Александр Дюма
The Regent's Daughter
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE
No more illusion for the chevalier. In a day or two he might be called to his work.
The Spanish envoy had deeply impressed Gaston – there was about him an air of greatness which surprised him.
A strange circumstance passed across his mind; there was, between his forehead and eyes and those of Helene, one of those vague and distant likenesses which seem almost like the incoherence of a dream. Gaston, without knowing why, associated these two faces in his memory, and could not separate them. As he was about to lie down, worn out with fatigue, a horse's feet sounded in the street, the hotel door opened, and Gaston heard an animated conversation; but soon the door was closed, the noise ceased, and he slept as a man sleeps at five-and-twenty, even if he be a conspirator.
However, Gaston was not mistaken; a horse had arrived, and a conversation had taken place. A peasant from Rambouillet brought in haste a note from a young and pretty woman to the Chevalier de Chanlay, Hotel Muids d'Amour.
We can imagine who the young and pretty woman was.
Tapin took the letter, looked at it, then, taking off his apron, left the charge of the hotel to one of his servants, and went off to Dubois.
"Oh," exclaimed the latter, "let us see; a letter!"
He unsealed it skillfully by aid of steam, and, on reading it, seemed pleased.
"Good! excellent! Let them alone to go their own way; we hold the reins, and can stop them when we like." Then, turning to Tapin, he gave him the letter, which he had resealed. "Here," said he, "deliver the letter."
"When?" asked Tapin.
"At once."
Tapin stepped toward the door.
"No, stop," said Dubois; "to-morrow morning will be soon enough."
"Now," said Tapin, "may I make an observation?"
"Speak."
"As monseigneur's agent, I gain three crowns a day."
"Well, is not that enough, you scoundrel?"
"It was enough as agent. I do not complain, but it is not enough as wine-merchant. Oh, the horrid trade!"
"Drink and amuse yourself."
"Since I have sold wine I hate it."
"Because you see how it is made; but drink champagne, muscat, anything: Bourguignon pays. Apropos, he has had a real attack; so your lie was only an affair of chronology."
"Indeed."
"Yes, fear has caused it; you want to inherit his goods?"
"No, no; the trade is not amusing."
"Well, I will add three crowns a day to your pay while you are there, and I will give the shop to your eldest daughter. Bring me such letters often, and you shall be welcome."
Tapin returned to the hotel, but waited for the morning to deliver the letter.
At six o'clock, hearing Gaston moving, he entered, and gave him the note.
This was what it contained:
"My Friend – I think of your advice, and that perhaps you were right at last, I fear. A carriage has just arrived – Madame Desroches orders departure – I tried to resist – they shut me up in my room; fortunately, a peasant passed by to water his horse; I have given him two louis, and he promised to take you this note. I hear the last preparations – in two hours we leave for Paris.
"On my arrival, I will send you my address, if I have to jump out of the window and bring it.
"Be assured, the woman who loves you will remain worthy of herself and you."
"Ah, Helene!" cried Gaston; "I was not deceived. Eight o'clock, but she must have arrived. Why was not this letter brought to me at once?"
"You were asleep, monsieur. I waited your awaking."
There was no reply to be made. Gaston thought he would go and watch at the barrier, as Helene might not have arrived. He dressed quickly, and set out, after saying to Tapin:
"If Captain La Jonquiere comes here, say I shall be back at nine."
While Gaston waits uselessly for Helene, let us look back.
We saw the regent receive Madame Desroches' letter and send a reply. Indeed, it was necessary to remove Helene from the attempts of this M. de Livry.
But who could he be? Dubois alone could tell. So when Dubois appeared —
"Dubois," said the regent, "who is M. de Livry, of Nantes?"
"Livry – Livry," said he. "Stay!"
"Yes, Livry."
"Who knows such a name? Send for M. d'Hozier."
"Idiot!"
"But, monseigneur, I do not study genealogies. I am an unworthy plebeian."
"A truce to this folly."
"Diable! it seems monseigneur is in earnest about these Livrys. Are you going to give the order to one of them? because, in that case, I will try and find a noble origin."
"Go to the devil, and send me Nocé."
Dubois smiled, and went out.
Nocé quickly appeared. He was a man about forty, distinguished-looking, tall, handsome, cold and witty, one of the regent's most faithful and favorite friends.
"Monseigneur sent for me."
"Ah, Nocé, good-day."
"Can I serve your royal highness in anything?"
