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PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES

An Historical Novel

BY

L. MUHLBACH

AUTHOR OF FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT, THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,

BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI, JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT, ETC.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

BY ADELAIDE DeV. CHAUDRON

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

I. The Countess of Soissons

II. The Laboratory

III. Prince Eugene

IV. The Riot

V. Barbesieur Louvois

VI. The State Reception

VII. Help in Time of Need

VIII. The Flight

IX. The Parting

BOOK II.

I. Marianna Mancini

II. The Trial

III. A Skirmish

IV. Louvois' Daughter

V. The Court-Ball

VI. The Lady of the Bedchamber

VII. The Lady of the Bedchamber

VIII. First Love

IX. The Betrayal

BOOK III.

I. The Disappointment

II. The Foes

III. The Repulse

IV. The Farewell

V. A Page from History

VI. The Emperor Leopold I.

VII. The Council of War

VIII. The Plains of Kitsee

IX. The Baptism of Blood

X. Vienna

XI. The Re-enforcements

BOOK IV.

I. The Fall of Buda

II. The Friends

III. The Marquis Strozzi

IV. Laura

V. The Regatta

VI. The Negotiator

VII. The Lovers reunited

VIII. Antonio's Expiation

IX. The Dungeon

BOOK V.

I. A Twofold Victory

II. The Dumb Music

III. The Retirement of the Commander-in-Chief

IV. The Fall of Belgrade

V. The Marchioness

VI. The Flight

VII. The Forester's Hut

BOOK VI.

I. Sister Angelica

II. Louis the Fourteenth

III. The King and the Petitioners

IV. The Window that was too large

V. The Imperial Diet at Regensburg

VI. The Judith of Esslingen

VII. Her Return

BOOK VII.

I. The Island of Bliss

II. The French in Speier

III. The Treasure

IV. Caspar's Vengeance

V. The Duchess of Orleans

VI. The Deliverance of Trier

VII. The Fire-tongs

VIII. Brave Hearts

BOOK VIII.

I. The Advance into France

II. The Ravens

III. Sick and Well

IV. The Duke's Dangerous Illness

V. The Marquis Strozzi

VI. Insanity and Revenge

VII. The Ambrosia

VIII. The Betrothal

IX. Vengeance

PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES.

BOOK I.

PRINCE EUGENE, THE LITTLE ABBE

CHAPTER I.

THE COUNTESS OF SOISSONS.

"Is that your last word, madame?" said Louvois, in a tone so

emphatic as to be almost threatening.

"My last word," replied the countess, haughtily. "My daughter is too

young to marry, and were she older, I would not impose a husband

upon her who was not the man of her choice. She shall bestow her

hand and heart together."

"Do you mean that it is impossible for your daughter to love my

son?" asked Louvois, hastily.

The countess raised her shoulders and smiled superciliously, while

from her large black eyes there darted forth a glance that spoke

volumes to the mind of the irritated minister.

"It would appear," said she, "that there can be no sympathy between

the Mancinis and the Louvois, and that their antipathies are to be

perpetuated from generation to generation."

"You would remind me of the similarity which the fate of my son as a

wooer bears to that of his father?" asked Louvois. "I do not deny

it; the repulse which twenty-one years ago I received from Olympia

Mancini, she repeats to-day in the person of her daughter. But it

may be that on some other occasion the Mancinis shall be repulsed by

the Louvois."

"A threat?" said the countess, angrily.

Now it was the shoulders of the minister that were raised. "I have

sowed love and reaped hate," said he, quietly.

The countess laughed. "Ah," said she, "I see that you have

remodelled your speech according to the pious formulary of Madame de

Maintenon, and that you seek for your troubadours among the

prophets."

"Yes--the Scriptural prophets satisfy MY cravings for knowledge,"

replied Louvois, smiling. "Pity that everybody else is not as

orthodox as I!"

"What do you mean?" asked the countess, uneasily.

"I mean that it would be better for the Countess de Soissons if she

imitated the discretion of Madame de Maintenon, and eschewed

association with those unholy prophets who draw their inspiration

from the stars."

"Do you think so? And yet the book of the stars is inspired and

contains truth, for therein it stands written that our two families

will never be united by the bonds of love. What is the use of

striving against destiny? Fate has willed our enmity, and we must

submit with resignation," said the countess, with an affected drawl.

"You see," added she, pathetically, "how beautifully I fall into

your new-fashioned dialect, and how harmoniously my dulcet notes

mingle with those of the court chorus."

"I remember the dulcet notes of a poem written years ago, which were

wont to edify the court with a strain that would sound inharmonious

there to-day. What would De Montespan and De Maintenon say to such

discordant lines as these?" And Louvois began to hum the following:

"La belle Olympe n'a point de seconde,

Et l'Amour a bien reuni

Dedans l'infanta Mancini

Par un avantage supreme

Tout ce qui force a dire: J'aime!

Et qui l'a fait dire a nos dieux!"

[Footnote: "Les Nieces de Mazarion," par Renee, p. 177.]

"What they would say?" replied the countess; "why, they would listen

approvingly to a rhapsody which time has falsified, and imagine that

I wince to hear it sung. But they would be in error. I thank you for

recalling to my mind the golden vision of the past, wherein a king

knelt at my feet, and Louvois lived upon my smiles. She who can look

back upon conquests such as these, can afford to despise the

contrarieties of the present, while she plumes her victorious wings

for future flight, wherein she shall attain indemnification for the

trifling vexations of to-day."

"I wish you may realize your joyous anticipations," replied Louvois,

with a sneer. "But if you will allow me to draw your horoscope, you

will confess that I am a wiser seer than your dear friend La

Voisin."

For one moment the features of the countess contracted painfully,

but she mastered her emotion and was able to reply with a tranquil

smile,--"Do so, your excellency, I am all attention."

"I read in the stars that snares encompass you, Countess de

Soissons. You have enemies, numerous, powerful, and crafty. At their

head stands the queen, who can never forgive you for having opened

one of her letters, and having stolen thence a note addressed to the

king, which accused her of secret machinations with Spain. Then

there is poor Louise de la Valliere, who for your cruel sarcasms

shed such oceans of tears--"

"She is in a convent."

"True, but the scars of your persecutions are upon her heart; and

although she may be a Christian, think you that she has ceased to be

a woman? Third--among the number of those who hate you is the

Marquise de Montespan, to whom the brilliant assemblages at the

Hotel de Soissons are a source of mortification, for she can never

forget that, on more than one occasion, the king has forgotten his

rendezvous with her, to linger at the side of his fascinating

hostess. And we must not overlook the pious De Maintenon, who lives

in constant terror lest some day or other your presence should

recall to the king that golden vision of his youth, whereof Olympia

Mancini was the enshrined divinity. For this reason you are more

obnoxious to the ex-governess than De Montespan herself. The star of

the latter favorite is already on the wane, whereas yours may rise

again at the bidding of Memory. These four women have long-meditated

your destruction, and many are the thorns with which they have

strewed your path in life. But, to compass your ruin, there was

wanting ONE strong arm that could concentrate their scattered

missiles, and hurl them in ONE great bomb at your head. Countess de

Soissons, that arm is mine--I, Louvois, the trusted minister of the

king, the friend of De Maintenon, the mightiest subject in France--I

am the man whose arm shall strike on behalf of your enemies, of whom

in me behold the chief! You have thrown me your gauntlet, and I

raise it. I proclaim myself your foe, and since there must be war

between our races, we shall see whether for the future the Mancinis

may not be made to suffer through the Louvois! This is my horoscope,

and now mark well my last words: La Voisin the soothsayer was

arrested last night."

All the self-control which she could gather to meet this sinister

disclosure, could not smother the groan which was upheaved from

Olympia's sinking heart.

Louvois affected not to hear it. He bowed low and prepared to take

his leave. The countess made no effort to detain him; she was too

frightened for circumspection, and she followed his retreating

figure with eyes that were all aflame with hate. Nor did their fiery

glow abate when, having reached the door, Louvois turned and

confronted her.

He surveyed her calmly, but his eye returned hate for hate, and so

for a moment they stared at each other, while there passed between

the two a silent challenge, which both felt was to be fought out to

the death.

After a pause Louvois spoke. His mouth dilated with a cruel smile,

which, when its mocking light was seen, betokened peril to those who

offended him.

"Madame," said he. "not only has La Voisin been arrested, but her

private papers have been seized." So saying, he bowed again and

disappeared behind the portiere.

CHAPTER II.

THE LABORATORY.

The countess listened to his echoing footsteps until they were no

longer audible, nor did she move until she heard the roll of the

carriage which bore him away.

Gradually the sound of the receding vehicle melted into distance,

and a deep silence ensued. This silence first roused the countess

from her lethargy. A tremor convulsed her limbs; her dilated orbs

which had been fixed upon the door relaxed, and wandered from the

silken hangings of the walls to the gilded furniture around her;

from the tables of Florentine marble to the rainbow-tinted

chandeliers, whose pendants swayed to and fro in the sunshine. And

now they rested dreamily upon a picture which, conspicuous for size

and beauty, hung immediately opposite to the sofa whereon she was

reclining. It was the full length portrait of a handsome youth. He

was not tall, but he was gracefully proportioned. His shoulders were

broad; and, rising from the midst of a slender throat, adorned with

a fall of lace, appeared his stately head crowned with a wealth of

long, brown curls. His face was of a beautiful oval, his complexion

clear, his mouth wreathed with happy smiles. The brow was high and

arched, and the fine gray eyes beamed with hope and energy. In one

hand he held a rose, which he extended to a person not represented

in the picture; the other band, half veiled by its overhanging fall

of gossamer lace, rested carelessly on the table, while close by lay

two rose-buds, which seemed just to have been dropped from the half-

open fingers. Over an arm-chair in the background was thrown a

mantle of royal ermine, which partially concealed the kingly crown

that surmounted its high carved back.

The eyes of the countess were fixed upon this picture with an

expression of tender sadness, and slowly, as if yielding to an

influence altogether objective, she rose from her seat and advanced

toward the portrait, where she remained gazing until her sight was

dimmed by tears, while the youth smiled ever, and ever held out the

rose.

What golden tribute had his homage brought to her ambition! What

ecstasy had it poured into her heart! How truly had she loved that

princely boy, who, careless, happy, and fickle, was bestowing upon

other women the roses which for her had withered years ago, leaving

upon their blighted stems the sharp and cruel thorns of his

inconstancy!

Since then, twenty-three years had gone by; she had become a wife

and the mother of seven children, but the wound still festered; the

old sorrow still sang its mournful dirge within a heart which to-day

beat as wildly as ever, and felt a pang as keen as when it first

grew jealous, and learned that not she, but Marie, had become the

divinity whom Louis worshipped.

Marie, too, had been forsaken, and had stifled the cries of her

despairing heart by marriage with another. The fate of both sisters

had been the same--a short dream of gratified ambition, followed by

long years of humiliation. It seemed that the prosperity and

happiness of Cardinal Mazarin's nieces had been coexistent with his

life, for when the eyes of their uncle closed in death, the light of

their fortunes grew dim and expired.

The portrait of Louis XIV., which was calling up the spectres of so

many buried joys, had been painted expressly for Olympia Mancini. It

represented his first declaration of love to her, and had been sent

as a souvenir of "the brightest hour of his life." He had barely

reached his thirty-seventh year, and yet this winsome youth had been

transformed into a demure devotee, who, despising the vanities of

the world, had turned his heart toward heaven, and spent his life

doing penance for the sins of his early manhood!

And this transformation was the work of a woman who had neither

beauty, youth, nor birth to recommend her to the favor of a monarch-

-a woman who had been the paid governess of the king's bastards, and

was not even gifted with intellect enough to cover her other

deficiencies!

These last thoughts brought a smile to the face of the countess.

Turning suddenly away from the portrait she crossed the room with

rapid steps, and placed herself directly in front of a large

Venetian mirror which occupied the space between two windows. It

gave back the reflection of an exquisite figure, whose outlines

contributed much to the grace with which the folds of a blue satin

dress fell in rich profusion around it. The white shoulders were

scarcely concealed by a shawl of superb lace, and the arms, still

round, were set off by costly bracelets. The raven hair, with not a

trace of time's finger to discolor its glossy blackness, fell around

her face in curls as delicate as the tendrils of a grape. Her brow

was smooth and polished, her eyes aglow with passionate longing,

and, as her lips curved into a complacent smile, they disclosed two

rows of pearly teeth, compact and without a fleck.

Yes, she was not deceived. Olympia de Soissons was a handsome woman,

and with so much comeliness, such ready wit, and such unrivalled

powers of conversation, she might gird up her loins to do battle

with her rivals. Was not Madame de Maintenon her elder by three

years? And as for De Montespan, was she not wasting away into an old

woman? If they had found it possible to win the heart of this

sensual Louis, why not she? This heart had once been all her own,

and why should not she, who combined the beauty of one mistress with

the shrewdness of the other, dispossess them both, and re-enter into

possession of her old domains?

She smiled again, and saw how well her smiles became her. "Yes,"

said she to herself, "yes, I will recall this truant merlin, and he

shall return to perch upon the hand he used to love! I will be

mistress of his heart and mistress of his realms. She foretold it

all, and gave me the charm wherewith to work the spell."

But as she gave utterance to these last words, her lips began to

quiver, and her fine features were distorted by some sudden pain.

She had just called to mind the fearful intelligence of La Voisin's

arrest.

"Great God! If my letters should have been found among her papers!

What, oh what would be MY fate?"

She shuddered--and in place of the triumphant vision of a heart

recaptured, a monarch at her feet, there arose the fearful spectacle

of an execution which, four years before, she had witnessed at the

bloody Place de Greve. Once more she saw the square, black with a

mass of human beings, who, jeering, shouting, and cursing, moved

hither and thither like the waves of a turbulent ocean; at every

window that looked out upon the place, she saw gayly-dressed ladies

who peered anxiously out to catch a glimpse of one gloomy object

that loomed darkly up from its centre. She saw the crowd give way

and part, as, keeping pace with the dull sound of a muffled drum, a

sad procession entered upon the scene. At its head marched a

battalion of soldiers, and behind them, seated in the felon's cart,

came a pale, beautiful woman, who ever and anon pressed to her

quivering lips the crucifix held out to her by a priest--that last

link of sympathy between the convict and his fellow-creatures. At

the criminal's side, in symbolic robes of sanguinary red, was the

executioner that was to sever this slender tie, and wrench the

spirit from the body to whose guardianship God had committed it on

earth. Silently the hideous cortege moved on, while the crowd fell

back to let it pass, until the scaffold came to view. How joyously

the sun's rays seemed to play around the glittering axe that was to

end a career of secret crime! How eagerly the high-born dames bend

forward to catch sight of the criminal, as, leaning on the arm of

the priest, she tottered to her doom! Olympia remembered only too

well the moment when the drum ceased its "discordant sound," and

when the silence was so oppressive that the low voice of the

condemned was heard uttering her last prayer. She knelt beside the

block--a circle of light was described upon the air--and the head

fell upon the blood-besprinkled sand.

The Countess de Soissons sickened as she remembered that the woman

whom she had seen executed was one of high position, no less a

personage than the beautiful and fascinating Marquise de

Brinvilliers. Neither her rank, her charms, nor the strenuous

efforts of her powerful friends, had been adequate to save her from

the headsman's axe. She had been convicted of poisoning, and had

shared the fate of other malefactors of less repute. Her confidante

La Voisin had been arrested at the time, but as nothing proved her

to have been an accomplice of her former mistress she had escaped

conviction.

Something new with regard to the fortune-teller must have

transpired, for Louvois had considered her arrest as an ill-omen for

the Countess de Soissons. Not only for Olympia, however, was the

arrest of Catherine a calamity, for she was the trusty counsellor of

many a noble lady who, before suspicion had sullied her name, had

been the dear and intimate associate of the Marquise de

Brinvilliers.

The countess had turned away from the contemplation of her mellow

charms, and was on her way to her boudoir. She bolted the door

within, and, crossing the room, mounted a chair that stood by the

side of a tall mirror set in a thick gilt frame. She touched a

spring, when the mirror glided noiselessly aside, revealing a dark

recess within the wall.

Olympia slipped through the opening, which closed behind her, darted

up a narrow staircase, and, hastily drawing a key from a pocket

concealed within the folds of her dress, she unlocked the door of a

room whose aspect was anything but appropriate to the pursuits of a

lady of quality.

It was to all appearances a kitchen, for one entire side of it was

occupied by a hearth full of recesses, each one of which contained a

furnace fitted up with iron utensils for cooking. On the mantel,

which corresponded to this immense hearth, were ranged pipkins and

other vessels of different sizes, interspersed with rows of phials

and flasks containing liquids of every imaginable color. On a

massive oaken table, in the centre of the apartment, were placed a

number of bowls and dishes, and near them lay a disorderly pile of

papers, books, and pamphlets.

Olympia approached the hearth, stooped over one of the furnaces, and

from a fagot lying near gathered a few small sticks. Over these

sticks she poured a fluid from one of her flasks, and then rubbing

them briskly together, they began to emit sparks. She placed them

under the furnace, added a little more fuel, and in a few moments

had a good fire.

She now sprang to her feet, and hastily pushing aside a row of

pipkins, opened a small door which had been concealed behind them,

above the mantel. From a recess within the wall she took a brass-

bound casket, which she placed upon the table.

The casket contained some books, papers, and several diminutive

phials. One of these phials she held up to the light, contemplating

its contents with manifest satisfaction.

"Herein lies the spell that is to lure my faithless monarch back

again. La Voisin may rot in prison, but her mantle of science has

fallen upon me, and her secrets are mine. Her last, best gift shall

restore me to my throne. Not only did she leave me the means of

success, but she foretold the certainty of that success besides. It

must be so: La Voisin never erred in her predictions, and I shall

triumph!"

Pressing the phial to her lips, Olympia hid it beneath the folds of

her lace tucker, murmuring the while, "I shall sip of this nectar

anon; for the present, I must provide for discovery."

She took the papers that lay in the casket, and weighing them in her

hand said musingly:

"How light they are, and yet how heavy was the gold with which I

purchased them! 'Tis a pity they should be destroyed: what if I

should forget? But no! oblivion of their treasured secrets were

impossible to me; so away with you! You might turn traitors, and I

had best anticipate treachery by destruction."

Then followed the books and the contents of the phials remaining in

the casket. The blue flames leaped high as these last were added to

the cremation, and the room became oppressive with their unwholesome

vapor.

"The window must be opened," said Olympia. "This odor might betray

me. People might suspect me of having cooked arsenic in my kitchen

instead of onions."

With, these words she opened the casement, and the noxious cloud

passed slowly out into the air.

"Now all is safe. Louvois can send as many bailiffs as he lists, and

should they poke their inquisitive noses into my sanctum, they will

find nothing for their pains but an innocent laboratory wherein the

Countess de Soissons prepares her cosmetics, and makes experiments

in the chemistry of the toilet."

She replaced her casket, searched the mantel carefully, and then

glanced sharply around the room to assure herself that she was alone

and undiscovered.

Yes! Alone, the witnesses of her guilt consumed, and their ashes

etherealized throughout space.

The countess smiled, and, as she locked the door of her laboratory,

her spirits revived and her thoughts once more reverted to the

ambitious dreams of the morning. When she had reached her boudoir

again, and the complaisant mirror had resumed its place, she drew

the flask from her bosom, removed the glass stopper, inhaled for a

moment its perfume, and then, raising it to her lips, drained the

contents to their last drop.

"And this philter is to make me mistress of your heart, King Louis!

How I long to begin my reign!"

A slight rustling was heard outside, and the guilty woman trembled

anew. She concealed the phial, and listened breathlessly, while her

straining eyes were fixed upon the door as though they had hoped to

see through its panels of oak whether friend or foe stood without.

A slight knock was heard, and now, in spite of herself, the Countess

de Soissons grew pale and shivered. What if the myrmidons of Louvois

had come with a lettre de cachet! What if--No! not even HE would go

so far in his enmity to the niece of the great cardinal, the

relative of the reigning Duke of Savoy, and the daughter-in-law of

the Princess Carignan.

So she summoned resolution enough to cross the room, draw back the

bolt, and to say in a loud, imperious tone: "Come in."

The door opened, and admitted a young man. The countess no sooner

recognized him than she smiled, and, with a slight elevation of her

shoulders, said, "Nobody but you."

"Nobody but me," replied the youth, sadly. "I come to ask of my

gracious mother an interview."

CHAPTER III.

PRINCE EUGENE.

The countess inclined her head in token of assent; but, as she did

so, her eyes rested on the diminutive form of her son with an

expression that savored of disdain. The look was unmotherly, and

seemed to say, "How can a man of such insignificant appearance be

the son of the stately Countess de Soissons?"

And indeed to a careless observer the words were not inappropriate

to his dwarfish proportions. His head, which, between his

excessively wide shoulders, was perched upon the top of a very long

neck, was too large, much too large for his body. His face was

narrow, his complexion swarthy, his sallow cheeks high and sunken. A

nose slightly turned up, gave an expression of boldness to his

countenance, increased by the shortness of his upper lip, which

exposed to view two large front teeth that were almost ferocious in

their size. On either side of his high, narrow forehead, his hair,

instead of being worn according to the prevailing fashion, was

suffered to fall in long elf-locks about his ears. Notwithstanding

all these disadvantages, his eyes were so superlatively beautiful

that they almost persuaded you into the belief that he was handsome.

From their lustrous depths there streamed a meteoric splendor,

which, more than words, revealed the genius, the enthusiasm, and the

noble soul to which Nature had assigned such unworthy corporality.

Those speaking eyes were fixed upon the countess in tender sadness,

while, in a respectful attitude near the door, he awaited her

permission to approach.

She languidly extended her hand, and, Eugene coming forward, bent

over and imprinted upon it a heartfelt kiss.

"My dear mother then consents?" said he, humbly.

"I know of no reason why I should refuse," replied the countess,

carelessly. "Neither am I able to divine wherefore you make your

request in a tone of such unusual solemnity. One would suppose that

the little abbe has come to invite his mother to a confession of her

sins, so portentous is his demeanor."

"Would I could receive that confession," exclaimed he, earnestly;

"would I could look into my mother's heart and read the secrets

there!"

"Indeed! and have you come hither to catechise your mother, then?"

said the countess, with a frown.

"No, dear mother, no," cried Eugene, eagerly; "I have come to ask of

you whether I may walk with head erect before the world, or whether

I must die because of our dishonor?"

"An extraordinary alternative to present for my decision, certainly;

and I confess that I am very curious to learn how it happens that I

can assist you in your dilemma. Speak, then, and I will listen."

With these words the countess threw herself indolently into an arm-

chair, and motioned Eugene to a seat. But he only advanced a step or

two, and gazed wistfully upon her handsome, hardened face.

"Mother," said he, in a low, husky voice, "the soothsayer La Voisin

has been arrested."

"Ah! what else?" asked the countess, with perfect composure.

"Her house is guarded, every corner has been searched, and her

papers have all been seized."

"And what else?" repeated the countess.

Her son looked up, and a ray of hope shot athwart his pale and

anxious face. "Nothing is talked of in Paris," continued he, "but

the strange revelations connected with her arrest. It is said that

she not only drew the horoscope of those who were accustomed to

visit her, and gave them philters, but--but--"

"But," echoed the countess as her son paused.

"But that she prepared secret poisons, one of which, called 'La

poudre de succession,' was specially designed for the use of those

who wished to remove an inconvenient relative."

This time the countess was silent; her brow contracted, and she

shivered perceptibly.

An involuntary cry burst from the lips of her son, which recalled

her to a sense of her imprudence.

"What ails you?" asked she, abruptly. "Have you seen a ghost, that

you cry out in a voice so unearthly?"

"Yes, mother, I have seen a ghost--the ghost of my father! "And

while the countess grew pale, and her eyes dilated with fear, her

unhappy son sank upon his knees before her, and clasped his hands

with agony of apprehension.

"Mother, have mercy on me, and forgive me if, in the anguish of my

writhing soul, I ask you whether you are innocent of my father's

death?"

"Has any one dared to accuse me?" asked she, with a scowl.

"Ay! And so publicly, that men spoke of it together as I passed them

in the streets to-day. Need I say that I was ready to die of grief

as I heard the epithet of murderess applied to the mother who to me

has been the ideal of beauty, goodness, and excellence, which my

heart has worshipped to the exclusion of all other loves! My brain

was on fire as I dashed through the scornful crowd, and made my way

to you, mother, here to look upon your dear face, and read in your

eyes your innocence of the hideous crime. We are alone with God: in

mercy tell me, are you innocent or guilty?"

As he raised his face to hers, the countess saw there such powerful

love struggling with his anguish, that her heart was touched, and

the angry words she had meditated died upon her lips.

"These are cruel doubts wherewith to assail your mother, Eugene,"

said she, after a pause. "Follow me, and in the presence of your

forefathers you shall he answered."

With a lofty bend of the head, she left the room, followed by her

stricken child. They crossed a spacious hall, and traversed one

after another the apartments of state which were thrown open to

guests on occasions of great ceremony, and led to the grand hall of

reception. At the farther end of this hall, under a canopy of purple

velvet, surmounted by a ducal crown, were the two thrones which, on

the days of these state receptions, the Count and Countess de

Soissons were privileged to occupy in presence of their guests,

provided his majesty were not of the number. This right they held by

virtue of their connection with the royal house of France, and their

close relationship to the Duke of Savoy. At the time of the marriage

of his niece with the Count de Soissons, Cardinal Mazarin had

obtained from Louis XIV. an acknowledgment of her husband as a

prince of the blood, and, by virtue of this acknowledgment, his

right to attend without invitation all court festivities, to appear

at the public and private levees of the king, and in his own palace

to sit upon a throne.

On either side of the throne-room of the Hotel de Soissons were

ranged the portraits of their ancestors, in armor, in ducal or

episcopal robes, in doublet and hose, or in flowing wigs. Silently

the mother and son walked by the stately effigies of princes and

princesses, until they had reached the farthest portrait there.

With outstretched arms the countess pointed to the likeness of a

handsome man, clad in a rich court-suit, which well became his

aristocratic figure. As he gazed upon the pleasant smile that

illumined a face expressive of exceeding goodness, the eyes of young

Eugene filled with tears.

His mother surveyed him with a curl of her lip.

"Tears!" said she. "And yet you stand before the portrait of your

father, whom you accuse me of having murdered!"

"No, no," cried her son, eagerly, "I did not accuse, I--I--"

"You inquired," interrupted the countess, disdainfully. "And by your

inquiry you insinuate that such a crime by the hand of your mother

was not only possible, but probable."

"Unhappily, I have more than once seen La Voisin in your boudoir,

mother."

The countess affected not to hear. "Then a son considers himself

justifiable in asking of his mother whether or not she poisoned his

father; he should do so with the sword of justice in his hand, not

with an eyelid that trembles with cowardly tears."

"Mother, have pity on me," sobbed Eugene, throwing himself at her

feet. "Do not answer my cruel question, for I read your innocence in

the noble scorn that flashes from your eye, and beams from every

feature of your dear, truthful face. Pardon me, beloved mother;

pardon your repentant child."

"No, I shall not pardon the poltroon who, believing that his mother

has disgraced his escutcheon, weeps like a woman over wrongs which

he should avenge like a man. But I forgot. The little abbe of Savoy

is not accustomed to wear a sword; HIS weapon is the missal. Go,

then, to your prayers, and when you pray for your father's soul, ask

forgiveness of God for your heartless and ungrateful conduct to his

widow."

"Dear, dear mother, have pity!" sobbed Eugene, still kneeling at her

feet.

"Was there any pity in your heart for me when you asked that

shameful question?"

"I was demented," cried he; "maddened by the sneers that were flung

at me in the streets to-day."

"And, to console yourself, you joined in the popular cry. 'Vox

populi vox Dei,' I suppose, is your pious motto."

"Mother!" cried Eugene, springing to his feet, "crush me, if you

will, under the weight of your anger, but do not stretch me upon the

rack of your scorn. I am no devotee; and, if the king, my family,

and yourself, are, forcing me into a career which is repugnant to

every instinct of my manhood, pity me, if you will, but do not

insult me."

"Pity you!" sneered the countess. "I am a woman; but he who would

venture to pity ME, would receive my glove in his face for his

insolence. Go, faint heart! You are fit for nothing but a whining

priest, for there is not a spark of manhood within your sluggish

breast. No generous blood of the princes of Savoy mantles in your

sallow check; 'tis the ichorous fluid of the churchman Mazarin that-

-"

"Mother!" thundered Eugene, with a force that gave the lie to her

derisive words--"mother, you shall go no further in your disdain of

me, for the blood of Savoy is seething within my veins, and I may,

perchance, forget that she who so affronts my father's son, is my

mother!"

"You have already forgotten," replied the countess, coldly. "My

answer to your infamous charge shall be made not to you, but to your

ancestors."

So saying, she bent her steps toward the ducal throne, and seating

herself thereon, addressed her son:

"Eugene of Savoy, Prince of Carignan, Bourbon, and Piedmont, bend

your knee before the mother that bore you, and hearken to her

words."

The prince obeyed, and knelt at the foot of the throne.

The countess raised her arm, and pointed to the portraits that hung:

around. "You have been witnesses," said she, addressing them all,

"to the outrage which has been put upon me to-day by him who

inherits your name, but not your worth. If I am the guilty wretch

which he has pronounced me to be, strike me to the earth for my

crimes, and justify his parricidal words. But you know that I am

innocent, and that, with bitter tears, I lamented the death of my

murdered husband!"

"Murdered!" exclaimed Eugene. "It is, then, true that he was

murdered?"

"Yes," replied the countess, "he was murdered, but not by bowl or

dagger."

With these words, she rose, and, slowly descending from her throne,

she returned to the spot which she had left, and gazed mournfully

upon her husband's portrait. "He was a noble, brave, and gallant

prince," said she, softly. "He loved me unspeakably, and wherefore

should I have taken the life of him whose whole pleasure lay in

ministering to my happiness? What could I gain by the death of the

dearest friend I ever had? Ah, never would he have mistrusted his

Olympia! Had the envious rabble of Paris defamed me while he lived

to defend my honor, it is not your father, Prince Eugene, that would

have joined my traducers and outraged my woman-hood, as you have

done to-day!"

"Forgive me," murmured the prince.

"Yes, my beloved," continued she, addressing the picture, "they

accuse me of murdering thee, because they seek my ruin as they

compassed thine."

"Who, dear mother, who?" cried Eugene, passionately. "Who are the

fiends that murdered my father and calumniate my mother?"

"They are Louis XIV.," exclaimed the countess, "his minister

Louvois, and his two mistresses, De Montespan and De Maintenon."

"The king!" echoed Eugene, in a voice of such fury, that his mother

turned her eyes from the portrait, and stared at him with amazement.

"You hate the king?" said she, hurriedly.

"Yes," said Eugene, his eyes flashing fire; "yes, I hate him."

"And why?"

"Do not ask me, mother; I dare not say wherefore I hate the king."

"Then I will tell you why. You hate him because you believe the

scandalous reports which my enemies have spread throughout Europe as

regards my relations, in years gone by, with Louis. You believe that

your mother was once the king's mistress, and that, to hide her

shame, she borrowed the name of the Count de Soissons."

Eugene made no reply.

"Ah, why have I no son to shelter me from these infamous suspicions!

Why must I live and die under such false and disgraceful

imputations?"

"Then, it is not true?" cried Eugene, joyfully. "You did not love

the king, mother?"

"Yes, I did love him," said she, calmly, "and loved him as an

Italian alone can love."

Eugene groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

"I do not deny the love," continued the countess, "for it was all

the work of Cardinal Mazarin. He brought me from Italy, and bade me

win the king's heart and become a queen; and when he did so he added

a recommendation to me to be a good, dutiful niece, and never to

forget who it was had helped me to a crown. I saw the youth whom the

cardinal desired me to love: the handsomest, wittiest, and most

accomplished cavalier in France. I obeyed but too willingly, and

Louis became the idol of my life."

"Then it is true that my mother was beloved by the king?" said

Eugene, sternly.

"Beloved by him, but never his mistress!" returned the countess,

proudly. "Yes, he loved me as I did him, with the trust, the

strength, the passion, that are characteristic of a first love. I

was ambitious for him as well as for myself, and would have had him

a monarch in deed as well as in name. I led him away from the

frivolous regions of indolent enjoyment to the starry realms of

poetry, art, and science; and, had Louis ever risen to the fame of

Numa, I should have merited that of Egeria. But this conflicted with

the ambition of the cardinal. He had no sooner comprehended the

nature of the influence I exerted over his royal tool, than he

poisoned his ear by insinuating that ambition, not love, was the

spring of all my efforts to elevate him to the level of his

magnificent destiny. Poor, weak Louis! He was anything that Cardinal

Mazarin chose to make him; so at the word of command he ceased to

love, and went to make an offering of his accommodating affections

to Marie. She made him take an oath never to look at me again."

"Did he respect the oath?"

"Just so long as he loved Marie. I need not tell you that I suffered

from his inconstancy. I was inexpressibly grieved; but pride upheld

me, and Louis never received a word or look of reproach for his

faithlessness. Meanwhile your father offered his hand, and before I

accepted it he was made acquainted with the history of my heart. I

concealed nothing from him, so that he was at once the confidant of

my past sorrows, and their comforter."

"Thank you, dear, dear mother," said Eugene, tenderly. "In the name

of all your children, let me thank you for your noble candor."

"I married the Prince de Soissons, and here, in presence of his

assembled ancestors, I swear that I have kept unstained the faith I

pledged him at the marriage-altar. Let the world belie me as it

will, Olympia Mancini has ever been a spotless wife. So true is

this, that Louis, when he had abandoned Marie, and had tired of his

queen, returned to me with vows of a love which he swore had been

the only genuine passion of his life; and when, as my husband's

loyal wife, I repulsed the advances of his sovereign, that sovereign

became my bitterest enemy. Not even after he had consoled himself

with the insipid charms of that poor, flimsy creature, La Valliere,

did Louis relent; his animosity, because of some witticism of mine

on the subject of his hysterical mistress, has pursued me throughout

life; not only me, but every member of my family. For a mere epigram

I was banished from Paris, and your father stripped of a lucrative

and honorable office. We managed after a time to return to court,

but my enemies were more powerful than I. Through the jealousy of

the Marquise de Montespan I was a second time banished; but before

we left, your father fought two duels with noblemen who had

circulated the calumnies which the marquise had originated

concerning me. The Duke de Noailles was wounded, and the Chevalier

de Grand Mercy killed. Although the challenges had been honorably

sent and accepted, the Count de Soissons was summoned before the

king and publicly rebuked. Oh, let me speak no longer of the

contumely we endured during those bitter days! My husband died,

blessing me, and cursing the selfish monarch who had ruined us

both."

Eugene clinched his hand. "I shall remember the curse," cried he,

"and it shall be verified if God give me strength, mother!"

"Yes, avenge us if you can, Eugene, but, until the day of reckoning

come, we must be politic and wary. Be silent and discreet as I was,

when, on being allowed to return to Paris, I humbled myself for my

dear children's sake, and not only swore to write no more epigrams,

but went in person to sue to Madame de Montespan for pardon and

protection!"

"Mother, is it possible! Far better had it been for us to die

obscurely in some provincial village, than purchase our admission to

court at the price of such humiliation as that!"

"No, no--I had sworn to be revenged upon my persecutors, and no plan

of vendetta could I carry out in a provincial village. Do you

remember what I told my sons on the day of our return to the Hotel

de Soissons?"

"Ay, mother, that do I. You said: 'Bow your heads in ostensible

humility, but never forget that the Bourbons have robbed you of your

inheritance. Never forget that if you are poor, it is because on

some idle pretext of a conspiracy that never could be proved, Louis

XIV. sequestered the estates of the Counts de Soissons.' These were

your words, and you see that I have not forgotten them. They are the

steel on which I have sharpened the hate I feel for the King of

France. And now that its edge is keen, why may I not lift it against

the man who belied my mother, and murdered my father? Oh mother,

mother, why will you force me to become a priest?"

