helene, angels might envy your innocence; but on earth all is abused, even angels are insulted, profaned, by men. This man, whom I will know, whom I will seize and force to have confidence in your love and honor, shall tell me – if he be not the vilest of beings – whether I am to call him father, or kill him as a wretch!"
"Gaston, your brain is wandering; what can lead you to suspect such treachery? And, since you arouse my suspicions, since you hold a light over those ignoble labyrinths of the human heart which I refused to contemplate, I will speak to you with the same freedom. Was I not in this man's power? Is not this house his? Are not the people by whom I am surrounded devoted to his orders? Gaston, if you love me, you will ask my pardon for what you have thought and said of my father."
Gaston was in despair.
"Do not destroy one of the purest and holiest joys I have ever tasted. Do not poison the happiness of a life which I have often wept to think was solitary and abandoned, without other affection than that of which Heaven forbids us to be lavish. Let my filial ties compensate for the remorse which I sometimes feel for loving you almost to idolatry."
"Helene, forgive me," cried Gaston. "Yes, you are right; I sully your pure joys by my contact, and it may be the noble affection of your father, but in Heaven's name, Helene, give some heed to the fears of my experience and my love. Criminal passions often speculate on innocent credulity. The argument you use is weak. To show at once a guilty love would be unlike a skillful corrupter; but to win you by a novel luxury pleasing to your age, to accustom you gradually to new impressions, to win you at last by persuasion, is a sweeter victory than that of violence. Helene, listen to my prudence of five-and-twenty years – I say my prudence, for it is my love that speaks, that love which you should see so humble, so devoted, so ready to accept a father whom I knew to be really your parent."
Helene made no answer.
"I implore you," continued Gaston, "not to take any determination now, but to watch everything around you. Suspect the perfumes which are given you, the wine which you are offered – everything, Helene. Watch over yourself, you are my happiness, my honor, my life."
"My friend, I will obey you; this will not keep me from loving my father."
"Adore him, Helene, if I am wrong."
"You are a noble friend, Gaston. We are agreed then?"
"At the slightest suspicion write to me."
"Write! You leave me then?"
"I must go to Paris on business. I shall be at the hotel Muids d'Amour, Rue des Bourdonnais. Write down this address, and do not show it to any one."
"Why so many precautions?"
Gaston hesitated.
"Because, if your devoted protector were known, his plans for aiding you might be frustrated in case of bad intentions."
"You are somewhat mysterious, Gaston. I have a father who conceals himself, and a lover – this word I can hardly speak – who is going to do the same."
"But my intentions, you know," said Gaston, attempting to force a laugh.
"Ah, Madame Desroches is coming back. She thinks our interview too long. I am as much under tutelage as at the convent."
Gaston imprinted a kiss on the hand Helene held out to him. As Madame Desroches approached, Helene made a formal curtsey, which Gaston returned by an equally formal bow.
Gaston left for Paris. Owen awaited him with impatience, and this time could not reproach his master with being slow, for in three hours they were in Paris.
CHAPTER XII.
CAPTAIN LA JONQUIERE
There was, as the reader has learned, in the Rue des Bourdonnais, a hotel where one could lodge, eat, and drink.
In his nocturnal interview with Dubois, Tapin had received the famous name of La Jonquiere, and had transmitted it to L'Eveille, who had passed it to all the chiefs of police, who had begun to search for the suspected officer in all the equivocal houses in Paris. The conspiracy of Cellamare, which we have related in a history of the Chevalier d'Harmental, had taught them that everywhere conspirators were to be found.
It was, however, by luck or by cleverness, Maitre Tapin himself who, in the Rue des Bourdonnais and in the hotel Muids d'Amour, found La Jonquiere, who was then a nightmare to Dubois.
The landlord took Tapin to be an old attorney's clerk, and replied to his questions politely, that "the Captain la Jonquiere was in the hotel, but was asleep."
Tapin asked no more. La Jonquiere was asleep, therefore he was in bed, for it was only six in the morning; if he were in bed, then he must be stopping at the inn.
Tapin went back to the Palais Royal, and found Dubois, who had just left the regent. A number of false La Jonquieres had already been discovered by his emissaries. One was a smuggler, called Captain la Jonciere, whom L'Eveille had found and arrested. A second was La Jonquille, sergeant in the French guards, and many others.
"Well," said Dubois, when Tapin had made his report, "you have found the real Captain la Jonquiere, then?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Is he called La Jonquiere?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"L-a, la; J-o-n, jon; q-u-i-e-r-e, quiere?" continued he, spelling the word.
"La Jonquiere," repeated Tapin.
"A captain."
"Yes, monseigneur."
"What is he doing?"
"Waiting and drinking."
"That must be he," said Dubois; "and does he pay?"
He evidently attached great importance to the question.
"Very well, monsieur."
"A la bonne heure, Tapin. You have some sense."