"Yes; lend me your house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, but empty, and carefully arranged. I will put my own people in it."
"Is it to be for – ?"
"For a prude, Nocé."
"The houses in the faubourg have a bad name, monseigneur."
"The person for whom I require it does not know that; remember, absolute silence, Nocé, and give me the keys."
"A quarter of an hour, monseigneur, and you shall have them."
"Adieu, Nocé, your hand; no spying, no curiosity, I beg."
"Monseigneur, I am going to hunt, and shall only return at your pleasure."
"Thanks; adieu till to-morrow."
The regent sat down and wrote to Madame Desroches, sending a carriage with an order to bring Helene, after reading her the letter without showing it to her.
The letter was as follows:
"My Daughter – On reflection, I wish to have you near me. Therefore follow Madame Desroches without loss of time. On your arrival at Paris, you shall hear from me. Your affectionate father."
Helene resisted, prayed, wept, but was forced to obey. She profited by a moment of solitude to write to Gaston, as we have seen. Then she left this dwelling which had become dear to her, for there she had found her father and received her lover.
As to Gaston, he waited vainly at the barrier, till, giving up all hope, he returned to the hotel. As he crossed the garden of the Tuileries, eight o'clock struck.
At that moment Dubois entered the regent's bedchamber with a portfolio under his arm, and a triumphant smile on his face.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE ARTIST AND THE POLITICIAN
"Ah! it is you, Dubois," exclaimed the regent, as his minister entered.
"Yes, monseigneur," said Dubois, taking out some papers. "Well, what do you say to our Bretons now?"
"What papers are those?" asked the regent, who, in spite of the preceding day's conversation, or perhaps because of it, felt a secret sympathy with De Chanlay.
"Oh, nothing at all, first a little report of what passed yesterday evening between M. de Chanlay and his excellency the Duc d'Olivares."
"You listened, then?" said the regent.
"Pardieu, monseigneur, what did you expect that I should do?"
"And you heard?"
"All. What do you think of his Catholic majesty's pretensions?"
"I think that perhaps they use his name without his consent."
"And Cardinal Alberoni? Tudieu! monseigneur, how nicely they manage Europe: the pretender in England; Prussia, Sweden, and Russia tearing Holland to pieces; the empire recovering Sicily and Naples; the grand duchy of Tuscany for Philip the Fifth's son; Sardinia for the king of Savoy; Commanchio for the pope; France for Spain; really, this plan is somewhat grand, to emanate from the brain of a bell-ringer."
"All smoke! these prospects," said the duke; "mere dreams."
"And the Breton league, is that all smoke?"
"I am forced to own that that really exists."
"And the dagger of our conspirator; is that a dream?"
"No; it even appeared to me likely to be vigorously handled."
"Peste! monseigneur, you complained in the other plot that you found none but rose-water conspirators. Well, this time I hope you are better pleased. These fellows strike hard."
"Do you know," said the regent, thoughtfully, "that the Chevalier de Chanlay is of an energetic and vigorous nature."
"Ah, the next thing will be, you will conceive a great admiration for this fellow. I know, monseigneur, that you are capable of it."
"How is it that a prince always finds such natures among his enemies, and not among friends?"
"Because, monseigneur, hatred is a passion, and devotion often only a weakness; but if you will descend from the height of philosophy and deign to a simple act, namely, to give me two signatures – "
"What signatures?" asked the regent.
"First, there is a captain to be made a major."
"Captain la Jonquiere?"
"Oh, no; as to him, we'll hang him when we have done with him; but meanwhile, we must treat him with care."
"Who, then, is this captain?"
"A brave officer whom monseigneur eight days, or rather eight nights ago, met in a house in the Rue St. Honoré."
"What do you mean?"
"Ah, I see I must aid your memory a little, monseigneur, since you have such a bad one."
"Speak, one can never get at the truth with you."
"In two words, eight nights ago you went out disguised as a musketeer through the little door in the Rue Richelieu, accompanied by Nocé and Simiane."
"It is true; what passed in the Rue St. Honore?"
"Do you wish to know, monseigneur?"
"I do."
"I can refuse you nothing."
"Speak, then."
"You supped at the house – that house, monseigneur."
"Still with Nocé and Simiane?"
"No, monseigneur, tete-à-tete. Nocé and Simiane supped too, but separately. You supped, then, and were at table, when a brave officer, who probably mistook the door, knocked so obstinately at yours, that you became impatient, and handled the unfortunate who disturbed you somewhat roughly, but he, who, it seems, was not of an enduring nature, took out his sword, whereupon you, monseigneur, who never look twice before committing a folly, drew your rapier and tried your skill with the officer."