"What else could you become?" asked Olympia. "The king is your

guardian, and he it is that from your childhood has destined you for

the church."

"I hate this garb," exclaimed Eugene, touching his cassock. "My

vocation is not for the priesthood, and, if I am called upon to

utter compulsory vows, I feel that I shall disgrace my cloth. Dear

mother, loosen the detested bonds that bind me to a listless and

contemplative life! Gird me with a sword, and let me go out to

battle with the world like a man!"

The countess looked disdainfully at the diminutive figure of her

son, and raised her shoulders with contempt. "You a soldier!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Eugene, passionately. "Yes! My soul abhors the

cloister, and yearns for the battle-field. While you have fancied

that I was studying theology, I have been poring over the lives of

great commanders; and, instead of preparing my soul for heaven, I

have trained my body for earthly strife. Look not so compassionately

upon my stature, mother. This body is slender, but 'tis the coat of

mail that covers an intrepid soul, and I have hardened it until it

can bid defiance to wind or weather. With this arm I curb the

wildest horse, nor will its sinews yield to the blow of the most

practised swordsman in France. I have studied the science of warfare

in books: my life has been one long preparation for its practice,

and I cannot, will not relinquish my day-dreams of glory."

"There is no help for it, I tell you. All princes of the blood are

wards of the king: your royal guardian has chosen your profession,

and you must either submit or bear the consequences of his wrath."

"What care I for his wrath? Let him give me my freedom, and I will

promise never to seek my fortune at his hands."

"At all events, wait for some favorable opportunity to rebel,

Eugene. We are poor and dependent now, and your brother's scandalous

marriage has forever marred our hopes of seeing him heir to the

duchy of Savoy. To think of a Prince de Carignan uniting himself to

the daughter of the equerry of the Prince de Conde! What a

disgrace!"

"My brother consulted his heart and not his escutcheon," replied

Eugene, with a smile. "He followed the example of his father, and

may God bless him with a wife as beautiful and as virtuous as his

mother!"

The countess, who had begun to frown at Eugene's apology for his

brother, could not resist this filial flattery. She gave him her

hand, which he kissed devoutly.

"You no longer believe me guilty, my son?" said she. Eugene knelt

and murmured: "Pardon, dear, dear mother! My life will be all too

short to expiate my unworthy doubts, and to avenge your wrongs."

"Avenge them, but do not exasperate the king. Imitate Richelieu and

Mazarin, and the priest's gown will no longer be distasteful to you.

They were great in the field and in the cabinet, and both possessed

more than regal power, for both were the rulers of kings."

Eugene was about to reply, but Olympia raised her hand in

remonstrance, and continued:

"I exact of you, for a time at least, apparent submission and

perfect silence. When the hour is ripe for retaliation, you shall

strike, and repay me for all that I have endured at the hands of the

king. But, for the present, breathe not the name of Louis above a

whisper. I have a deadlier foe than he to encounter now. Louvois,

Louvois, I dread above all other men; and if you have the strength

of a man in your arm, Eugene, let the force of its vengeance fall

upon the head of him, whose animosity is more potent than that of

all my other enemies united."

"It shall crush him and all who seek to injure you, mother.

Revenge!--yes, revenge for your wrongs, for my father's death, and

for MY bondage!"

"Ay, revenge, Eugene! A man may wear the garb of an ecclesiastic

with the heart of a hero, and to your brave heart these Princes of

Carignan commit my cause! Come, let us leave our ancestors to their

grim repose. May they lend their ghostly aid to the arm that wields

the carnal weapons of our righteous vengeance!"

As she turned to leave the gallery, the train of her blue satin

dress became entangled in the claws of the lion which supported the

throne. Eugene stooped hastily to release it, and, instead of

dropping it again, he smiled affectionately upon his mother and

placed himself in the attitude of a page.

The countess looked pleased at the attention, and said, "Have you

learned, among your other accomplishments, to be a trainbearer?"

"Yes, mother, I have learned to be your trainbearer, but to no other

mortal would I condescend to do such service."

But Olympia was not listening. She was day-dreaming again, and the

substance of her dreams was as follows:

"How soon, perchance, the court of France may bear my train along,

while I, victorious and exultant, crush the head of my enemies

beneath my heel! I feel the glow of the philter as it courses

through my veins, warming the blood that shall mantle in my cheeks,

kindling the fire that shall flash from my eyes! The hour is nigh

when I am to make my last supreme effort for mastery over the heart

of Louis: if I fail--I have an avenger in Eugene, who--"

At this moment an outcry was heard in the streets, and as Olympia

opened the door of her cabinet, she was confronted by her steward,

who, unannounced, stood pale as death before his astonished

mistress.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RIOT.

"What, in the name of Heaven, is the matter?" exclaimed she. "Whence

these discordant yells without, and how comes it that you enter my

private apartments without a summons?"

"I trust your highness will pardon my boldness; the case is too

urgent to admit of formalities, and I come to receive your

instructions as to--"

Here the voice of the steward was overpowered by the yells of the

populace without, and for several moments the countess and her son

stood in speechless amazement, waiting an explanation. "What can it

mean?" asked she at last.

"Your highness," replied the trembling steward, "the court is filled

with an infuriated mob, who rushed in before we had time to close

the gates."

Eugene, with an exclamation of dismay, would have darted to the

window, but the steward raised his hand imploringly.

"Do not let them see you, prince," cried he. "They have torn up the

pavement, and with the stones have shattered the windows of the

lower story."

"Then it is a riot," said the countess, "and the canaille of Paris

have rebelled against the aristocracy."

"Unhappily, your highness, their anger is directed exclusively

against the Hotel Soissons, and, if I judged by the number of our

assailants, I should say that all Paris has joined in the attack.

Not only the canaille are here, but, as I was hurrying to the corps

de garde to ask for protection, I saw more than one well-dressed

personage descend from his carriage and come thither to increase the

number of our enemies."

"I understand," said the countess, setting her teeth, "the anger of

the mob is directed against ME."

"Mother," whispered Eugene, "they must be the same men whom I met in

the streets, and whose jeers drove me thither to add to your misery

the stab of my unfilial doubts."

"Did you say that you had sent off for guards?" asked she of Latour.

"Yes. your highness. I went at once to the headquarters of the corps

de garde, and the officer of the day promised immediate succor."

"It will not be sent," returned Olympia. "But hark! What tumult is

this?"

"They are battering the palace-doors," said Eugene, who, in spite of

the steward's entreaties, had approached the window and was looking

down upon the mob. The palace de Soissons fronted the Poie Deux

Ecus, from which it was separated by a tall iron railing. The

enclosure was filled with a throng so dense that there was scarcely

room for them to move a limb; and yet, in their regular assaults

upon the palace-doors, they seemed to be obeying the commands of

some unseen chief.

Eugene surveyed the scene with something of that calm but powerful

interest which possesses the soul of a commander about to engage the

enemy.

"The multitude increase," said he. "If they continue to press in

much longer, the court will be so thronged that no more missiles can

be thrown."

At that very moment the windows were assailed by a hail-storm of

stones, one of which fell at Olympia's feet. She touched it with the

point of her satin slipper, remarking as she did so, "This is a

greeting from Louvois."

"For God's sake, your highness, be not so rash!" exclaimed Latour,

as a second stone flew over the head of the prince, and shattered

part of a cornice close by.

Eugene had not moved. He heeded neither steward nor stone, but stood

with folded arms, looking upon the terrible concourse of his

mother's accusers. His face was very pale and resolute; it expressed

nothing beyond stern endurance; but the eye was threatening, and the

dwarfish figure had expanded until the abbe was forgotten, and in

his place stood the implacable foe of Louis XIV.

"Yes," said he, "I was right. The crowd is so dense that they now

threaten one another, and, unless they force the entrance to the

palace, they will be crushed by their own numbers."

"They will never force the entrance," said Latour. "The door is

barred and bolted, and they may bombard it for a day before they

ever make an impression upon the stout plates of iron with which it

is lined."

"Ay," replied Eugene, with a smile. "Catharine de Medicis knew how

to build a stronghold. She knew from experience what it is to face

an insurrection, and took her precautions accordingly. We owe her a

debt of gratitude for our security--Good heavens!" cried he,

interrupting himself, "they have found means to send us another

salvo."

A shower of stones came rattling toward the very window where he

stood, one of which struck the countess on the shoulder and caused

her to wince.

Once more Latour besought her to take refuge in another apartment.

"You have said that they cannot force the entrance: what do you

fear?" said she.

"I fear the stones, your highness."

"Then I will prove to the rabble that I, no more than Cardinal

Mazarin, am to be terrified by stones," returned Olympia,

approaching the window and placing herself at the side of her son.

The multitude, as they recognized her, broke forth into a wild shout

of abhorrence.

"Look! there is the woman who murdered her husband, and would have

murdered her children too!" "There is the wretch who would have

poisoned the king!" "There stands the accomplice of La Voisin!" "And

while her tool languishes in prison, she has no right to breathe the

free air of heaven!" "Away with her to the Bastile!" "To the

Bastile, to the Bastile!" "No! let her be burned for her crimes!"

"Louvois! Louvois!" murmured Olympia, her brow reddening with

humiliation.

Another yell from the besiegers was silenced by a loud voice, whose

words of command rose clear above the tumult.

"I knew it," said Eugene, "they have a leader. There is a method in

these manifestations which shows that they are not the disconnected

efforts of a many-headed monster."

"Great God! And the guards are not even to be seen!" cried Latour,

who stood with folded hands, murmuring snatches of prayer for help.

"Nor will they be seen," added Olympia, in a low voice.

Eugene was glancing now at his mother, now at her persecutors. As

his eye wandered from one to another of the uplifted and angry faces

below, he saw two men somewhat elevated above the rest, who with

their outstretched arms were giving the signal for a fresh

onslaught. No demonstration, however, followed the command, for the

people had gravitated into one solid body, of which no portion was

capable of independent action.

"Now," thought the prince, "now would be the opportunity for

retaliation. If I had but the means!--Latour." continued he, aloud,

"do the iron gates of entrance open within or without?"

"Without, your highness."

"So that if we could get access to the street, we might cage up

these base-born villains, might we not?"

"Yes, your highness; but he who shuts the gates must undo the chains

by which they are fastened back."

"Who has the keys?"

"I, your highness. I have them now upon my person."

"There are outlets by which you could gain access to the gates

without facing the people?"

"Certainly, your highness," began Latour; but his words were drowned

in another outburst of howlings from the maddened mob, and another

discharge of stones whizzed through the air, crushing the mullions

of the windows to splinters, and dashing their fragments of

shivering glass into the very faces of the unfortunate besieged.

"If the guards would but come!" said Latour, reiterating for the

twentieth time his doleful refrain.

"Since it appears that they have no intention of coming," replied

the prince, "we must e'en take this matter of defence in our own

hands. Hasten, Latour, to the street--undo the fastenings, and quick

as thought lock the gates!"

"But, your highness, do you suppose that I shall be suffered by that

infuriated crowd to lock or unlock the gates at pleasure?"

"Never fear; their faces are all turned toward the palace. You will

have accomplished the thing before they know that you have

undertaken it. Take two other men with you, who, as soon as you

release the chains, must fling the gates together, while you relock

them. Now be dexterous, and you will have performed no unimportant

feat of strategy."

"I will do my best, your highness."

"Before you go, summon the household to my presence. How many men

are there at home to-day?"

"Twelve, your highness."

"Enough to settle with two thousand such wretches."

Latour darted away on his double mission, and the prince turned to

his mother, who, undaunted and defiant, still stood before the

window contemplating her assailants, giving back look for look of

scorn and abhorrence.

"May I beg of my dear mother permission to absent myself for a

while?" said Eugene.

The countess looked round with inquiring eyes. "Whither would you

go, my son?" asked she.

"I wish to give some orders to the domestics, to arm them, and

assign to each man his post."

"Where will you find weapons, my son?"

"I have among my effects a small collection of fire-arms. They are

all in good order, and all loaded. I have nothing to do but

distribute them, and place my men."

The countess smiled. "In good sooth, I begin to believe that you are

fitter for a soldier than for a churchman. But you are not in

earnest when you speak of using firearms?"

"Why not? We are attacked, and, obeying the laws of necessity, we

defend ourselves. Unfortunately, we are forced to remain on the

defensive; I only wish I had an opportunity to attack."

"But what means that new outbreak of fury?" asked the countess,

returning to the window.

"It means," cried Eugene, joyfully, "that Latour has been

successful, and the gates are locked. The ruffians have discovered

the snare, and they howl accordingly. Now to my garrison; I must

station it with judgment, for it is not numerous."

"I will accompany you, my son," said the countess. "I would not miss

the sight of the first exploit of my future cardinal, him who

promises to unite in his own person the wisdom of Mazarin with the

prowess of Richelieu!"

The servants were assembled in the hall, whither they had taken

refuge from the stones and splintering glass, that were flying in

the palace windows. They were not a very valiant-looking body of

troops, but their commander made no comment upon their dismayed

faces. He merely counted them and spoke to his valet.

"Darmont, conduct these men to the armory, and provide each one with

a musket. Let them handle the guns carefully, for they are heavily

loaded. Bring me my pistols also. And now, away! and return

quickly."

Silently, and, to all appearances, not much edified by these

recommendations, the domestics followed Darmont, while Eugene

returned to his station at the window.

"Not only have they a leader," said he, "but I believe that they

were instigated to make this attack, mother."

"No doubt of it," replied Olympia; "and since Louvois has dared so

much, we may infer that he has the sanction of the king for his

brutality."

"Look!" cried Eugene, catching her arm, "there is the leader!--that

tall man in the brown suit, with bright buttons, who stands upon the

stone seat, near the gates."

"I see him," returned the countess. "He is speaking with two men who

are directly in front of him. This person looks familiar to me: I

have surely seen that tall figure and those wide shoulders before.

If his hat were not drawn so far over his brows, and we could but

see his face, our doubts as to the source of this outrage would

speedily be solved."

"He has been giving instructions, for the two men are addressing the

crowd. I fear we must look out for another bombardment."

And so it seemed; for the mob, having recovered from their momentary

fright, were evidently preparing for action. Hundreds of brawny

arms, each one of which grasped a stone, were raised into the air:

while as many stooping forms were seen, crouching close to the

ground, that they might leave room for the slingers to hurl their

missiles without impediment.

"That is a good manoeuvre," said Eugene. "Their leader understands

strategic warfare. They are ready, and await the word of command. It

comes! Stand back, mother!"

A crash was heard, but not a stone had been aimed at the windows.

"Ah, I understand," cried Eugene. "They are trying to force the

door, and so obtain their release. Thank Heaven! Here comes the

garrison, a handful of braves who, I hope, are destined to change

the fortunes of the day.--Now," continued he, advancing to meet

them, "listen to me. There are twelve of you, and the hall has seven

openings. Leave the central window free, and station yourselves two

at each one of the other six. Throw open the casements, cock your

guns, and be ready for the word of command. Darmont, give me my

pistols."

With one of these in either hand, Eugene stationed himself at the

window in the centre, while his mother stood by his side.

"They are about to favor us with another volley," said the prince.

"Neither they nor their leader have as yet remarked the changed

aspect of the palace-windows."

"The hat of the leader is purposely drawn down, and, while he

succeeds in concealing his features, he loses sight of the danger

which threatens from above. So much the better for us; but I do long

to have a sight of his face," returned the countess.

"You shall have your wish," replied Eugene, with a smile. "I will

knock off his hat, and your curiosity shall be gratified."

"How will you manage to do that?"

"You shall see," said he, raising the pistol that he held in his

right hand.

He fired, and when the smoke had cleared away, the face of the

leader was exposed to view. The ball had struck the hat, which had

fallen, and now a pair of dark, sinister eyes were glaring at the

spot whence the insult had been sent.

"Have a care," said the prince, leaning forward and addressing the

crowd. "If you send another missile against these walls, I will have

twelve of your lives!"

The men, who were just about to fling their stones, paused and

stared at one another in dumb perplexity.

Their leader, pale with rage, gave the word of command.

Eugene heard it, and called out in clear, defiant tones: "If the

leader of this riot attempt a repetition of his order, I will break

his right arm."

"Another volley, men!" shouted the chief.

A second report from the window was heard, which was answered by a

yell from below. Eugene's ball had pierced the elbow of the leader,

and the dismayed crowd had made a hasty movement toward the gates.

"Do you not see that there is no egress for you except through the

palace? Look at the murderess there, instigating her whelp to new

crimes! She exults over your weakness, and laughs at your panic. On!

on! Batter down the doors!"

"On!" echoed the mob; and their stones were flung with such frenzy

against the palace-doors, that its very walls trembled.

"Fire!" called out the sonorous voice of Eugene, and in another

moment might be seen the sinking forms of twelve of the rioters,

while, among the others, some were pale with fright, and a few cried

out that they would he revenged.

"Revenge is for those whom you have insulted and attacked," replied

the prince, deliberately. "You have made a cowardly assault upon a

noble lady, and not one of you shall leave this place alive!--Make

ready! Take aim!" continued he to his men.

The click of the locks was distinctly heard, and in the crowd each

man fancied that one of those carbines was aimed at his own head.

The mob was losing heart; not even their leader was to be seen or

heard. He had taken refuge in a sheltered corner of the court, where

his wounds were being bound up by his lieutenants. Inconspicuous as

he was, however, the sharp eyes of Olympia had followed him to his

retreat. Not for one moment did she lose sight of him; she was

determined to solve the enigma of his identity. As the last

bellicose words of Prince Eugene rang through the ears of his

dismayed followers, the wounded ringleader flung back his head with

such sudden haste, that its masses of dark, tangled hair were

entirely thrown aside, and the face that was revealed by their

removal, caused the countess to start and utter an exclamation of

surprise. As Eugene was about to give the command to fire, his

mother caught his arm, and whispered in his ear:

"My son, I now think that I can tell you the name of yonder caitiff

there, and, if I have guessed rightly, it were better for us to

cease hostile demonstrations, and capitulate."

"Capitulate!" cried the prince, indignantly. "Capitulate with the

rabble! Who can be this man that has so suddenly cowered the heart

of my noble mother?"

"I think that he is the son of Louvois," whispered she.

"Ah, the presuming Barbesieur, who would have given his name to a

Princess de Carignan?"

"Yes--the same. His beard is dyed, and he wears false locks, but,

spite of his disguise, I feel sure that it is Barbesieur. And I warn

you, Eugene! harm not a hair on his head, for he is the favorite son

of the mightiest man in France--mighty and vindictive. Kill as many

of the rabble as you will; but give positive orders to your men not

to touch Barbesieur Louvois."

"I ought to command them to fire on no other man, for he is

responsible for the acts of every rioter here."

"That would be to cast your entire family into the very jaws of

destruction. These men who call me murderess, could not be made to

believe that I have the tenderness of a mother for my children; but

you, Eugene, who know how dearly I love you all, you can understand

that no revenge would be sweet that was purchased at the expense of

my children's welfare. Spare, then, I implore you, the man who holds

your destinies in his unfriendly hand."

"So be it," sighed Eugene, and he went from man to man, saying in a

low voice, "Direct your fire toward the left." He then took his

station at the central window, and, raising his arm, called out a

second time: "Make ready! Take aim!"

The multitude heard, and their exceeding consternation found

utterance in one prolonged shriek of horror.

"Do not fire!" screamed a hundred voices. "Do not fire! We are

defenceless!"

The order was countermanded, and the self-possessed defender of the

beleaguered palace advanced his head and contemplated the ignoble

faces of his enemies.

"You acknowledge yourself baffled, then? You are willing to

retreat?"

"Ay!" was the ready response of every rioter there.

"You swear to desist now and forever from your infamous attack upon

this palace? You swear never more to make use of vituperative

epithets toward the family of the deceased Count de Soissons?"

"We swear, we swear! Open the gates! Let us out! Let us out!" was

now the universal cry.

"Not so fast. Before you have my permission to retire, I must have

unequivocal, outspoken evidence of your repentance and conversion.

You have presumed to asperse the good name of the Countess de

Soissons. Take back your injurious words, and cheer her now, right

lustily. Cry out three times, 'Long live the noble Countess de

Soissons!' and, if your acclamations are to my mind, I will open the

gates."

The reply to these conditions was a greeting so enthusiastic and so

unanimous, that you would have sworn the mob had assembled before

the hotel to tender to its inmates a popular ovation.

"Miserable canaille!" muttered their chief; "they are base enough to

hurl their stones at ME, if that beardless manikin up there should

require it of them, as a peace-offering to his immaculate mother!"

"I told your excellency that you could not trust them," replied the

companion on whose arm he was leaning. "It is a dangerous thing to

be identified with any action of theirs."

"You were right, Francois. Give me your arm, and let us try to reach

the gates, so as to be the first to escape from this accursed man-

trap."

"You have cheered the countess but once," cried Eugene to the

multitude. "Do you wish me to renew our strife?"

"Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!" was the prompt reply.

And, without waiting for a third suggestion, they shouted again and

again, "Long live the Countess de Soissons!"

Olympia's flashing eyes rested proudly on her son. "I thank you,

Eugene: you have avenged me effectually. All Paris will be filled

with lampoons on the ridiculous repulse of the valiant Barbesieur

and his followers."

Eugene made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the personage whom

they supposed to be the son of Louvois, and the prince knew

perfectly well wherefore he seemed in such nervous haste to reach

the gates.

"He hopes to escape without recognition," muttered Eugene, "but I

must have a word with him before we part."

"Open the gates!" clamored the populace anew; then suddenly there

was a cry of alarm which was echoed from man to man, from group to

group, until it shaped itself into these words: "The guards! The

guards!"

CHAPTER V.

BARBESIEUR LOUVOIS.

Thundering down the street came a troop of horsemen who halted

directly in front of the palace-gates.

"Louvois' spies have been reporting the failure of his son's warlike

expedition," remarked Olympia, "and the guards whom WE had vainly

called to our help, have come in hot haste to protect our

assailants."

By this time the officer in command was at the gates making vain

efforts to open them.

"What does this signify?" asked he. "And what is this multitude

about in the court of the Hotel de Soissons?"

"Look at the palace-windows and the palace-doors, and you will read

your answer there," replied Eugene. "I closed the gates against a

furious and misguided mob; but we have come to terms, and I am about

to liberate them. I crave your indulgence for these poor fellows:

they have been deceived, and knew not what they did, and I hope that

you will make good the forgiveness I have extended to their fault,

by allowing them to go hence without molestation."

"If so," replied the officer, "I shall be happy to confirm you

highness's clemency by carrying out your order for their release."

"Is it possible," asked the countess of her son, "that you are in

earnest? You intend to suffer those wretches to go away unharmed!

Because I asked your forbearance for one man, shall this vile horde

be snatched from the hands of justice!"

"Do you suppose that justice has any intention of overtaking them?"

asked Eugene, with a significant smile. "Believe me, dear mother, I

do but anticipate the object for which the guards were sent, and

spare myself and you the humiliation of publishing to the world that

neither law nor justice takes cognizance of the wrongs of the

Countess de Soissons. These men have come hither to succor our

enemies, not us."

"Ah, my son, I begin to appreciate you. You have inherited the

sagacity of your great uncle," returned Olympia.

"Open the gates! open the gates!" cried the rioters.

"Will your highness be pleased to send some one to release your

prisoners?" asked the captain of the guardsmen.

"I shall be there myself, in a moment," was the reply.

"You!" exclaimed the countess. "Would you expose yourself to the

vengeance of the populace, Eugene?"

"They will not molest me. Barbesieur Louvois has reached the gates,

and I must greet him ere he goes.--Come, Latour and Darmont, and

show me the way by the private staircase. The rest of you keep your

posts and be watchful, for the struggle may be renewed, and it is

just possible that I may have to order you to fire.--And now shall I

conduct my mother to her boudoir?"

"No, my son, I remain here to observe what passes below, nor will I

retire until I shall have seen the ending of this curious

spectacle."

Eugene bowed and withdrew. "Go before, Latour," said he. "I am

unacquainted with the private inlets and outlets of the palace."

Latour obeyed, saying to himself: "They may well make a priest of

this virtuous youth, who knows nothing of the secret windings of his

own hotel. His father and his brother were wiser than he; and many a

night have they gone in and out on visits of gallantry, when they

were young enough to be as squeamish as he, or old enough to have

reformed their ways."

"Give me the keys," said Eugene, as they emerged from the side-

entrance. "I will unlock the gates, and when I cry 'Halt!' do you

seize upon a man whom I shall point out to you as he attempts to

force the passage in advance of his confederates."

"Let us alone for holding him fast, your highness."

Eugene went a few steps farther; then, turning round, he said: "Yes-

-grasp him well, hut be careful not to take him by the right arm,

for I believe that it is wounded."

As he spoke these merciful words, Eugene blushed, for he saw a

derisive smile on Latour's face.

"I was in error," thought the steward. "Such a soft heart ought to

have been lodged in the body of a woman."

They had now reached the palace-front, where, in return for the

obsequious salutation of the captain of the guard, Eugene slightly

inclined his head.

"You came late to the rescue," said the prince. "Had you answered

the requisition of my steward, you would have spared me the painful

necessity of wounding a dozen of those poor devils."

"Was there bloodshed?" returned the officer.

"Of course there was. You can hardly imagine that I quieted these

turbulent rioters with a lullaby. Yes, there has been bloodshed, and

I have had satisfaction for the affront offered to my house to-day.

I hope you hold me justified in my method of procedure."

"Perfectly justified, your highness."

"Then the matter rests here, and peace is proclaimed. From my

amnesty, however, I except one man, him who is responsible for all

the evil that has been done by his followers."

"Your highness has only to point him out, and I will have him

arrested forthwith."

"You give me your word of honor that he shall not escape

punishment?"

"My word of honor, your highness."

"Latour and Darmont, station yourselves one on either side of me,

while I unlock the gates."

They took their positions, and Eugene slowly drew out his ponderous

keys. They were heard to click in the locks, and at the welcome

sound, there was a shout of joy from the imprisoned rioters. They

pressed eagerly forward--the gates parted--and the crowd began to

pour out into the streets. Eugene soon perceived the tall form of

the ringleader, although he had borrowed the hat of his companion,

and wore it slouched far down over his face.

As he approached the entrance, Eugene gave the signal agreed upon,

and he was seized by Latour and Darmont. But they had forgotten the

precaution given them as regarded his wounded arm, for as they

touched him he had been unable to suppress a cry of pain.

"Hold him, Latour," said the prince, "and you, Darmont, close the

gates so that only one man may pass at a time. Some of those guards

might be of service to us. Have I your permission to employ them,

captain?"

Eight men were ordered to dismount and to station themselves at the

gates, which, spite of the tremendous pressure from within, they

managed to secure, so that each man as he passed could be scanned by

him, who, notwithstanding his delicate build and diminutive stature,

was unquestionably the hero of the day.

"Now that the court is empty, you can see what devastation has been

committed," said he to the captain of the guard.

"Yes, indeed," replied the latter, raising himself in his stirrups

to overlook the railing, "they have uprooted the whole pavement."

"And have seriously damaged the windows," added Eugene. "For all

this destruction we have to thank yonder churl," continued he,

pointing to a man of almost gigantic stature, who was struggling to

free himself from the hands of Latour and Darmont. "Not content with

the laurels he has won as the ringleader of a mob, he has aspired to

achieve renown by defaming women. He has incited the populace to

asperse the good name of my honored mother, and by Heaven, he shall

suffer for every opprobrious word that has fallen from the tongue of

every base-born villain that followed him hither!"

"Your highness shall yourself dictate his punishment," replied the

officer, courteously.

"Then order your men to capture the twelve last rioters that leave

the enclosure, and let their leader, who is a thousand times more

guilty than they, oversee the restoration of the pavement, and

himself remove yonder Druid's temple, that lies before the central

window there."

"Never!" exclaimed the giant, redoubling his efforts to escape, and

writhing so vigorously that Latour and Darmont had to strain every

sinew to retain their hold of his huge body.

Eugene eyed his prisoner with withering scorn. "You hear him,

captain! He says 'Never!' as though it were for him to decide

whether or not my judgment is a righteous one. And yet I think it

most moderate amends to make for such immeasurable wrong."

"Indeed, your highness, it is most disproportionate to the enormity

of the offence. It is only too merciful!--Here! Eight men to carry

out the orders of the noble Prince of Savoy!" shouted he,

peremptorily.

The crowd, meanwhile, by this time convinced that submission was

their only alternative, were passing slowly and silently through the

gates. They were so completely subdued, that not one ventured a

remonstrance. They were intent each man upon his own retreat, and

nobody was troubled about the fate of the chief.

"There are just twelve men within the enclosure," said the officer.

"Instead of capturing them singly, close the gates, and secure them

all at once."

"But first let us admit my distinguished prisoner.--Thrust him in,

Latour, and conduct him to his task. He must expiate his offence

against the Countess de Soissons, by removing that heap of stones,

which were cast by his command against my palace-doors. If he prove

intractable, bring him to his senses by administering a blow or two

with a stout cudgel."

The chief, who for a few moments had been hoping by affected

submission to withdraw the attention of Eugene from himself to his

followers, gave a howl of rage, and looked around for his companion.

The latter, instead of passing out with the crowd, had remained

voluntarily in the enclosure with the twelve who were to suffer for

all.

They whispered together, after which the subordinate, approaching

the captain of the guard, said: "Captain, I come to offer myself in

the place of my poor brother, who, having been wounded in the arm,

is helpless, and incapable of removing the smallest of those

stones."

"What says your highness?" asked the officer of the prince.

"I grant the petition, for it is reasonable. Let him confine

himself, then, to the superintendence of the work."

"Captain, I crave permission to conduct my brother to a surgeon,

where his wound may be dressed. It is impossible that any man can be

so brutal as to require him to stay here with a bullet in his arm,"

said the subordinate.

"The bullet was no impediment while outrage was to be committed on

the properly of the Countess de Soissons," thundered Eugene, "and I

exact that he remain."

"Your highness's commands shall be obeyed," replied the officer.

"Captain," said the ringleader, dragging himself forward, while in

his tremendous strength he forced his captors along with him,

"captain, I must have a word in private with you. I have something

of importance to communicate, and you must come nearer that I may

whisper in your ear."

So imperious was the sound of his voice that the captain

involuntarily obeyed, and bent down his ear to listen. Although the

latter was on horseback and the former on fact, his tall figure was

almost on a level with the officer's head.

He spoke a few low words, the captain started, and, quickly raising

his head, he surveyed the gigantic chief from head to foot. He then

conferred with him a few moments, after which he addressed himself

in a very embarrassed manner to Eugene.

"Your highness, this poor man complains so piteously of the agony he

endures, that it would be cruel to detain him any longer. If you

have no objection, I will send him to the surgeon, accompanied by

four of my men, who, when his wound shall have been dressed, can

reconduct him hither."

"He will not return," replied Eugene, with a shrug. "He will find

means to escape the vigilance of the police. So be it. Let his

wounds be dressed, and let him depart whither he lists. But I have a

few words of adieu to speak ere he goes." So saying, he approached

his tall adversary, and so commanding was his presence, so fiery his

eye, and so proud his demeanor, that Eugene of Savoy looked mightier

than the wide-shouldered giant before him.

"I wish merely to say to this fellow that he is a knave," said the

prince. "Yes, captain, a knave, although you start to hear me call

him thus. I neither know his name, nor wish to know it; hut I shall

recognize him among a thousand, and, if ever I meet him again, I

will give him a knave's portion--a sound horsewhipping. And now away

with him! His presence is intolerable!"

"I go," replied the other, pale and trembling with rage. "But

beware, little priestling, how you cross MY path! If ever you dare

intrude yourself upon my sight, I will crush your diminutive carcass

as an elephant does a crawling worm!" He went, followed by him who

had claimed him as a brother, and accompanied by four guardsmen, who

rode at some distance behind their prisoners.

"And now, captain," said Eugene, "since your sympathizing heart has

made it impossible for you to allow justice its way, you will, I

presume, see fit to appoint another man to supervise the repairing

of my court-yard."

"I myself will attend to it, your highness," said the officer,

bowing to his saddle-bow. "Not only that; I will send workmen to

replace the broken panes and restore the window-frames, so that by

to-morrow no trace of the damage done shall remain."

Eugene laughed. "You are certainly most accommodating! As much so as

if the city guard had participated in the riot! Adieu, sir! And may

this be our last meeting of the sort!"

Accompanied by his two domestics, he re-entered the palace. His

twelve men were at their posts, and the countess was still standing

at the window whence she had witnessed the scene below. Eugene

dismissed his household, gave orders to have his weapons carefully

replaced in his armory, and then, with a deep inclination to his

mother, he asked if he might now conduct her to her boudoir.

She gave a smiling assent, took his proffered arm, and returned to

her cabinet. Once there, she turned toward her son, and,

contemplating him for the first time in her life with pride and

admiration, she thanked him warmly for what he had done.

"My dear son," said she, "I must congratulate you upon your strength

of character. Believe me, you looked mightier far than Louvois'

overgrown Titan. If he surpassed you in stature, your great soul

towered far above his lofty person. I could not hear what you were

saying to those two men, Eugene, but I read in the glance of your

fearless eye that your words were such as would have rejoiced my

heart to overhear. In that moment my soul went far out into the

future, and there I saw you great, glorious, renowned. You know,

Eugene, that I have sometimes strange revelations of things hidden

from ordinary mortals: I have visions that are prophetic, and I tell

you that you are destined to earn imperishable fame. Go, my son, and

fulfil your destiny!"

Eugene, his features illumined by enthusiasm and radiant with hope,

covered his mother's hand with kisses, and again besought her

forgiveness for his unfilial behavior in the gallery. "Dear mother,"

said he, tearfully. "are you indeed reconciled to your unworthy

child?"

"Yes, Eugene, yes. When you compelled that unwilling multitude to do

me homage, I forgave you from my heart. I have always loved you as

my child, but from this day forward I honor you as my deliverer.

Come to my arms and take the mother's kiss that shall consecrate you

to glory."

Eugene, intoxicated with happiness, threw himself upon her bosom,

and was clasped to her heart. "With this kiss I greet the hero whose

exploits shall shed new lustre upon his princely house. God bless

thee, my son! Sweeter lips may meet thine in the glow of a love more

passionate, but never will they kiss thee with a tenderness more

true than does thy proud mother this day!"

"And never will I love woman more tenderly than I do my precious

mother. You were my ideal of womanly perfection as a child, and your

adored image will be my soul's divinity to the latest hour of my

life! Never again will I doubt you; were the whole world to scorn

you, I at least will believe in you, and honor you with a faith as

implicit as that which leads man to martyrdom for his Redeemer's

sake."

"Believe in me, and trust me," returned the countess, again

impressing a kiss on her son's forehead. "And when you are great and

powerful, think of this hour, my child. 'Tis one of the brightest of

my life; one of the few wherein I have unveiled my heart to mortal

man. Think of it, then, Eugene, when you wear the hat of a cardinal,

and--"

"What, mother! You would devote me to the priesthood, after all that

has passed between us to-day!"

"'Tis your only path to renown; 'tis the only ladder by which

ambition can climb to power. With Louis' favor, you may become a

cardinal and a statesman; without it you will never become a field-

marshal. We must take fate as we find it, Eugene; not whine because

we may not fashion it to our own liking."

"Then be it so: I submit. But I tell you, for the last time, that

under my priestly gown there will be heard the wild and unseemly

throbbings of a heart that not only pants for glory, but yearns for

love."

"Cardinals may hope for both," returned Olympia, with a strange,

unpleasant smile. "Ask the widowed Queen Anne, whether Richelieu

knew how to love. And ask her whether Mazarin was not as fond as he

was sagacious. But enough of day-dreams: we must return to the

affairs of real life. There has been a demonstration of serious

import against me to-day. I must oppose it by another. Louvois and

his minions must learn that I am not to be intimidated by their

menaces, nor to be browbeaten by their contumely."

Near her hand, on a porphyry table, lay a golden bell--a marvel of

Benvenuto Cellini's workmanship. The countess took it up and rang.

