JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS.
The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte was to examine the faces of her
visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder
lady, who might have been, as we have said, about thirty-two years of
age, was remarkably beautiful, although, at first sight, a great air of
hauteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her
carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingué that
Jeanne could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory glance.
She, however, seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from
the light, so as to be little seen.
Her companion appeared four or five years younger, and was not less
beautiful. Her complexion was charming; her hair, drawn back from her
temples, showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face; two large
blue eyes, calm and serene; a well-formed mouth, indicating great
frankness of disposition; a nose that rivaled the Venus de Medicis;
such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne de
Valois.
She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honor of
their visit.
The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, “Madame, for
I believe you are married——”
“I have the honor to be the wife of M. le Comte de la Motte, an
excellent gentleman.”
“Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable
institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that
interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on
the subject.”
“Mesdames,” replied Jeanne, “you see there the portrait of Henry III.,
that is to say, of the brother of my grandfather, for I am truly of the
race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told.” And she waited for
the next question, looking at her visitors with a sort of proud
humility.
“Madame,” said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, “is it
true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a
place called Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?”
Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, “It is true, madame;
and,” she went on, “as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of rare
beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by
my father that I am nobly descended; he was a St. Rémy de Valois,
direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne.”
“But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame?”
“Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the
accession of Henry IV., by which the crown passed from the house of
Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the
fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the
same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably.”
The two ladies made a sign of assent.
“Then,” continued Jeanne, “these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in
spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious to the reigning family,
changed their name of Valois into that of St. Rémy, which they took
from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my
father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old
branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his
illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore
in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the
court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their
ancient kings.”
Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity
and mildness which created a favorable impression.
“You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame,” said the
elder lady, with kindness.
“Oh, madame,” she replied, with a bitter smile, “proofs are not
wanting—my father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole
legacy; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will
recognize?”
“Your father is then dead?” asked the younger lady.
“Alas! yes.”
“Did he die in the provinces?”
“No, madame.”
“At Paris, then?”
“Yes.”
“In this room?”
“No, madame; my father, Baron de Valois, great-nephew of the King Henry
III., died of misery and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not
in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with
the suffering wretches in the Hôtel Dieu!”
The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.
“From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident,
great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father.”
“Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that
my father’s death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes.”
“How, madame! You regard as a minor evil the death of your father?”
said the elder lady, with a frown.
“Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my
father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in
this life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in
the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in
knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his
bread.”
“To beg his bread?”
“Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there
was no blame to my father or myself.”
“But you do not speak of your mother?”
“Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I
blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my
mother.”
The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange
words.
“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account
of your misfortunes?”
“The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such
a long catalogue of woes.”
“Speak, madame,” said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her
companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed,
Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and
stared at her with some astonishment.
“I listen, madame,” she then said, in a more gentle tone; “if you will
be good enough to inform us what we ask.”
Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and fearing she felt cold,
pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had
discovered under one of the chairs.
“Keep it yourself, my sister,” said she, pushing it back again. “You
are more delicate than I.”
“Indeed, madame,” said Jeanne, “it grieves me much to see you suffer
from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted a
week ago.”
“You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother,” said the
elder lady, returning to the subject.
“Yes, madame. Doubtless, such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it
not?” said Jeanne; “but hear my explanation. I have already had the
honor to tell you that my father made a mésalliance, and married his
housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and
proud of the honor he had done her, began by ruining my father, which
certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her
own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining
property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which
his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped
in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he
possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.
“His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates in the lowest ranks of the army;
the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our
departure, before the house of a neighboring farmer.
“The journey exhausted our little resources—my father wore himself out
in fruitless appeals—we scarcely ever saw him—our house was
wretched—and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her
discontent and ill-humor upon me: she even reproached me with what I
ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The
neighbors, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I
experienced. He endeavored to protect me, but his interference only
served to embitter her still more against me.
“At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and
then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext
that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as
I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street
with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not
wish to be beaten to death.”
“And what was this sentence?” asked the elder lady.
“It was this, madame: ‘Have pity on a little orphan, who descends in a
direct line from Henri de Valois.’”
“What a shame!” cried the ladies.
“But what effect did this produce on the people?” inquired Andrée.
“Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some
kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from
repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of
disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped: I
generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from
starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious to me, that
at last, one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a
doorstep all the time, and returned in the evening empty-handed. My
mother beat me so that the next day I fell ill; then my poor father,
deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the Hôtel Dieu, where
he died.”