"And the result?" asked the regent.
"Was, that you got a scratch on the shoulder, in return for which you bestowed on your adversary a sword-thrust in the breast."
"But it was not dangerous?" asked the regent, anxiously.
"No; fortunately the blade glided along the ribs."
"So much the better."
"But that is not all."
"How?"
"It appears that you owed the officer a special grudge."
"I had never seen him."
"Princes strike from a distance."
"What do you mean?"
"This officer had been a captain for eight years, when, on your highness's coming into power, he was dismissed."
"Then I suppose he deserved it."
"Ah, monseigneur, you would make us out as infallible as the pope!"
"He must have committed some cowardly act."
"He is one of the bravest officers in the service."
"Some infamous act then?"
"He is the most honest fellow breathing."
"Then this is an injustice to be repaired."
"Exactly; and that is why I prepared this major's brevet."
"Give it to me, Dubois, you have some good in you sometimes."
A diabolical smile passed over Dubois's face as he drew from his portfolio a second paper.
The regent watched him uneasily.
"What is that paper?" asked he.
"Monseigneur, you have repaired an act of injustice, now do an act of justice."
"The order to arrest the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay, and place him in the Bastille," cried the regent. "Ah! I see now why you bribed me with a good action; but stay, this requires reflection."
"Do you think I propose to you an abuse of power, monseigneur?" asked Dubois, laughing.
"No, but yet – "
"Monseigneur," continued Dubois, "when we have in our hands the government of a kingdom, the thing most necessary is, to govern."
"But it seems to me that I am the master."
"To reward, yes; but on condition of punishing – the balance of justice is destroyed, monseigneur, if an eternal and blind mercy weighs down one of the scales. To act as you always wish, and often do, is not good, but weak. What is the reward of virtue, if you do not punish vice?"
"Then," said the regent, the more impatiently that he felt he was defending a bad though generous cause, "if you wished me to be severe, you should not have brought about an interview between me and this young man; you should not have given me the opportunity of appreciating his worth, but have allowed me to suppose him a common conspirator."
"Yes; and now, because he presented himself to your highness under a romantic guise, your artistic imagination runs away with you. Diable! monseigneur, there is a time for everything; so chemistry with Hubert, engraving with Audran, music with Lafare, make love with the whole world – but politics with me."
"Mon Dieu!" said the regent, "is it worth while to defend a life, watched, tortured, calumniated as mine is?"
"But it is not your life you are defending, monseigneur; consider, among all these calumnies which pursue you, and against which Heaven knows you should be steeled by this time; your most bitter enemies have never accused you of cowardice – as to your life, at Steinkirk, at Nerwinden, and at Lerida, you proved at what rate you valued it. Pardieu! if you were merely a private gentleman, a minister, or a prince of the blood, and you were assassinated, a man's heart would cease to beat, and that would be all; but wrongly or rightly, you coveted a place among the powerful ones of the world; for that end you broke the will of Louis the Fourteenth, you drove the bastards from the throne whereon they had already placed their feet, you made yourself regent of France – that is to say, the keystone of the arch of the world. If you die, it is not a man who falls, it is the pillar which supports the European edifice which gives way; thus our four last years of watchfulness and struggles would be lost, and everything around would be shaken. Look at England; the Chevalier de Saint George will renew the mad enterprises of the pretender; look at Holland – Russia, Sweden, and Prussia would hunt her to the death; look at Austria – her two-headed eagle seizes Venice and Milan, as an indemnification for the loss of Spain; cast your eyes on France – no longer France, but Philip the Fifth's vassal; look, finally, at Louis the Fifteenth, the last descendant of the greatest monarch that ever gave light to the world, and the child whom by watchfulness and care we have saved from the fate of his father, his mother, and his uncles, to place him safe and sound on the throne of his ancestors; this child falls back again into the hands of those whom an adulterous law boldly calls to succeed him; thus, on all sides, murder, desolation, ruin, civil and foreign wars. And why? because it pleases Monsieur Philippe d'Orleans to think himself still major of the king's troops, or commandant of the army in Spain, and to forget that he ceased to be so from the moment he became regent of France."
"You will have it, then," said the duke.
"Stay, monseigneur," said Dubois, "it shall not be said that in an affair of this importance you gave way to my importunity. I have said what I had to say, now I leave you – do as you please. I leave you the paper; I am going to give some orders, and in a quarter of an hour I will return to fetch it."