The steward answered the summons, and begged to know what her

highness was pleased to command.

"Let the palace-doors be thrown open, that the people may know how

little I fear their dislike. Send all the lackeys out, and let them

announce to the court that to-day I hold a special levee, and that

my rooms will be opened to visitors at nine this evening. Let the

equerry be informed that in half an hour I shall take a drive in my

open caleche, with six horses and two outriders, all in livery of

state."

The steward bowed and left the room. When he had gone, the countess

again addressed her son: "In half an hour the court will be

assembled at the Pre aux Clercs; no doubt it would gratify more than

one of those envious Parisians were I absent to-day. But they shall

not enjoy any such satisfaction. They shall greet me as usual, and

I--I--I intend to approach the king!"

"And I, dearest mother," said Eugene, "beg to be allowed to

accompany you in your ride."

"You shall do so, son of my heart," exclaimed Olympia, giving him

her hand. "I see that you are not only the child of my love, but

bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Yes, Eugene, you shall be my

knight, and no loving maiden was ever prouder of her cavalier than I

shall be of mine!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE STATE RECEPTION.

The commands of the countess were promptly obeyed. All Paris (that

is, the Paris of the aristocracy) were informed that a special

reception would be held at the Hotel de Soissons, and messengers

were dispatched with official announcement of the same to the royal

household. The ponderous gates were flung wide open to admit the

carriage of state. Eugene's superb gelding was led out by his

jockey; while near the open portiere stood the equerry whose office

it was to hand the countess to her carriage.

Her turnout was magnificent. The frame of the carriage was of dead

gilt, while above the burnished wheels rose its body, in shape and

color like the wonderful lily of the Amazon. Its exterior of snowy

whiteness was relieved by the rich coloring of the arms of Carignan

and Soissons emblazoned on the panels; the interior was cushioned

with purple velvet embroidered in gold. To this sumptuous vehicle

were harnessed six white horses, whose head-gear of velvet was

adorned with ostrich-plumes so delicate, that, as the air breathed

upon them, they looked like wreaths of snowy vapor. Perched high

above the hammer-cloth, which in color and material corresponded

with the inner decorations of the carriage, sat the chub-faced

coachman, his head buried in the vast expanse of a flowing wig, and

surmounted by a gold-and-purple cocked hat. The handle of his coach-

whip was of steel inlaid with gold, and he flourished it with as

much ostentation as if it had been the baton of a field-marshal.

Behind this princely equipage were two footmen in state livery; on

either side were two outriders.

The countess emerged from her palace-doors, clad in mantle of sky-

blue velvet bordered with gold. She was followed by the prince, who,

as the equerry advanced to assist his mistress, gently waved him

away, and took his place. Olympia smiled fondly upon her son, and

with graceful negligence sank back among her luxurious cushions.

The equerry approached for orders. "Let the coachman drive leisurely

through the streets, and still more slowly when we enter the Pre aux

Clercs."

Eugene mounted his impatient gelding, and his mother, inclining her

head to the equerry, gave the signal for their departure.

Slowly went the cortege, through the Eue des Deux Ecus and along the

Quartier St. Honore, while from every house, as they passed, the

windows were cautiously opened, and sneering faces looked down upon

the vain pomp with which Olympia de Soissons would have sustained

the falling ruins of her good name.

But things grew worse, when the outriders would have opened a

passage for the carriage through the crowded streets. As soon as the

people recognized the liveries, all the conventional homage with

which they were accustomed to greet such splendor, was transformed

into scorn.

"The poisoner! the poisoner!" they cried. "She braves us in the open

streets! Away with her! Away with the accomplice of La Voisin!"

The object of all this contumely preserved an appearance of

consummate indifference to it all; but her son! her unhappy son

blushed with shame and anger. He turned his sympathizing eyes upon

her, whom he believed to be an impersonation of every feminine

virtue, and she replied to his glance by an unconscious smile.

At last they reached the Pre aux Clercs, the fashionable promenade

of the day. Here the aristocracy were accustomed to drive, the king

and queen invariably appearing there to receive, sometimes, in the

case of the former, to pay homage. How often had he leaned upon the

carriage of Olympia, while princes and princesses of the blood had

been obliged to wait behind, until the Countess de Soissons was

ready to move on, and allow them to proceed! And how they had

flattered and praised, and curried favor with the divinity of the

hour!

"It must all be enacted anew," thought the ex-favorite, as she

slightly raised her head to see if the king was in sight. "The

philter will work: from the moment I catch his eye, he is mine! This

was La Voisin's promise."

Yes--the royal equipages were there, at the other end of the shaded

avenue, and, following in their wake, were those of the court.

Olympia cast aside her nonchalance, and raised her head that she

might be seen. The crisis had come! She was now to quaff the

intoxicating drink of success, or drain the poisoned chalice of

defeat!

She could see the very smile on his face as he whispered flattering

words in the ear of some beauty who was in advance, and whom Olympia

could not recognize. One moment more, and her equipage would pass!

He would meet her eye, and the passion of his youth would be

rekindled in his heart, never more to die out!

But what commotion was this among the lords and ladies that

surrounded the king? His majesty spoke with his chief equerry; the

equerry sprang forward, and presently the royal equipages came

rushing by, close, close to the caleche of the countess, who vainly

sought to meet the eye of Louis, for he was conversing with the

queen, and his head was turned away.

Scarcely had the royal carriages been put in motion, before the

entire cortege followed at the same rapid pace. Princes and

princesses of the blood,--dukes, counts, and marquises,--duchesses

and marchionesses, rushed by so swiftly that not one of her court

friends had time to give so much as a passing nod to her who

nevertheless was allied by marriage to the reigning Duke of Savoy.

The last equipage had just gone by. "Is it the will of your highness

that we follow?" asked the equerry.

The countess inclined her head, and the equerry passed the word to

the coachman: "Follow the cortege." But the horses stirred not a

foot.

Eugene repeated the order, when the coachman slowly shook his head.

"Impossible, gracious prince, impossible!--The countess would never

forgive me, and I should be despised by every coachman of

distinction, were I so far to forget my duty as to suffer that an

equipage bearing the ducal arms of Savoy should follow the carriage

of a nobleman so insignificant as the Vicomte de Charlieu. Why, he

goes back but ten generations!"

Eugene smiled and delivered the portentous message to his mother.

"He is right," replied she; "and were he wrong, it would avail me

nothing to contend with him on a point of etiquette. The coachmen of

people of quality are more tenacious of their rights than the noble

families they serve. Not long ago, the Duchesses of Chartres and of

Luynes waited four hours in the rain, because, having met in a very

narrow street, neither one of their coachmen would back out, to give

the other an opportunity of passing. I must imitate their patience,

and wait for the return of the cortege, to take my proper place."

The decision of the countess being transmitted to the coachman, he

nodded approvingly. "I thought her highness would understand,"

replied he. "Our place is after the Duchess de Bourbon, the sixth

carriage from that of his majesty. The coachman of the Duke de

Cheneuse knows it as well as I do, and he will yield us precedence

as soon as he sees me ready to fall in."

They waited--the countess in perfect composure, her large black eyes

cast upward in complete forgetfulness of the actual state of things

around her; Eugene, with visible annoyance on his face, darting

anxious and uneasy glances down the avenue through which the king

was expected to return. And so passed an hour, at the end of which

the avenue was still and empty as a desert. It now became apparent

that his majesty had selected some other route by which to reach the

Louvre, and Olympia, awaking from her golden day-dreams, began to

realize the exceeding awkwardness of her position. For the first

time her heart faltered, and a cloud passed over her face.

Eugene rode up to the portiere, and addressing the countess in

Italian: "Mother," said he, "if we remain here any longer, I shall

choke with rage."

"Home," said Olympia to the equerry. "Home! Quick! Urge your horses

to their fullest speed!"

On the evening of that eventful day, every reception-room in the

Hotel Soissons was thrown open, and the palace front was one blaze

of light. But the steward had been obliged to close the gates, and

station four armed men within them, to protect the entrance from the

rabble who had again begun to assemble, again begun to threaten.

The countess was either ignorant of this unpleasant circumstance, or

she considered it beneath her notice. From her carriage she had

passed to her cabinet, whence she had never emerged until compelled

to make her toilet for the evening. Her temporary discouragement

overcome, she entered the throne-room magnificently attired,

sparkling with jewels, and radiant with feverish expectation. She

was still upheld by the confidence she reposed in La Voisin's

predictions, and the firm faith with which she clung to the virtues

of her philter.

She could not, however, repress the scowl that darkened her brow,

as, glancing around her vast suite of empty rooms, she beheld not

one visitor!--no living being besides her own three daughters, the

young Princesses de Carignan, who came forward to kiss her hand, and

pay her their tribute of affectionate admiration.

She paid very little attention to their sweet flattery; her restless

eyes wandered from door to door, where not a form was seen but those

of the four lackeys, who were in waiting to announce the

distinguished guests as they arrived.

The mocking echo of her tread, as she traversed the void which

should have been filled with a courtly throng, sounded ominous in

her ear, and the haughty woman began to quail. She had heard it said

that when a ship was doomed to destruction, no rats were ever known

to leave port in its hold. Was she a sinking ship? Was her doom

sealed? Once more her longing eyes sought the lofty, open doors,

through which so often the court had passed to do her homage on her

throne, and she shivered almost perceptibly. But she forced a smile,

and observed to her eldest daughter: "Our guests are unusually late

to-night. Even the Duchess de Bouillon, generally so punctual, has

not yet made her appearance."

"Even your adorer, Marshal de Luxemburg, mamma, is not vet here."

returned the princess, with a smile.

The countess looked sharply at her daughter. Why had she mentioned

the name of De Luxemburg? Why named him in conjunction with the

Duchess de Bouillon? Did Johanna know that these two were her

confidants, and that they were accustomed to visit La Voisin

together? That only five days before, they had met in the den of the

soothsayer, to have their horoscope drawn for the last time? Did

Johanna know that through De Luxemburg's efforts Louis's valet had

been bribed to rob him of a lock of his hair, without which the

precious philter could never have been distilled? Oh, no! She was

silly--nervous--the events of the day had disheartened her, and she

was growing to be a craven. How should Johanna know her secrets? The

allusion to the marshal was accidental.

The wax-lights were growing fearfully short, and still the invited

guests tarried. Never in her life before had Olympia condescended to

rest her gaze upon the faces of those who served her; to-night she

could not resist an inclination to glance for one moment at their

countenances. As she looked athwart those features, erst so

submissive and so reverent, she saw significant smirks, and an

expression of disdain for which she could have felled them to the

earth.

Meanwhile the three princesses, their lips distorted with forced

smiles, stood around their mother, sometimes raising their anxious

eyes to her stormy face, sometimes exchanging uneasy glances one

with another; but not one of them daring to break the oppressive

silence by a single word.

At last the painful lull was broken by a slight rustling. The door

of the anteroom was opened, and a solitary figure was seen

traversing the long suite of apartments.

"Eugene," exclaimed Johanna. "Our little abbe!" And, delighted to

put an end to their embarrassment, the sisters went forward with

outstretched hands to meet him.

But Eugene could not respond to their greeting. His eyes were fixed

upon the chandelier, under whose blaze he beheld a pale, sinister

face, and a tall, haughty figure; his mother, attired with regal

splendor, looking every inch a queen; but ah! a dethroned queen, for

her subjects had deserted her and among them "there was none so poor

to do her reverence."

He approached her, and, as she silently extended her icy hand, he

covered it with loving kisses. "I had hardly expected to find my

dear mother here before me," said he, with a smile.

"Why so, Eugene?" asked Olympia.

"Because the hour for your reception was fixed for nine o'clock, and

it has not yet struck nine."

The countess glanced quickly at the clock on the sculptured mantel-

piece. "It is almost ten," said she.

"Your clock is nearly an hour too fast," said Eugene, who had

followed the direction of his mother's eyes. And he drew out his own

watch.

She looked at it a moment. "True--your watch is slow. Eugene. You

knew, then, before you came hither, that no one had yet arrived?"

"Dear mother," responded Eugene, "you think--"

"I think that you are a tender, loving son," said she, interrupting

him. "But it is not necessary to deceive me, dear boy. I know that

it is almost an hour past the time I had appointed; but that

signifies nothing. It was not known until late that I would receive

to-night, and this is the reception-day of the Duchess de Luynes. My

guests will naturally have gone thither first, and they will come

later to us."

"You are quite right," replied Eugene. "But would it not be better

for you to retire to your cabinet and rest until the company arrive?

I will call you as soon as the rooms begin to fill."

She shook her head slowly. "No--I remain here. It would be cowardly

to retire now. Let us calmly await our distinguished guests. They

will be coming very soon."

Eugene bowed his head in obedience to her commands, and stationed

himself by the side of his sisters. There was another long silence,

interrupted by the slow, inflexible strokes of the clock, which

announced the hour of "ten."

Great drops of anguish stood out upon the pale, high forehead of the

prince, and his sisters could no longer restrain their tears. The

countess alone looked resolute: her features betrayed no emotion

whatever; but about her mouth there hovered a vindictive smile, and

in her eyes there was a light like that which glitters in the

serpent's head that looks out from the deadly jungles of India.

"Would that I could breathe poison into the veins of yonder staring

menials at the door!" said she to herself. "Would that I could blind

their staring eyes with lightning! But for them I might leave this

fiery furnace of shame, and hide my face within the privacy of my

own room!"

A sound was heard without, and the Princess Joanna unconsciously

clasped her hands with delight, exclaiming, "There comes a

carriage!"

The countess turned around, and glanced fiercely at her

unsophisticated daughter. "Is there anything remarkable in the sound

of a carriage, that it should occasion so much joy, mademoiselle?

Are carriages so rare within the gates of the Hotel Soissons?"

The door opened, and the gentleman-usher, with his gilded staff,

appeared on the threshold.

"Madame la Marquise Dupont de Lanin," cried he, and the lady

followed the announcement at once.

Often had the poor old marquise attended the levees of the Countess

de Soissons, but never before had she been accorded so distinguished

a reception. She was tolerated in the salons of Paris on account of

her high birth and connections; added to which she had a tongue in

her mouth like a two-edged sword, which flew hither and thither

about the reputations of those who slighted or forgot her claims to

courtesy.

To-night she was most graciously, most cordially welcomed. Like the

dove which brought the olive-branch to Noah, the marquise was a

messenger from dry land. The waters had subsided--the deluge of

their troubles was over.

With wreathed smiles and flattering words, Olympia came forward to

greet her first guest. The old marquise received the unprecedented

attention paid her without the least manifestation of surprise. With

her sharp old eyes, she traversed the empty vastness of the gilded

halls that were wont to swarm with the creme de la creme of Paris,

and understood the matter at once. She had scarcely had time to

reciprocate the politeness of her hostess before two other carriages

rolled into the court-yard and two more distinguished names were

announced by the usher.

This time an old duchess and an equally venerable viscount entered

the room of state. Their social STATUS was similar to that of the

marquise: they belonged to the species whom the world is compelled

to invite, but whom it detests, because they never have been known

to decline an invitation. But they, too, were heartily welcomed,

and, by one not initiated in the mysteries of the hour, they would

have been set down as the countess's dearest friends.

Eugene took no part in the conversation which ensued. He had again

resumed his taciturn and unsocial demeanor, and now, with folded

arms, he stood in the deep recess of a curtained window, sometimes

looking gloomily out into the night, anon glancing at the little

knot of adventurers, and personages of doubtful reputation, who

occasionally added another to the meagre group that were around his

mother. Olympia strove to converse gayly with her assemblage of

insupportables, but she was chafing like an infuriated lioness.

"If Marianna and De Luxemburg would but come! I might, at least,

learn how I stand at court, and find out why the king returned to

the Louvre by an unusual route. Heavens! how long will I be able to

smile upon these hateful bores? How long sustain the burden of this

insufferable lie?"

The evening waned, and neither Marianna, De Luxemburg, nor any other

member of the court circle appeared, to silence the apprehensions or

soothe the wounded pride of the haughty Countess de Soissons. But

late--very late--when she had relinquished all hopes of another

arrival, the doors were flung open, and the usher, in a loud voice,

announced: "His highness the Duke de Bouillon!"

CHAPTER VII.

HELP IN TIME OF NEED.

Olympia, who, with three or four wrinkled old fops, and as many

withered dames, had just taken her seat at a card-table, kissed her

hand, and received her brother-in-law, with a profusion of smiles

such as never before had greeted his entrance into the salons of the

Hotel Soissons.

He seemed to be totally unconscious of her blandishments, as, with a

slight inclination to the company, he came very close to the

hostess, and, regardless of etiquette, whispered something in her

ear.

His communication must have been of a nature to excite mirth, for

she threw back her head, and, laughing rather more boisterously than

was her wont, rose quickly from her seat.

"Of course, my dear duke," said she, so as to be heard by all who

were around; "of course you shall have the drops for my sister. I

regret to hear that she needs them. Come with me to my cabinet, and

you shall receive them from my hand. I will even taste them in your

presence, that they may not be suspected of containing poison.

Follow me, if my kind friends will excuse us for a few moments."

With a graceful bend of her head, the countess crossed the room, and

disappeared with her brother-in-law. From the window to which he had

retired, Eugene had seen and heard what was passing, and in the

stern expression of the Duke de Bouillon's face he had read

something of more significance than a whispered request for

headache-drops. No sooner had his mother left the room than he

followed her, and as she was about to enter her cabinet, he laid his

hand upon her shoulder:

"Pardon, dear mother," said he, in fond and deprecating tones. "I

merely wish to say, that during your interview with my uncle, I will

remain in the little room adjoining. You may want me, perchance, to

execute some commission--it may be to bear an apology to our

guests."

"It will be better for Prince Eugene to take part in our

conference," said the duke, with his usual moroseness. "He is the

only son you have in Paris, and, as the representative of the

family, it is proper for him to hear what I am about to

communicate."

"I consent," replied Olympia, calmly. "I have no secrets from my

son, and your highness may speak without reserve what you have come

hither at this unusual hour to say."

With these words she entered her cabinet, the others following

silently behind. The duke closed the door and looked around, to see

that there were no other occupants of the room. He peered curiously

at the heavy folds of the satin curtains which concealed the

windows, and, having satisfied himself that no listeners lurked

behind, he spoke.

"You are quite sure that we cannot be overheard?" said he,

addressing the countess.

"Perfectly sure," replied she. "Of these walls it may be said, that,

unlike walls of ordinary construction, they have no ears. Speak

without apprehension. But above all things let us be seated."

"No, madame, let us remain as we are, and hearken to my words. You

know that La Voisin was arrested last night."

"I know it. Monsieur Louvois brought me the news this morning, and

it was corroborated by the rabble that attacked us not long after

his departure from the palace. It is said that La Voisin is a

toxicologist, and that she has been in the habit of selling poison

to her patrons. Was this what you came to say?"

"With this I intended to open my communication, madame. That La

Voisin has trafficked in poisons is proved, and she will assuredly

mount the scaffold for her crimes. But the next point is to inquire

to whom her poudre de succession has been sold."

"Has the question been put to La Voisin?" asked the countess,

carelessly. "They have only to inquire of her; doubtless she will

reveal the names of her friends."

The duke came nearer, and looked sternly in her face. "The question

has been asked, and it has been answered, madame."

The countess shuddered, but recovered herself instantaneously.

Momentary as it was, however, Eugene had seen the motion, and now

his large dark eyes were fixed upon his uncle with a look of steady

defiance.

"The confessions of La Voisin can be of no significance to the

Countess de Soissins," said he, haughtily. "She cannot have made any

declaration that would compromise a noble lady!"

"Nevertheless she has compromised one of the noblest names in

France," returned the duke. "She was forced to reveal the names of

her confederates."

"Yes! they have been as cruel as they were to poor Brinvilliers;

they have taken her to the chambre ardente." cried the countess, in

a trembling voice.

"Yes, madame, she was taken to the chambre ardente, stretched upon

the rack, and then she confessed." "Confessed what?" gasped Olympia.

"She confessed to have sold her poudre de succession; to have

foretold the future, and to have prepared love-philters."

"I do not know that there is treason in drawing horoscopes and

brewing love-philters," returned the countess, with a forced laugh.

"It is treason to brew love-philters, when they are designed to take

effect upon the King of France," replied the duke. "It is also

treason to steal a lock of his hair wherewith to prepare the

philter."

"Did she say this?" screamed the countess, with the ferocity of a

tigress at bay.

"She did. The lock of hair was obtained by Marshal Luxemburg, who

bribed the valet of his majesty; the philter was prepared for the

Countess de Soissons."

"Her tortures must then have unsettled her reason," cried Olympia.

"To end her agony, the poor delirious wretch has confessed any thing

that her executioners may have suggested."

"You are mistaken. When she had fully recovered her senses, she

repeated her declaration word for word. She signalized three persons

as her trustiest confidants. Two of the three were her accomplices;

the third is merely accused of having made use of La Voisin to raise

the devil. The two who are accused of murder are Monsieur de

Luxemburg and Madame de Soissons."

"The third?" said Olympia, hoarsely.

"My own wife," returned the duke, mournfully. "Not having been

accused of crime, she has not been sent to the Bastile; his majesty

has graciously permitted her to be imprisoned in her own hotel."

"Not sent to the Bastile!" echoed the countess, with a shudder.

"Has--any one been--sent there?"

"Yes. Two hours ago Monsieur de Luxemburg was arrested, and he is

now there in a criminal's cell."

The countess uttered a cry of anguish, and tottered to a seat, for

her trembling limbs refused to support her. She put her hand to her

head, and looked wildly around.

"And I?--am I to be arrested?"

"Yes, madame. The lettre de cachet has been sent by Louvois to the

king, and--" "And the king!" said Olympia, almost inaudibly.

"His majesty has signed it."

The countess pressed her hands upon her heart, and then, suddenly

springing to her feet, she burst into a loud, frenzied laugh. "He

has signed! He has signed!--And you--you--" muttered she, with a

scowl at the duke, "did you offer to act as bailiff for the king?"

As though he would have confronted a world to shield her from harm,

Eugene threw his arm around his mother's waist, and stood between

the two.

"If such be your errand, Duke de Bouillon, you must first be the

assassin of her son. No blow shall reach her, until it shall have

pierced the heart of her only protector!"

"Not so grandiloquent, my little abbe," replied De Bouillon,

superciliously. "Methinks, were I so disposed, I might snap the

feeble thread of your existence, without any extraordinary display

of valor, but I have no desire to deprive the countess of so valiant

a knight. I come, not to arrest, hut to deliver her. I come to save

herself from the headsman, her family from the foul blot of her

public execution."

"Avenging God!" murmured the miserable woman.

"You must fly, Olympia," continued the duke, compassionating her

fearful condition, "you must fly, and without delay."

"Fly!" exclaimed Eugene, furiously. "Because a degraded wretch like

that La Voisin, in her delirium of agony, has spoken the name of the

Countess de Soissons, she shall become a fugitive from justice? No,

mother, no! Remain to confound your calumniators, and, with the good

sword of Right, and Truth, pierce the vile falsehood to its heart's

core!"

The duke shook his head. "Let not ill-advised heroism tempt you to

defy your legions of accusers. Be you innocent or guilty, you are

prejudged, and will be condemned. Believe me, the danger is urgent,

and it were sheer imbecility to confront it."

"You say the king has signed?" replied she, with a vacant stare.

Then clasping her hands, she burst into a flood of tears, repeating

o'er and o'er the piteous words, "Oh no! No! No! It cannot be! It

cannot be!"

"Nevertheless, he has done it; done it at the instigation of Louvois

and De Montespan. But mark me well, and you too, abbe--listen to

what I am about to say. The king himself it was who sent me hither

to warn you; it is he who urges you to flight. That you may have

time to escape, the lettre de cachet is not to go into effect until

to-morrow morning. But the morrow is close at hand: hark!--the clock

strikes eleven, and you have but one hour. If after midnight you are

found within the gates of Paris, your doom is certain. The spies of

Louvois are close at hand; they watch before your palace-gates, and

await the twelfth stroke of the iron tongue that speaks from the

towers of Notre Dame, to force their way into the very room wherein

we stand. If they pass the threshold of the palace you are

irretrievably lost!"

The countess spoke not a word in reply. They scarcely knew whether

she had understood the terrible import of the duke's appeal. She had

remained motionless, almost breathless; her face white as death, her

large orbs distended to their utmost, gazing, not upon the tangible

objects that were before them, but upon some fearful pageant that

was passing within the shadowy precincts of her soul.

Her lips began to move, and she muttered incoherent words. "Ah! is

it so?" said she, almost inaudibly. "The end of that bright dream!

The philter! What!" cried she with sudden energy, "he warns me? He

grants me--one--one hour!" And then, overpowered by the reality of

her supreme desolation, she opened her arms, and looked defiantly

above, as if invoking the wrath of that Heaven which had forsaken

her.

"Olympia," said the duke, touching her arm, "you have but three-

quarters of an hour to quit Paris."

"Dear mother," implored Eugene, "decide quickly whether you go or

remain."

She shuddered, and, with a deep sigh, suffered her arms to fall

listlessly at her side.

"I must drink of this chalice of humiliation," said she, mournfully.

"I must fly."

A groan of anguish broke from the depths of Eugene's suffering

heart, while a strange look shot athwart the countenance of the

duke. The groan was that of faith that faltered; the glance was that

of doubt made certainty.

"I must make my escape," iterated Olympia in a tone more resolute.

"If Louvois has effected the arrest of a woman allied to the royal

family, it is because he is secure of her conviction. Rather than

become his victim, I will endure the shame of flight. Time enough

remains to me for justification." [Footnote: The countess's own

words.--See Amadee Renee, "The Nieces of Mazarin," p. 207.]

"Justification shall come through me!" cried Eugene, raising his

right hand as though taking an oath.

"Countess, countess," urged De Bouillon, "you have but half an

hour."

"You are right," returned Olympia, summoning all her resolution to

her aid. "Time is flying, and I must be diligent."

"I promised his majesty not to leave you until you were on your way,

Olympia," was the duke's reply, "and I shall remain to fulfil my

promise."

"And I, mother," added Eugene, "will never leave you until you are

in perfect safety."

"Then let us prepare," was Olympia's rejoinder. "You, duke, be so

kind as to collect my papers and money. They are in that ebony

secretary at your elbow. Here are the keys. You will find a casket

therein, where all that you find may be deposited for the present. I

myself will gather up my jewels and such clothing as cannot be

dispensed with. Eugene, my son, go at once to the stables: order my

travelling-chariot, and see that eight of my swiftest horses are

attached to it. In Brussels I shall find a friend in the Spanish

viceroy. Send forward relays to Rheims and Namur; and let the men be

clad in liveries of dark gray. Hasten, my son; before half an hour,

I must be hence!"

When Eugene returned, he found his mother waiting. The duke hastily

threw over her shoulders a travelling-cloak bordered with fur, and

Olympia, drawing the hood closely around her face, prepared to quit

the room.

"Shall I not call my sisters to bid you adieu?" asked her son.

"No," said she, calmly. "Their absence would be remarked, and

nothing must arouse the suspicion of my guests. I leave to you,

Monsieur de Bouillon, the task of communicating my flight to my

daughters. May I request you to bear a message to the king also?

Tell him that whenever he will pass his royal word that I may return

without danger of incarceration, I shall be ready to appear before

my accusers, and defend my calumniated reputation. [Footnote: Her

own words.--See the "Letters of Madame de Sevigne," vol. iii.] Give

me your arm,--and yours, Eugene: we are late."

Silently, and without a single expression of regret, she went

through the lofty corridors of the hotel, until she reached the

private staircase by which Eugene had passed to the street that

morning. The servants had assembled to bid her adieu, and, as they

tendered their good wishes, she bent her lofty head with the

condescension of a queen. Before descending, she addressed a few

words to the steward:

"I am forced to leave Paris for a time, Latour. My enemies refuse me

the poor privilege of remaining here to refute the absurd charges

preferred against me by the senseless rabble that are in their pay.

During my absence, I leave you in full command of my household. You

shall receive your wages until you decide to seek employment

elsewhere. Farewell all!"

The chariot with eight superb horses was at the postern, and around

it stood the lackeys in their liveries of sombre gray. The countess

took her seat in the carriage, and, bending forward to kiss her son,

said, "Bear my greetings to your sisters, Eugene."

"Will my gracious uncle accept this commission?" asked he, turning

to the duke.

"Why not you?" asked Olympia.

"Because my place is with you, dearest mother," was the simple reply

of her devoted child, while he took his seat at her side.

"It is right," remarked the duke, "and I begin to feel considerable

respect for our little abbe!"

"I shall compel respect from more than the Duke de Bouillon,"

thought his nephew.

"Farewell!" said Olympia, with as much self possession as if she had

been starting for a tour of pleasure. "Tell the king that I forget

to pity my own impotence in compassionating his."

The carriage rolled away, first under the illuminated windows of the

rooms of state, where the unconscious Princesses de Carignan were

doing their best to entertain the motley assemblage, that had been

so suddenly deserted by their mother; then along the dimly-lighted

streets where Eugene's heart beat with painful apprehension lest the

crowd should recognize the fugitive; then they entered the avenue

where the court had turned its back upon Olympia and her extravagant

hopes, and at last--they reached the gates.

Meanwhile the Duke de Bouillon had returned to the salons, where he

announced the departure of the countess to her guests; the servants

had dispersed, and returned to their usual employments, all except

one, who crept stealthily out, and, turning the corner, advanced a

few paces into a dark and narrow alley. Two horsemen were waiting

his appearance there.

"Has she gone?" asked one.

"Yes," replied the man; "and relays have been ordered to hasten her

escape."

"What route did she take?"

"She goes to Brussels, by the way of Rheims, Rocroy, and Namur."

"Here are your four louis d'ors."

With these words, the two horsemen galloped away, turning their

horses' heads toward the palace of the minister of war. In the

porte-cochere stood Louvois himself, who, motioning them not to

dismount, spoke a few low words, and then handed to each one a

package of letters and a purse of gold.

"Fly with all speed," said he, in his parting injunctions. "Kill as

many horses as you list--I pay for their carcasses; but see that at

every station you arrive a full hour before the countess."

He then entered his carriage, and drove to the Louvre to inform the

king that his royal commands had been obeyed, and that the Countess

de Soissons had been suffered to escape.

As the chariot that was bearing away the disgraced Olympia drove

through the barrier and entered upon the high-road, the two horsemen

galloped past, and so completely did they distance the unhappy

travellers, that in a few moments the echo of their horses' feet had

died away into silence.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FLIGHT.

It was a glorious night--a night of sapphire skies, radiant with

stellar diamonds--one of those nights whose beauty intensifies

pleasure, and whose gentle influence soothes pain; which, to the

joyous heart seem to prefigure heaven; to the sorrowing are like the

healing touch of the Almighty hand, which, in exceeding love, has

stricken it with a passing pain.

But not a ray of hope or consolation refreshed the dreary wastes of

the heart of Olympia de Soissons. She had withdrawn herself from the

embrace of her son, and leaned far back into the corner of the

carriage. But for the glare of her large, black eyes, as they

reflected the light of the lamps on either side, she might have been

asleep, so motionless she lay; but, whenever Eugene turned a timid

glance upon her rigid features, he saw that she seemed ever and ever

to be looking away from him, and far out upon the black and

shapeless masses of the woods through which they journeyed all that

night.

He had tried to divert her by conversation; but to his remarks she

had made such curt and random replies, that he desisted, and left

her to the bleak solitude of her own reveries.

And thus they passed the night. With fresh relays of eight spirited

horses, they travelled so swiftly, that when morning dawned, the

lofty towers of the Cathedral of Rheims were seen looming through

the mist, and the coachman drew up before the gates.

But, although a courier had been sent in advance to order it, no

relay was there. The coachman turned to Eugene for instructions.

"This is most unfortunate," replied he, "for it compels us to enter

the city and change horses at the royal post-house. While

arrangements are being made there, will it please my dear mother to

leave her carriage and partake of some refreshment?"

The countess replied with a silent bend of the head, and Eugene sent

forward a courier, with orders to have breakfast prepared. The

carriage passed the old Roman gate, and entered the city, made

famous by the coronation of so many kings of France. The rattle of

the wheels over the rough stone pavement made the countess start

with apprehension of she knew not what, and she withdrew cautiously

from sight.

"It is well that the roll of this clamorous carriage cannot awaken

our foes," said she, as they stopped before the post-house.

Her rejoicings were premature; for the master of the post-horses

came leisurely forward, his face expressing a mixture of rude

curiosity with careless contempt.

"You want post-horses?" asked he, with a familiar nod.

Eugene's large eyes flashed fire. "It would appear," said he, "that

you do not know to whom you have the honor of speaking, or else you

would remove your hat."

"Oh, yes, I know who you are," answered he, insolently. "That is the

Countess de Soissons, and you are the little abbe, her son. But I

keep on my hat, for it is cool this morning, and it suits me NOT to

remove it."

"It suits you, then, to be a boor, a barefaced--"

"Peace, Eugene!" interrupted Olympia, in Italian; "peace, or you

will cause me some detention that may imperil my life. See; in spite

of the undue hour, how many men are around our carriage. They are

not here by accident. Their presence only proves that Louvois'

couriers have anticipated us; and if ever we hope to pass the

frontiers of France, we must be discreet."

"And I may not, therefore, chastise this varlet! I must sit tamely

by while he insults my mother!"

"He is but a tool, Eugene. Spare the instrument, and strike the hand

that directs it against me."

"By the Eternal God, I will smite that hand!" said Eugene, while the

master of the post-horses stood staring at Olympia with an

expression of familiarity that would have cost him his life, had she

been free to take it. But sweet as the honey of Hybla were the words

she spoke.

"Good sir, would you be so obliging as to furnish us with eight

horses?" said she, almost imploringly.

"Eight horses! for that light vehicle? It looks much as if you were

trying to make your escape, and were sore pressed to move on."

"I am, indeed, sorely pressed," said she, in tones of distress;

"hasten, I implore of you, hasten!"

"You cannot have them before half an hour," said he, turning on his

heel, and re-entering the house.

The countess now called to one of her footmen: "Go, see if we can

have a room and some breakfast."

The man obeyed, but returned almost immediately, with a most

embarrassed expression.

"They have no vacant room, and say that your highness need not

trouble yourself to leave the carriage, in search of lodgings, were

it even for five minutes."

"Then go and bring us each a cup of chocolate," replied the

countess, with a sigh.

The footman renewed his petition, and this time returned,

accompanied by a woman, who, in angry haste, approached the unhappy

fugitives:

"You are the Countess de Soissons?" asked she, with a bold stare.

"Yes, madame, I am; and I hope you will do me the favor to serve us

a cup of chocolate."

"You do--do you? Well, I have come out here to tell you that I shall

do no such thing. How do I know that your breath may not poison my

cup and--"

"Woman!" cried Eugene, springing up from his seat.

His mother put him firmly back. "I command you to keep silence,"

said she, imperiously. Then, resuming her colloquy with the woman

who stood by, with arms akimbo: "I will tell you how you can oblige

me without any risk to yourself."

"How, pray?"

"Sell me, not only the chocolate, but the cups that contain it. I

will give you a louis d'or for each one."

The woman's eyes glistened with greed of gold. "Two louis d'ors for

two cups of chocolate!" said she to herself, "that is a brave trade

for me. You shall have them," added she aloud. "I will fetch them in

a moment."

And off she pattered with her slipshod shoes into the house. The

countess then addressed her son, who, leaning back in a corner of

the carriage, sat with his head buried in his hands.

"Eugene," said she, emphatically, "if you are to accompany me any

farther, it must be as a peace-loving abbe not as an irascible

soldier. If you incense these people against us, your indiscreet

zeal will cause me to be captured. I have no longing for death; I

desire to live until my son, the mighty cardinal, has trampled under

foot the least as well as the greatest of my enemies."

"Oh, mother, I have not only YOUR injuries to avenge, but mine! I

have the burning shame of yesterday to wipe out, although the wound

of my humiliation can never be healed."

