THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.
Hardly had M. de Calonne traversed the gallery, when Madame de la Motte
was shown in to the queen.
“Madame,” said she, “the cardinal is here.” She then introduced him,
and took her leave.
The cardinal, finding himself alone with the queen, bowed respectfully,
without raising his eyes.
“Monsieur,” said the queen, “I have heard of you what has effaced many
wrongs.”
“Permit me, madame,” said he, trembling with real emotion, “to assure
your majesty that these wrongs of which you speak I could explain in a
few words.”
“I do not forbid you to justify yourself,” replied she, with dignity;
“but if what you are about to say throws the smallest shade upon my
family or country, you will only wound me still more. Let us leave this
subject; and I will only see you under the fresh light, which shows you
to me obliging, respectful, and devoted.”
“Devoted until death,” replied he.
“But,” said Marie Antoinette, with a smile, “at present it is a
question not of death, but of ruin; and I do not wish you devoted even
so far. You shall live, and not be ruined, at least, not by me; for
they say you are ruining yourself.”
“Madame!”
“Oh! that is your own business; only, as a friend, I would counsel you
to be economical—the king would like you better.”
“I would become a miser to please your majesty.”
“Oh, the king,” replied she, with an accent on the word, “does not love
misers either.”
“I will become whatever your majesty desires,” replied he, with a
hardly-disguised passion.
“I said, then,” continued she, “that you shall not be ruined for me.
You have advanced money on my account, and I have the means of meeting
the calls; therefore, regard the affair for the future as in my hands.”
“To finish it, then, it only remains for me to offer the necklace to
your majesty;” and drawing out the case, he presented it to her.
She took it, but did not open it, and laid it down by her side. She
received kindly all his polite speeches, but as she was longing to be
left alone with her diamonds, she began to answer somewhat absently.
He thought she was embarrassed, and was delighted, thinking it showed,
at least, an absence of indifference. He then kissed her hand, and took
leave, going away full of enthusiasm and hope.
Jeanne was waiting for him in the carriage, and received his ardent
protestations with pleasure. “Well,” said she, “shall you be Richelieu
or Mazarin? Have her lips given you encouragement in ambition or love?
Are you launched in politics or intrigue?”
“Do not laugh, dear countess; I am full of happiness.”
“Already!”
“Assist me, and in three weeks I may be a minister.”
“Peste! that is a long time; the next payment is in a fortnight.”
“Ah! the queen has money, and will pay, and I shall have only the merit
of the intention. It is too little; I would willingly have paid for
this reconciliation with the whole sum.”
“Make yourself easy,” replied the countess; “you shall have this merit
if you desire it.”
“I should have preferred it; the queen would then have been under an
obligation to me.”
“Monseigneur, something tells me you will have this satisfaction. Are
you prepared for it?”
“I have mortgaged all my revenue for the ensuing year.”
“Then you have the money?”
“Certainly, for this payment; after that, I do not know what I shall
do.”
“Oh, this payment will give you three quiet months; who knows what may
happen in three months?”
“That is true; but she said that the king wished me to incur no more
debt.”
“Two months in the ministry would set all straight.”
“Countess!”
“Oh, do not be fastidious; if you do not assist yourself, others will.”
“You are right. Where are you going now?”
“Back to the queen, to hear what she says of your interview.”
“Good! I go to Paris.”
“Why? You should go this evening to the ‘jeu du roi;’ it is good policy
to keep your ground.”
“No, countess; I must attend a rendezvous, for which I received a note
this morning.”
“A rendezvous?”
“Yes, and a serious one, by the contents of the note. Look.”
“A man’s writing,” said the countess; and, opening the note, she read:
“Monseigneur,—Some one wishes to see you about raising an important sum
of money. This person will wait on you this evening, at Paris, to
solicit the honor of an interview.”
“Anonymous—some beggar?”
“No, countess; no beggar would expose himself to the risk of being
beaten by my servants. Besides, I fancy I have seen the writing before.
So au revoir, countess.”
“Apropos, monseigneur, if you are going to get a windfall, some large
sum, I understand we are to share.”
“Countess, you have brought me luck; I shall not be ungrateful.” And
they separated.
The cardinal was full of happy dreams: the queen had received him
kindly. He would place himself at the head of her party, and make it a
popular one; he would protect her, and for her sake would abandon his
slothful life, and live an active one.
As soon as he arrived at his hotel, he commenced burning a box full of
love-letters; then he called his steward to order some economical
reforms, and sat down to his history of English politics. Soon he heard
a ring, and a servant entered to announce the person who had written to
him that morning.
“Ask his name,” said the cardinal.
The man, having inquired, returned and said:
“M. le Comte de Cagliostro.”
“Let him come in.”
The count entered.
“Mon Dieu!” cried the cardinal, “is it possible? Joseph Balsamo, who
was supposed to have perished in the flames?”
“Yes, monseigneur, more alive than ever.”
“But, sir, you have taken a new name.”
“Yes, monseigneur; the other recalled too many painful recollections.
Possibly, you yourself would not have opened your door to Joseph
Balsamo.”
“I! oh yes, sir.”
“Then monseigneur has a better memory and more honesty than most men.”
“Monsieur, you once rendered me a service.”
“Am I not, monseigneur, a good specimen of the results of my elixir?”
“I confess it, sir; but you seem above humanity—you, who distribute
health and gold to all.”
“Health perhaps, monseigneur, but not gold.”
“You make no more gold.”
“No, monseigneur.”
“Why?”
“Because I lost the parcel of an indispensable ingredient which
Althotas discovered, but of which I never had the receipt. He has
carried that secret with him to the grave.”
“He is dead, then? How, could you not preserve the life of this man, so
useful to you, as you have kept yourself through so many centuries?”
“Because I can guard against illness, but not against such accidents as
kill before I can act.”
“He died from an accident, then?”
“The fire in which you thought I died killed him; or rather he, weary
of life, chose to die.”
“It is strange.”
“No, it is natural; I have a hundred times thought of ending my life.”
“But you have not done so.”
“Because I enjoy a state of youth, in which health and pleasure kept me
from ennui; but he had chosen one of old age. He was a savant, and
cared only for science; and thus youth, with its thousand pleasures,
would have constantly drawn him from its study. An old man meditates
better than a young one. Althotas died a victim to his love of science:
I lead a worldly life, and do nothing—I live like a planet.”
“Oh, sir, your words and appearance bring to me dreams of my youth. It
is ten years since I saw you.”
“Yes; but if you are no longer a fine young man, you are a prince. Do
you remember the day when, in my cabinet, I promised you the love of
the woman whose fair locks I consulted?”
The cardinal turned from pale to red. Terror and joy almost stopped the
beating of his heart.
“I remember,” said he.
“Ah, let me try if I can still play the magician. This fair child of
your dreams——”
“What is she doing now?”
“Ah, I suspect you yourself have seen her to-day; indeed, you have not
long left her.”
The cardinal could hardly stand.
“Oh, I beg, sir——” he cried.
“Let us speak of something else,” said Cagliostro, sitting down.