And Dubois saluted the regent and went out.
Left alone, the regent became thoughtful – this whole affair, so somber and so tenacious of life, this remains of the former conspiracy, filled the duke's mind with gloomy thoughts; he had braved death in battle, had laughed at abductions meditated by the Spaniards and by Louis the Fourteenth's bastards; but this time a secret horror oppressed him; he felt an involuntary admiration for the young man whose poniard was raised against him; sometimes he hated him, at others he excused – he almost loved him. Dubois, cowering down over this conspiracy like an infernal ape over some dying prey, and piercing with his ravenous claws to its very heart, seemed to him to possess a sublime intelligence and power; he felt that he, ordinarily so courageous, should have defended his life feebly in this instance, and his eyes involuntarily sought the paper.
"Yes," murmured he, "Dubois is right, my life is no longer my own; yesterday, my mother also told me the same thing. Who knows what might happen if I were to fall? The same as happened at the death of my ancestor Henry the Fourth, perchance. After having reconquered his kingdom step by step, he was about – thanks to ten years of peace, economy, and prosperity – to add Alsace, Lorraine, and perhaps Flanders, to France, while the Duke of Savoy, his son-in-law, descending the Alps, should cut out for himself a kingdom in the Milanais, and with the leavings of that kingdom enrich the kingdom of Venice and strengthen the dukes of Modena, Florence, and Mantua; everything was ready for the immense result, prepared during the whole life of a king who was at once a legislator and a soldier; then the 13th of May arrived; a carriage with the royal livery passed the Rue de la Feronniere, and the clock of Les Innocents struck three. In a moment all was destroyed; past prosperity, hopes of the future; it needed a whole century, a minister called Richelieu and a king called Louis the Fourteenth, to cicatrize the wound made in France by Ravaillac's knife. Yes, Dubois was right," cried the duke, "and I must abandon this young man to human justice; besides, it is not I who condemn him; the judges are there to decide; and," added he, with animation, "have I not still the power to pardon."
And quieted by the thought of this royal prerogative, which he exercised in the name of Louis XV., he signed the paper, and left the room to finish dressing.
Ten minutes after the door opened softly, Dubois carefully looked in, saw that the room was empty, approached the table near which the prince had been seated, looked rapidly at the order, smiled on seeing the signature, and folding it in four, placed it in his pocket, and left the room with an air of great satisfaction.
CHAPTER XX.
BLOOD REVEALS ITSELF
When Gaston returned from the Barriere de la Conference, and left his room, he found La Jonquiere installed by the fireplace, and discussing a bottle of wine which he had just uncorked.
"Well, chevalier," said he, as Gaston entered, "how do you like my room? it is convenient, is it not? Sit down and taste this wine; it rivals the best Rosseau. Do you drink Rosseau? No, they do not drink wine in Bretagne; they drink cider or beer, I believe. I never could get anything worth drinking there, except brandy."
Gaston did not reply, for he was so occupied that he had not even heard what La Jonquiere said. He threw himself in an easy chair, with his hand in his pocket, holding Helene's first letter.
"Where is she?" he asked himself; "this immense, unbounded Paris may keep her from me forever. Oh! the difficulty is too great for a man without power or experience!"
"Apropos," said La Jonquiere, who had followed the young man's ideas easily, "there is a letter for you."
"From Bretagne?" asked the chevalier, trembling.
"No; from Paris. A beautiful writing – evidently a woman's."
"Where is it?" cried Gaston.
"Ask our host. When I came in he held it in his hands."
"Give it to me," cried Gaston, rushing into the common room.
"What does monsieur want?" asked Tapin, with his usual politeness.
"My letter."
"What letter?"
"The letter you received for me."
"Pardon, monsieur; I forgot it."
And he gave Gaston the letter.
"Poor imbecile!" said the false La Jonquiere, "and these idiots think of conspiring. It is like D'Harmental; they think they can attend to love and politics at the same time. Triple fools; if they were to go at once to La Fillon's for the former, the latter would not be so likely to bring them to the Place de Greve."
Gaston returned joyously, reading and re-reading Helene's letter. "Rue de Faubourg St. Antoine; a white house behind trees – poplars, I think. I could not see the number, but it is the thirty-first or thirty-second house on the left side, after passing a chateau with towers, resembling a prison."
"Oh," cried Gaston, "I can find that; it is the Bastille."