"Time--Nature's sweet balm--heals every wound, and in our days of

adversity let this be our consolation. To the sharp lash of Destiny

the wise man will bow in silence; but if the blow be from the hand

of man, it is from the crucible of the suffering it imposes that

must come the strength wherewith we retaliate; from the depths of

our wounded hearts that must spring the geysers of our seething

revenge. It would gratify me to have you the companion of my flight,

but, if in the impotence of your wrath you seek to defend me, it

will be better for us to part.--Ah, here comes the chocolate! I

confess that I rejoice to scent its fragrant aroma. Let us drink,

and afterward you will decide whether you subscribe to my exactions,

or return to Paris."

The cups were cracked, without handles, and of coarse pottery--the

thrifty housewife having taken care to select the worst of her wares

to barter away. The countess smilingly accepted hers, and, as Eugene

was putting his impatiently away, she took it herself from the

servant's hands.

"Drink," said she, "and hearken to a saying of our uncle, Cardinal

Mazarin: 'When a man is troubled in spirit, he must strengthen

himself in body. The world is a great campaign against contrarieties

with which we must daily anticipate a skirmish. And above all, on

the eve of a great battle, the soul, which is the chief, must see to

it that his soldier, which is the body, is in a condition to do him

service.' These were the words of a wise man, and they are worthy of

being remembered. Drink your chocolate, my son, for you well know

that we are about to go into action."

He took the cup from his mother's hand, and, without another word,

emptied it of its contents. The woman, meanwhile, had been watching

her cups, lamenting their approaching destruction, which, spite of

the tremendous price at which they had been purchased, she looked

upon as a sacrifice greatly to be deplored. Seeing that the

catastrophe was approaching, she stepped forward to receive her pay.

In her hand she held a large pan of water, which she raised to a

level with the portiere of the carriage.

"Now, madame," said she, "you have had your chocolate, give me my

louis d'ors."

From her jewelled purse Olympia drew out two gold-pieces, which she

offered to the woman. But, instead of receiving them, she cried out

in a shrill voice:

"Drop them in the water. After a few hours I may venture to touch

the gold that has passed through your hands!"

The crowd, whom curiosity had drawn around the carriage, now burst

out into a shout of applause.

"Right, right, Dame Margot! You are a prudent woman! Nobody knows

what might come of handling her louis d'ors."

Olympia smiled. "Yes." said she, "you are a wise woman, and, as a

token of my admiration for your prudence, here are three louis d'ors

instead of the two I had promised."

So saying, she dropped three gold-pieces in the basin. The woman

blushed, and looked ashamed. The crowd were astonished, and here and

there were heard a few murmured words of sympathy. "That was very

kind, was it not? After all, she may not be as bad as they say. It

may all be a lie about her poisoning her children!"

Olympia heard it, and a proud smile flitted over her beautiful face.

The woman still lingered at the carriage-door. "And the cups?" asked

she, wistfully. "I suppose you will break them, will you not?"

"No," replied the countess, speaking so that she might be heard by

the people. "No, my good woman, I will not break them: they shall

lie in the basin, so that, like the gold, they may be purified until

you find them worthy of being used again!"

And again her jewelled hand was extended, and from her slender

fingers the cups were carefully dropped into the basin.

"Your highness," exclaimed the woman, abashed, "I thank you a

thousand times for your generosity, and I hope you will forgive my

rudeness. I would not have been so forgetful of the respect I owe to

a lady of your rank, if I had not been put up to it by other people.

From my heart I beg your pardon, madame."

"You are sincerely forgiven," replied Olympia, gently. "I am

accustomed to contumely, and when unjustly persecuted I follow the

example of my Saviour--I forgive those that hate and revile me."

"Did you hear that?" whispered the multitude one to another. "And do

you mark what a beautiful countenance she has? Instead of being a

murderess, she may be a pious saint. Who knows?"

"No," cried the vender of chocolate, bravely diving her hand into

the basin and withdrawing her louis d'ors, "no, she is no murderess,

she is a benevolent, Christian lady."

"She is a benevolent Christian lady," shouted the people, and in

less than five minutes the countess was as popular as a prince who

has just ascended the throne.

A third time the magic purse was drawn forth, and two more louis

d'ors glittered in the hand of Dame Margot!

"May I ask of you the favor to give this to those good people, that

they may drink my health?" said Olympia.

"You are an angel," cried Margot, while her eyes grew moist with

sympathizing tears.

"Yes, an angel!" echoed the crowd. "So beautiful! So good! So

bountiful!"

They were still in the height of their enthusiasm when the half hour

had expired, and the post-horses were brought out and harnessed. The

postilion sounded his horn, and the coachman cracked his whip.

"Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!" cried Dame Margot, and

"Long live her highness!" echoed the converts, while the carriage

thundered through the streets, and the countess threw herself back

and laughed.

"Miserable rabble!" said she, "whose love and hate are bought with

gold, and whom philanthropists regard as the exponents of the Divine

will! 'Vox populi vox Dei,' forsooth!"--Then, turning to Eugene,

who, during the whole performance, had remained sullenly silent, she

continued: "Have you decided whether to leave or accompany me? If

the latter, it must be in the character of a diplomatist, whose

weapons are sweet words and shining gold."

"I go on with you, mother, as your loving and obedient son," said

Eugene, kissing her hand--even the one which still clasped the

wonder-working purse. "I have no right to despise this tiny

necromancer, for, by its beneficent power, you have been rescued

from dangers which I, a man, and not a coward, was impotent to

avert. I submit, dear mother, to your dictates--no longer your

champion, look upon me henceforth as your subject."

The voice was very mournful in which Eugene made this profession of

vassalage, and at its conclusion his eyes were veiled by tears of

burning humiliation. His mother affected not to perceive his

emotion, as she replied in her blandest tones:

"I thank you, my son. Your decision is a most filial and meritorious

one. The two days that have just passed over your head have proved

to me that, whatever may be your career, you are destined to render

it illustrious: either by statesmanship or prowess. Whether as an

ecclesiastic, a politician, or a soldier, you will certainly attain

distinction."

"Mother, as a soldier, I MAY attain distinction; as a churchman,

never. For the present I accept my fate; but blessed will be the day

on which I go into the world free to feel the power of my manhood,

and to shape my fortunes with my own hand. Let women rise to dignity

through royal favor and family influence; man's only ally should be

his own strong arm. Far nobler to me is the lieutenant who wins his

epaulets upon the battle-field, than the prince who is born to the

command of an army."

"Have a care how you speak such high-treason at the court of Louis

XIV.," replied his mother. "It would be repeated to his majesty, and

never would be forgiven."

"I hope to do many things in my life that will be repeated to his

majesty of France--perchance some of which may never obtain his

forgiveness," replied Eugene, quietly. "But let us speak of the

present, and of you, beloved mother."

Olympia threw herself back against the soft upholstery that lined

the back of the carriage. "Rather let us speak of nothing, my child.

Neither of us had any rest last night: I would gladly sleep awhile."

She closed her eyes, and finally Nature asserted her long-frustrated

claims. In a few moments, the humiliations, the fears, and the

sufferings of the unhappy Olympia, were drowned in the drowsy waters

of profound sleep.

She was not long permitted to remain in oblivion of her woes. Her

repose was broken by the hoots and hisses of another vulgar crowd,

that swarmed like hornets about the carriage-windows. They had

arrived at another station, where, in place of finding post-horses,

they were met by another mob as vituperative as the one they had

encountered before.

Eugene thrust open the portiere, and, leaping into the very midst of

the rioters, he drew out his pistols. "The first one of you," cried

he, "that proffers another injurious word, I will shoot as I would a

vicious dog!"

"Hear that sickly manikin! He is trying to browbeat us!" cried some

one in the crowd.

"Yes, yes, trying to browbeat us!" echoed the chorus.

"Yes--by the eternal heavens above us!" exclaimed the prince. "The

first that moves a foot toward us, dies!"

His eyes flashed so boldly, and his attitude was so commanding, that

the people, ever cowed by true courage, faltered and fell back.

Just then Olympia opened the door on her own side of the chariot,

and, without the slightest manifestation of fear or anger, stepped

to the ground, and, with one of her bewitching smiles, made her way

to the very center of her foes. Her voice was soft and low, but, to

a, practised ear, it would have seemed like that of a lioness, who,

forced to temporize, was longing to devour.

"Good people," said the leonine siren, "pardon the irascibility of

this young man. He is my son, and, when he heard his mother's name

aspersed, his anger got the better of his discretion. Is it not

true," continued she, turning to a woman who had been most

vociferous in her maledictions, "is it not true, dear friend, that a

son is excusable who grows indignant when he hears his mother

accused of deeds the very thought of which would fill her with

horror? Perhaps you, too, have a son that loves you, and who,

knowing you to be a good and pious woman, would never suffer any man

to attack your good name."

"Yes," replied the woman, entirely propitiated, "yes, madame, I have

a son who certainly would defend my good name against any man that

attacked it."

"Then you will make allowances for mine, and speak a kind word for

him to your friends here, for we mothers understand one another, do

we not? And any one of us is ready to shelter the good son of some

other woman? Are we not?"

"That we are," returned the woman, enthusiastically. "I will protect

your son, never fear." And, with her arms upraised, she dashed

through the crowd, and addressed those who were nearest to Eugene,

and who, partially over their panic, were just about to remember

that they were many against their one opponent.

"Let him alone!" cried she. "He is her son! You see that we have

been deceived by those who told us that she had poisoned her

children. How should this one love her, if she were so wicked?"

"Dear friends," cried Olympia, so as to be heard by ail around, "you

have been shamefully imposed upon, if you were told that I poisoned

my dear children. I have given birth to seven, who are all alive to

testify that their poor mother is innocent."

"All seven alive! Seven children, and not one dead!" exclaimed the

"dear friend" whom Olympia had specially addressed. "Just think of

that! Why, of course she is innocent."

And here and there the shrill voices of the women were heard

repeating the words, "She is innocent, of course she is innocent!"

"You perceive, then," continued the countess, pursuing her

advantage, "that I have powerful enemies, since they precede me on

my journey with slanderous falsehoods, and try to turn the honest

hearts of the villagers of France against me and my son. I see that

they have been here, and have bribed you to insult me."

"That is true," cried a chorus of rough voices. "We were paid to

insult you and to refuse you post-horses."

"Well, then," returned Olympia, with one of her most enchanting

smiles, "I, too, will give you money, but it shall not be to bribe

you to resent my injuries. It will be to dispose of as your kind

hearts deem best."

She threw out a handful of silver, for which some began to stoop and

scramble, while others, emboldened by the sight of such a largesse,

crowded around, stretching out their hands for a "souvenir."

"Whoever, at the expiration of fifteen minutes, furnishes me eight

fresh horses, shall receive eight louis d'ors as a token of my

gratitude," said the sagacious Olympia.

No sooner were the words spoken, than every man there flew to earn

the token. In less than a minute the ground was cleared, and naught

was to be seen but a few women and children, still bent upon

searching for the silver.

The countess returned to her carriage, where she found Eugene,

looking embarrassed and ashamed. He immediately apologized for his

involuntary disregard of her injunctions.

"Dear mother, forgive me; in this last dilemma I have conducted

myself like a madman, while you have shown that you possess true

heroism. I see how very much wiser you are than I; and I solemnly

promise to attempt no more violence, where personal violence is not

offered to us. But to say that I could exchange my weapons for

yours, I cannot. I never shall learn to dissimulate and flatter."

His mother slightly raised her shoulders. "You will learn it in

time, when you will have learned to despise your fellows as I do.--

But see! Heaven be praised, here come the horses."

In a few moments, eight brown hands were outstretched to receive the

gold, and, amid the huzzas of the multitude, the Countess de

Soissons pursued her journey.

CHAPTER IX.

THE PARTING.

Eugene looked gloomily out of the carriage-window, and heard a

succession of deep sighs.

"Shall I tell you why you are so sad?" said Olympia to her son.

"I am sad because I feel my miserable impotence," replied he,

moodily. "I am sad because I must at last acknowledge that Mazarin

was right when he said that gold was the only divinity devoutly

worshipped on earth."

"Speak not slightingly of gold," cried Olympia, laughing; "it has

probably saved my life to-day. Unluckily we are far from the end of

our journey, and I may not have enough of this precious gold

wherewith to purchase forbearance as we go."

"We are not far from the frontier, and once in Flanders, you are

safe."

"Not so. There are no bounds to the realms of this yellow divinity.

Its worshippers are everywhere, and Louvois will seek them in France

and out of it. But I think I have a device whereby we may outwit our

mighty oppressor, and avoid further contumely."

"What is it, mother?"

"I will take another and a less public road. You shall go with me as

far as the boundaries. We can pass the night at Rocroy, and part on

the morrow: you to retrace your steps. I to continue my flight in a

plain carriage, with two horses and no attendants."

"I have promised to submit, and will obey you implicitly," returned

Eugene, respectfully. "Since you command me to go, we will part at

Rocroy."

"Ah!" sighed the countess, "I would we were there, for indeed I am

exhausted, and yearn for rest."

Many hours, however, went by, before they reached Rocroy, and,

wherever their need compelled them to stop, they met with the same

insults; the same efforts were to be gone through, to propitiate the

rabble; and Eugene was forced to endure it all, while his martyred

heart was wrung with anguish that no words are adequate to picture.

At last, to the relief of the prince, and the great joy of his

mother, who was almost fainting with fatigue, the fortress was

reached, the foaming horses were drawn up, and the officer in

command was seen coming through a postern, followed by six of his

men.

It was the custom in France to search every vehicle that left the

frontier; and, in compliance with this custom, the officer advanced

promptly to meet the travellers. The countess had so often submitted

to this formality, that when her name and destination were asked,

she avowed them both without the least hesitation.

"I hope," added she, "that the declaration of my name and rank will

exempt me from the detention usual in these cases, for I am in great

haste, and you will oblige me by ordering the gates to be opened at

once."

"I am sorry to disoblige your highness," replied the officer, with a

supercilious smile, "but that very declaration compels me to refuse

you egress through the gates of Rocroy."

"What in Heaven's name do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Olympia,

alarmed.

"I mean that Monsieur Louvois's orders are express that the Countess

de Soissons shall not be suffered, to pass the fortress, and his

orders here are paramount."

With these words the officer turned his back, made a sign to his

men, and in less than a minute the party had disappeared, and the

inexorable gates had closed.

The countess sighed wearily. "Let us go farther," said she "In the

next village we will at least find lodgings, and rest for the

night."

The horses' heads were turned, and the tired animals urged on, until

a neighboring town had been reached, whose stately inn, with its

brightly-illuminated entrance, gave promise of comfortable

entertainment for man and beast.

Three well-dressed individuals stood in the lofty door-way, and as

the carriage drove up they came forward to meet it. Eugene,

shielding his mother from sight, asked if they could alight to sup

and lodge there for the night.

"That depends upon circumstances," replied one of them. "You must

first have the goodness to give us your name."

"My name is nothing to the purpose," cried Eugene, impatiently. "I

ask merely whether strangers can be accommodated with supper and

beds in this house."

"The name is every thing, sir, and, before I answer your inquiry, I

must know it--unless, indeed, you are anxious to conceal it."

"A Prince de Carignan has never yet had reason to conceal his name,"

said Eugene, haughtily.

"Ah! your highness, then, is the Prince de Carignan! And may this

lady in the corner there be your mother, the Countess de Soissons?"

"Yes--the Countess de Soissons; and now that you are made acquainted

with our names--"

"I regret that I cannot receive you," interrupted the host. "Were

you alone, my house and every thing within my doors would be at the

service of the Prince de Carignan, but for his mother we have no

accommodation. We are afraid of noble ladies that use poison."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before he sprang up the

steps, and closed the doors of the inn in their faces.

"Ah!" muttered Olympia between her teeth, "such cruelty as this is

enough to drive any one to the use of poison! And if I live I will

be revenged on yonder churl that has sent me out into the darkness,

denying me food and rest!"

"Whither will your highness go now?" asked the footman; and, by the

tone of the inquiry, Olympia felt that her menials were rapidly

losing all respect for a "highness" that could no longer command

entrance into a public inn.

"Take a by-way to the next village, and stop at the first peasant's

hut on the road."

The coachman was growing surly, and the poor, worn-out horses were

so stiff that they could barely travel any longer. The village,

however, was only a few miles off, so that they were not more than

an hour in reaching a miserable hovel, at the door of which was a

man in the superlative degree of astonishment. He, at least, had

never heard of Louvois and Louvois's orders, so that, for the

promise of a gold-piece, he was easily induced to receive the

desponding party. But his only bed was of straw, and he feared their

excellencies would not be satisfied with his fare.

"My friend," said Olympia, "to an exhausted traveller a litter of

straw is as welcome as a bed of down;" and, with a sigh of relief,

she took the arm of her son, and entered the hut.

"Are you married?" asked she, taking her seat on a wooden stool,

near the chimney.

"Yes; and here is my wife," said he, as a young woman, blushing and

courtesying, came forward to welcome her distinguished visitors.

"Have you a wagon and horses?" continued the countess.

"A wagon, your excellency, but no horses: we have two sturdy oxen,

instead."

"Would you like to earn enough money to-night to buy yourself a

handsome team?"

"Yes, indeed, we would," cried husband and wife simultaneously.

"Then," said Olympia to the latter, "sell me your Sunday-gown, let

me have something to eat, and throw down some clean straw in the

corner, where I may sleep for a few hours. When I awake," added she

to the man, "harness your oxen, and take me in your wagon beyond the

frontier, to Flanders. If you will do this, you shall have fifty

louis d'ors for your trouble."

The peasant grinned responsive. "That will I," cried he, slapping

his thigh; "and, if you say so, I'll take you as far as Chimay,

which is a good way beyond the frontier."

"Right," said the countess, joyfully. "To Chimay we go. Now, my good

girl, bring me your best holiday-suit."

The young woman ran, breathless with joy, to fetch her attire, while

the man went out to feed his oxen. Olympia then addressed herself to

Eugene:

"Now, my son, we are alone, and I claim the fulfilment of your

promise. You have seen me to a place of safety, and you must return

to Paris. Listen now to my commands, perhaps the last I may ever

give you."

"Command, dear mother, and I will obey. But do not ask me to abandon

you to the danger which still threatens you."

"You exaggerate my danger, Eugene; and, by remaining with me, you

increase it. You are too impulsive to be a discreet companion, and I

exact of you to leave me. Disguised as a peasant-woman, and

travelling in an ox-cart, my foes will never discover me, and I have

every hope of reaching my destination in safety."

"It is impossible," persisted Eugene, his eyes filling with tears.

"My child, must I then force you to do my bidding?"

"No force can compel me to do what I know to be craven and

dishonorable," cried the prince. "Mother, I must not--cannot obey."

"For one short moment, the eyes of the countess flashed fire, but as

suddenly they softened, and she smilingly extended her hand:"

"Well--let us contend no longer, dear boy; I see that, for once, I

must succumb to your strong will. Here comes the woman with my

disguise. Go out a while, and let me change my dress. Send the

footman with a little casket you will find in the carriage-box. Here

is the key. And, Eugene, do beg the man to send in our supper, that

it may be ready for us when I shall have metamorphosed myself into a

peasant-woman."

About fifteen minutes later, the countess called her son. "How do

you like me?" she said. "Am I sufficiently disguised to pass for

that fellow's wife? What a strange picture we will make--you and I,

seated on a sack of wool, and drawn by a pair of creeping oxen! 'Tis

well for you that you are an abbe; were you any thing else, you

could not venture to travel by the side of a woman of low degree.

But--come, let us enjoy our supper; I, for one, am both hungry and

sleepy."

She drew a stool up to the table, which was spread with a clean

cloth, and covered with platters of bread, butter, and cheese.

Between two wooden bowls stood a large pitcher of milk. These bowls

the countess filled to the brim, and handed one to her son.

"Pledge me a bumper, and wish me a prosperous journey," said she,

playfully, while she put the cup to her lips, all the while narrowly

watching Eugene.

He followed her example, and drained his bowl to its last drop.

Then, striving to fall in with her mood, he said:

"You see how obedient I am, and yet you know that I am not one of

those that would be content to live in a land flowing with milk and

honey."

"Thank you," replied his mother, "for this one act of obedience. I

could wish you were as submissive in other things. But--what is the

matter, boy? You are pale."

"I do not know," stammered Eugene, his tongue seeming paralyzed. "I

am sick--I want-fresh air! Some air, mother!"

He attempted to rise, but fell back into his seat.

"Mother," murmured he, while his features were becoming distorted by

pain, "have you drugged--"

He could articulate no longer, but gazed upon his mother with fast-

glazing eyes, until slowly his dull orbs closed, and his head

dropped heavily upon the table.

"Three minutes," said the countess, quietly. "Only three minutes,

and he sleeps soundly. La Voisin was a wonderful creature! What a

high privilege it is to reign over the will of another human being

with a might as mysterious as it is irresistible? And greater yet

the privilege of dispensing life or death! Why did I not exercise

that power over the proud man that follows me with such unrelenting

hate? Ah, Louvois, had I been braver, I had not endured your

contumely! Poor, weak fool that I was, not to wrestle with fate and

master it! But--it is useless to repine. Let me see. Eugene will

sleep four hours, and, ere he wakes, I must be beyond the frontiers

of hostile France."

She left the little room and joined the peasant's wife.

"I have prevailed upon my son to return to Paris," said she, in that

caressing tone which she had practised so successfully through the

day. "His health is delicate, and the hardships of our hurried

journey have so exhausted him that he has fallen into a profound

sleep. Do not disturb him, I entreat of you, dear friend, and, when

he awakes, give him this note."

She drew from her pocket-book a paper, and, giving it to the woman,

repeated her request that her dear boy should not be disturbed.

"I will take my seat at the door, madame, and await the wakening of

Monsieur l'Abbe, to deliver your highness's note. But will you too

not rest awhile, before you go on? I think you look as if you needed

sleep quite as much as your son."

"No, no, thank you, I must reach Flanders before sunrise," replied

Olympia, "and do beg your husband to use dispatch, for I am

impatient to start. Will you also be so obliging as to call my

servants? I must say a few words to them before we part."

When the men came in, their mistress, in spite of her costume, wore

a demeanor so lofty, that they were afraid to betray their cognition

of her disguise, and were awed back into their usual stolid and

obsequious deportment.

"You have witnessed," said the countess, "the persecutions that have

been heaped upon me since yesterday, and of course you are not

surprised to find that I have adopted a disguise by which I may hope

to escape further outrage. You have both been among the trustiest of

my servants, and to you, rather than to my son, I confide my parting

instructions. He is now asleep, and I will not even waken him to

take leave; for he would wish to accompany me, and so compromise

both his safety and mine. I therefore journey in secret and alone.

As for you, be in readiness to return to Paris by daylight, and do

all that you can for the comfort of my son on the way."

"I served his father," replied the coachman, "and will do my duty by

his son, your highness. Rely upon me."

"And I," added the footman, "will do my best to deserve the praise

your highness has so kindly vouchsafed to us, by serving my lord and

prince as faithfully as I know how."

"Right, my good friends. You will always find him, in return, a

gracious and generous master. You will have no difficulty in

procuring relays or lodging on your return to Paris: oblige me,

then, by travelling with all speed, for it is important that my son

arrive quickly. And now farewell, and accept this as a remembrance."

Dropping several gold-pieces into the hands of each one, their proud

mistress inclined her head, and passed out of the hut.

"If your highness is ready," said the peasant's wife, meeting her on

the threshold, "my husband is in his wagon waiting."

"In one moment," replied Olympia; "I must return to take a last kiss

from my son."

She hastened back to the little room, and, stepping lightly,

advanced to the table, where Eugene, his head supported by his arms,

lay precisely in the position wherein she had left him. She lifted

the masses of his shaggy, black hair, and gazed wistfully upon his

pale face. "And if the stars are not false," whispered she,

tenderly, "this feeble body enshrines a mind that shall win renown

for the house of Savoy. God bless thee, my fragile, but great-

hearted Eugene! As I gaze upon thy pallid brow, my whole being is

inundated by the gushing waters of a love which to-night seems more

than maternal! So should angels love the sons of men! Take from my

lips the baptismal kisses that consecrate thee to glory! May God

bless and prosper thee, my boy!"

She bent over the sleeping youth and kissed his forehead o'er and

o'er. When she raised her head, among the raven masses of Eugene's

hair there trembled here and there a tear, perhaps the purest that

ever flowed from the turbid spring of Olympia de Soisson's corrupt

heart.

One more kiss she pressed upon his clasped hands, and then she

hurried away. The cart was before the door; she took her seat, and

slowly the creeping oxen went out into the darkness, bearing away

with them a secret which, to the wondering peasant-woman, was like

Jove's descent to the daughter of Acrisius. [Footnote: Louvois's

hate pursued the Countess de Soissous to Brussels, where the beggars

were bribed to insult her as she passed them in the streets. She was

so persecuted by the rabble that, on one occasion, when she was

purchasing lace at the convent of the Beguines, they assembled in

such multitudes at the entrance, that the nuns, to save her from

being torn to pieces, were compelled to permit her to remain with

them all night. Finally the governor of Netherlands was driven to

take her under his own personal protection, by which it became

unlawful to molest her further. After the governor became her

champion, the prejudices of the people wore gradually away, until at

last Olympia held her levees as she had done in her palmy days at

the Hotel de Soissons.--See Abbe de Choisy: Memoires, p. 224. Renee:

"Les Nieces de Mazarin," p. 212.]

Four hours passed away, and the power of the drugged cup was at an

end. Day was breaking, and, although by the uncertain light of the

gray dawn, no object in that poor place was clearly defined, still

everything was visible. Eugene raised his head and looked,

bewildered, around the room. He saw at once that his mother was not

there, and with a gesture of wild alarm he sprang to his feet.

"Mother, my mother!" exclaimed he.

The door opened, and the smiling peasant with a deep courtesy came

forward to wish his highness good-morning.

"Your mother, excellency, has been gone these four hours," said she.

"Gone! Gracious Heaven! whither, and with whom?"

"She went to Flanders, excellency, with my husband. Do not feel

unhappy, sir, I beg of you; my husband is a good, prudent fellow,

and he will take her safely to Chimay. Here is a paper she left for

you, and she bade me say that, as soon as I had given you an early

breakfast, you would return with your servants to Paris."

Eugene clutched at the note, and returned to the table to read it.

Its contents were as follows:

"My dear child, you would not obey me, and yet I could no longer

brook the danger of your attendance. Although I am no adept in the

art of poisoning, yet I have learned from La Voisin to prepare

harmless anodynes, one of which I mingled with the cup of milk you

took from my hand to-night. You sleep, dear Eugene, and I must go

forth to meet my fate alone. Your knightly repugnance to what you

looked upon as a desertion of your mother, has forced me to the use

of means which, though perfectly innocent, I would rather not have

employed. I knew no other device by which to escape your too loving

vigilance."

"Go back to Paris, my Eugene, and go with all speed, for there you

can protect, there alone you can defend me. There are my enemies;

and, although I dedicate you to the church, I would not have you put

in practice that precept of the Scriptures which enjoins upon you to

forgive your traducers, and bless those who despitefully use you.

No, no! From my son's hand I await the blow that is to avenge my

wounded honor and my blasted existence. Farewell! The spirit of

Mazarin guide you to wisdom and success! Olympia."

"I will avenge you, my own, my precious mother," said Eugene, his

teeth firmly set with bitter resolve. "The world has thrown its

gauntlet to us, and, by Heaven I will wear it on my front! I have

swept the dark circle of every imaginable sorrow, and my soul is

athirst for strife. 'Tis a priestly office to vindicate a mother's

good name, and I shall be the hierophant of an altar whereon the

blood of her enemies shall be sacrificed. And now, dear maligned

one," continued he, kissing the words her hand had traced,

"farewell! Thou wert my first passionate love, and in my faithful

heart nothing ever shall transcend thee!"

Half an hour later he was on the road to Paris; but, desirous to

escape notice, Eugene travelled without footmen or outriders, and

confined himself to a span of horses for his carriage. The simple

equipage attracted no attention, and no one attempted to peer at its

silent occupant, so that on the morning of the next day he had

arrived in Paris.

It was a clear, bright morning, and perchance this might be a reason

why the streets were unusually crowded; but as the prince was

remarking what a multitude were astir to enjoy the beauty of a sky

that was vaulted with pale-blue and silver, he observed at the same

time that all were going in one direction. The throng grew denser as

the carriage advanced, until it reached the Rue des Deux Ecus, when

it came to a dead stop. And after that it advanced but a few feet at

a time, for the whole world seemed to be going, with Eugene, to the

Hotel de Soissons.

At last they reached the gates, and the prince was about to alight,

when, directly in front of the palace, and within the court, he saw

the sight which had attracted the multitude thither.

Before the principal entrance of the palace were six horsemen, two

of whom in their right hands held long trumpets decked with flowing

ribbons. Behind these, bestriding four immense horses of Norman

breed, were four beadles in their long black gowns, and broad-

brimmed hats, looped up with cockades. Behind these four were two

mounted soldiers, dressed like those in front, in the municipal

colors of the city of Paris, and in place of trumpets they carried

halberds.

As he saw this extraordinary group, who had apparently selected the

court of the Hotel Soissons wherein to enact some ridiculous

pageant, Eugene could scarcely believe his dazzled eyes. He looked

again, and saw the horsemen raise their trumpets to their lips,

while the air resounded with a fanfare that made the very windows of

the palace tremble in their frames.

The multitude, that up to this moment had been struggling and

contending together for place and passage, suddenly grew breathless

with expectation, when a second fanfare rang out upon the air; and,

when its clang had died away, one of the black-robed beadles cried

out in a loud voice:

"We, the appointed magistrate of the venerable city of Paris, hereby

do summon the Countess Olympia de Soissons, Princess of Carignan,

widow of the most high the Count de Soissons, Prince Royal of

Bourbon, and Prince of Carignan, to appear within three days before

our tribunal, at the town-hall of our good city of Paris."

The trumpet sounded a third time, and another beadle continued the

summons:

"And we, the appointed magistrate of the venerable city of Paris, do

hereby accuse said Countess Olympia de Soissons and Princess de

Carignan of sorcery and murder by poison. If she hold herself

innocent of these charges, she will appear within the three days by

law granted her wherein to answer our summons. If she do not appear

within three days, she shall he held guilty by contumacy, and

condemned."

Scarcely had these last words been pronounced, when the people broke

out into jubilant shouts over the fearless rectitude of the

honorable city fathers, who were not afraid to lift the avenging arm

of justice against criminals in high places.

Amid the din that followed, Eugene escaped from his carriage to the

private entrance, through which twice before he had passed in such

indescribable anguish of heart.

Not a soul was there to greet the heir of this princely house, or

bid him welcome home. The servant, who, after his repeated

knockings, appeared to open the door, gazed at his young lord with a

countenance wherein terror and sympathy were strangely mingled.

"Are the princesses at home?" asked Eugene.

"No, your highness, they took refuge with their grandmother, the

Princess de Carignan."

"Took refuge!" echoed Eugene, staring at the man in dumb dismay.

"Yes, my lord, they were afraid of the people, who have gathered

here by thousands every day since the countess left. This is the

third summons that has been made for her highness, and at each one

the people of Paris have flocked to the hotel with such jeers and

curses, that the poor young ladies were too terrified to remain."

"They acted prudently," replied Eugene, recovering his self-

possession. "But where is the steward? And where are the other

servants?"

"Latour accompanied the princesses, your highness, and has not

returned. The remainder of the household have taken service

elsewhere."

"What! my valet, Dupont?"

"He thought your highness had left Paris for a long time, and looked

for another master."

"Then how comes it that you are here, Conrad?"

"I, my lord? Oh, that is quite another thing. I belong to a family

that have served the Princes de Carignan for three generations. I

myself have served them from my boyhood, and if your highness does

not discharge me, I shall not do so, were the hotel to be attacked

by every churl in Paris."

As Conrad spoke these words, Eugene turned and looked affectionately

at his faithful servant. "Thank you, Conrad, for your loyalty and

courage; I can never grow unmindful of such devotion. From this day

you become my valet, and if you never quit my service until I

discharge you, we will roam the world together as long as we both

live! "

Tears of gratitude glistened in Conrad's honest eyes. "Then to the

day of my death I remain with my dear lord," replied he, kneeling,

and devoutly kissing the hand which Eugene had extended. "And I

swear to your highness love and fealty, while God gives me life

wherewith to serve you."

"I believe you, Conrad," replied Eugene, kindly, "and I thank you

for the solitary welcome you have given me on my return to this

unhappy house. Your loving words have drowned the clang of yonder

trumpets without.--And now let us part for a while: I feel inclined

to sleep."

The prince turned into a hall that led to his apartments, and

entered his bed-chamber. He had scarcely taken a seat, and leaned

his weary head upon his hand, before the trumpet pealed another

blast, and the beadle again summoned the Countess de Soissons to

answer before the tribunal of justice for her crimes!

The people shouted as though they would have rent the canopy of

heaven; and Eugene, overcome by such excess of degradation, burst

into a flood of tears.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

MARIANNA MANCINI.

For a day Eugene remained in his room, while Conrad kept vigil in

the antechamber without. The unhappy prince had longed so intensely

for the privilege of grieving without witnesses, that he felt as if

no boon on earth was comparable to solitude. Not only his

affections, but his honor, had been mortally wounded: what medicine

could ever restore it to life?

And through the long night Conrad had listened to his slow, measured

step, as forth and back he had paced his room in the vain hope of

wooing sleep to

"steep his senses in forgetfulness."

Finally day dawned, and Conrad then ventured to knock and inquire

whether his lord would not breakfast. The door was not opened, but

Eugene thanked him, and refused. The poor fellow then threw himself

down on the carpet and slept for several hours. He was awakened by

his father, the only servant besides himself that had remained to

share the humiliations of the family, and who now came as bearer of

a letter from the Duke de Bouillon, which was to be delivered to the

prince without delay.

Delighted to have a pretext that might gain him admittance to the

presence of his master, Conrad sprang up and knocked. The door was

just sufficiently opened to give passage to the latter, was hastily

closed, and the bolt was heard to slide. But two hours later Eugene

appeared, and greeted his two faithful attendants with a gracious

inclination of the head.

"Now, Conrad," said he, "I am ready to oblige you by taking my

breakfast. Immediately after, I shall go out, and, as I go on an

affair of importance, order the state-coach, two footmen, and two

outriders. What makes you look so blank? Does it seem singular that

I ride in state through the streets of Paris?"

"God forbid, your highness!" exclaimed Conrad, "but--"

"But--"

"But we have no footmen--no outriders, your highness."

"True," said Eugene, "I had forgotten. But I suppose that the

rascals may be found and re-engaged. Go after them, Conrad, and--

stay--where is the steward?"

"He went with the princesses to the Hotel Carignan, your highness."

"True--true--you told me so yesterday. Go to him, Conrad; bid him

return and resume his duties, for the Hotel de Soissons must be

open, and I must have a household befitting my rank. Be as diligent

as you can, my good fellow, and let the carriage be before the

entrance in one hour."

"But first, your highness must breakfast."

"And how can I breakfast if all the servants have deserted? Or has

the cook been more loyal than his companions?"

"No, your highness; he went with the rest, but he is in the

neighborhood, and will be glad to return."

"I am rejoiced to hear it. Fetch him, then, and let him provide

breakfast. But, above all things, find me footmen and outriders. I

would rather go out hungry than without attendants."

"Your highness shall have all you desire," returned Conrad, with

alacrity; and he kept his word. An hour later, the state-coach stood

before the portal of the palace, and the outriders and footmen were

each man in his proper place. The prince had partaken of an

excellent breakfast, and was advancing to his carriage.

When he saw old Philip, the coachman, he gave him a look of grateful

recognition, and inquired whether he had recovered from the fatigues

of their uncomfortable journey.

"I endured no fatigue, your highness," was the old man's reply. "I

was on duty, and had no right to be fatigued."