"Monseigneur," said Tapin, modestly, "you flatter me; it is quite clear, if he had not paid he could not have been a dangerous man."
Dubois gave him ten louis as a reward, gave him some further orders, and set out at once to go to the Rue des Bourdonnais.
Let us say a word regarding the interior of the hotel. It was partly hotel, partly public house; the dwelling rooms were on the first-floor, and the tavern rooms on the ground-floor.
The principal of these, the common room, had four oak tables, and a quantity of red and white curtains; some benches along the walls, some glasses on a sideboard, some handsomely framed pictures, all blackened and rendered nauseous by smoke, completed the tout ensemble of this room, in which sat a fat man, with a red face, thirty-five or forty years old, and a little pale girl of twelve or fourteen.
This was the landlord and his only daughter and heiress.
A servant was cooking a ragout in the kitchen.
As the clock struck one, a French guard entered, and stopping at the threshold, murmured, "Rue des Bourdonnais, Muids d'Amour, in the common room, to sit at the table on the left, and wait."
Then, in accordance with this, the worthy defender of his country, whistling a tune and twirling his mustache, seated himself at the place indicated.
Scarcely had he had time to seat himself and strike his fist on the table, which, in the language of all taverns, means "Some wine," than a second guard, dressed exactly like the first, appeared at the door, murmured some words, and, after a little hesitation, seated himself by the other.
The two soldiers looked at each other, and both exclaimed:
"Ah!" which in all languages means surprise.
"It is you, Grippart," said one.
"It is you, L'Eulevant," said the other.
"What are you doing in this tavern?"
"And you?"
"I do not know."
"Nor I."
"You come here, then?"
"Under orders."
"That is my case."
"And you are waiting?"
"For a man who is coming."
"With a watchword?"
"And on this watchword?"
"I am to obey as though it were Tapin himself."
"Just so; and, in the mean time, I have a pistole for drink."
"I have a pistole also, but I was not told to drink."
"And it being doubtful?"
"In doubt, as the sage says, I do not abstain."
"In that case, let us drink."
And he raised his hand to call the landlord, but it was not necessary, for he was standing near, expecting orders.
"Some wine," cried the two guards.
"Orleans," added one; "I like that."
The landlord brought an inclosed bottle.
The two drinkers filled their glasses, emptied them, and then placed them on the table, each with a different grimace, but both intended to express the same opinion.
When the host was gone, one said to the other:
"You know more of this than you have told me?"
"I know it concerns a certain captain," answered the other.
"Yes; just so. But I suppose we shall have aid to arrest him?"
"Doubtless; two to one is not enough."
"You forget the man with the watchword."
"Ah! I think I hear something."
"Yes; some one coming downstairs."
"Chut!"
"Silence!"
And the soldiers, much more occupied by their commission than if they had really been soldiers, kept an eye turned toward the staircase while they drunk.
They were not deceived; the step on the staircase approached, and they saw, first, some legs, then a body, then a head descending. The legs were covered with fine silk stockings and white cashmere breeches, the body with a tight blue coat, and the head with a three-cornered hat, jauntily placed over one ear; his epaulets left no doubt that he held the rank of captain.
This man, who was, in fact, Captain la Jonquiere, was about five feet five, rather fat, and had a sagacious air; one would almost have supposed that he suspected spies in the two soldiers, for he turned his back to them at once, and entered into conversation with his host in a somewhat assumed tone and manner.
"In truth," said he, "I should have dined here, and this delicious perfume of stewed kidneys would have tempted me, but some bons vivants are expecting me at the 'Galoubet de Paphos.' Perhaps a young man may come here this morning, but I could not wait any longer. Should he ask for a hundred pistoles, say that I shall be back in an hour, if he will wait."
"Very well, captain," said the host.
"Some wine," said the guard.
"Ah," said the captain, throwing an apparently careless glance at the drinkers, "here are some soldiers who have but little respect for an epaulet." Then, turning to the host —
"Serve these gentlemen; you see they are in a hurry."
"Ah," said one, rising, "as soon as monsieur will permit."
"Certainly I permit it," said La Jonquiere; and he stepped toward the door.
"But, captain," said the host, stopping him, "you have not told me the name of the gentleman you expect."
La Jonquiere hesitated. After a moment:
"Monsieur Gaston de Chanlay," he replied.
"Gaston de Chanlay," repeated the host. "I hope I shall remember the name. Gaston – Gascon. Ah, I shall remember Gascon. Chanlay; ah, I shall think of Chandelle."
"That is it," repeated La Jonquiere, gravely; "Gascon de Chandelle."
And he went out, but not without looking round the corners of the street and the angles of the houses.
He had not taken a hundred steps in the Rue St. Honoré before Dubois presented himself at the door. He had passed La Jonquiere, but, never having seen him, could not recognize him.
He presented himself boldly, dressed as a shopkeeper.