Dubois overheard these words.
"Parbleu; I will take care you shall find it, if I lead you there myself."
Gaston looked at his watch, and finding that it wanted two hours of the time appointed for his rendezvous in the Rue du Bac, took up his hat and was going out.
"What! are you going away?" asked Dubois.
"I am obliged to do so."
"And our appointment for eleven o'clock?"
"It is not yet nine."
"You do not want me?"
"No, thank you."
"If you are preparing an abduction, for instance, I am an adept, and might assist you."
"Thank you," said Gaston, reddening involuntarily, "but I am not."
Dubois whistled an air, to show that he took the answer for what it was worth.
"Shall I find you here on my return?" asked Gaston.
"I do not know; perhaps I also have to reassure some pretty creature who is interested in me; but, at any rate, at the appointed hour you will find your yesterday's guide with the same carriage and the same coachman."
Gaston took a hasty leave. At the corner of the cemetery of the Innocents he took a carriage, and was driven to the Rue St. Antoine. At the twentieth house he alighted, ordering the driver to follow him; then he proceeded to examine the left side of the street. He soon found himself facing a high wall, over which he saw the tops of some tall poplars; this house, he felt sure, was the one where Helene was.
But here his difficulties were but commencing. There was no opening in the wall, neither bell nor knocker at the door; those who came with couriers galloping before them to strike with their silver-headed canes could dispense with a knocker. Gaston was afraid to strike with a stone, for fear of being denied admittance, he therefore ordered the coachman to stop, and going up a narrow lane by one side of the house, he imitated the cry of the screech-owl – a signal preconcerted.
Helene started. She recognized the cry, and it seemed to her as though she were again in the Augustine convent at Clissons, with the chevalier's boat under her windows. She ran to the window; Gaston was there.
Helene and he exchanged a glance; then, re-entering the room, she rang a bell, which Madame Desroches had given her, so violently that two servants and Madame Desroches herself all entered at once.
"Go and open the door," said Helene, imperiously. "There is some one at the door whom I expect."
"Stop," said Madame Desroches to the valet, who was going to obey; "I will go myself."
"Useless, madame. I know who it is, and I have already told you that it is a person whom I expect."
"But mademoiselle ought not to receive this person," replied the duenna, trying to stand her ground.
"I am no longer at the convent, madame, and I am not yet in prison," replied Helene; "and I shall receive whom I please."
"But, at least, I may know who this is?"
"I see no objection. It is the same person whom I received at Rambouillet."
"M. de Livry?"
"Yes."
"I have positive orders not to allow this young man to see you."
"And I order you to admit him instantly."
"Mademoiselle, you disobey your father," said Madame Desroches, half angrily, half respectfully.
"My father does not see through your eyes, madame."
"Yet, who is master of your fate?"
"I alone," cried Helene, unwilling to allow any domination.
"Mademoiselle, I swear to you that your father – "
"Will approve, if he be my father."
These words, given with all the pride of an empress, cowed Madame Desroches, and she had recourse to silence.
"Well," said Helene, "I ordered that the door should be opened; does no one obey when I command?"
No one stirred; they waited for the orders of Madame Desroches.
Helene smiled scornfully, and made such an imperious gesture that Madame Desroches moved from the door, and made way for her; Helene then, slowly and with dignity, descended the staircase herself, followed by Madame Desroches, who was petrified to find such a will in a young girl just out of a convent.
"She is a queen," said the waiting-maid to Madame Desroches; "I know I should have gone to open the door, if she had not done so herself."
"Alas!" said the duenna, "they are all alike in that family."
"Do you know the family, then?" asked the servant, astonished.
Madame Desroches saw that she had said too much.
"Yes," said she; "I formerly knew the marquis, her father."
Meanwhile Helene had descended the staircase, crossed the court, and opened the door; on the step stood Gaston.
"Come, my friend," said Helene.
Gaston followed her, the door closed behind them, and they entered a room on the ground-floor.
"You called me, and I am here, Helene," said the young man; "what do you fear, what dangers threaten you?"
"Look around you," said Helene, "and judge."
The room in which they were was a charming boudoir, adjoining the dining-room, with which it communicated not only by folding doors, but also by an opening almost concealed by rare and peculiar flowers. The boudoir was hung with blue satin; over the doors were pictures by Claude Audran, representing the history of Venus in four tableaux, while the panels formed other episodes of the same history, all most graceful in outline and voluptuous in expression. This was the house which Nocé, in the innocence of his heart, had designated as fit for a prude.