"Bravely answered," returned Eugene. "I see that you, at least, are

unchanged, and I may rely upon your loyalty. And the rest of you,"

continued he, looking searchingly around at the captured deserters,

"you have returned, I perceive."

"Your highness," replied one of them, eagerly, "I had the honor of

accompanying you to Flanders."

"Oh, I do not allude to you, Louis. I know that I can count upon

you."

"We, too, are loyal, your highness," replied the others, "and are

ready to serve you from the bottom of our hearts. The hotel was

empty, and we had supposed ourselves to be without places. But we

are only too happy to return."

"Very well, I shall have occasion to test your fidelity this very

day. Conrad, get in the coach with me. I desire to converse with you

in private."

Conrad dared not disobey, although to sit opposite to his master in

a carriage, seemed to him the acme of presumption. He took his seat

with a look of most comic embarrassment, and stared at the prince as

though he suspected him of being suddenly attacked with insanity.

"To the Hotel Bouillon!" was the order given, and the coach went

thundering through the gates toward the Quai Malaquais. It was

stared at, precisely as before, when Eugene and his mother had

attempted to join the royal cortege at the Pre aux Clercs. The

people sneered at the equipage and escutcheon of a countess, who,

for three days in succession, had been publicly summoned before the

tribunal of justice; but of the young prince, who was the solitary

occupant of the coach, they took no notice whatever. He was not

guilty, therefore he provoked no curiosity; he was not handsome,

therefore he attracted no attention. As lonely and heart sick his

head reclined amid the velvet cushions, whose silken threads seemed

each a pricking thorn to give him pain, Eugene's resolves of

vengeance deepened into vows, and he swore an oath of enmity against

his mother's enemies, which long years after he redeemed.

Conrad was perplexed, and ashamed of the honor conferred upon him;

but when after a long pause Eugene began to speak in low, earnest

tones, the embarrassed expression of the valet's countenance gave

place to a look of interest, and finally he ventured a smile.

"Indeed, your highness," replied he, "it shall be accomplished to

your entire satisfaction, and old Philip will be delighted to be of

the party. He is already burning to revenge himself upon the Louvois

family for taking precedence of carriages that have the right to go

before them; and he has more than once approached the coachmen of

the nobles thus insulted, for their cowardice in suffering it."

"Well--you will both have an opportunity of exhibiting your powers

to-day in the Pre aux Clercs, and I only hope that the court will be

there to witness it."

"Philip will not fail, your highness, nor I either."

"Thank you. There may be an affray, and perchance a blow or two in

store for you; but I will reward you handsomely. But what is this?

The carriage has stopped, and we have not yet reached the Hotel de

Bouillon."

Conrad sprang out to ascertain the cause of their detention.

"Your highness," said he, returning, "we cannot proceed any farther.

The street is blocked up with carriages that extend all the way to

the entrance of the hotel. Some of them are equipages of the princes

of the blood."

"Then I must go on foot, and you and Philip can profit by your

leisure to discuss the manner of your attack. But by all means let

it be in the Pre aux Clercs, where all these carriages will be

filled with occupants."

So saying, Eugene alighted, and hurried to the hotel. Its large

portals were flung wide open, and streams of elegantly-dressed

courtiers and ladies were entering the palace. In such a crowd,

where the men were in glittering uniforms, and the women,

resplendent with diamonds, wore long trains of velvet or satin,

borne by gayly-attired pages, nobody had eyes for a little abbe,

clad in russet gown, with buttons of brass; so that Eugene was more

than once forced back before he made his way to the state

apartments. Step by step he advanced, until at last he reached the

centre of the room, where the family were assembled to receive their

distinguished guests.

The duke, in the uniform of a general, stood in the midst of the

group. At his side was the duchess, the celebrated Marianna Mancini,

the rival of Olympia de Soissons, not only in the affections of

Cardinal Mazarin, but also in those of the king. When the heart of

Louis had wearied of the elder sister, its capricious longings

fluttered toward the younger, for whose sake he deserted La

Valliere, and to whom, for a season, he swore every imaginable vow

of love and eternal constancy.

Marianna had gained wisdom from the experience of her sister. Quite

convinced of the transitory nature of a king's favor, she formed the

bold design of capturing the hand as well as the heart of his

majesty of France. Perhaps Louis fathomed her intentions, and

resolved to punish her ambition, for he suddenly manifested a

willingness to marry the Spanish princess, whom Mazarin had vainly

endeavored to force upon him as a wife; and Marianna, like her

sister, sought consolation in marriage with another, and became

Duchess de Bouillon. [Footnote: This is a mistake. The one whom

Louis loved was Marie Mancini, Princess of Colonna.--TRANS.]

Years had gone by, but Marianna was still a court beauty, and she

still possessed a certain influence over the heart of her royal

admirer. She alone refused to do homage to De Moutespan, and she

alone ventured to interrupt the pious conversations of the king with

his new favorite De Maintenon. When the obsequious courtiers were

vying with each other as to who should minister most successfully to

the vanity of the monarch that considered himself as the state; when

princes and princesses listened breathlessly to the oracles that

fell from his inspired lips, the Duchess de Bouillon was not afraid

to break their reverential silence, by conversing at her ease in a

tone of voice quite as audible as that of his majesty.

She stood in the midst of that brilliant throng, accepting their

homage as though she had been born to a throne, and dispensing

gracious words with the proud consciousness that every smile of hers

was received as a condescension. And yet, in that very hour, the

Duchess de Bouillon was under impeachment for crime. Her summons had

been sent "in the name of the king;" but everybody knew that it was

the work of Louvois, and everybody knew equally well that the

compliment paid to the duchess that day, was especially gratifying

to the king, who himself had suggested it as a means of vexing his

arrogant minister.

That morning, his majesty had held a grand levee, which was

punctually attended by all who had the inestimable privilege of

appearing there. Louis received his courtiers with that gay and

smiling affability which was the result of his temperament, and had

procured for him from one of his adorers the surname of Phoebus.

But, all of a sudden, a cloud was seen to obscure the face of the

sun, and the dismayed sycophants were in a flutter to know what was

passing behind it. The firmament had darkened at the approach of the

Duke de Vendome and the Cardinal d'Albret.

"My lords," said the king, curtly, "I am surprised to see you here.

Methinks the proper place for you both this morning would be at the

side of your relative, the Duchess de Bouillon."

"Sire," replied the young duke, "I came to see if the sun had risen.

I behold it now; and since the day has dawned on which my aunt is to

appear before her accusers, I hasten whither duty calls, to take my

place among her adherents."

"And you, cardinal?" said Louis, to the handsome brother of the Duke

de Bouillon.

"I, my sovereign, am accustomed to say my orisons before turning my

thoughts to the affairs of this world. Now that I have worshipped at

the shrine of my earthly divinity, I am ready to admit the claims of

my noble sister-in-law."

The king received all this adulation as a matter of course, and,

without vouchsafing any reply, turned to his confessor. Pere la

Chaise looked displeased; he had no relish for court nonsense at any

time; but what availed his exhortations to humility, if his royal

penitent was to have his ears poisoned with such abominable stuff as

this!

Louis guessed somewhat the nature of his confessor's vexation, for

he blushed, and spoke in a mild, conciliatory tone:

"Pardon me, father, if this morning I have ventured to permit the

things of this world to take precedence of things spiritual. But a

king should be ready at all hours to do justice unto all men; and as

this is the day fixed for the trial of a noble lady of France, for

crimes of which I hope and believe that she will be found innocent,

I have deemed it proper to show my impartiality by upholding those

who have the courage to avow themselves champions or defenders of

the Duchess de Bouillon. Come, father, let us hasten to the chapel."

He rose from his couch, and, with head bowed down, traversed his

apartments, until he reached a side-door which communicated with the

rooms of the Marquise de Maintenon. On either side were long rows of

obsequious courtiers, imitating as far as they could the devotional

demeanor of the king; and, following the latter, came Pere la

Chaise--the only man in all the crowd who walked with head erect.

His large, dark eyes wandered from one courtier to another, and

their glances were as significant as words. They asserted his

supremacy over king and court; they proclaimed him the ambassador of

the King of kings.

At the threshold Louis turned, and, letting fall the mantle of his

humility, addressed his courtiers.

"My lords," said he, imperiously, "we dispense with your attendance

in chapel this morning, and you are all free to go whithersoever you

deem best."

With a slight bend of the head, he passed through the portiere and

disappeared. The courtiers had comprehended the motive of their

dismissal: it was a command from his majesty to repair to the Hotel

de Bouillon. They hastened to avail themselves of the royal

permission, and one and all were shortly after in presence of the

duchess, offering sympathy, countenance, and homage.

CHAPTER II.

THE TRIAL.

While she received her numerous visitors with cordiality, Marianna

Mancini tempered her affability with just enough of stateliness to

make it appear that their presence there was a matter of course, and

not of significance. She had arrayed herself with great splendor for

this extraordinary occasion of mingled humiliation and triumph. She

wore a dress of rose-colored satin, whose folds, as she moved,

changed from the rich hues of the carnation to the delicate tinge of

the peach-blossom. Her neck and arms were resplendent with diamonds,

and her whole person seemed invested with more than its usual

majesty and grace.

She saw Eugene, who was making vain endeavors to approach her. With

mock-heroic air, she raised her white arm, and motioned away those

who were immediately around her person.

"Let me request the mourners," said she, "to give place to the

priest, who advances to hear the last confession of the criminal.

Poor little abbe! How will he manage to sustain the weight of the

iniquities I shall pour into his ears?"

A merry laugh followed this sally, and all eyes were turned upon

Eugene, who, blushing like a maiden, kissed his aunt's outstretched

hand, but was too much embarrassed to reply to her greeting.

"Prince," said a tall personage coming forward, "will you allow me

to act as your substitute? My shoulders are broad, and will gladly

bear the burden of all the sins that have ever been committed by

your charming penitent."

"I dare say. Monsieur la Fontaine," replied Eugene, recovering

himself, "and they will incommode you no longer than the time it

will occupy you to weave them into a tissue of pleasant fables."

"Thanks, gallant abbe!" cried Marianna, pleased. "You look upon my

crimes, then, as fiction?"

"Yes, dearest aunt," said Eugene, resolutely; "they are, I heartily

believe, as fictitious as those attributed to my dear and honored

mother."

As he spoke, Eugene's large eyes looked courageously around, to read

the countenances of the men that were listening. Whatever they might

think of the mother, the chivalry of her son was indisputable, and

no one was disposed to wound his filial piety by so much as a

supercilious glance.

The silence that ensued was broken by La Fontaine. "Did you know,"

said he, "that Madame de Coulanges had been summoned to trial

yesterday?"

"Yes," replied the duchess, "but I have not heard the result. Can

you tell it to us, my dear La Fontaine?"

"I can. The judges paid her a compliment which I am sure she has not

received from anybody else, since the days of her childhood."

"What was it!"

"They gave in a verdict of--innocent."

A hearty laugh followed this satire of La Fontaine's, and the

duchess indulged in so much mirth thereat, that her eyes sparkled

like the brilliants on her person, and her cheeks flushed until they

rivalled the deepest hues of her pink dress.

"Ah!" cried La Fontaine, bending the knee before her, "La mere des

amours, et la reine des graces, c'est Bouillon, et Venus lui cede

ses emplois." [Footnote: La Fontaine's "Letters to the Duchess de

Bouillon," p. 49.]

"Go on, go on, fabulist!" cried Marianna, laughing.

La Fontaine continued:

"Ah, que Marianne a de beautes, de graces, et de charmes; Elle sait

enchanter et l'esprit et les yeux; Mortels, aimez-la tous! mais ce

n'est qu'a des dieux, Qu'est reserve l'honneur de lui rendre les

armes!"

[Footnote: See Works of La Fontaine.]

"Do you, then, desert and go over to my enemies?" asked the duchess,

reproachfully.

"I!" exclaimed La Fontaine, rising to his feet. "Who could so

calumniate me?"

"Why, did not you say 'elle gait enchanter'? And is not that the

very crime of which I am accused?"

La Fontaine was about to make some witty reply to this sportive

reproach, when the Duke de Bouillon announced to the duchess that

she must prepare herself to appear before her judges.

"I am ready," was the response, and Marianna passed her arm within

that of her husband.

"My friends." said she, addressing all present, "I invite you to

accompany me on my excursion to the Arsenal. Come, Eugene, give me

your other arm. It is fit that the criminal should go before her

accusers between her confessor and her victim."

"Madame," returned Eugene, frowning, "I am no confessor. A confessor

should be an anointed of the Lord, which I am not."

"Not anointed!" exclaimed the duchess. "I have an excellent receipt

for unguent given me by La Voisin; and, if you promise that I shall

not be made to mount the scaffold for my obliging act, I will anoint

you myself, whenever you like."

"Mount the scaffold!" cried La Fontaine. "For such as you, duchess,

we erect altars, not scaffolds. True, you have bewitched our hearts,

but we forgive you, and hope to witness, not your disgrace, but your

triumph."

And, indeed, the exit of the Duchess de Bouillon had the appearance

of an ovation. The streets were lined with people, who greeted her

with acclamations, as though they were longing to indemnify one

sister for the obloquy they had heaped upon the other. The

aristocracy, too, felt impelled to avenge the insult offered to

their order by the impeachment of the Countess de Soissons. In the

cortege of the Duchess de Bouillon were, all the flower of the

French nobility; and such as had not joined her train were at their

windows, waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands to

Marianna, who, in a state-carriage drawn by eight horses, returned

their greetings with as much unconcern as if she had been on her way

to her own coronation.

Next to her equipage was that of the Countess de Soissons; and

bitter were the feelings with which Eugene gazed upon the multitude,

who, but a few days before, had driven his mother into exile. He was

absorbed in his own sorrowful musings, when the carriage stopped,

and it became his duty to alight and hand out his aunt.

She received him with unruffled smiles, and they entered the

corridors of the Arsenal. Behind them came a gay concourse of

nobles, drawn out in one long glittering line, which, like a gilded

serpent, glided through the darksome windings of that gloomy palace

of justice.

The usher that was stationed at the entrance of the council-chamber

was transfixed with amazement at the sight. He rubbed his eyes, and

wondered whether he had fallen asleep and was dreaming of the fairy

tales that years ago had delighted his childhood. And when he saw

the duchess smile, and heard her ringing laugh, he was so bewitched

with its music that, instead of challenging her train of followers,

he suffered them every one to pass into the chamber without a

protest.

At the upper end of the hall of council, seated around a table

covered with a heavy black cloth, were the judges in their funeral

gowns and long wigs, which floated like ominous clouds around their

sinister faces. Close by, at a smaller table similarly draped, sat

the six lateral judges of the criminal court, and the scribes, who

were prepared to take notes of all that was said during the trial.

When Marianna came in, with her cortege stretching out behind her

like the tail of a comet, the pens dropped from their hands and the

solemn judges themselves looked around in undisguised astonishment.

The duchess, affecting complete unconsciousness of the sensation she

was creating, came in smiling, graceful, and self-possessed. While

the frowning faces of the judiciary scanned the gay host of

intruders, who were desecrating the solemnity of the council-chamber

with their levity, the duchess advanced until she stood directly in

front of their table, and there she smiled again and inclined her

head.

The judges were still more astounded--so much so, that they were at

a loss how to express their indignation. It took the form of

exceeding respect, and their great black wigs were all

simultaneously bent down in acknowledgment of the lady's greeting.

The only one among them who allowed expression to his displeasure

was the presiding judge, Laraynie, who, with a view to remind the

criminal that her blandishments were out of place, stiffened himself

considerably.

"The Duchess de Bouillon has been summoned before this august

tribunal to answer for the crimes with which she has been charged,"

said he, severely. "Are you the accused?"

"My dear president," returned Marianna, flippantly, "how can you be

so absurd? If you have forgotten ME, I perfectly remember YOU. You

were formerly amanuensis to my uncle, Cardinal Mazarin, who promoted

you to the office, because of your dexterity in mending pens. Yes, I

am the Duchess de Bouillon, and nobody has a better right to know it

than you, who wrote out my marriage contract, and were handsomely

paid for your trouble."

"Our business is not with the past, but the present," replied

Laraynie, haughtily. "The question is not whether you are or are not

the niece of the deceased Cardinal Mazarin, but whether you are or

are not guilty of the crimes for which you have been summoned

hither?--"

"Which summons, you perceive, I have obeyed," interrupted the

duchess. "But I pray you to understand that I acknowledge no right

of yours to cite a duchess before your tribunal, sir. If I come at

your call, it is because it has been made in the name of the king,

my sovereign and yours!" [Footnote: The duchess's own words.--See

Renee, "The Nieces of Mazarin," p. 395.]

"You have obeyed the citation, because it was your duty to obey it,"

returned Laraynie. "But I see here a multitude who have come neither

by indictment nor invitation. It is natural enough that the Duke de

Bouillon should accompany his spouse on an occasion of such solemn

import to her safety; but who are all these people that have

obtruded themselves upon our presence?"

"Did you not comply with my husband's request that I might be

accompanied to the Arsenal by a few of my friends?"

"Yes--his petition was granted."

"Well, then," replied Marianna, turning toward the brilliant

assembly that had grouped themselves around the room in a circle,

"these are a few of my most particular friends. You see on my right

the Dukes de Vendome and d'Albret, and the Prince of Savoy; on my

left, the Prince de Chatillon, and others with whose names and

persons you were familiar in the days of your secretaryship under

Cardinal Mazarin."

"To our business!" cried Laraynie, angrily. "We will begin the

examination."

"First let me have a seat," replied the duchess, looking around, as

though she had expected an accommodation of the kind. There was not

even a stool to be seen in the council-chamber. But at the table of

the judges stood a vacant armchair, the property of some absent

member; and in the twinkling of an eye Eugene had perceived and

rolled it forward. He placed it respectfully behind his aunt, and

resumed his position on her left.

This bold act was received by the judiciary with a frown, by the

other spectators with a murmur of applause, and by the beautiful

daughter of the house of Mancini with one of those bewitching smiles

which have been celebrated in the sonnets of Benserade, Corneille,

Moliere, St. Evremont, and La Fontaine.

She sank into the luxurious depths of the arm-chair, and her

"particular friends" drew nearer, and stationed themselves around

it.

"Now, gentlemen," said she, in the tone of a queen about to hold a

levee, "now I am ready. What is it that you are curious to know as

regards my manner of life?"

"First, your name, title, rank, position, age, and--"

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried Marianna, interrupting the president in his

nomenclature, "is it possible that you can be so uncivil as to ask a

lady her age? I warn you, if you persist in your indiscreet

curiosity, that you will compel me to resort to falsehood, for I

positively will not tell you how old I am. As regards the rest of

your questions, you are all acquainted with my name, title, rank,

and position. Let us come to the point."

"So be it," replied the president, who was gradually changing his

tone, and assuming a demeanor less haughty toward the duchess. "You

are accused of an attempt on the life of the Duke de Bouillon."

"Who are my accusers?" asked Marianna.

"You shall hear," replied Laraynie, trying to resume his official

severity. "Are you acquainted with La Voisin?"

"Yes, I know her," said Marianna, without any embarrassment

whatever.

"Why did you desire to rid yourself of your husband?" was the second

interrogatory.

"To rid myself of my husband!" cried the duchess, with a merry

laugh. Then turning to the duke, "Ask him whether HE believes that I

ever meditated harm toward him."

"No!" exclaimed the duke. "No! She has ever been to me a true and

loving wife, and we have lived too happily together for her ever to

have harbored ill-will toward me. Of evil deeds, my honored wife is

incapable!"

"You hear him, judges; you hear him!" exclaimed Marianna, her face

beaming with exultation. "What more have you to ask of me now?"

"Why were you in the habit of visiting La Voisin?"

"Because she was shrewd and entertaining, and because she promised

me an interview with spirits."

"Did you not show her a purse of gold, and promised it to her in

case these spirits made their appearance?"

"No!" said Marianna, emphatically, "and that for the best of

reasons. I never was possessed of any but an empty purse--a

melancholy truth, to which my husband here can bear witness. That I

may have promised gold to La Voisin is just possible, but that she

ever saw any in my possession is impossible."

Marianna glanced at her friends, who returned her look with

approving nods and smiles.

"You deny, then," continued the judge, not exactly knowing what to

say next, "you deny that you ever made an attempt to poison your

husband?"

"I do, and I am sure that La Voisin never originated a calumny so

base. But I confess that I was dying to see the spirits. Unhappily,

although La Voisin called them, they never came."

"You confess, then, that you DID instigate La Voisin to cite

spirits?"

"I certainly did, but it was all to no purpose. The spirits were

excessively disobliging, and refused to appear."

Another murmur of approbation was heard among the friends of the

duchess, some of whom applauded audibly.

"You are accused not only of raising spirits, but of citing the

devil," pursued Laraynie, in tones of marked reproof. "Have you ever

seen the devil?"

"Oh, yes! He is before me now. He is old, ugly, and wears the

disguise of a presiding judge."

This time the applause rang through the council-chamber. It was

accompanied by shouts of laughter, and no more attempt was made by

the amused spectators to preserve the least semblance of decorum.

The president, pale with rage, rose from his seat, and darting fiery

glances at the irreverent crowd, whom the duchess had named as her

particular friends, he cried out:

"The trial is over, and I hereby dismiss the court."

"What--already?" said the duchess, rising languidly from her seat.

"Have you nothing more to say to me, my dear President Laraynie?"

Her "dear president" vouchsafed not a word in reply; he motioned to

his compeers to rise, and they all betook themselves to their hall

of conference. When the door had closed behind them, Marianna

addressed her friends.

"My lords," said she, "I must apologize for the exceeding dulness of

the scene you have just witnessed. But who would ever have imagined

that such wise men could ask such a tissue of silly questions? I had

hoped to experience a sensation by having a distant glimpse of the

headsman's axe, and lo! I am cheated into an exhibition of President

Laraynie's long ears!" [Footnote: The duchess's own words. This

account of the trial is historical.--See Renee, "The Nieces of

Mazarin," p. 395.]

"Come, Marianna," said her husband, passing her arm within his. "It

is time for our drive to the Pre aux Clercs; the king and court are

doubtless there already."

"And I shall annoy Madame de Maintenon by entertaining his majesty

with an account of the absurd comedy that has just been performed in

the council-chamber of the Arsenal."

So saying, Marianna led the way, and, followed by her adherents,

left the tribunal of justice, and drove off in triumph to the Pre

aux Clercs.

CHAPTER III.

A SKIRMISH.

Instead of accompanying his aunt from the council-chamber to her

carriage, Eugene fell back, and joined two young men, who were

walking arm in arm just behind the duke and duchess.

They greeted him with marked cordiality, and congratulated him upon

the presence of mind with which he had captured the judicial arm-

chair, and pressed it into the service of his aunt.

"My cousins of Conti are pleased to jest," replied Eugene. "Such

praise befits not him who removes a chair, but him who unsettles a

throne."

"Have you any such ambitious designs?" asked Prince Louis de Conti,

sportively.

"Why not?" returned his brother, Prince de la Roche. "It would not

be the first time that such a feat had been performed by an

ecclesiastic. Cardinal Mazarin removed the throne of France from the

Louvre to his bedchamber, and what Giulio Mazarini once

accomplished, may perchance be repeated by his kinsman, the abbe."

"Who tells you that I am a priest?" said Eugene.

"First--your garb; second, the will of your family; and third, the

command of the king."

"You forget the will of the individual most interested. But of that

anon--I have a request to make of you both."

"It is granted in advance," exclaimed the brothers with one voice.

"Thank you, gracious kinsmen. Will you, then, accept a seat in my

carriage, and drive with me to the Pre aux Clercs?"

"With pleasure. Is that all?"

"Almost all," replied Eugene, laughing. "What else remains to be

done, must be performed by myself."

"Ah! There is something then in the wind? May we ask what it is?"

"You will witness it, and that is all I require of you. But here is

my carriage. Be so kind as to step in."

Conrad stood at the portiere, and, while the young Princes de Conti

were entering the coach, he drew from under his cloak a slender

parcel, which he presented to his lord.

Eugene received it with a smiling acknowledgment. "Is all prepared?"

he asked.

"Yes, your highness. Old Philip is in ecstasies, and the other

lackeys are like a pack of hounds on the eve of a fox-chase."

"They shall hear the fanfare presently," returned Eugene, following

his cousins, and taking his seat opposite to them.

"What is that?" asked the Prince de Conti pointing to the long, thin

roll of white paper which Eugene held in his hand.

"I suspect that it is a crucifix, and Eugene is going to entrap us

into a confession," returned De la Roche, who loved to banter his

cousin.

"We shall see," replied Eugene, opening the paper, and exhibiting

its contents. "A whip!" exclaimed De Conti.

"Yes, a stout, hunting-whip!" echoed De la Roche. "Are we to go on a

fox-hunt, dear little abbe?"

"We are, dear, tall prince, and we shall shortly set out."

"Things begin to look serious," observed De Conti, with a searching

glance at the pale, resolute face of his young relative. "You do not

really intend to chase your fox in presence of the king?"

"Yes, I do. I intend to prove to his majesty that I am not

altogether unskilled in worldly craft, and, as regards my fox, I

intend that all Paris shall witness his punishment."

"You mean that you have been insulted, and are resolved to disgrace

the man that has insulted you?" asked De la Roche.

"You have guessed," said Eugene, deliberately, as he unwound the

long lash of the whip, and tried its strength.

"But Eugene," said De Conti, earnestly, "remember that such

degradation is only to be wiped out with blood, and that your cloth

will not protect you from the consequences of so unpriestly an act."

Eugene's eyes flashed fire. "Hear me," said he. "If my miserable

garb could prevent me from vindicating my honor as a man, I would

rend it into fragments, and cast it away as the livery of a coward.

A man's dress is not a symbol of his soul; and so help me, God! this

brown cassock shall some day be transformed into the panoply of a

soldier. But see! The carriage stops, and we are about to taste the

joys ineffable of seeing the King of France drive by."

Two outriders in the royal livery were now seen to gallop down the

allee, as a signal for all vehicles whatsoever to drive aside until

the royal equipages had passed by.

In this manner Louis was accustomed to exhibit himself to the

admiring gaze of his subjects, and to bestow upon them the

unspeakable privilege of a stray beam from the "son of France."

Never had he shed his rays upon a more numerous or more magnificent

concourse than the one assembled in the Pre aux Clercs; for the

Duchess de Bouillon had just entered with her cortege, and the allee

was lined on either side with splendid equipages and their

outriders--pages, equestrians, and foot-passengers.

His majesty was gazing around, bowing affably to the crowd, when he

perceived the Duchess de Bouillon, and caught her eye. Louis waved

his hand, and smiled; and this royal congratulation filled up the

measure of Marianna's content. At that moment his face was illumined

by an expression of genuine feeling, perhaps a reflection of the

light of a love which had shone upon it in the golden morning of his

youth.

The king's coach had gone by; following came the equipages of the

royal family, and the princes of the blood: then--

"My dear cousin," said Eugene, "be on your guard, and if the glasses

of our carriage-windows begin to splinter, close your eyes, for--"

At this moment the coach darted suddenly forward, and took its place

behind the royal cortege. There was a tremendous concussion of

wheels and shafts, a crash of broken panes, a stamping and

struggling of horses; and, above all this din, the frantic oaths of

the coachmen that had suffered from the collision.

"What do you mean, you ill-mannered churl! What do you mean by

driving in front of my horses?" cried a loud and angry voice.

"What do you mean yourself, clown!" was the furious reply of the

Jehu addressed. "My horses were merely advancing to take the

position which belongs to them of right, and how dare you stop the

way!"

"Do you hear?" asked Eugene, with composure. "The drama begins, and

I and my whip will shortly appear on the stage. It was my trusty old

Philip who began the fray, and--it has already gone from words to

blows, for it seems to me I heard something like a box on the ear--"

"You did indeed!" exclaimed the Prince de Conti; "but what on earth

can it mean?"

"You will find out presently," replied Eugene. "But wait a moment, I

must listen for my cue--"

"Your cue will have to be a thunder-clap, if you are to hear it

above all this racket," said De la Roche, slightly lowering one of

the windows, and looking cautiously out. "Devil take me! but it is a

veritable pitched battle. These knights of the hammer-cloth are

dexterous in the use of their fists, and every one of your servants,

Eugene, are engaged in the fight!"

The prince's last words were lost to his listeners, for a tremendous

crash drowned his voice, and something fell heavily to the ground.

"This is my cue," cried Eugene. "Come--I am about to make my debut."

And before he had time to rise from his seat, the portiere flew

open, and Conrad hastily took down the carriage-steps.

"Is his coach overturned?" asked the prince.

"Yes, your highness, and he is inside. His footmen tried to get him

out; but with the help of some of our friends we fell upon them, and

so gave them plenty of occupation, until your highness was ready to

appear."

"Well--let him out, Conrad. I am ready for him! Come," added he,

turning to his cousins. "Come, and let us survey the field."

In truth, the Pre aux Clercs, at this moment, resembled a battle-

ground. Although the royal cortege had long gone by, the promenaders

were too curious to follow; they all remained to see the end of this

turbulent opening. Every one had witnessed old Philip's manoeuvre,

and everybody knew that the point of attack was the carriage of

Barbesieur Louvois, for the footmen of the Countess de Soissons had

been seen to seize the horses' reins, and force them out of the way.

And now the coaches were all emptied of their occupants, who crowded

around the spot which Eugene, with his two cousins, was seen

approaching. They began to comprehend that this was no uproar among

lackeys, but a serious misunderstanding between their masters. The

Dukes de Bouillon, de Larochejaquelein, and de Luynes, the Princes

de Belmont and Conde, and many other nobles of distinction, came

forward and followed Prince Eugene to the field of action. The

coachman and lackeys of Barbesieur Louvois were trying to force the

footmen of the Countess de Soissons to right their overturned coach.

Old Philip cried out that the Princes de Carignan took precedence of

all manner of Louvois of whatever generation, and that he would not

stir. His companions had applauded his spirit, and both parties

having found allies among the other retainers of the nobles on the

ground, the battle had become general, and the number of fists

engaged was formidable.

The tumult was at its height when the clear, commanding tones of

Eugene's voice were heard.

"Churl and villain!" exclaimed he, "are you at last in my power?"

In a moment every eye was turned upon the speaker, who, just as

Barbesieur was emerging from the coach-window, seized and held him

prisoner. The belligerent lackeys were so astounded, that on both

sides the upraised fists were suspended, while old Philip, taking

advantage of the momentary lull, cried out in stentorian tones:

"Armistice for the servants! Their lords are here to decide the

difficulty!"

Down went the fists, and all parties gazed in breathless silence at

the pale, young David, who confronted his Goliath with as firm

reliance on the justice of his cause as did the shepherd-warrior of

ancient Israel. Eugene was pale and collected, but his nostrils were

distended, and his eyes were aflame. Barbesieur's great chest heaved

with fury, as he felt himself in the grasp of his puny antagonist,

and turning met the glance of the son of Olympia de Soissons.

For a few moments no word was spoken. The two enemies exchanged

glances; while princes, dukes, counts, and their followers, looked

on with breathless interest and expectation.

Barbesieur now made one supreme effort to escape, but all in vain.

With one thrust of his muscular arm, Eugene forced him back into the

coach, his nether limbs within, his great trunk without the window.

"Miserable coward," said the prince, "who to escape from the dangers

of a fray among lackeys, have taken refuge in the carriage of a

nobleman! Monsieur Louvois will assuredly have you punished for your

presumption; but before he hears of your insolence toward him, you

shall be chastised for the injuries you have inflicted upon me."

"Dare harm one hair of my head," muttered Barbesieur, between his

teeth, "and your life shall be the forfeit. My father will avenge

me."

"So be it; but first, let me avenge my mother," cried Eugene,

raising his whip on high.

"Eugene, Eugene," exclaimed the Duke de Bouillon, trying to reach

his kinsman in time to prevent the descending stroke, "you are

mistaken. This gentleman is no intruder in the coach of the Louvois;

it is Barbesieur de Louvois himself!"

"It is you that are in error," returned Eugene, holding fast to his

prisoner, who looked like some great monster in a trap. "This is not

Monsieur Louvois; this is a leader of mobs, an instigator of riots.

He is the knave that incited the people of Paris to malign my

mother, and to stone her palace.--Here! Philip! Conrad! Men of my

household, do you not recognize this man?"

"Ay, ay!" was the prompt response, "he is the very man that led on

the rabble."

"He is. The captain of the guard allowed him to escape, but before

he left I promised him a horsewhipping, and I never break my word.--

You are a villain, for you have defamed a noble lady.--Take this!

You are a liar, for you have accused her of crime.--Take this! You

are a poltroon, for while you were inciting others to violent deeds,

you hid your face, and denied your name.--Take this!"

At each opprobrious epithet, the lash fell heavily upon the

shoulders of Barbesieur, and every blow was answered by a cry of

mingled pain and rage. The multitude looked on in silence, almost in

terror; for who could calculate the consequence of such an indignity

offered to such a family!

"And now," said Eugene, throwing the whip as far as he could send

it, "now you are free! My mother's defamer has been lashed like a

hound, and her son's heart is relieved of its load."

So saying, he turned his back, and joined the group, among whom his

cousins were awaiting his return.

"Which of you, my lords," said he, "cried out that I was mistaken in

the identity of yonder knave?"

"It was I, Eugene," replied the Duke de Bouillon.

"But you see your error now, do you not, uncle? since not only I,

but my whole household proclaim him to be the ring-leader of that

riot, which forced my mother into exile."

"And yet he is assuredly Barbesieur Louvois," laughed the Prince de

Conti.

"Well--we shall see," was the reply. "He has disengaged himself from

his coach-window, and if he is a gentleman he will know what he has

to do."

And Eugene returned to the place where Barbesieur was now standing,

calling out to his friends to follow him.

"Are you quite sure, my lords, that this individual is Monsieur

Louvois?"

They answered with one voice, "We are!" while all eyes were fixed

upon the tall figure which, now relaxed and bent with shame,

resembled the stricken frame of an old man; while his eyes were

sedulously cast down, that they might not meet the glance of the

meanest man who had witnessed his disgrace.

"I am still incredulous," said the prince. "But I reaffirm that this

is the brutal ringleader of the mob that attacked my mother's home,

and since I am ready to swear upon my honor that it is he, have not

I performed my duty by chastising him?"

"Yes, Prince of Savoy, if you are sure that it is he," was the

unanimous reply.

"I can prove that it is he. When, in spite of my warning, he

uplifted his right arm to urge the rabble to a new attack on the

palace, I aimed a bullet at his elbow, and it reached its mark. Now,

if this man be Monsieur Louvois, and not the knave I hold him to be,

let him raise his right arm, and so brand me as a liar."

As he heard this challenge, Barbesieur trembled, and his face paled

to a deadly whiteness. His right hand was buried in the breast of

his coat, and well he knew that every eye was riveted upon that

spot. He made one superlative effort to straighten his arm, but no

sooner had he moved it than he uttered a stifled cry of pain, and

the wounded limb fell helpless to his side.

"My lords," said Eugene, inclining his head, "you see that I am no

calumniator. This is the churl who maligned my mother's name."

"And I am Barbesieur Louvois!" cried the churl, gnashing his teeth

with rage. "I am Barbesieur Louvois, and you shall learn it to your

sorrow, for my father will avenge the insult you have offered to his

son."

"Your father!" echoed the Prince de Conti. "But yourself! What will

you do to mend your bruised honor? A nobleman knows but one means of

repairing that."

Barbesieur blushed, and then grew very pale. "You see that I am

incapable of resorting to this means," replied he, in much

confusion.

"Then you will not challenge the Prince de Carignan?"

"It is not in my power to send a challenge. My right arm is useless

to me."

"Sir," said De Conti, haughtily, "there are blots on a man's honor,

which can only be wiped out with blood; and when the right hand is

powerless, a nobleman learns to use his left."

"I claim the privilege of waiting until I shall have regained the

use of my right hand," returned Barbesieur with a sinister glance at

De Conti. "I cannot be sure of my aim with an unpractised left hand;

and when I meet this miserable manikin, I wish to kill him.--Eugene

of Savoy, you have offered me a deadly affront; and as soon as my

wound is healed, you shall hear from me."