“Oh! what a horrible history,” cried the ladies.
“What became of you after your father’s death?” asked the elder lady.
“God took pity upon me a month after my father’s death, my mother ran
away with a soldier, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves
relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity, although we
never begged for more than enough to eat. One day, I saw a carriage
going slowly along the Faubourg Saint Marcel. There were four footmen
behind, and a beautiful lady inside; I held out my hand to her for
charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike
her with surprise. She asked for my address, and the next day made
inquiries, and finding that I had told her the truth, she took charge
of my brother and myself; she placed my brother in the army, and me
with a dressmaker.”
“Was not this lady Madame de Boulainvilliers?”
“It was.”
“She is dead, I believe?”
“Yes; and her death deprived me of my only protector.”
“Her husband still lives, and is rich.”
“Ah, madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown
tall, and, as he thought, pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his
benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile, Madame de Boulainvilliers
died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, M. de la
Motte, but, separated from him, I seemed more abandoned after her death
than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, madame,
which I have shortened as much as possible, in order not to weary you.”
“Where, then, is your husband?” asked the elder lady.
“He is in garrison at Bar-sur-Aube; he serves in the gendarmerie, and
is waiting, like myself, in hopes of better times.”
“But you have laid your case before the court?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“The name of Valois must have awakened some sympathy.”
“I know not, madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have
received no answer to any of my petitions.”
“You have seen neither the ministers, the king, nor the queen?”
“No one. Everywhere I have failed.”
“You cannot now beg, however.”
“No, madame; I have lost the habit; but I can die of hunger, like my
poor father.”
“You have no child?”
“No, madame; and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his
king, will find for himself a glorious end to all our miseries.”
“Can you, madame—I beg pardon if I seem intrusive—but can you bring
forward the proofs of your genealogy?”
Jeanne rose, opened a drawer, and drew out some papers, which she
presented to the lady, who rose to come nearer the light, that she
might examine them; but seeing that Jeanne eagerly seized this
opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to
do, she turned away as if the light hurt her eyes, turning her back to
Madame de la Motte.
“But,” said she, at last, “these are only copies.”
“Oh! madame, I have the originals safe, and am ready to produce them.”
“If any important occasion should present itself, I suppose?” said the
lady, smiling.
“It is, doubtless, madame, an important occasion which procures me the
honor of your visit, but these papers are so precious——”
“That you cannot show them to the first comer. I understand you.”
“Oh, madame!” cried the countess; “you shall see them;” and opening a
secret drawer above the other, she drew out the originals, which were
carefully inclosed in an old portfolio, on which were the arms of the
Valois.
The lady took them, and after examining them, said, “You are right;
these are perfectly satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in
readiness to produce them when called upon by proper authority.”
“And what do you think I may expect, madame?” asked Jeanne.
“Doubtless a pension for yourself, and advancement for M. de la Motte,
if he prove worthy of it.”
“My husband is an honorable man, madame, and has never failed in his
military duties.”
“It is enough, madame,” said the lady, drawing her hood still more over
her face. She then put her hand in her pocket, and drew out first the
same embroidered handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her
face when in the sledge, then a small roll about an inch in diameter,
and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonier,
saying, “The treasurer of our charity authorizes me, madame, to offer
you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better.”
Madame de la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll.
“Three-franc pieces,” thought she, “and there must be nearly a hundred
of them; what a boon from heaven.”
While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the
outer room, where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair.
The candle was burning out in the socket, and the smell which came from
it made the ladies draw out their smelling-bottles. Jeanne woke
Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end.
“Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse,” said they.
“Where may I have the honor of coming to thank you?” asked Jeanne.
“We will let you know,” replied the elder lady, going quickly down the
stairs.
Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her
rouleau, but her foot struck against something, and stooping to pick it
up, she saw a small flat gold box.
She was some time before she could open it, but having at last found
the spring, it flew open and disclosed the portrait of a lady
possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a
collar like an order. An M and a T encircled by a laurel wreath
ornamented the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt,
from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her,
that it was that of her mother, or some near relation.
She ran to the stairs to give it back to them; but hearing the
street-door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window,
but arrived there only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away.
She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present, and turned
again to the little rouleau.
When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy, “Double louis, fifty
double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs!” and transported at
the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life, she
remained with clasped hands and open lips. “A hundred louis,” she
repeated; “these ladies are then very rich. Oh! I will find them
again.”