"Gaston," said Helene, "I wonder whether I should really mistrust this man, who calls himself my father. My fears are more aroused here than at Rambouillet."
After examining the boudoir, Gaston and Helene passed into the dining-room, and then into the garden, which was ornamented with marble statues of the same subjects as the pictures. As they returned, they passed Madame Desroches, who had not lost sight of them, and who, raising her hands in a despairing manner, exclaimed:
"Oh, mon Dieu! what would monseigneur think of this?"
These words kindled the smoldering fire in Gaston's breast.
"Monseigneur!" cried he; "you heard, Helene – monseigneur! We are then, as I feared, in the house of one of those great men who purchase pleasure at the expense of honor. Helene, do not allow yourself to be deceived. At Rambouillet I foresaw danger; here I see it."
"Mon Dieu," said Helene, "but if, by aid of his valets, this man should retain me here by force."
"Do not fear, Helene; am not I here?"
"Oh!" said Helene, "and must I renounce the sweet idea of finding a father, a preceptor, a friend."
"And at what a moment, when you are about to be left alone in the world," said Gaston, unconsciously betraying a part of his secret.
"What were you saying, Gaston? What is the meaning of these words?"
"Nothing – nothing," replied the young man; "some meaningless words which escaped me, and to which you must not attach any consequence."
"Gaston, you are hiding some dreadful secret from me, since you speak of abandoning me at the moment I lose a father."
"Helene, I will never abandon you except with life."
"Ah," cried the young girl, "your life is in danger, and it is thus that you fear to abandon me. Gaston, you betray yourself; you are no longer the Gaston of former days. You met me to-day with a constrained joy; losing me yesterday did not cause you intense sorrow: there are more important prospects in your mind than in your heart. There is something in you – pride, or ambition, more powerful than your love. You turn pale, Gaston; your silence breaks my heart."
"Nothing – nothing, Helene, I assure you. Is it surprising that I am troubled to find you here, alone and defenseless, and not know how to protect you; for doubtless this is a man of power. In Bretagne I should have had friends and two hundred peasants to defend me; here I have no one."
"Is that all, Gaston?"
"That is, it seems to me, more than enough."
"No, Gaston, for we will leave this house instantly."
Gaston turned pale; Helene lowered her eyes, and placing her hand in that of her lover —
"Before these people who watch us," said she; "before the eyes of this woman, we will go away together."
Gaston's eyes lighted up with joy; but somber thoughts quickly clouded them again. Helene watched this changing expression.
"Am I not your wife, Gaston?" said she; "is not my honor yours? Let us go."
"But where to place you?" said Gaston.
"Gaston," replied Helene, "I know nothing, I can do nothing; I am ignorant of Paris – of the world; I only know myself and you; well, you have opened my eyes; I distrust all except your fidelity and love."
Gaston was in despair. Six months previous, and he would have paid with his life the generous devotion of the courageous girl.
"Helene, reflect," said Gaston; "if we were mistaken, and this man be really your father!"
"Gaston, do you forget that you first taught me to distrust him?"
"Oh, yes, Helene, let us go," cried Gaston.
"Where are we to go?" asked Helene; "but you need not reply – if you know, it is sufficient."
"Helene," said Gaston, "I will not insult you by swearing to respect your honor; the offer which you have made to-day I have long hesitated to make – rich, happy, sure for the present of fortune and happiness, I would have placed all at your feet, trusting to God for the future; but at this moment I must tell you, that you were not mistaken; from day to day, from this day to the next, there is a chance of a terrible event. I must tell you now, Helene, what I can offer you. If I succeed, a high and powerful position; but if I fail, flight, exile, it may be poverty. Do you love me enough, Helene, or rather do you love your honor enough, to brave all this and follow me?"
"I am ready, Gaston; tell me to follow you, and I do so."
"Well, Helene, your confidence shall not be displaced, believe me; I will take you to a person who will protect you, if necessary, and who, in my absence, will replace the father you thought to find, but whom you have, on the contrary, lost a second time."
"Who is this person, Gaston? This is not distrust," added Helene, with a charming smile, "but curiosity."
"Some one who can refuse me nothing, Helene, whose days are dependent on mine, and who will think I demand small payment when I exact your peace and security."
"Still mysterious, Gaston: really, you frighten me."
"This secret is the last, Helene; from this moment my whole life will be open to you."
"I thank you, Gaston."
"And now I am at your orders, Helene."