"Don't give yourself the trouble of sending me a challenge,"

returned Eugene coolly, "for I will not accept it."

"Not accept it!" echoed Barbesieur, unable to suppress the gleam of

satisfaction that WOULD shoot across his countenance. "Your valor

then, which is equal to put opprobrium upon a defenceless man, will

not bear you out to face him in a duel? What say these gentlemen

here present, to such behavior on the part of a prince of the ducal

house of Savoy?"

"When I shall have spoken a few more words to you, they can decide.

You have so outraged my mother, the Countess de Soissons, that the

falsehood with which you have befouled her honored name can never be

recalled! Not content with forcing her, by your persecutions, into

exile, your emissaries preceded her to every point whereat she

sought shelter, and incited the populace to refuse her the merest

necessaries of life! For wrongs such as these, nothing could repay

me but the infliction of a degradation both public and complete. I

have disgraced you; the marks of my lash are upon your back, and

think you that I shall bestow upon you one drop of my blood

wherewith to heal your stripes? No! I fight with no man whom I have

chastised as I would a serf; but if you have a friend that will

represent you, here is my gauntlet: let him raise it.--Gentlemen,

which of you will be the proxy that shall cleanse the sullied honor

of Barbesieur Louvois with his blood?"

"Not I," said the two Princes de Conti, simultaneously.

"Nor I," "Nor I," "Nor I!" echoed the others.

"Nor I," cried the Duke de la Roche Guyon stepping forward so as to

be conspicuous and generally heard. "I am the son-in-law of Monsieur

Louvois, and unhappily this man is the brother of my dear and

honored wife. But he is no kinsman of mine; and if I raise this

glove, it is to return it to the Prince of Savoy, for among us all

he has not an enemy. He stands in the midst of his friends, and they

uphold and will sustain him, let the consequences of this day be

what they may."

With a deep inclination of the head, the duke returned his glove to

Eugene, who, greatly affected, could scarcely murmur his thanks.

With glaring eyes and scowl of hatred, Barbesieur had listened,

while his brother-in-law's repudiation of the tie that bound them to

one another had deepened and widened the gashes of his disgrace.

With muttered words of revenge, he mounted the horse of one of his

grooms, and galloped swiftly out of sight of the detested Pre aux

Clercs.

"Gentlemen," resumed the Duke de la Roche Guyon, "I am about to seek

an audience with Monsieur Louvois, to relate to him the events that

have just transpired; and to exact of him as a man of honor that he

will seek no revenge for the affront offered to his son. Which of

you, then, will accompany me as witness?"

"All, all," cried the cavaliers, with enthusiasm. "We sustain the

Prince of Savoy, and if Minister Louvois injures a hair of his head,

he shall be answerable for the deed to every nobleman in France."

"And you, dear Eugene, whither are you going?" asked De Conti,

putting his hand on his cousin's shoulder, and contemplating him

with looks of affectionate admiration.

"I?" said Eugene, softly. "I shall return home to the hall of my

ancestors, there to hang this gauntlet below my mother's portrait.

Would that kneeling I could lay it at her feet!"

He was about to turn away, when De Conti remarked, "I wonder whether

Barbesieur will have the assurance to attend the court-ball to-

night?"

"We shall see," replied Eugene, with a smile.

"We! Why, you surely will not present yourself before the king,

until you find out in what way his majesty intends to view your

attack upon the favorite son of his favorite minister?"

"I shall go to the ball to ascertain the sentiments of his majesty.

You know how I abhor society, and how awkward I am in the presence

of the beau monde; but not to attend this ball would be an act of

cowardice. I must overcome my disinclination to such assemblies, and

learn my fate to-night."

CHAPTER IV.

LOUVOIS' DAUGHTER.

"Are you really in earnest, ma toute belle?" said Elizabeth-

Charlotte of Orleans. "Are you serious when you relinquish your

golden hours of untrammelled existence, to become my maid of honor?"

The young girl, who was seated on a tabouret close by, lifted her

great black eyes, and for a moment contemplated the large, good-

natured features of the duchess; then, smiling as if in satisfaction

at the survey, she replied:

"Certainly, if your highness accords me your gracious permission to

attach myself to your person."

"And does your father approve? Has the powerful minister of his

majesty no objection to have his daughter enter my service?"

"I told him that if he refused I would take the veil," returned the

young girl, with quiet decision.

The duchess leaned forward, and contemplated her with interest.

"Take the veil!" exclaimed she. "What should such a pretty creature

do in a convent? You are not--you cannot be in earnest. Let those

transform themselves into nuns who have sins upon their consciences,

or sorrow within their hearts: you can have had no greater loss to

mourn than the flight of a canary, or the death of a greyhound."

The maiden's eyes glistened with tears. "Your highness, I have lost

a mother."

"Oh, how unfeeling of me to have forgotten it!" exclaimed the

duchess. "But, in good sooth, this heartless court-life corrupts us

all; we are so unaccustomed to genuine feeling, that we forget its

existence on earth. Dear child, forgive me; I am thoughtless, but

not cruel. Give me your hand and let us be friends."

The girl pressed a fervent kiss upon the hand that was outstretched

to meet hers. "Oh!" cried she, feelingly, "my grandmother was right

when she told me that you were the best and noblest lady that ever

graced the court of France."

"Did your grandmother say that, love?" asked the duchess. "I

remember her as one of the most delightful persons I ever met. She

was a spirited, intelligent, and pure-minded woman; and many are the

pleasant hours we have passed together. I was really grieved when

the Marquise de Bonaletta disappeared from court, and went into

retirement."

"She left the court for love of my mother, whose marriage was a most

unhappy one; and who, although she had much strength of mind, had

not enough to cope with the malignity of the enemies that were of

her own household."

"Your father was twice married, was he not?"

"Yes, your highness; and, by his first marriage, had a son and a

daughter. With the latter, the present Duchess de la Roche Guyon, my

mother lived in perfect harmony, but her step-son, Barbesieur, hated

her, and finally caused her to quit her husband's house, and take

refuge with her mother, the Marchioness de Bonaletta."

"I remember," returned the duchess. "Both ladies left Paris at the

same time, and nothing was ever heard of them afterward. They

retired to the country, did they not?"

"Yes, your highness. My grandmother had inherited a handsome estate

from her husband; and thither they took refuge from the persecution

of Barbesieur--my brother, and yet the enemy who, before I had

attained my sixth year, had driven me to a state of orphanage, by

alienating from me my father's affection. Well--I scarcely missed

his protection, for dear mother's love filled up the measure of my

heart's cravings for sympathy, and her care supplied every

requirement of my mind. But my happiness was short-lived as a dream;

my mother's health had been sorely shattered by her many trials, and

I was not yet fourteen when it pleased God to take her to Himself."

The duchess listened with tender sympathy. "I see, dear child," said

she, "that you are a loving daughter, for two years have gone by

since your misfortune, and yet your eyes are dim with tears."

"Ah, your highness, time has increased, not lessened, my sorrow. The

longer the separation, the harder it is to bear, and I know not from

what source consolation is to flow. For a time, however, I had the

sympathy of my grandmother to soothe my grief. We visited her grave,

we spoke of her together. For love of her who was so eager for my

improvement, I applied myself heartily to my studies. Hoping,

believing that she looked down from heaven upon her child, I strove

to prove my love by cultivating to their utmost the powers which God

had bestowed upon me."

"And no doubt you have become such a learned little lady, that you

will be quite formidable to such triflers as we," said the duchess,

with a smile.

"No, indeed, dear lady. I am slightly proficient in music and

painting--these are my only accomplishments."

"Ah, you love music? How it delights me to know this, for I, too, am

passionately fond of it! When I was a maiden in Heidelberg, I used

to roam about the woods, singing in concert with the larks and

nightingales; and my deceased father, the Elector Palatine, finally

declared that I was no German princess, but a metamorphosed lark,

whom he constantly expected to see spread out her wings, and depart

for Bird-land. Sometimes, when my reveries are mournful, I could

almost wish myself a lark, hovering over the fields that lie at the

foot of our dear castle at Heidelberg, or nestling among its towers,

wherein I have passed so many joyous hours. Now, if I were a Hindoo,

I would look forward with pleasure to the day of my transmigration;

for as a lark, I would fly to my dear native home, and sing the old

air of which my father was so fond:"

"'The sky that bends over the Neckar is fair,

And its waters are kissed by the soft summer air'--"

As the duchess attempted to hum this familiar strain, her voice grew

faint, and her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them hastily away.

"My dear child," said she, after a pause, "I know not why your sweet

companionship should have brought to mind visions of home and

happiness that are long since buried in the grave of the past. I

seldom indulge in retrospection, Laura; it unfits me for endurance

of the heartless life we lead in Paris. But sometimes, when we are

alone, you will let me live over these sunny hours, and--"

Again her voice faltered, and she buried her face in her hands,

while Laura looked on with sympathetic tears.

There was a silence of several moments, at the end of which the

duchess gave a short sigh, and looked up. Her face was quite

composed, and, smiling affectionately upon her young companion, she

resumed their conversation.

"And now, dear child, go on with what you were relating to me. My

little episode of weakness is ended, and I listen to your artless

narration with genuine pleasure. You lived with your grandmother on

her estate, and you were tenderly attached to each other?"

"Yes, indeed, I loved my grandmother to adoration. My lonely heart

had concentrated all its love upon her who loved ME not only for my

own, but for my mother's sake; and we were beginning to find

happiness in our mutual affection, when death again snatched from me

my last stay, my only friend. My dear grandmother would have gone

joyfully, but for the sake of the poor child she was leaving behind.

When she felt her end approaching, she sent for my father, who

obeyed the summons at once. He arrived in time to receive her last

injunctions. They had a long private interview, at the end of which

I was called in, and formally delivered over to the guardianship of

my father, who promised me his love and protection. But my

grandmother added these words, which I have carefully treasured in

my memory:"

"'If you should ever need advice or countenance from a woman, go to

the Duchess of Orleans. She is a virtuous and benevolent princess,

and will befriend you. With her for a protectress, you will be as

safe from harm as in the sheltering arms of your own mother.'"

The duchess extended her hand. "I thank your grandmother, dear

child, for her confidence in my benevolence: if I have never

deserved it before, I will earn it now; and be assured that in me

you will find a loving protectress. But why should you need any

influence of mine? Your father is the most powerful subject at

court, and the whole world will be at your feet. Young, handsome,

and rich, every nobleman in France will be your suitor."

"But I can never marry without love," replied Laura,

enthusiastically. "Love alone could reconcile me to the exigencies

of married life, and I must choose the man that is to rule over my

destiny. Let me be frank, and confess to your highness why I desire

to place myself under your protection. My father is trying to force

me into a marriage with the Marquis de Strozzi, the Venetian envoy.

He is young, handsome, rich, and may perhaps become Doge of Venice.

He is all this--but what are his recommendations to me? I do not

love him! More than that, he is the friend of Barbesieur, and

therefore I dislike him. The match, too, is of Barbesieur's making:

he it was that influenced my father to consent to it. I have already

declared that, sooner than marry the marquis, I will take the veil.

But my vocation is not for the cloister, and therefore I implore

your highness's protection. I beseech you, give me the place made

vacant by the marriage of your maid of honor, and save me from a

life of misery. In my father's house I am solitary and unloved: but

even loneliness of heart I could endure, if I were permitted to

endure it in peace! But a compulsory marriage is worse to me than

death! Save me, dear lady, and I will be the humblest and most

obedient of your subjects!"

The duchess smilingly shook her head. "I am afraid," said she, "that

the daughter of Louvois will not be permitted to accept the office

you ask, my child. Do you know that my maids of honor are paid for

their services?"

"Yes, your highness; but I crave permission to serve you without

salary. I am rich, and, as regards fortune, independent of my

father. On condition that I assume her name, my grandmother left me

the whole of her vast estates. I have wealth, then, more than enough

to gratify my wildest caprices;--but no mother--no friend. Oh, take

pity on me, and befriend a poor orphan!"

"A poor orphan!" laughed the duchess. "A rich heiress, you mean--a

marchioness of fifteen years, who is possessed of sufficient

character to dispute the mandates of the powerful minister of the

King of France! But your resolute bearing pleases me. You are not

the puppet of circumstances, nor is your heart hardened by ambition.

It follows whither youthful enthusiasm beckons, and scorns the rein

of worldly restraint. I like your spirit, Laura, and I love YOU. You

may count upon me, therefore, as far as it lies in my power to serve

you. But understand that I am not a favorite at court. The king

honors me occasionally with his notice; but the two great magnates,

the 'powers that be,' De Montespan, and her rival De Maintenon, both

dislike me. They have reason to do so, for I do not love them. I am

at heart an honest German woman, and have no taste for gilded

corruption. I honor and love my brother-in-law, whom God preserve

and bless! But if the Lord would take these two marchionesses to

Himself, or send them below, to regions more congenial to their

tastes than heaven, I assure you that I would not die of grief at

their loss. De Montespan is merely a dissolute woman, who abandoned

her husband and children to become the mistress of a king. But that

De Maintenon! Her hypocrisy is enough to turn one's stomach. She not

only supplants her benefactress in the affections of her lover, but

dresses up her sins in the garments of a virtue, and affects piety!

She teaches his majesty to sin and pray, and pray and sin, hoping to

compound with Heaven for adultery, by sanctimony: perchance

expecting, as brokerage for her king's regenerated soul, an earthly

reward in the shape of a mantle edged with ermine! When I think of

that Iscariot in petticoats, I am ready to burst with indignation!"

The duchess grew so excited that she had to wipe her face with her

embroidered handkerchief. After cooling herself for a few moments,

she resumed:

"Yes! and to think that the princes of the blood and the queen

herself, are obsequious to these two lemans of a king! May I freeze

in the cold blast of royal disfavor, before I degrade my rank and

womanhood by such servility! And mark this well, little marchioness,

if you take service with me. Who goes to court with me, pays no

homage to the mistresses of the king.--But why do you kneel, my

child? What means this humility?"

"How otherwise could I give expression to my reverence, my

admiration, my love?" exclaimed Laura, her countenance beaming with

beautiful enthusiasm. "And how otherwise could I thank my God that

so noble, so brave, so incomparable a woman is my protectress! Let

me kiss this honored hand that has never been contaminated by the

touch of corruption!"

"You are a sweet enthusiast," said Elizabeth-Charlotte, bending down

and kissing Laura's brow. "In your eye there beams a light that

reveals to me a kindred spirit. Beautiful, young, hopeful though you

be (and I am none of these), there is a congeniality of soul between

us that leaps over all disparity, and proclaims us to be friends.

Come, dear child, to my heart."

With a cry of joy, Laura threw herself into the arms of the duchess,

who held her fast, and kissed her o'er and o'er.

"Sweet child," exclaimed she, "your spontaneous love is like a

flower springing from the hideous gaps of a grave. I greet it as a

gift of God, and it shall reanimate within me happiness and hope.

You are but fifteen, Laura, and I am a mature woman of thirty; but

my heart is as strong to love as yours; for many years it has pined

under clouds of neglect, but the sun of your sympathy has shone upon

it, and, warmed by its kindly beams, it will revive and bloom."

"And oh how I shall love you in return!" cried the happy girl. "As a

mother whom I trust and revere--as a sister to whom I may confide my

girlish secrets--as a guardian angel whose blessing I shall implore.

But in the world, and when I bear your train, I will forget that I

am aught but the lowliest handmaiden of her royal highness,

Elizabeth-Charlotte, Duchess of Orleans."

"And when we are alone and without witnesses, we will speak of those

we have loved; and I, alas! of some whom I have not loved; for,

Laura, MY marriage was a compulsory one. The altar on which I

pledged my faith was one of sacrifice; and I, the bride, the lamb

that was immolated for my country's good. Ah! many tears have I shed

since I was Duchess of Orleans; but your tender hand shall wipe them

away, and in your sweet society I shall grow joyous again. We will

sing the ditties of my fatherland; and, provided no one is within

hearing, I will teach you our German dances, which, because of the

corruption that dwells within their hearts, these French people

stigmatize as voluptuous. With such a birdling as you to carol

around me, the lark that once dwelt in my heart, will find its voice

again, and awake to sing a hymn of thankfulness to God, who has

enriched me with the blessing of your love."

"And I, dear lady, will try to deserve the happiness He has

vouchsafed to me, by loving all His creatures--even Barbesieur

himself."

"Ah! Barbesieur!" echoed the duchess, thoughtfully. "I doubt whether

he or your father will consent to give you to me, Laura. Nobody

knows better than Monsieur Louvois, how unimportant a personage at

court is the Duchess of Orleans."

"He must give me to you or to the cloister," exclaimed Laura,

quickly. "And not only relinquish me, which would be no great loss,

but my worldly good, which are an important item in his estimation.

I am absolute mistress of my fortune, and nobody but the Chevalier

Lankey has a word to say in the matter. As for him--dear old fellow!

he is the tenderest guardian that ever pretended to have authority

over an heiress; and he loves me so sincerely, that if I were to

come and say that, to save me from misfortune, he must stab me to

the heart, he would do my bidding, and forthwith die of grief for

the act."

"I can almost believe you, absurd child; for you are an enchantress,

and therefore irresistible."

"Yes--I am irresistible," replied Laura, throwing her arms around

the duchess's neck, "and I vow and declare that it is my good

pleasure to live forever in the sunshine of your highness's

presence; so I consider myself as accepted and installed."

"With all my heart, if your family be propitious! And with a view to

reconciling them, I must create an office for you of more dignity

than that of a mere maid of honor. You shall be lady of the

bedchamber; and I will announce your appointment with all due

formality to the king, the court, and my own household. You retain

the title of maid of honor, because that gives you the right to

remain constantly attached to my person; but, except on days of

extraordinary ceremony, you shall be dispensed with the duty of

following me as train-bearer."

"I shall be dispensed with no such thing!" cried Laura, playfully;

"I do not intend to delegate my duties to anybody; above all, a duty

which to me will be a privilege."

"We shall see, you self-willed girl," was the reply, "for I shall

forbid you in presence of my household, and, for decorum's sake, you

will be forced to obey. Neither shall you inhabit the third story of

the main palace, in common with the other maids of honor; you shall

occupy the pretty pavilion in the garden, and have an independent

household as befits your rank and fortune. Now, as regards your

table. You know that, by the laws of French etiquette, nobody is

permitted to sit at table with the princes or princesses of the

blood; and my lord, the duke, is so stringent in his observance of

these laws, that he would faint were he to witness a breach of them.

When his royal highness, then, dines with me, you will be served in

the pavilion, and are at liberty to invite whom you please to share

your repasts; but happily, I am honored with his presence but twice

a week; and on all other days, we shall breakfast and dine together.

The duke spends two days out hunting, and the other three with his

mistress, Madame de Rulhieres. You look surprised to hear me mention

this so coolly. Time was, when I felt humiliated to know that mine

were not the only children who kissed my husband, and called him

father. The caresses he bestowed upon his mistress, I never grudged.

She robbed me of nothing when she accepted them. As the wife of a

man whom I did not love, I could aspire to none of the joys of

wedded life; I have contented myself with fulfilling its duties, and

so conducting myself that I need never be ashamed to look my dear

children in the face. But enough of this: let us return to you. You

will keep your own carriage, use your own liveries, and be sole

mistress of your house and home, into which the Duchess of Orleans

shall not enter unannounced. You will find it larger than it looks

to be. It contains a parlor, sitting and dining rooms, a library

opening on the garden; a bed-room, three chambers for servants, and

two anterooms, large enough to accommodate your worshippers while

they await admission to your presence. This is all I have to offer

my lady of the bedchamber. May I hope that it is agreeable?"

"Agreeable!" exclaimed Laura, affectionately. "It will place me on a

pinnacle of happiness. And now that I have heard of all the favors,

the privileges, and the honors that are to accrue to me from my

residence in the pavilion, will my gracious mistress deign to

instruct me as to the duties I am to perform, in return for her

bounty?"

"Wilful creature, have I not already told you? On occasions of state

you are to be one of my trainbearers; and when his majesty comes to

visit me, you station yourself at my side. Then you are to drive out

with me daily, and as you alone will be with me in the carriage, we

can have many a pleasant chat, while the maids of honor come behind.

And we must be discreet, or they may inform monsieur of the

preference which madame has for her lady of the bedchamber; and

then, Heaven knows what the duke might do to us! Let us hope that he

would not poison you, as he did my poor little Italian greyhound, a

few weeks ago. He hated the dog because I loved it, and because it

was a present to me from my dear brother Carl. So be wary and

prudent, Laura: these maids of honor have sharp ears, and it is not

safe to talk when they are waiting in the anteroom, for some are in

the pay of De Maintenon and you will not have been here many days

before one of them is sold to your father. I can scarcely believe in

the reality of my new acquisition, for much as I regret to tell you

so, Laura, you cannot enter my service until Monsieur Louvois comes

hither to make the request himself. Otherwise, monsieur and Madame

de Maintenon would spread it about, that I had forcibly abducted the

Marchioness de Bonaletta, and torn her from her loving father's

arms."

"My father will be here to-day to comply with all the formalities

that must precede my installation," replied Laura. "And, if your

highness will admit him, I shall have the happiness of being in your

train at the court-ball to-night." "Of course I must admit him,

since you will it, my queen of hearts. By what magic is it that you

have won my love so completely to-day, Laura?"

"By the magic touch of my own heart that loves you so well, dear

lady--so well, that I ask no other boon of Heaven but that of

deserving and returning your affection."

"Until some lover comes between us, and robs me of my treasure,"

said the duchess, with a smile. "Have you seen the brigand yet? Do

you know him?"

Laura laughed. "He is a myth--I have no faith in his existence,"

said she.

"He exists, nevertheless, my child, and will make his appearance

before long; for you are destined to have many suitors."

"But none that approaches my ideal of manhood. Where shall I find

this hero of my dreams?--not at the court of France, your highness.

But--should he ever come out of the clouds, brave, noble, wise, as I

have pictured him, then, oh then! I should follow the destiny of

woman; leaving all other beings, even my gracious mistress herself,

to cleave unto him, and merge my soul in his! Were I to love, the

world itself would recede from view, leaving all space filled with

the image of the man I loved! Better he should never come down from

the moon--for, if he comes, I am lost!"

CHAPTER V.

THE COURT-BALL.

The magnificent halls of the Louvre were open to receive the guests

of his majesty Louis XIV. Balls were "few and far between" at the

French court, and the festivities of the evening were significant,

as betokening triumph to De Montespan and mortification to De

Maintenon.

For Louis, like Mohammed's coffin, was suspended between the heaven

of De Mainteuon's pious attractions, and the earth of De Montespan's

carnal fascinations. Neither the exhortations of Pere la Chaise, nor

the affectionate zeal of De Maintenon, had as yet overthrown the

power of De Montespan; and more than once, when wearied with the

solemn dulness of the former, had he sought refuge from drowsiness

in the rollicking companionship of the latter, who, if she was a

sinner, wore the livery of her master, and sinned honestly and

above-board. De Montespan always profited by these little intervals

of tenderness, to obtain some signal favor from Louis, which had the

effect of perplexing the court, and rendering it a doubtful matter

to those who would fain have gone over to the victorious party,

which of his two mistresses was truly sovereign of the king's

unstable affections.

Such a concession was this ball, wrung from Louis, first by coaxing,

and finally by pouting and tears. De Montespan was elated, for it

was a double triumph; it was given at her request, and was to take

place on her birthday.

And De Maintenon, of course, was proportionally crest-fallen. But,

after shedding just as many tears as she deemed appropriate,

Scarron's widow was clever enough to understand that wisdom lay in

acquiescence. She wiped her eyes, and suffered herself to be

caressed into a good-humor; was more amiable, more sprightly, more

fascinating than ever, with not a trace of disappointment in her

looks, save that which lay in the unusual paleness of her face.

Louis was so touched by her magnanimity, that he absolutely begged

her pardon; and she was so overcome by the condescension of his

majesty, that she asked permission to be present at the ball.

"He was only too happy!" that is to say, he did his best to conceal

his consternation at the unheard-of proposition. Sainte Maintenon at

a ball! What would she do in so unrighteous a place? And worse--

still worse: what would his other charmer say when she heard of it?

What outbreak of indignation might not be expected, when De

Montespan was told that her ex-governess was to be present at a ball

given in her own honor? Between his saint and his sinner, Louis was

sorely perplexed. But he might have spared himself all uneasiness.

De Montespan was not in the least ruffled at the tidings; she rather

enjoyed the idea of setting off her own splendor against the

shabbiness of her rival.

But the court was in a state of anxious excitement on the subject.

Everybody was dying of curiosity to see the meeting of the rivals,

and the effect that was to be produced by their presence on the poor

deserted queen.

To which of the favorites will the king throw his handkerchief? With

which of the two will he converse most? Will he feel at ease as he

treads the minuet under the eyes of the devotee? Or will he venture

to recognize HER in presence of the courtesan?

Such were the questions that were continually asked, but never

answered by the elegant crowd which thronged the halls of the palace

that evening. The rencontre of Eugene and Barbesieur was for the

moment forgotten. It was not likely that either one of the

disputants would venture to appear at court, until the king had

decided to which party belonged the blame of the affray; but, as

regarded the brush that was imminent between the king's mistresses,

that was a matter which concerned everybody, and everybody was in a

flutter to know the result.

The lord chamberlain having announced that the court was about to

make its entrance, the throng pressed forward to the Gallery of

Apollo. Four immense chandeliers lit up the gorgeous frescoes on the

ceiling, and poured a flood of radiance upon the line of stately

courtiers and elegant women who were the guests of the king's leman

that night. The ladies coquetted with their large fans, whispered

with the cavaliers close by, and dispensed smiles and bewitching

glances upon those who were too far for speech until the master of

ceremonies flung open the doors, and announced "his majesty the

king."

There was at once profound silence; and in a moment every head was

bent, and every eye sought the floor. The men bowed low, the women

courtesied lower, and nothing was to be seen but a chaos of jewels,

velvet, brocade, and llama, surmounted by feathered, flowered, or

ringleted heads, and long, flowing wigs.

The one personage who had the right to hold himself erect in the

presence of this reverential multitude--the king--appeared, followed

by a glittering train of marshals, chamberlains, officers of the

royal household, and pages. His majesty traversed the gallery and

approached the throne, which, for this festive occasion, was hung

with white velvet, studded with golden lilies. Not far from the

royal arm-chair stood a lady, whose sad eyes looked wearily upon the

pageant, and whose pallid lips had long since forgotten how to

smile. It was Maria Theresa, the queen. She had made her entry

before the king, but it had scarcely been remarked. She was a

deserted wife, and, being without influence at court, had no favors

to bestow. She was, therefore, altogether sans consequence.

Nevertheless, she was the queen-consort, and Louis, extending his

hand, and inclining his royal head, assisted her to mount the

throne. As soon as the kingly pair were seated, his majesty's voice

was heard--

"My guests are welcome."

As if by enchantment, feathers, flowers, curls, and wigs, all rose

up out of chaos, and every eye was turned upon the handsome person

of the sovereign.

While all this had been going on Eugene of Savoy stood erect, nor

once cast down his flashing eyes before the lightning of the royal

presence. He had entered quietly, had retired to the recess of a

window, and, as the crowd had simultaneously become a heap of

garments, he had curled his lip in contempt. Suddenly his eye grew

soft, and his mouth relaxed into a smile. Not far from the throne he

had seen one head--one beautiful head, and had met the glance of a

pair of glorious eyes, which were quietly surveying the scene, and,

as Eugene thought, enjoying it with an expression of suppressed

amusement.

Who could she he, that, while every other person there had lost his

individuality and merged it into one monstrous concretion of

obsequiousness, had preserved her balance, and stood undazzled by

the rays of the sun of France? As young as she was lovely, whence

came the mingled self-possession and unconsciousness which made her

an observer instead of a worshipper? Eugene had never seen this

beautiful creature before; but from the depths of her starry eyes

there streamed a light that went straight to his heart, making

strange revelation of some half-forgotten bliss which, in an

anterior state of being, might once have been his own.

But how came she hither? What had her fair, unclouded brow, her

innocent face, her maidenly bearing in common with the vain,

voluptuous, and corrupt women around, who were so lost to shame as

not only to do homage to the king's mistresses, but to envy them the

infamous distinction of his preference?

Their eyes met; and in her glance of astonishment Eugene fancied

that he saw mirrored his own surprise at her extraordinary defiance

of courtly servility. She too seemed to ask, "How is it that you

stand so proudly erect, when every other head is bent in reverence

before our sovereign? Who are you, that presume to--"

But the king and his suite passed between them, and the beautiful

face was lost to sight. In its place, Eugene beheld the haughty

monarch who had caused such bitter tears to flow from the eyes of

his dear, exiled mother; and the thought of that beloved mother led

to remembrance of his father's death, and to the tyranny which would

make of his father's son an unwilling priest.

Meanwhile the king had seated himself on the throne, and the princes

and princesses of the blood had approached to pay their homage. Not

a sound was heard in that splendid gallery, save the subdued tones

of Louis, who was conversing with the Duke of Orleans; for, until

the former rose to make his grande tournee, etiquette required of

his adoring subjects to be dumb.

A slight hum, however, began to be heard at the lower end of the

hall, and all eyes were turned toward the door which opened to admit

the woman whom the king delighted to honor.

Her tall figure was set off to great advantage by a dress of purple

velvet, embroidered with silver. From her voluptuous shoulders

drooped a mantle, edged with richest ermine; and her swelling bust

was scarcely concealed by a drapery of silvered gauze. On her bosom

she wore a fleur de lis composed of emeralds, pearls, and diamonds,

and on her magnificent brow glittered a diadem of brilliants worthy

the acceptance of an empress.

So haughty was her bearing, and so obsequious were the salutations

which greeted her entrance, that hut for the pale statue that

occupied a seat next the king, Madame de Montespan might have been

mistaken for the queen.

Eugene's eyes had sought and found the young girl, whose sweet

vision had been displaced by the king, but who now, in full view of

the company, stood immediately behind the chair of the Duchess of

Orleans. Would she bow her incomparable head before that exalted

harlot? Would she outrage her maidenhood by acknowledgment of De

Montespan's title to consideration? No! Thank God, she was true to

her pure, womanly instincts. Her face crimsoned, her delicate brows

were slightly drawn together, and her head was unconsciously raised,

as if in protest against the public scandal of this woman's

intrusion.

When Eugene saw this, his heart leaped with joy, and he yearned to

throw himself at her feet.

"In Heaven's name who can she be, that fairy-queen, who fears not

mortal man?" thought he. "Who--"

But suddenly his eye shot fire, and the expression of his face was

transformed. He had met the glance of Barbesieur Louvois, who, under

shelter of De Montespan's favor with Louis, and the protection of

his father, had intruded himself into the company of the proudest

nobles in France. How was it possible that the master of ceremonies

had allowed to a disgraced man the privilege of appearing before the

king and queen?

"Gracious Heaven!" thought Eugene, "are honor and shame but empty

words? Is this, indeed, the Marchioness de Montespan, whose entrance

is greeted like that of a sovereign, while the Countess de Soissons

wanders in foreign lands, a fugitive from justice? Justice?--No! A

fugitive from oppression, and the kinsman who should have protected

her--her oppressor! And is yonder swaggering cavalier the caitiff

whose back is smarting with the lash of my hunting-whip? And those

smiling courtiers there, who take him by the hand--are they the

noblemen that upheld me in the act? By Heaven, they greet him as

though, like me, his veins were blue with the blood of kings! But

no!--not all! The Princes of Conti have refused to recognize him:

they bow to the minister of war, but pass without a word to his son.

For that act I shall hold them 'in my heart of hearts,' nor forget

their manliness while I live to honor worth and scorn servility!"

Eugene looked affectionately at his cousins, until his eyes filled

with tears of gratitude; but they were unconscious of the comfort

they had ministered to his wounded heart, for they were not aware of

his presence in the ballroom.

The king had not yet ended his long conversation with the Duke of

Orleans. The company stood still and expectant, and the Marchioness

de Montespan began to exhibit signs of impatience. She had hoped

that the ceremonial of compliments to and from the royal family

would have been over before her entrance; and now that she had been

there fully ten minutes, the king seemed as unconscious of her

presence as ever.

But--thank Heaven! the colloquy was at an end; the king has risen,

and has signified to the queen that the princesses of the blood may

rise also. He descends from his throne, and De Montespan's heart is

wild with joy. The moment of her triumph approaches; Louis is about

to lead her out for the minuet, and so proclaim her queen of the

festival. She smiles ineffably; in her eagerness, she almost, rises

from her tabouret to meet him, but--what can he intend to do? Has he

not seen her?--He turns away, and--now he extends his hand to

another!

De Montespan was perfectly overwhelmed, and, all etiquette

forgetting, she actually rose from her seat and took a step forward,

that she might see who was the person that had been so singularly

honored by the king.

Who was it? Why, nobody but Sainte Maintenon, who, without pomp or

parade, had entered the room, and had taken her tabouret with as

much simplicity as she would have seated herself in church.

Her toilet, as well as her demeanor, presented a singular contrast

with that of her sparkling rival. Her dress was of dark velvet,

buttoned up to the throat. Her wealth of beautiful black hair was

fastened up with a barbe of gossamer lace, and the only ornament she

wore around her neck was a delicate gold chain, to which was

attached a miniature of Louis set in superb brilliants.

And upon this wearisome, insipid, old-fashioned puppet, the King of

France had bestowed his attentions. De Montespan would have given

her diadem to have been permitted to vent her humiliation in tears;

but pride restrained her, while she looked on, and saw how the king

led De Maintenon to the queen, an honor hitherto reserved for

princesses of the blood. And with what feline humility she knelt and

pressed her majesty's hands to her unholy lips! Oh! De Montespan

could have taken her life when she saw this!

And she--she for whom this gay assemblage were called together, sat

unnoticed and alone; her expected triumph, defeat--every hope she

had cherished of love reciprocated, and ambition gratified,

transformed into despair, by one little act. The king had given his

hand to her rival!

CHAPTER VI.

THE LADY OF THE BEDCHAMBER.

The conversation between the king, the queen, and Madame de

Maintenon, was long and interesting. When she saw the former rise

and incline his head, De Montespan's heart fluttered with

expectation; but his majesty stopped before the Duchess of Orleans,

and there he lingered so long that everybody wondered what could be

the attraction there. Presently Elizabeth-Charlotte turned to the

young girl who stood beside her, and presented her to the king. How

beautiful she was! How enchanting her smile, how charming her

blushes!

She was evidently a stranger, and De Montespan set her down as an

enemy, for she had not complied with the customs of the court, by

which every lady introduced there was expected to leave a card for

the mistress of the king. An enemy, then, she must be--perchance, a

rival! But who was she?

"Yes, who is she?" thought Prince Eugene, as, transfixed with

admiration, he gazed upon her lovely face. "I must know," exclaimed

he aloud, while he pressed forward to make the inquiry.

There was no one near to whom he could address himself, for he now

for the first time remarked that he stood quite alone. He began to

be aware that his friends were shy and kept aloof; but Eugene had

come to this ball to prove that the son of the Countess de Soissons

was not to be browbeaten by king or courtier; and he went on and on

until he stood so near to Louis that he could look him full in the

eye.

The grand monarque knit his brows, and presumed that the Prince of

Savoy would understand the hint, and withdraw; but Eugene paid no

attention to the Olympic frown, or affected not to see it.

Louis, who had been chatting with the little Duke of Maine, strode

angrily forward and addressed the prince:

"I judge from your eyes, little abbe, that you have come hither to

ask some favor of us to-night?"

"Then my eyes belie my purpose, your majesty," replied Eugene,

quietly. "I have no favor to ask of any one."

"I understand," said the king, slightly raising his shoulders. "You

have come for an answer to your last petition?"

"Pardon me, sire, I have presented no petition whatever to your

majesty."

"If you have not, your mother, the Countess de Soissons, has

presented one for you. She begged me, not long ago, to appoint you

prebendary of a cathedral: as she has thought proper to abscond from

my dominions, I have had no opportunity of answering her request.

When you write to her, you can tell her that it is refused. Prince

Eugene of Savoy leads too worldly a life to deserve promotion in the

church. Bullies are not apt to distinguish themselves as

ecclesiastics."

"Sire, I thank your majesty; for the sentiments to which you have

just given utterance release me from further obligation to enter

upon a career for which I have neither inclination nor calling."

To these bold words Louis vouchsafed no answer. He annihilated the

offender with a glance, and passed on. Then turning to the Duke of

Orleans, he said in a voice that was intended to be generally heard,

"I cannot imagine what that little abbe of Savoy wants here to-

night. His face brings me bad luck." [Footnote: The king's own

words.--See "Memoirs of the Duke de St. Simon," vol. x]

This was enough to damn Eugene forever at the French court. It was

the anathema maranatha of his sovereign, and cast him out from

association with all loyal subjects. Nobody in those vast halls

would have been seen in his vicinity; his best friends would not now

have ventured one look of sympathy or kindness toward a nobleman so

publicly and pointedly insulted by royalty. He was henceforth a

proscribed man.

The Princes de Conti were sorely grieved, but they dared, no more

than their compeers, risk the displeasure of the king by upholding

their outraged kinsman. The eldest one, however, managed to whisper

a word or two in passing.

"Dear Eugene," said he, "do be reasonable, and put an end to this

abominable scene by going home. Our hearts are all with you, but we

dare not affront the king by the smallest demonstration on your

behalf; he is looking out for it, and would revenge himself

effectually. We went this morning with De la Roche Guyon to Louvois,

and obtained his sacred promise to ignore your difficulty with his

son, and allow it to be settled between yourselves. But he has

evidently not kept his word; for the affair has been misrepresented

to the king, and the insult you have received is a proof of it. Go

away for a few weeks until it blows over, and all will have been

forgotten."

"I have no desire to have my affairs forgotten; I trust that they

may be remembered," replied Eugene. "But hark! the music.--We are to

have the ineffable privilege of seeing the king dance. Doubtless you

have already secured a partner, and I will not detain you."

The music was heard, and his majesty went through the usual form of

requesting the queen to open the ball. She answered, as she was

expected to do, that her health was too feeble for her to enjoy

dancing, and she hoped his majesty would excuse her, and find

another partner.

This was always a time of suspense and excitement at court-balls;

for the lady who was then selected by the king was, de facto, the

queen of the festival. The minuet's enticing measure was calling

upon its votaries to commence; but, until the king had made his

choice, no one could stir.

Madame de Montespan's heart began to throb anew with hope. 'This

time she was sure of being chosen, for De Maintenon did not dance;

and, after all, what signified a few words with the queen, compared

with the glory of being led out to the dance by the king?

Her eyes sparkled with animation, her mouth began to ripple with

happy smiles, and oh! triumph and joy! the king was seen coming in

that direction.

But again he stopped to speak with the Duchess of Orleans. What

could he want of her? If De Montespan had been within hearing, she

need not have wondered, for Louis merely requested the pleasure of

her hand for the dance.

Elizabeth-Charlotte looked up in astonishment.

"I hope I have not fallen into disfavor," said Louis, answering the

look. "You are not about to refuse me?"

"Oh, sire," replied his sister-in-law, laughing, "I am merely

overcome with your condescension. But your majesty knows," continued

she, seriously, "that since my father's death I have never danced. I

was enjoying myself in this very hall while he was expiring at home;

and from that unhappy day I have never desired to dance again.

Moreover, I am a miserable partner, and you would be ashamed of me."

"How ashamed?" asked Louis, amused at his sister-in-law's

artlessness.

"I mean, sire, that strive as I will, I am always behind-hand in a

dance. I am like the snail, who, being invited to a wedding, arrived

there a year after, and found herself the first guest that had come

to the christening. As she entered the garden she fell into a ha-ha,

whereupon she said, 'More haste, worse speed.'"

Louis laughed heartily. "Then I am refused, dear sister," said he,

"and I must acquiesce in your decision. But I must have satisfaction

for the affront. You must find a substitute."

"A substitute!" exclaimed the duchess, reddening with anger, as she

fancied she saw the king's eyes wander to the tabouret whereon De

Montespan still waited and smiled. "Surely, your majesty would not

ask of me--"

"Why not?" cried Louis, enjoying her perplexity. "Why may I not ask

you to procure me a substitute of your own selection? It is not much

for you to do--is it?"

As he spoke, the eyes of the king rested unequivocally upon an

object which he perceived just behind the chair of the duchess. She

understood, and hastened to repair her blunder. "Sire," said she

"may I ask of your majesty a favor? My new lady of the bedchamber

has just arrived in Paris, where she is a perfect stranger. Will you

be so gracious as to give her this proof of your royal favor? She is

not only my favorite attendant, but the daughter of your majesty's

minister of war, and--"

"And she is, above all things, herself--the beautiful Marchioness de

Bonaletta," interrupted the king, with somewhat of his youthful

courtliness and grace. "You propose her as your substitute, do you

not?"

"Yes, sire--if your majesty is so good."

"So good! I shall esteem myself most happy in the acquisition of so

charming a partner. Does the Marchioness de Bonaletta consent?"

With these words, Louis offered his hand; and Laura, without

embarrassment or presumption, accepted the honor conferred upon her,

and was led out to the dance. A murmur of admiration followed her

appearance, but she seemed quite unconscious of the impression she

had made. Her lovely countenance was neither lit up by pride, nor

suffused by bashfulness. Her cheeks were slightly flushed by natural

modesty, and her sweet, unaffected bearing enhanced her incomparable

beauty of person.

Even De Montespan herself could not withhold her tribute of

admiration. At first she had darted glances of hatred toward an

imaginary rival; but, a calm survey of Laura's pure and angelic

expression of face reassured her. This girl had no mind to entrap

the king, and if Louis had not courage enough to dance with HER (De

Montespan), in presence of that canting hypocrite De Maintenon,

perhaps it was quite as well that he had provided himself with a

partner sans coquetterie, and therefore sans consequence.

Madame de Maintenon, too, had remarked Laura, as, gracefully

emerging from her concealment behind the seat of the duchess, she

had unostentatiously accepted the king's invitation to dance.

"What a union of tact with tenderness of heart is apparent in all

that his majesty does," said she to the Duke de Maine, who was

standing beside her. "This young girl is the personification of

innocence and purity, and his majesty's selection of her as his

partner proves that he not only desires to pay homage to youth and

beauty, but also to virtue and modesty."

"How beautiful she is!" murmured a young cavalier, who, with

Barbesieur Louvois, was watching the dancers.

"Why do you sigh?" replied Barbesieur. "You ought rather to be proud

of your future bride."

"My future bride!" echoed he, dolefully. "I would she were, my dear

friend. But although your father has so graciously given his

consent, I am as far from obtaining her as ever."

"It you wait for that," whispered Barbesieur in return, "you may

wait until the day of judgment. My sister is one of those

incomprehensible beings that loves opposition for opposition's sake.

If she is disdainful, it is precisely because she is quite as much

enamored of you as you are of her. She is a sort of chaste Artemis

who is ashamed of her preference for a man, and would die rather

than confess it."

"She enchants me at one moment, and drives me to despair the next,"

sighed the marquis.

"No need for despair," was the reply. "My dear marquis," continued

Barbesieur, coming close to the ear of the Italian, "what will you

give me if I promise that you shall become her husband?"

The eyes of the marquis glowed with desire, and his swarthy face was

tinged with red. "What would I give?" cried he, as he caught a

glimpse of Laura on the dance. "The half of my fortune, the half of

my life, if, with one half of either, I might call her mine!"

"Nay," said Barbesieur, with a sinister laugh, "I am neither robber

nor devil. I wish neither your fortune nor your soul in exchange for

my wares. Laura is so headstrong, that she will have to be forced

into happiness, and made to take what even now she is longing to

snatch. So if I make you both happy, you will not then object to

giving me a few of the crumbs that fall from your table?"

"I will give you any thing you desire, and my eternal gratitude to

boot, if you will help me to become possessor of that angel."

"I am passionately fond of hunting, and the Marchioness de Bonaletta

has the most tempting bit of woods that ever made a hunter's heart

ache to call it his. Now if you marry Laura, you become her

guardian, and have absolute power over her property."

"I care nothing for her property," cried the marquis, passionately.

"Her beauty, her sweetness, and her noble birth, are wealth enough

for me. In the golden book of Venice the name of the richest noble

there inscribed is the Strozzi."

"Everybody knows that, dear marquis, and therefore you will not

refuse the reward I claim from my sister's own possessions. 'Tis but

meet that she make a present to her brother on her wedding-day. So,

then, we understand each other: immediately after the ceremony of

your marriage, you make out a deed by which you relinquish to me the

usufruct of the Bonaletta estates in Savoy for life. Who gets them

after me, I care not."

"I consent; and add thereunto a yearly pension of one thousand

ducats. Does that content you?"

"Your liberality is really touching. A thousand ducats to boot! They

will fall like a refreshing shower into a purse that is always as

empty as the sieves of the Danaides. It is a bargain. YOU wed Laura

Bonaletta, and _I_ get her estates, and one thousand ducats a year."

"Here is my hand."

"And mine. In one month you shall both be on your way to Venice; you

a happy bridegroom, and she--your bride."

CHAPTER VII.

THE LADY OF THE BEDCHAMBER.

The dance was over, and the king reconducted Laura to her chaperone.

"My dear sister," said he, "the fascinations of the partner you

selected for me are almost enough to reconcile one to a refusal from

yourself. I am convinced that I have been the envy of every cavalier

present. I withdraw, therefore, that I may not stand in the way of

the fair Laura's admirers."

And gracefully saluting his partner, the royal flirt betook himself

at last to poor De Montespan, who had tact enough to smother her

chagrin, and give him a cordial reception. It was better to be

noticed late than never.

"Your highness," whispered Laura, bending over the back of the

duchess's chair, "pray command me not to dance any more. Do you see

that swarthy, sinister face over there, close to Barbesieur? It is

the Marquis de Strozzi staring at me already. He is about to come

hither, and if you do not assist me I shall have to dance with him."

"Never fear, darling," whispered the duchess in return. "They shall

not rob me of you so soon. Take your place, and, being on duty, no

one can claim you, were it the wild hunter himself."

Laura hastened to resume her station, and, in doing so, glanced

toward the window, where stood the pale young man whom she had

noticed before. Their eyes met again, and again she blushed. Laura

bent her head, and, feigning to arrange a displaced ringlet on the

head of her mistress, she said, in low, earnest tones: "Pardon me,

gracious mistress; but will you tell me who is that young cavalier

in the recess of the window opposite?"

"Certainly, my dear," replied the duchess in the same tone of voice.

"He is one whom all the courtiers avoid to-night--miserable

timeservers as they are--for he has fallen into disgrace with your

father and the king. He is Prince Eugene of Savoy."

"Prince Eugene!" echoed Laura. "He who laid the weight of his whip

over Barbesieur's shoulders this morning!"

"Yes, the same, and he has been publicly rebuked for it to-night.

Your father has received full satisfaction, Laura; for, not only has

his majesty offered a pointed slight to the man who disgraced

Barbesieur, but he has paid him a signal compliment by opening the

ball with his sister."

"If I had imagined that any thought of Barbesieur mingled with the

compliment paid me by the king, I would have refused to dance with

him."

The duchess looked up astounded. "Why, Laura, such an insult to his

majesty would almost amount to treason. For Heaven's sake, never

utter such sentiments at court, child!"

"What care I for the court?" cried Laura, her eyes filling with

tears. "I am overwhelmed with the shame of having been made use of

as a tool wherewith to humiliate the noble Prince de Carignan! But I

shall repair the wrong I have done him, and that in presence of the

court!"

"Thoughtless, impulsive child, what would you do?" said Elizabeth-

Charlotte, anxiously. "I really believe you are ready to go up and

give him a kiss, by way of proving that you are not a party to his

humiliation to-night!"

"Perhaps I am!" exclaimed Laura, passionately. "The prince was right

to punish Barbesieur for his cowardly attack upon a noble lady; and

my brother-in-law, De la Roche Guyon, was one of those who justify

him. I, too, applaud his spirit; for, in avenging his mother, ho

avenged mine. This morning, when no king was by to uphold the

calumniator, all these nobles were the friends of the prince, and

not one of them would lift the gauntlet which, with his brave hand,

he flung to the world. And to-night they desert him!--They are not

worthy to touch the hem of his garment!--But I will take his hand--

the noble hand that had disgraced his mother's traducer beyond the

power of royalty to undo!"

"You will do no such thing, you dear little madcap!" returned the

duchess, glancing admiringly at the beaming countenance of the

beautiful enthusiast. "You have a brave heart, dear child; but you

must not allow it to run away with your judgment. You must keep your

place at my side, nor let magnanimity get the better of discretion.

The latter is a cardinal virtue in woman. But--see how the Marquis

de Strozzi devours us with his eyes; he is waiting until I cease

speaking to come forward and claim your hand. Be comforted--he shall

not have it. Here he comes--let the chamberlain have a chance to

present him."

So saying, she turned away from Laura, and began to fan herself

vigorously, while the marquis and the chamberlain advanced.

"Your royal highness," said the latter, reverentially, "may I

present the Marquis de Strozzi?"

"I am acquainted with him," interrupted the duchess. "He needs no

introduction. How do you like Paris, marquis? Why are you not

dancing this evening?"

"Your royal highness has anticipated my wishes," was the reply. "I

am anxious to dance, and crave your permission to offer my hand to

the Marchioness de Bonaletta."

"I regret to disoblige you," answered the duchess, "but you see that

she is on duty, and etiquette forbids her to leave her post, except

for two dances. His majesty has had the first, and for the second

she is engaged."

"Then I shall follow her example, and decline to dance," returned De

Strozzi, with his burning glances rivetted upon Laura's face.

She drew back haughtily. "The Marquis de Strozzi will oblige me by

following the example of some other person. I have no desire to be

remarked by him in any way."

The marquis's brow grew dark, and his eyes glowed like coals of

fire. But he made an attempt to smile as he replied, "However I

might be inclined to obey your commands, I have it not in my power

to comply with a request so unreasonable."

The duchess saw how the crimson blood was mantling in the cheeks of

her "dear little madcap," and she thought it prudent to put an end

to the skirmish by rising from her seat.

"I will take a turn through the ballroom," said she. "Come,

marchioness."

She came down from the platform reserved to the various members of

the royal family, and mingled with the gay groups below, addressing

here and there a greeting to her friends, or stopping to receive

their heartfelt homage. Side by side came the duchess and her lady

of the bedchamber; the latter all unconscious of her beauty,

enjoying the scene with the zest of youth, unmindful of the fact

that at every step she took, her admirers increased, until the

cortege was as long as the trail of a comet.

But one face she sees--the noble countenance of Prince Eugene--who,

as she approaches the window near which he stands, looks as though

the morning sun had shone upon his heart, driving away all darkness

and all night. She sees that joyous look, and with a wild bound her

heart leaps to meet his. Her brow crimsons with shame, and she

presses close to the duchess, as if to seek protection from her own

emotion.

Elizabeth-Charlotte misunderstood the movement, or she may have

guessed the longing that was struggling with decorum in the heart of

her young attendant. She advanced toward the prince, and signed for

him to approach.

Eugene started forward and stood directly in front of them. "How is

the Princess de Carignan?" asked the duchess, kindly, "and why is

she not here to-night? I hope she is not indisposed!"

"Your highness," returned Eugene, with a smile, "she is ill with a

malady that has attacked every member of our family."

"What malady, prince?"

"The malady of royal disfavor, your highness."

"That is indeed a fearful malady, prince, for it rarely attacks the

innocent."

"Pardon me, your highness," returned Eugene, calmly, "since the

death of Cardinal Mazarin 'tis a heritage in our family, and--"

"Madame," said a voice behind the duchess, "be so good as to take my

arm. The queen desires your attendance."

Eugene looked up, and saw a small, effeminate personage,

magnificently attired, and wearing the broad, blue band of the order

of St. Louis. He recognized the king's brother, the Duke of Orleans.

The duchess, with a sigh, laid her arm within that of her husband;

but, disregarding his frowns, she remained to say a parting word to

the victim of kingly displeasure.

"Give my regards to the princess, your grandmother, and tell her

that if her indisposition lasts, I will go in person to express my

sympathy with you both."

"Madame," said the duke, angrily, while, with little regard to

courtesy, he almost dragged her along with him, "you will do no such

thing. I cannot understand your audacity; still less will I

countenance it. The Prince of Savoy has been so pointedly slighted

by his majesty, that no one dares be seen conversing with him; it

seems to me that you set a shameful example to the court by noticing

one whom your king has been pleased to reprove."

"It seems to me that my example would be worse, were I to ignore my

acquaintances because they happen to be momentarily out of favor at

court," replied Elizabeth-Charlotte. "Such miserable servility may

beseem a courtier, but it ill becomes our princely station. And if

the king speaks to me on the subject, I shall say as much to him,

for his majesty has a noble heart and will approve my independence."

While their royal highnesses were thus interchanging opinions on the

subject of court ethics, a scene was being enacted behind them,

which, had he witnessed it, would have called forth the indignation

of the duke.

The Marchioness Bonaletta, as a matter of course, had followed her

mistress; but during his short colloquy with the latter, Eugene had

received so sweet a smile from her attendant, that he followed at a

distance; resolved, since he could do no more, to gaze at her until

the ball was over. In spite of the throng which closed as fast as

the ducal pair went by, Eugene saw that the marchioness had dropped

her fan. It became entangled in the train of another lady, and

finally was dragged to the floor.

Eugene rescued it from destruction, and hastened with it to its

owner, who appeared just to have discovered her loss.

"You are looking for your fan?" said he, with a beaming smile.

"Yes, prince," replied she, giving him in return a look that almost

maddened him with joy--it was so kind, so gentle, so sympathizing.

"I have been so fortunate as to find it," replied he, in a voice

whose music thrilled the heart of her to whom he spoke. "And to be

permitted to return it to you, confers upon me the first pleasurable

sensation I have felt since I entered this unfriendly palace to-

night."

"I am happy to have been the means," she began. But just then the

Duke of Orleans turned around, and his indignation may be imagined

when he saw the Prince of Savoy in conversation with a lady of the

duchess's household!

"Call your lady of the bedchamber hither," said he, imperiously.

"That little abbe has the assurance to follow us, as though to defy

his majesty, and prove to the court that, if nobody else esteems

him, he has friends in the household of the Duchess of Orleans. Send

that young lady on some errand."

The duchess walked a few steps farther, then turning around she

beckoned to Laura. "Come, Marchioness de Bonaletta, I must present

you to the queen."

"Ah!" thought Eugene, as he took up his position in the window

again, "if I may not follow her, at least I know her name!

Marchioness Bonaletta--what a pretty name it is! I have never heard

it before, nor have I ever seen any thing that reminded me of her

lovely person. 'Tis plain that she is a stranger at this corrupt

court. Those limpid eyes, that brow of innocence, those heavenly

smiles--O my God! what sudden thrill of joy is this which pervades

my being? What flood of ecstasy is this which drowns my soul in

bliss! Oh, angel of beauty--"

But his raptures were suddenly brought to a close by the sight of

Louvois, who with his son joined the party of the Duchess of

Orleans. He did not like to see him so near his angel; but his

uneasiness increased to positive pain when he saw her extend her

hand, and greet him with one of her sweetest smiles.

"So," thought Eugene, "she is like the rest! Louvois is the favorite

of the king, and of De Maintenon, and therefore she greets him as

though he were a near and dear friend. But what is it to me? I came

here to show his majesty that I shall maintain my rights in the face

of his displeasure, and here I shall remain, though she and every

other woman here do homage to my foes. What is the Marchioness

Bonaletta to me?"

But, in spite of himself, his eyes would wander to the spot where

she stood, and his heart seemed ready to burst when he beheld

Barbesieur approach her. He spoke to her and she answered him; but

Eugene could see that she was displeased. Could he have heard the

words she addressed to Barbesieur, he would have hated himself for

his unworthy suspicions, and would have acknowledged that she was

not like the rest.

"So my lovely sister has refused to dance with the Marquis de

Strozzi?" said Barbesieur.

"Yes," was the curt reply.

"And may one venture to inquire why?"

She darted a glance of contempt at him. "Because he is your friend."

Barbesieur laughed. "I really believe that you are in earnest, my

candid sister. It is enough for a man to be my friend to earn your

enmity."

"You are right," said she, deliberately.

"But you will hardly go so far as to say that it suffices for a man

to be my foe, to be your friend," said he with an ugly frown.

"What if it were so?" said she.

"If it were so, I would advise my sister not to provoke me too far.

I would advise her not to make any more demonstrations of regard to

the little abbe of Savoy, and to remember that she is my sister."

"When I heard of all that took place this morning at the Pre aux

Clercs," said Laura, "I remembered it to my shame and sorrow."

Barbesieur grew pale with rage and hissed into his sister's ear--

"Have a care, girl, how you rouse me to retaliation! I can crush you

like a worm under my heel; and as for yonder princely beggar, be

assured that I shall remember him to his cost."

"Which means that you will bring suit against him, and obtain

damages," replied she, contemptuously; "for you know that the Prince

of Savoy will not condescend to fight a duel with Barbesieur de

Louvois."

"I would not make myself ridiculous by fighting with such an apology

for a man; but I will crush him as I would any other reptile that

attempts to injure me. There shall not be a day of his life that

does not bring him some pang which he shall owe to the hate of

Barbesieur de Louvois. And I counsel YOU not to imitate his

audacity, for--"

"Why, you scarcely expect me to bestow a horsewhipping upon you?"

laughed Laura. "But I am not afraid of you, Barbesieur; it is not in

your power to injure me."

"If you are not afraid of me, so much the worse for you; I should

have thought that you had learned from your mother, how Barbesieur

de Louvois nurses his hate, and how it blossoms into misery for

those on whom he bestows it."

Laura's eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered. "I did learn

it from her martyrdom; but she was not like me. She submitted where

I would resist."

"Resistance will only increase the bitterness of your punishment,

and once more I warn you not to make friends of my enemies, and not

to offer slights to my friends. The Marquis de Strozzi wishes to

marry you; your father is anxious for the match--SO AM _I_, and you

shall marry the marquis, of that be assured. He has asked you to

dance, to-night, and you shall dance with him, too. This plea of an

engagement is a falsehood. Where is your partner?"

"I will remind him of our engagement, now that I am prepared to

fulfil mine," answered Laura, And, yielding to an impulse of

aversion to Barbesieur, resolved to give him then and there proof

unquestionable of her contempt; impelled, too, by an enthusiastic

longing to sympathize with one whom all had united to slight, and

forgetful of the social restraints which it is always unwise for a

woman to overleap, Laura pressed through the crowds that were

assembling for the dance, and stepped so proudly by, that all

wondered at the solemn earnestness of her mien, more resembling that

of a priestess than of a young maiden at her first ball.

If all other eyes were gazing upon her, those of Eugene were riveted

upon her advancing figure with mingled rapture and wonder. He had

long since forgotten the rudeness of the king and the contumely of

his courtiers. Laura's image filled his heart, and left no space

therein for painful emotions. He had watched her countenance while

Barbesieur had been speaking to her, and had guessed that their

colloquy was anything but friendly. He had seen her turn suddenly

away, and now she came nearer and nearer, until her dazzled

worshipper lost all sense of time and place, and his enfranchised

soul went out to meet hers.

But at last she came so near, that he wakened from his ecstasy, and

remembered that he had nothing in common with that high-born girl;

for, shame had fallen upon his house, and royalty had turned its

back upon him.

But he had scarcely time to pass from heaven to earth before she

stood directly before him, her starry eyes uplifted to meet his, her

sweet voice drowning his senses in melody.

"Prince," said she, in clear, self-possessed tones that attracted

the attention of those immediately around, "it appears that you have

forgotten the engagement you made to dance with me this evening.

Pardon me if I recall it to you."

So saying, she extended her little hand to Eugene, who, bewildered

with joy, was almost afraid to touch the delicate embroidered glove

that lay so temptingly near his. He was afraid that he had gone mad.

But Laura smiled, and came a step nearer; whereupon he gave himself

up to the intoxicating dream, and led her away to the dance.

They took their place among the others, but the dancers looked upon

them with glances of uneasiness and displeasure. How were they to

know that they might not be compromised by their vicinity to an

ostracized man, and how did they know that the king was not

observing them, to see how they would receive this bold intruder?

They might have spared themselves all anxiety; for, in the first

place, the king was in another room, at the card-table, and, in the

second place, their sensitive loyalty was soon relieved from its

perplexities.

As a matter of course, Laura's generous indiscretion had been

witnessed by Barbesieur; not only by him, however, but by her father

and the Duchess of Orleans. Barbesieur, enraged, would have

followed, and torn her violently away, but Louvois' hand was laid

upon his shoulder, and Louvois' voice (imperious even in a whisper)

bade him remain.

"No eclat, my son: we are the guests of his majesty."

"But I cannot brook her insolence," muttered Barbesieur, in return.

"She is my sister, and before she shall dance with a man that has

insulted me, I will fell him to the earth, were the king at my side

to witness it."

"Be quiet, I command you, or you shall sleep to-night within the

walls of the Bastile," was the reply. "God knows that you ought to

avoid notoriety; for, your affair with Prince Eugene has not covered

you with glory. Retire, then, if you cannot control yourself, and I

will find means to put an end to this foolish demonstration of your

sister."

The means were at hand; they were concentrated in the person of his

royal highness the Duke of Orleans. He had been about to join the

dance, when he, too, witnessed the terrible sight of Laura de

Bonaletta standing at the side of the little abbe of Savoy!

With a hasty apology to his partner, the Duchess de Chevreuse, he

strode away and joined madame. Elizabeth-Charlotte saw him coming

and heaved a sigh. "Now for a tempest in a teapot!" thought she. "To

be sure, the anger of my lord is not much like that of a thundering

Jove; yet I don't know but what it is better to be struck dead by

lightning, than to live forever within sound of the scolding tongue

of a fishwife! I must try, however, to be conciliatory in my tones,

or poor Laura will get into trouble."

So she smiled as graciously as she could, but her affability was

lost upon the duke. He was in a towering passion.

"Madame," said he, in a low, but snappish voice, "do you know that

your lady of the bedchamber is dancing with the Prince of Savoy?"

The duchess turned around, as if to see whether Laura were not at

her post. "True enough," replied she, "she is not here. I was so

absorbed in my conversation with the queen that I had not missed

her. I suppose she thought I could spare her for a while, and so

allowed herself to be persuaded to dance."

"But when I tell you that she is dancing with Prince Eugene!--with

the son of the Countess de Soissons!" cried the duke, impatiently.

"I understand your highness. The prince is in disgrace, and has the

plague. But you must pardon my little marchioness, for she is new to

court customs, and does not know how contagious is her partner's

malady. She will learn prudence, all in good time, and, perchance,

become as obse--I mean as discreet--as the rest of us."

"You will be so good as to begin her education at once, by reproving

her sharply for her indecorous behavior here to-night," said the

duke, beginning to stammer.

"When he stammers," thought his wife, "he is in a rage. I had better

try the effect of soft words. What would your highness have me say?"

added she aloud.

"I would have you send a peremptory message to the marchioness to

quit the dance immediately; and, if she does not obey, I would have

you go yourself and--"

"My dear lord," whispered madame, laying the weight of her hand upon

monsieur's arm, "do you forget that she is the daughter of Louvois,

and that we dare not affront her lightly? And have you forgotten

that her father has promised to obtain for you, from his majesty,

the woods of St. Germain. In accordance with your desire and that of

her father, who is powerful enough to command everybody at this

court, I have taken this young girl into my service since this

morning. Would you undo what I have done for your advantage?"

"But it is an outrage," murmured the duke, somewhat pacified. "It is

an outrage against his majesty."

"I will put an end to the outrage then, but I will do so by gentle

means.--My Lord Marquis de Valmy, I am suffering terribly with a

migraine, and am compelled to retire. Will you bear my apology to

the Marchioness de Bonaletta, and say that I regret to be obliged to

interrupt her pleasures, but must request her attendance."

The marquis hastened away with his message, and just as Prince

Eugene had so far recovered himself as to be able to address a few

murmured words of thanks to his beautiful partner, just as she was

looking bashfully into his face, and had seen that his large black

eyes were moistened with tears, she heard a voice at her side:

"Madame is suddenly indisposed, and regrets to say that she requires

the attendance of the Marchioness de Bonaletta. Her highness is

sorry to be obliged to interrupt you, mademoiselle."

"I will have the honor of conducting mademoiselle to her highness,"

replied Eugene, regaining in a moment all his self-possession.

Laura had just laid her arm within his, when monsieur approached

with most undignified haste.

"Give me your arm, mademoiselle," said he. "Her highness has

requested me to accompany you to her seat."

And without a word or look significative of his knowledge that

Eugene was nigh, the duke placed Laura's other arm within his own,

and stalked away.

The prince left the dancers, and retired again to his window-seat.

He was pale with the shock of his sudden disappointment, but was

callous to the fresh insult offered him by the king's brother. Still

less was he conscious of the titter that was going around at his

expense, or of the scornful looks directed to him from the eyes of

many who until that day had called themselves his friends. He had

neither eyes, ears, nor understanding, for any creature but the one

who had braved the ridicule of the court, and the displeasure of its

sovereign, to show her sympathy with a man in adversity. He must--he

WOULD see her again! He must thank her for her magnanimity, let the

consequences be what they would!

He darted forward toward the door through which the Duke and Duchess

of Orleans were passing, with their suite. On the stairway he caught

a glimpse of Laura's white satin dress, and one look at her

beautiful face. He made a desperate effort to follow, but before he

could put his foot on the top step, the Duke of Orleans and his

suite, returning to the ballroom, stopped the way.

"Too late! too late!" groaned Eugene. "But I will see her again, if

it costs me my life!"

The carriage of madame, meanwhile, was rolling homeward. She and her

attendant were seated opposite each other, both keeping a profound

silence. At length Laura could bear it no longer. Gliding from her

seat, and kneeling at the feet of the duchess, she took her hand and

pressed it to her lips.

"Dear lady," sobbed she, passionately, "have I done wrong? If I

have, reprove me; but speak. Your silence is harder to bear than

rebuke."

The duchess, no longer able to keep up her affected displeasure, put

her arms around the young girl, and kissed her forehead. "I

certainly ought to reprove you," said she, "for your conduct has

been almost unmaidenly, but I have not the heart to chide you for

indiscretion that springs from the overflowing of a generous nature.

You have violated every rule of etiquette and decorum; but what

would you? I am the least conventional of beings myself; and,

instead of condemning you, I positively admire your impropriety. You

have raised a tempest about your ears, child; but I will do my best

to defend you against the king, monsieur, and the censorious world.

Against your father and your brother you can defend yourself."

"They may think of me whatever they please," cried Laura, joyfully.

"I shall not defend myself against anybody, for you are not

displeased, and HE!--oh, I believe that I conferred upon him one

moment of happiness!"

"He! Who? Of whom do you speak?"

"Of Prince Eugene," murmured Laura, blushing.

"Prince Eugene!" echoed the duchess.

"Yes," exclaimed she, passionately, "of him, the noble, brave

knight, who, like another St. George, sets his foot upon the dragon

of this world's wickedness, and towers above its miserable

worshippers, like an archangel!"

"Great Heavens! what has possessed the girl?" exclaimed the duchess.

"She speaks of that little abbe as if he were an impersonation of

manly beauty!"

"And so he is! His eyes are aflame with the light of a noble soul,

and his face is as that of a demi-god!"

"A demi-god!" cried madame, clasping her hands. "I do believe she

has fallen in love with him!"

Laura buried her face in the folds of the duchess's dress. "Pray for

me, dear lady," sobbed she; "pray for me. Never would my father

consent to bestow my hand upon the son of the Countess de Soissons,

and I!--oh, if I should love him, I would forsake the whole world

for his sake. Alas! alas! I believe that he is lord and sovereign of

my heart, for it bounds to meet his, as though it felt that he was

master of its destiny!"

CHAPTER VIII.

FIRST LOVE.

Four days had elapsed since the ball, and its events, triumphs, and

contrarieties were already forgotten. Nobody bestowed a thought upon

Prince Eugene, who, concealed from view by the thick cloud of the

king's dislike, had fallen into complete oblivion.

Nobody said a word about the ignominious punishment administered to

Barbesieur de Louvois, for the king had treated him with

consideration; and his majesty's countenance had healed his stripes,

and cured his wounded honor. So that Barbesieur de Louvois was

greeted with the courtesy due to a noble knight, and Eugene of Savoy

was spurned as a base-born churl.

Was it for this that he was so pale, so silent, and so shy? Was it

for this that he sat alone in his room for hours, murmuring words of

passionate tenderness, and extending his arms to heaven, as if he

expected some seraph to visit him in his desolate home? Was it for

this that by night he paced the length of a garden-wall, and stood

with folded arms before its trellised gates? Had sorrow and slight

unsettled his reason?

If they had, there was "method in his madness," for his steps were

ever directed toward the same place, the hotel of the Duke of

Orleans.

On this fourth day after the ball, at dusk, Eugene left the Hotel de

Soissons, and took the way, as usual, toward the Palais Royal. Its

long facade was dimly lighted, and every thing within seemed hushed.

"I am fortunate," thought he; "the duchess has dismissed her

attendants, and SHE has retired to the pavilion."

He continued his way along the side-wing of the palace, until he

arrived at the garden which occupied the space now contained between

the Rue Vivienne and the Bourse. This magnificent garden was

refreshed by plashing fountains, and decorated by noble trees and

gay parterres; but it was encompassed by a high stone wall, of which

the summit was defended by short iron spikes whose uplifted points

gave warning to all passers-by that intrusion into this paradise was

attended with danger.

But what cares love for "stony limits," or when did danger ever

intimidate a stout heart?

Eugene was now at the extreme end of the garden. The deep, unbroken

stillness of solitude reigned around. At times, and at a distance,

was heard the faint rumbling of a coach; but otherwise nothing

interrupted the loneliness of the place and the hour. For, although

nine o'clock had just sounded from the tower of St. Jacques, all

Paris was at rest, save the few aristocrats who were on their way to

balls and banquets, or the houseless wretches who, with their dark

lanterns, were searching the gutters for a lost penny.

So that Eugene was unobserved, and had full opportunity to draw from

his cloak a package which proved to be a rope-ladder of silk; to

unroll, and fling it over the garden wall. It caught in the prongs,

and in a few moments he was within the enchanted walls of the palace

where Laura de Bonaletta dwelt.

She was alone in her pavilion, in the room which led into the

garden, and its glass doors now stood wide open. She had thrown

aside her court-dress, and was now attired in a white peignior edged

with delicate lace. Her feet were encased in slippers of blue satin

embroidered with silver, and her hair, stripped of all ornament, was

twisted into a coronal around her graceful head.

She had dismissed her attendants, and sat beside a table of white

marble, holding in her hand a book which she seemed to read--yet not

to read. She turned its pages, and her eyes were fixed upon them,

but little saw Laura of their contents, she was looking into another

book, the book of her own heart; and mysterious were the pages

thereof, half painful, half pleasant, to peruse.

Around her all was silent. From time to time the night wind sighed

through the branches of the trees without, and a few sorrowing

leaves fell rustling to the ground, while she, her book now laid

aside, and her pretty hands folded in her lap, gazed and gazed at

sky and earth, at moonlit paths, and darkly looming trees, but saw

nothing of them all. Something broke the perfect stillness. It was

neither summer breeze, nor rustling leaf; 'twas the crackling gravel

that was being displaced by approaching footsteps. The sound was all

unheeded by Laura, who heard nothing but the voice of her heart as

it sang its first anthem of love.

The moon emerged from a silver cloud, and Eugene's figure darkened

the threshold. For one moment he contemplated the beautiful picture

before him, then with noiseless steps he approached and knelt at her

feet.

"Kill me for my presumption," whispered he, "for I deserve death.

But I would rather die at your feet than live another hour out of

your sight."

Laura spoke not a word in return, but neither did she cry out in

terror or surprise. She merely gazed at Eugene with distended eyes,

whose mysterious expressions he dreaded to interpret.

A feeling of anguish inexpressible pervaded his being. "I thought

so," murmured he, bitterly. "I thought so; and yet I could not have

done otherwise. Had I known that I was to be racked for my temerity,

I must have sought you, alone and unattended--sought you as I would

my Maker, when no curious eye was upon me to see my tears, no

mocking tongue to echo my sighs; hut when, unfettered by the bonds

of a conventional world, I was free to pour out the oceans of love

that are drowning me in their sweetness; and then!--to live or die,

as you should determine. I love you! Do you hear? I love you! And

with such strength of love, that if I am unworthy; if, poor, ill-

favored, unfortunate, the Prince of Savoy may not aspire to your

hand, then call your people, and drive me hence; for whether you

welcome or whether you spurn, you still must hear me, while my

yearning heart cries out for judgment. Speak, beloved! I await my

sentence--is it life or death?"

He raised his pleading eyes to hers, and as they met, her beautiful

head drooped lower and lower, until it almost touched his own. He

felt the soft touch of her hands upon his shoulders, and heard the

thrilling accents of her trembling voice, as, in tones so inaudible

that none but a lover's ear could have guessed their sweet import,

she whispered these words:

"I was waiting for thee."

With a wild cry of rapture, Eugene caught her to his heart, and

imprinted one long, loving lass upon her lips. Then he gazed upon

her with an expression of passionate tenderness, which transfigured

his homely features and lent them beauty.

"Say that thou lovest me," cried he, "oh, say it again--again--

again."

"I love thee," repeated Laura, "I love thee, Eugene. When first our

eyes met, I knew that my heart had found its sovereign. Oh, sweet

vassalage, that never again will seek enfranchisement! Oh, happy

bondage, than liberty more precious! Bondage that makes me thine,

and thou mine forever!"

"Ay, forever!" echoed Eugene, while tears streamed from his eyes at

sound of her delicious avowal. "We love each other! Oh, my Laura,

what magic in those blessed words! We love each other! I could weary

echo with repetition of the sound: WE! 'Tis the first time in my

life that my name has ever been joined with that of a fellow-being.

My brothers, who enjoyed the privileges of their birth and rank,

looked down with contempt upon one who was condemned to the

obscurity of the priesthood; my young sisters feared me, and I was

too shy to ask for their love; in my proud and beautiful mother's

heart there was no room for the son, to whom fate had allotted no

share of her loveliness and grace. Alone in the midst of a family

circle, alone in society, alone in the world, I thrust back into my

sorrowing soul the hopes, the loves, the aspirations of youth, and

refused to listen to their pleadings. But in the depths of the

night, when no mortal was by, and I stood alone in the presence of

God. I called them up, and bade them weep with me that life and

light were denied them. I mourned, and prayed for deliverance, but

no friendly voice ever bade me be comforted. And so I lived, shunned

and despised by my fellows."

"No, no, my Eugene, not shunned and despised," exclaimed Laura,

while her gentle hands wiped away the tears that were streaming down

her lover's cheeks. "You belie yourself and the world. It may not

love you, but it has divined your worth."

Eugene answered with a faint smile. "My worth is small, beloved; but

no human being has ever divined the secrets of my ambitious heart.

But ah! how changed is life to me to-night! I went to that ball to

throw down the gauntlet of my hate before Louvois and his son. I was

rebuked by the king, slighted by his nobles; but I had no eyes to

see, no pride to resent their insults. When I saw thee. the sun

shone upon my heart, and there was light and love within. But oh!

when thou earnest so near that I felt the perfume of thy breath upon

my cheek, and the touch of thy hand within my hand, then I was born

again to a life of hope and happiness. My soul's better half was

found, and nevermore shall it wander from my side. I am here at thy

feet to ask thee for my wife. I have neither wealth nor repute to

offer thee: I am a poor appanagist, a prince without fortune or

distinction. But, dearest, if thou wilt be mine, I swear by all the

imprisoned aspirations which thy coming has liberated, that the wife

of Eugene of Savoy shall have pride in her husband! Be mine, be

mine, and I will make thy name illustrious!"

"I am thine," said Laura, fervently, "for time and for eternity. I

care not whether thy name be obscure or thy fortunes adverse; I love

thee as thou art." And so saying, she extended her hand.

He grasped it in his own and covered it with rapturous kisses. "From

this blissful hour, then, thou art my betrothed; and to-morrow I

shall ask the consent of madame to our marriage. Or hast thou

relatives whom I must know and propitiate?"

At this innocent question, Laura's youth and animal spirits got the

better of her sentiment. She laughed heartily. "What!" cried she,

"you do not know who I am?"

"No, sweetest; I know not, I care not who thou art. What have I to

do with thy surroundings? I love thee--only thee. If thou hast

father and mother, I will throw myself at their feet, and beg their

blessing for us both."

Laura's hilarity had all vanished. As Eugene had spoken of her

father and mother, her cheeks had blanched, and the smile had died

from the rosy lips. "Alas!" cried she, clasping her hands, "he knows

not who I am!"

"I know thou art an angel, and that is enough to make me the

happiest of men."

"True, true," murmured Laura. "When my grandmother retired from

court, he was but a boy."

"And had I been a man, what to me are the comings and goings of the

ladies of the court?" said Eugene, simply. "But why art thou

troubled, my beloved?"

"Alas! alas!" murmured Laura, her eyes filling with tears. "May God

grant that you spoke the truth, Eugene de Carignan, when you said

that you cared not who was my father or my mother!"

"So help me Heaven, I do not care!" was the fervent response, while

he gazed passionately upon his new-found treasure.

She bent her head, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Eugene,"

said she, almost gasping for breath, "I bear my mother's name; but I

am the daughter of your bitterest enemy, Louvois."

Eugene started back in horror. "Louvois! Louvois!" echoed he,

mournfully. "And Barbesieur, her brother!"

"Not my own brother," cried Laura, terrified at the effect of her

revelation. "Before I had seen you, I approved your act, and bade

God bless the son that had avenged his mother's wrongs upon her

traducer. Ah, Eugene! my affianced, say that you do not hate me! I

knew that you were the son of the Countess de Soissons, and yet I

loved YOU!--perhaps the more, that Barbesieur was your enemy."

"And I love you, my own one, despite your parentage. I love you so

far beyond all feelings of pride or enmity, that I am ready to

humble myself before my mother's enemy, and be to him a son."

"He will never receive you as such," cried she, bitterly. "Woe is

me, if he should learn what has transpired to-night between us! He

would part us by force."

"Part us he shall not!" exclaimed Eugene, passionately, while he

flung his arm around the maiden's slender waist, and pressed her

wildly to his heart. "Thou art Louvois' daughter, but my betrothed."

"I am Barbesieur's sister, but thou art my affianced!"

"Neither daughter nor sister of any man, my Laura; thou art thyself-

-and being thyself--mine."

"Thine for life and death," was her reply, "and from this hour I

know no will of mine."

"Then, ere thy father suspects our love, it must be sanctified

before the altar of God. Our faith once plighted there, no hand of

mortal can wrest thee from my side. Art ready to speak the

irrevocable words that bind us together as man and wife?"

"I am ready," replied she, clasping her hands, and looking solemnly

up to heaven. "If, in my eager acquiescence, I seem unmaidenly,

forgive me; but I dare not be coy, Eugene; we have no time for

conventional reserve, and I must act as becomes a brave and trusting

woman, for every moment is fraught with danger. I am surrounded by

spies, even of my own household, and, until I hear the blessing of

the priest, I shall disbelieve my own happiness."

"Then hear me, dearest. I know how crafty are the spies of Louvois,

and I tremble lest the whispering breeze betray our secret. Yes, we

must be diligent, so diligent that Fate shall stand between our love

and all contingency. For two days I shall part from thee--long days

that will steep my soul in darkness! But day after to-morrow, at

this same hour of the evening, I shall be here with the chaplain of

the Princess de Carignan, an old and dear friend, who will bless our

bridal. As witnesses, I will be accompanied by my kinsmen, the

Princes de Conti, two of the worthiest nobles of France. Be in

readiness, my best beloved, that not a word need be spoken until we

are married. Then away with me to the Hotel de Soissons, where those

who love, may seek thee in thy husband's home."

"So soon?" murmured Laura, blushing. "Shall I leave my dear mistress

without a word? Is she not to share our secret?"

"Assuredly not; for it would burden her with a painful

responsibility. It would be her duty to betray you, artless child."

"Oh, I will not speak!" exclaimed Laura, eagerly. "I will be silent;

and when--when we are married, we will beg so humbly for forgiveness

that she will have to grant it."

"You must leave a note declaring everything; for with our marriage

ends all secrecy. I will neither see you nor write until the

appointed time. Dismiss your household as early as possible, and, if

all is propitious, place a light in yonder window. If I see it, I

will enter with the priest, and, lest there should be interruption,

he will begin the ceremony at once."

"Alas, Eugene!" said Laura, looking anxiously around, "some evil

spirit is about. It whispers me that this shall never be! Speak to

me--in mercy speak! Let me hear thy voice, for even now its sinister

threatenings are freezing the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, sweet one, fear nothing! My love shall compass thee with a

charm that shall keep away all evil spirits, and make thy life a

waking dream of bliss."

"How can I ever prove to thee how much I love thee?"

"Thou wilt prove it to me when, day after to-morrow, thou forsakest

father and brother, to cleave to me alone; for never will my

mother's son take the hand of Barbesieur Louvois."

"Nor my mother's daughter," cried Laura, vehemently,

"for she, too, has a debt of hatred to pay to the man who broke that

mother's heart. And believe me, our marriage will avenge us both;

for it will end his contemptible intrigues to sell my hand to

whomsoever chinks most gold in his. And now, dear Eugene, good-

night!"

"Must I be exiled so soon, Laura? What have I done to be thus driven

from paradise?"

"Nothing--nothing," stammered she. "But my mother's name has made me

fear that--that I am wrong to hold such long parley with you in

secret and at night. Methinks I see that mother's pleading eyes

before me, and oh, Eugene! whenever they rest upon me thus, 'tis

because danger threatens! Go, beloved, and God be with you!"

"I go," sighed he. "I would not stay one moment to wound your sweet

scruples, my madonna. One more kiss, and then--good-night!"

They walked side by side until they stood upon the threshold. Eugene

put his arm around her waist, and kissed her fair brow.

"Look," said she, "at yonder star that is just emerging from a

fleecy cloud. It soars joyously upward now, and shall be to us an

omen of hope and happiness. Farewell."

"Farewell!" was the sad response, and Eugene went slowly down the

dark avenue, until he was lost in the gloom of night. Laura lingered

for a while, listening to his footsteps, then resumed her seat at

the table.

A half hour went by, and Laura sought her chamber. To her surprise

she found her waiting-woman stretched at full length on the carpet,

in a deep sleep, so deep that her mistress had much trouble to waken

her. When, at last, she had been made to rise, she seemed scarcely

to know where she was, or to whom she was speaking.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said she drowsily, "I was dreaming.

I thought I heard robbers in the house, and when your ladyship

spoke, I was struggling."

"God be thanked, there are no robbers here!" returned Laura, kindly.

"Perhaps you heard the sentry's step in the park, and you ought to

know that the Palais Royal is strictly guarded. But why are you not

in bed with the rest? I dismissed you all."

"I have no right to retire before my mistress," returned the girl,

obsequiously. "Therefore, I sat in your ladyship's room. to await

you, but sleep overcame me, and I humbly crave your pardon. Shall I

close the door that leads to the garden?"

"What! still afraid of robbers, Louise?" laughed Laura. "Well--close

the door, if you will--good-night."

"Can I do nothing for your ladyship?"

"Thank you--yes. Open the door of Madame Dupont's room, and let me

feel that I am within hearing of my dear old Cerberus. That is all."

The waiting-woman did as she was bidden, and then retired to her

room, but not to sleep. She seated herself before a table, drew out

her portfolio, and began to write. Now and then she paused and

looked up, when the sinister light that shone in her eyes streamed

through the room like the phosphorescent glow of the lichen that

moulds in the churchyard.

She wrote the whole night long, and day dawned before she rose from

her task.

"Ah," sighed she, "for such a service surely he will return to me! I

have repeated their conversation, word for word, not a sigh or a

kiss have I forgotten. Who but his poor Louise would have served him

so faithfully! 'Tis a vile trade, that of a spy; nor would I have

accepted such a mission for all the gold in the king's treasury;

but, for love of Barbesieur Louvois, I would sell my own sister to

infamy--why not his?"

While thus soliloquizing, she had left her own room and crossed the

corridor that led to the men's apartments. She opened the door of

one of the rooms without knocking, and going directly up to a bed

she touched the sleeper, and having wakened him, whispered:

"George, awake--awake!--rouse up quickly!"

"What is it?" mumbled George, stretching himself.

"Hist!--It is I, Louise. Dress yourself as speedily as you can, and

away with this packet to your master. Give it to no messenger, but

place it in his own hands, and he will reward you magnificently, for

you will have done him a great service."

She glided away and returned to her own room, leaving the door open.

In less than fifteen minutes George stood before her, equipped for

secret service. "Mademoiselle Louise," whispered he, "I shall be

with Monsieur de Louvois in ten minutes; for I have the key of the

postern, and can slip out and back again without anybody being the

wiser for my little excursion."

"So much the better. Away with you, and the sooner the better!"

George went on his way, and Louise stood in her doorway until she

heard him softly open and close the outer door below; then she threw

herself upon her bed to sleep. Her last words were these:

"Oh, faithless but loved--now can I dream that thine arms are around

me once more!"

CHAPTER IX.

THE BETRAYAL.

The sun was high in the heavens when Laura awoke, and rang for her

waiting-woman. Mademoiselle Louise, fresh, smiling, and officious,

came at once from the anteroom, and began the toilet of her

mistress. She seemed to take more pleasure than usual in gathering

her magnificent dark coils into a net of gold and pearls, and to

linger more admiringly than ever over the last little touches given

to the lace that bordered Laura's neglige of spotless white mull.

She certainly was one of the loveliest of created beings, and so

thought good Madame Dupont, as her ex-pupil came into the dining-

room, and imprinted two hearty kisses on her withered old cheeks.

They sat down together to breakfast, and George, looking as innocent

as if he had just awaked from the sleep of the righteous, came in

with their morning chocolate. All went on as usual, except with the

young marchioness, who, instead of laughing and chatting of Italy,

and Bonaletta, as she was accustomed to do with her "dear Dupont,"

sipped her chocolate in silent abstraction. Breakfast had long been

over, and still she sat in her arm-chair, looking dreamily into the

garden, her head leaning on her hand, her lips sometimes rippling

with a smile, sometimes opening with a gentle sigh.

She had been plunged in her blissful reverie for almost an hour,

when the door was opened, and George appeared before her.

"Your ladyship," said he, "a man without desires speech with you."

"Who is he, George?" asked Laura, reluctantly returning to the world

and its exigencies.

"He will not say, my lady. He wears no livery, but says that your

ladyship knows whence he comes and why. He has a bouquet which was

forgotten yesterday evening."

Laura darted from her chair; then, blushing deeply, she stopped, and

recalled her wandering senses.

"Admit him," said she, trying to speak carelessly. "I will inquire

what this means."

"Oh, 'tis a greeting from him," thought she; but before she had time

to surmise any further, the door reopened, and a young man entered

the room, holding in his hand a superb bouquet of rare and exquisite

flowers.

"Who sent you hither?" asked Laura, with wildly-beating heart.

"A cavalier whose name I do not know," replied the young man,

looking timidly up at the dazzling vision of beauty that stood

before him. "I am first clerk in the largest establishment of the

Marche aux Fleurs, and the gentleman who bespoke the bouquet ordered

the handsomest flowers in our collection. Your ladyship sees that we

have filled the order with the greatest care; for this bouquet

contains specimens of our rarest and most expensive flowers. To be

sure, the gentleman paid an enormous price for it, saying that

nothing we could furnish was too costly for the occasion."

Laura had listened with wonderful patience to all this idle babble.

"Give me the flowers," she said. "They are indeed most beautiful,

and I am grateful for them, both to you and the amiable unknown who

sends them."

"He is very small; of sallow complexion, but with large black eyes,"

replied the clerk, while, with an awkward scrape and bow, he

presented the bouquet to Laura. "He was so pleased with our

selection, that he kissed one of the flowers."

Before she had time to control her tongue, Laura had exclaimed,

"Which one?"

"The blue one, your ladyship, called Comelina coelestis."

Laura looked down at the Comelina coelestis, and fain would she have

robbed it of its kiss, but she consoled herself with the thought

that she would rifle it of its sweets as soon as the messenger left.

He came closer. "Your ladyship," said he, in a very low voice, "I

bear a message, as well as a nosegay. Is there any one about, to

overhear me?"

"No one," replied Laura, breathless and eager.

"Search the bouquet, and under the Comelina your ladyship will find

something."

Laura's rosy fingers were buried in the flowers, and she drew from

its fragrant hiding-place a small slip of paper.

"Your ladyship is requested, if you consent, to return, as an

answer, the four first words of the note."

Laura unrolled the paper, and read: "NOT TO-MORROW, BUT TO-DAY.

Danger threatens, and we must anticipate.--E."

Her face flushed, and her eager eyes were fixed upon that little

scroll which, to her and her lover, was of such great import. What

could it mean? She read it again and again, until the words danced

before her reeling senses.

The clerk came closer yet. "Your ladyship," whispered he, "I must

take back my answer. Somebody might come in."

"The answer?" gasped she, scarcely knowing what he said. "True,

true, there must be an answer." She stood for a moment irresolute,

then a shudder thrilled through her frame, and she felt as if some

evil spirit had again come nigh. She raised her eyes to the face of

the messenger, as though she would have looked into the penetralia

of his thoughts.

"I am to write four words?" asked she, plaintively. "You know, then,

where he lives?"

The clerk replied without the least embarrassment: "Pardon me, I

told your ladyship that I was unacquainted with the cavalier. He

awaits my return in the flower-market, and lest I should be too long

absent, he hired a fiacre to bring me forth and back."

"He awaits my answer," thought Laura. "Oh, it must be so! He shall

not be left in suspense!"

She went hurriedly to a table, and wrote, "Not to-morrow, but to-

day."

"Here," said she, "is my answer, and before you go, I beg you to

accept this for your trouble."

She was about to hand him a purse of gold, when he retreated, and

raised his hand in token of refusal.

"I thank your ladyship, I have already been paid, and have no right

to a reward from you. May I be permitted to take my leave?"

"Yes; hasten, I implore you," returned Laura, wondering at his

disinterestedness.

Scarcely had the commissionnaire taken his leave, when the door of

the antechamber was opened, and a lackey announced:

"Madame, her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans!"

Laura hastily thrust the paper in her bosom, and, coming forward,

kissed the hand of her friend. But as she did so, she felt the blood

rush to her temples, and bent low her head to hide her confusion.

"I could not stay away any longer," began the unsuspecting duchess.

"For three days monsieur has been confined to his room with some

trifling ailment, for which peevishness seems to be his only

palliative. He is one of those who, when, he sneezes, imagines that

the earth is shaken, to her foundations; and when he snuffles, that

all the angels in heaven drop on their knees to pray for him. With

some trouble, I prevailed upon him to give me one hour wherein to

make some change in my dress. I have accomplished the change in

fifteen minutes, and the remainder of the hour I come to spend with

you."

"Thank you, dear friend," replied Laura, who had now recovered her

self-possession, and was sincerely glad to see the duchess. Then

leading her to a divan, the graceful young hostess dropped down on a

cushion at the feet of her royal guest, and continued: "I have been

wondering why I did not see my gracious mistress; I thought she had

forgotten me."

"How could you do her such injustice?" replied Elizabeth-Charlotte,

affectionately. "I have been longing for the sound of your carolling

voice, and the sight of your beaming face. Let me look at you,"

continued she, taking Laura's head between her two hands, and gazing

upon her with fondest admiration.

Poor Laura could ill bear the test of such loving scrutiny. She

blushed scarlet, and her long black eyelashes fell at once under the

searching look of the duchess's round blue eyes.

"Laura!" exclaimed she, anxiously, "something ails you, my darling;

what have you on your heart that you are hiding from me?"

"Dear, dear duchess," stammered Laura, "I have nothing to--"

"Nay, child, do not stoop to untruth--"

"I cannot--I will not," cried Laura, bursting into tears. "I have a-

-secret--but you shall know it--soon."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the duchess, turning very pale, "what has

happened? What evil tidings am I to hear?"

"No evil tidings, my dearest mistress, no evil tidings! Nothing but

joy--joy unspeakable. Do you remember what I told you on that happy

morning of the ball, that if I ever loved I would leave even your

dear self to follow the man of my choice? Well!" cried she, her face

breaking out into bright smiles, while glistening tears lay like

dew-drops upon her rose-tinted cheeks, "he is here! He came down

from the moon on yesternight, and brought two great stars in his

head instead of eyes; stars that I had no sooner looked upon, than I

fell madly in love. Oh! he was sent hither by the good God, and it

is His will that I love him, and forsake all others, to follow

whithersoever he leads!"

"Is she mad?" cried the duchess, in alarm. "Yesternight?--came from

the moon?--WHO came, Laura?"

"God and my mother know his name, and both have blessed us; but I

dare not tell it yet--not even to you. Pray ask me no more--for I

may not say another word."

"Not say another word?" said the duchess, shaking her head, and

looking reproachfully at her favorite. "Then there is something

wrong in this headlong love, and it is no message to your heart from

above. Afraid to say more to your best friend--to her who replaces

your mother?--When saw you this preterhuman being? Who?--Great God!"

cried she, suddenly, putting her hands to her heart, "can it be!

Yes--it must be Prince Eugene!"

Laura clapped her hands, and then threw herself in the duchess's

arms. "Yes--you have guessed--it is he whom I shall love to-day, to-

morrow, and forever. But not another word, my own dear mistress. To-

morrow you shall know all, and be assured that there is no wrong

either done or to be done--I can say but this to-day, that he

certainly came down from the moon, and is the only luminary whose

rays shall ever shine upon my heart!"

While Laura was pouring out her childish half-confidences, her

disinterested friend, the commissionnaire, was similarly engaged in

the anteroom with Master George.

This latter worthy, after a few whispered words from the former,

excused himself to the lackeys of her royal highness, who were in

waiting there, and retreated to the corridor with the clerk.

"Now, George," whispered he, "mark what I tell you. Your master says

that the coachman must be ready with the travelling-carriage of the

marchioness at ten o'clock to-night; that Mademoiselle Louise must

secretly pack up some of her lady's effects and her own, and have

them conveyed to the chariot throughout the day; and that all must

be done so that her ladyship shall suspect nothing."

"It shall be done. And so her ladyship is to go on a journey at ten

o'clock to-night? What an hour to set out!"

"Yes, at ten o'clock precisely, and the blessing of God go with

her!"

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

All was bustle and confusion in the Hotel de Soissons. A crowd of

workmen filled its halls; some on ladders, regilding walls and

ceilings; some on their knees waxing the inlaid floors: and others

occupied in removing the coverings, and dusting the satin cushions

of the rich furniture of the state apartments. The first

upholsterers in Paris had been summoned to the work of preparation,

and the general-in-chief of the gilders stood in their midst, giving

orders to his staff, and sending off detachments for special

service. He held in his hand a roll of paper resembling a marshal's

baton, with which he assigned their posts to his men. Some of his

subalterns approached, to ask in what style the walls of the

reception-rooms were to be decorated.

"I must see the Prince of Savoy about that," said he, with a

flourish. And he took his way for the prince's cabinet. "Announce me

to his highness," said he as he entered the antechamber.

"His highness is at home to nobody to-day, sir," replied Conrad.

"He will be at home for me," said the decorator, complacently. "Say

to the prince that I desire an interview on business of great

moment, connected with the embellishment of the hotel; and without a

conference with himself we cannot proceed. I am Monsieur Louis, the

master of the masters of decoration."

Conrad, quite awed by the stateliness of Monsieur Louis, went at

once to announce him, and returned with a summons for him to enter

the cabinet.

Eugene met him with a bright smile of welcome, and asked what he

could do to assist Monsieur Louis.

"Your highness," replied monsieur, "my workmen have gilded, waxed,

and dusted the apartments, and the important task of decorating them

is about to commence. I am here to inquire of your highness what is

to be the character of the decorations. Are they to have a

significance that betokens Honor, Friendship, Art, or Love?"

Eugene could not repress a smile as he asked whether, for the

expression of these various sentiments, there were different styles

of decoration.

"Most assuredly," was the pompous reply. "It depends entirely upon

the nature of the guest or guests to be entertained. If your

highness is to receive a personage of distinction (a king, for

example), your decorations must be emblematic of respect. They must

consist of laurels, lilies, and banners. If a friend or one of your

own noble kinsmen, the decorations have no special significance; we

mingle flowers, festoons, and pictures that are not allegorical. If

you invite a company of artists, poets, musicians, and the like, the

principal decorations surmount the seat of the Maecenas who

entertains, and the rest of the apartment is left in simplicity."

"But you spoke of a fourth style," said Eugene, blushing.

"Indeed I did, your highness; and on that style we lavish our best

efforts. If the guest is to be a bride, then our walls and ceilings

must be ornamented with rich designs emblematic of love. We must

have cupids, billing doves, and wreaths of roses, mingled with

orange-flowers. Added to this, the decorations must begin in the

vestibule, and be carried out in character, through the entire

palace."

"Well," said Eugene, his large eyes glowing with delight, "let your

decorations be appropriate to a bridal."

"Impossible, your highness! This style requires great originality of

conception, and time to carry out the designs. It would require a

hundred workmen, and then I doubt--"

"Employ more than a hundred," returned Eugene, "and it can be done

in a day. Indeed it must be done, and--I ask of you as a favor not

to mention to any one in what style you are decorating the Hotel de

Soissons."

"Your highness, I will answer for myself, but I cannot answer for

the discretion of a hundred workmen, who, precisely because they are

asked to be silent, would prefer to be communicative."

"Well--do your best, but remember that your work must be done to-

day."

"It shall be done, your highness, and when you see it, you will

confess that I am the first decorateur of the age."

So saying, Monsieur Louis made his bow and strutted off.

Eugene looked after him with a smile. "He is proud and happy," said

the prince, "and yet he merely embellishes the palace wherein love's

festival is to be held. But for me--oh, happiest of mortals! is the

festival prepared. Laura, adored Laura. I must speak thy name to the

walls, or my heart will burst with the fullness of its joy! How

shall I kill the weary hours of this day of expectation? How cool

the hot blood that rushes wildly through my veins, and threatens me

with loss of reason from excess of bliss! I am no longer a solitary,

slighted abbe; I am a hero, a giant, for _I_ AM BELOVED!"

At that moment the door was hastily opened, and Conrad made his

appearance.

"Your highness," said he, "a messenger is here from her royal

highness, madame, and begs for an audience."

Eugene started, and his brow clouded with anxiety. "A messenger from

madame," murmured he. "What can--how should the duchess?--But--

Conrad, admit him."

"Speak," cried Eugene, as soon as the messenger entered the room.

"What are her royal highness's commands?"

"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans requests his highness

Prince Eugene of Savoy to visit her immediately. And that no delay

may occur, her royal highness's equipage is at the door, waiting for

his excellency."

Eugene answered not a word. With an imperious wave of the hand,

which was justly interpreted into a command to clear the passage, he

strode on and on through the corridors of the Hotel de Soissons,

crushing with his foot Monsieur Louis's choicest garlands, that lay

on the floor ready to wreathe the walls and mirrors of the rooms of

state.

Monsieur Louis was shocked at such desecration; but still more

shocked was he to observe what a change had come over the face of

the prince since their interview scarce half an hour ago. Reckless

of the ruined garlands that followed his track, pale and silent, he

went on and on, down the marble staircase, and through the

vestibule, until he flung himself into the coach, and cried:

"On, for your life! urge your horses to their topmost speed!"

The coachman obeyed, and went thundering down the streets, little

heeding whether the equipage that bore the royal arms trod down half

a dozen boors on its way or not.

It drew up with a sudden jerk before the Palais Royal; and the

messenger, who had followed on horseback, asked if his highness

would follow him. He had madame's orders to introduce her visitor

without further ceremony, by a private staircase, leading to her own

apartments.

Doubtless the duchess had heard the carriage as it stopped, for,

when Eugene entered the anteroom, she was standing in the door of

her cabinet, visibly impatient for his arrival. She beckoned him to

approach, and closed the door with her own hand.

She gave him no time for ceremonious greeting. "God be thanked, you

are here!" exclaimed she. "Put down the portiere, that no one may

hear what I have to say." Eugene obeyed mechanically, and loosening

its heavy tassels, the crimson satin curtain fell heavily to the

floor.

"And now," cried the duchess, indignantly, "now, Prince Eugene of

Savoy, I command you to tell me the truth, and the whole truth! What

have you done with her? How could you be so unknightly as to take

advantage of her innocent and affectionate nature, to wrong one of

the purest and most perfect of God's creatures! My heart is like to

break with its weight of sorrow and disgrace; and, had it not been

for Laura's sake, I would have laid my complaint before his majesty.

But I must not expose her to the world's contumely, and therefore I

endure your presence here. Tell me at once what have you done with

my darling?"

Eugene could scarcely reply to this passionate appeal. His senses

reeled--his heart seemed to freeze within him. He thought he

comprehended; and yet--

"Who? Who is gone? Oh, duchess, be merciful; what mean these words

of mystery?"

The duchess eyed him scornfully. "Base seducer, dare you question

me? Do you strive to delude me into believing that you do not know

of whom I speak? I demand of you at once the person of the

Marchioness de Bonaletta!"

"Laura!" cried Eugene, in a tone of deepest despair. "Laura gone!

And you say that I enticed her away!"

"Tell me the truth, tell me the truth," cried madame.

"The truth!" groaned Eugene, while the duchess started from her

seat, and grasped both his hands in hers.

"Have mercy," stammered he, trembling as if an ague had suddenly

seized him. "Is she no longer--here?"

"She is no longer here," echoed the duchess, staring in astonishment

at the writhing features of the unhappy prince.

"You know not where she is?" gasped he, faintly.

"No," cried she, "no! You look as though you were yourself

astounded, Prince Eugene; but you will no longer deny your guilt

when I tell you that my poor innocent child has told me all."

"What--all?" asked Eugene.

"She told me that you were lovers. And now, prevaricate no longer;

it is useless and renders you still more infamous."

"What more did she say?" asked Eugene, unconscious that his tone was

as imperative as that of an emperor.

"Nothing more. She merely told me that in two days I should learn

all. Alas! I have learned it to my cost, and to her ruin!"

"And you accuse me of enticing her! Great God! if my heart were not

breaking with anguish, it would break that such baseness could be

attributed to me. Would that I could answer you, duchess, but God in

heaven knows that I was ignorant of her departure, until I learned

it from yourself!"

"Was ever a man so bold in falsehood!" cried the duchess, losing all

command of her temper. "I have in your own handwriting the proof of

your wickedness. Now mark me! This morning, the second woman in

waiting of the marchioness came frightened to my apartments to tell

me that her mistress, her woman Louise, and George, had disappeared

from the pavilion, no one could surmise when. I was so overcome with

terror that I hurried to the pavilion, and alas! found that it was

indeed so. Neither her own bed, nor that of the servant who

accompanied her, had been occupied. I looked everywhere for some

clew to the mystery, when, on the floor near her morning-dress,

which hung on a chair, I found this scrap of paper, which, as it is

signed with your initials, you will not deny, I presume."

With eyes that flashed fire, she almost dashed the paper in his

face. Eugene took it, and, having given it one glance, he turned

pale as death, and it fluttered from his palsied hands to the floor.

"Heavens, what can ail him!" cried the duchess, sympathizing, in

spite of herself, with his sudden sorrow. He was ghastly as a

spectre, and his whole frame shook like the leaf of an aspen.

"I did not write it," gasped he, but almost inaudibly; for his teeth

chattered so that he could scarcely articulate a sound.

"What!" exclaimed the duchess, now thoroughly convinced of his

innocence, and feeling her terror increase with the conviction,

"what! you did not write these words?"

He shook his head, but no sound came from his blanched lips. He laid

his hands upon his heart as if to stifle its anguish; then, raising

them to his head, he pressed them to his temples, and so paced the

room for a while. Then he came and stood before the duchess, whose

compassionate eyes filled with tears as they met his look of

anguish. Finally, he heaved a long sigh, and spoke.

"My name has been used to deceive her," said he. "She has never seen

my writing, and thus she fell into the snare."

"But I cannot comprehend who it is that possessed such influence

over her as to frighten her into silent acquiescence of the fraud.

Laura is young, but she is prudent and resolute, These words had

some meaning which could be referred to you, or she would not have

understood them."

"Ay," returned Eugene, solemnly, "they were chosen with satanic

shrewdness. They referred to our plans of to-day, and signified that

I had anticipated the time for our marriage. Ah! well I know what

happened; and well I know why Laura made no resistance! At ten

o'clock she extinguished all the lights in her parlor save one; and

as soon as this signal had been given, four men, whose faces were

concealed, entered the house. One of them was a priest, two were

witnesses, and the fourth--O God! that fourth one! Who was he I know

not; but I shall learn--alas! too soon. Without a word (for such had

been our agreement) he took her hand, and the priest read the

marriage ceremony. When the names had been signed, he raised my

Laura in his arms, bore her through the postern to a carriage, and,

O God! O God! tore her from me forever!"

"But how come you to know these particulars, who knew not even of

her flight?"

"Duchess, it was to have taken place to-night, and I was to have

been that bridegroom. We were overheard, and those accursed words,

'not to-morrow, but to-night,' were sent in my name. She thought to

give me her dear hand, while I--I--"

He could not proceed. He gave one loud sob, and burst into tears.

Those tears, bitter though they were, saved his reason.

The duchess, too, wept profusely. "Poor prince!" said she, "well may

you mourn, for you have lost an angel of goodness and--"

"No!" interrupted Eugene, fiercely. "Say not that she is lost to me!

I must find her, for she is mine,--and I must find her ravisher.

Great God of heaven!" cried he, raising his clasped hands, "where

shall I find the robber that has so cruelly despoiled us both?"

"Stay!" cried the duchess. "I know of a man that was her suitor, and

whose suit was countenanced by her father and her brother. She told

me of it herself, and to avoid their persecutions, took refuge with

me."

"His name, his name, I implore you, his name!"

"The Venetian ambassador, the Marquis de Strozzi."

"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, approaching the door.

"Whither do you go?"

"To seek the Venetian ambassador."

"And compromise Laura? You do not know that things transpired as you

imagine. She may merely have been removed by her father, to part her

from yourself. And suppose the marquis was no party to her flight?

You would make her ridiculous--nay, more; you would sully her name,

so that every gossip in Paris would fall upon your Laura's

reputation, and leave not a shred of it wherewith to protect her

from the world's contempt."

Eugene wiped off the great drops of sweat that beaded his pallid

brow. "You are right," said he. "She must not be compromised--no,

not even if I died of grief for her loss: there are other means--I

will go to her father."

Elizabeth nodded her head approvingly. "Yes--that you can do. You

may confide her secret to her father. Take the same carriage that

brought you hither, and, to make sure of obtaining speedy admission

to Louvois' presence, announce yourself as my envoy."

"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, and, inclining his head, he

moved toward the door. The duchess followed him, and, taking his

hand affectionately, pressed it within her own.

"I see that you love my darling as she deserves to be loved, and you

would have made her happy. Forgive my injustice and my hard words. I

was so wretched that I knew not the import of my accusations."

"I do not remember them," returned Eugene, sadly. "But one thing

fills my heart--the thought of my Laura's loss. Farewell, dear lady.

Now, to question Louvois!"