THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL.
The cardinal passed three nights very different to those when he went
to the park, and which he constantly lived over again in his memory. No
news of any one, no hope of a visit; nothing but a dead silence, and
perfect darkness, after such brightness and happiness. He began to fear
that, after all, his sacrifice had been displeasing to the queen. His
uneasiness became insupportable. He sent ten times in one day to Madame
de la Motte: the tenth messenger brought Jeanne to him. On seeing her
he cried out, “How! you live so tranquilly; you know my anxiety, and
you, my friend, never come near me.”
“Oh, monseigneur, patience, I beg. I have been far more useful to you
at Versailles than I could have been here.”
“Tell me,” replied he, “what does she say? Is she less cruel?”
“Absence is equal pain, whether borne at Versailles or at Paris.”
“Oh, I thank you, but the proofs——”
“Proofs! Are you in your senses, monseigneur, to ask a woman for proofs
of her own infidelity?”
“I am not speaking of proofs for a lawsuit, countess, only a token of
love.”
“It seems to me that you are either very exacting or very forgetful.”
“Oh! I know you will tell me that I might be more than satisfied. But
judge by yourself, countess; would you like to be thrown on one side,
after having received assurances of favor?”
“Assurances!”
“Oh, certainly, I have nothing to complain of, but still——”
“I cannot be answerable for unreasonable discontents.”
“Countess, you treat me ill. Instead of reproaching me for my folly,
you should try to aid me.”
“I cannot aid you. I see nothing to do.”
“Nothing to do?”
“No.”
“Well, madame, I do not say the same.”
“Ah, monseigneur, anger will not help you; and besides, you are
unjust.”
“No, countess; if you do not assist me any longer, I know it is because
you cannot. Only tell me the truth at once.”
“What truth?”
“That the queen is a perfidious coquette, who makes people adore her,
and then drives them to despair.”
Jeanne looked at him with an air of surprise, although she had expected
him to arrive at this state, and she felt really pleased, for she
thought that it would help her out of her difficult position. “Explain
yourself,” she said.
“Confess that the queen refuses to see me.”
“I do not say so, monseigneur.”
“She wishes to keep me away lest I should rouse the suspicions of some
other lover.”
“Ah, monseigneur!” cried Jeanne in a tone which gave him liberty to
suspect anything.
“Listen,” continued he; “the last time I saw her, I thought I heard
steps in the wood——”
“Folly!”
“And I suspect——”
“Say no more, monseigneur. It is an insult to the queen; besides, even
if it were true that she fears the surveillance of another lover, why
should you reproach her with a past which she has sacrificed to you?”
“But if this past be again a present, and about to be a future?”
“Fie, monseigneur, your suspicions are offensive both to the queen and
to me.”
“Then, countess, bring me a proof—does she love me at all?”
“It is very simple,” replied Jeanne, pointing to his writing table, “to
ask her.”
“You will give her a note?”
“Who else would, if not I?”
“And you will bring me an answer?”
“If possible.”
“Ah! now you are a good creature, countess.”
He sat down, but though he was an eloquent writer, he commenced and
destroyed a dozen sheets of paper before he satisfied himself.
“If you go on so, you will never have done,” said Jeanne.
“You see, countess, I fear my own tenderness, lest I displease the
queen.”
“Oh,” replied Jeanne, “if you write a business letter, you will get one
in reply. That is your own affair.”
“You are right, countess; you always see what is best.” He then wrote a
letter, so full of loving reproaches and ardent protestations, that
Jeanne, when he gave it to her to read, thought, “He has written of his
own accord what I never should have dared to dictate.”
“Will it do?” asked he.
“If she loves you. You will see to-morrow: till then be quiet.”
“Till to-morrow, then.”
On her return home Jeanne gave way to her reflections. This letter was
just what she wanted. How could the cardinal ever accuse her, when he
was called on to pay for the necklace? Even admitting that the queen
and cardinal met, and that everything was explained, how could they
turn against her while she held in her hands such proofs of a
scandalous secret? No, they must let her go quietly off with her
fortune of a million and a half of francs. They would know she had
stolen the diamonds, but they never would publish all this affair; and
if one letter was not enough, she would have seven or eight. The first
explosion would come from the jewelers, who would claim their money.
Then she must confess to M. de Rohan, and make him pay by threatening
to publish his letters. Surely they would purchase the honor of a queen
and a prince at the price of a million and a half! The jewelers once
paid, that question was at an end; Jeanne felt sure of her fortune. She
knew that the cardinal had a conviction so firm that nothing could
shake it, that he had met the queen. There was but one living witness
against her, and that one she would soon cause to disappear. Arrived at
this point, she went to the window and saw Oliva, who was watching in
her balcony. She made the accustomed sign for her to come down, and
Oliva replied joyfully. The great thing now was to get rid of her. To
destroy the instrument that has served them is the constant endeavor of
those who intrigue; but here it is that they generally fail; they do
not succeed in doing so before there has been time to disclose the
secret. Jeanne knew that Oliva would not be easy to get rid of, unless
she could think of something that would induce her to fly willingly.
Oliva, on her part, much as she enjoyed her nocturnal promenades at
first, after so much confinement, was already beginning to weary of
them, and to sigh once more for liberty and Beausire.
The night came, and they went out together; Oliva disguised under a
large cloak and hood, and Jeanne dressed as a grisette; besides which
the carriage bore the respectable arms of Valois, which prevented the
police, who alone might have recognized Oliva, from searching it.
“Oh! I have been so ennuyée,” cried Oliva, “I have been expecting you
so long.”
“It was impossible to come and see you, I should have run, and made you
run, a great danger.”
“How so?” said Oliva, astonished.
“A terrible danger at which I still tremble. You know how ennuyée you
were, and how much you wished to go out.”
“Yes; and you assisted me like a friend.”
“Certainly; I proposed that we should have some amusement with that
officer who is rather mad, and in love with the queen, whom you
resemble a little; and endeavor to persuade him that it was the queen
he was walking with.”
“Yes,” said Oliva.
“The first two nights you walked in the park, and you played your part
to perfection; he was quite taken in.”
“Yes,” said Oliva, “but it was almost a pity to deceive him, poor
fellow, he was so delightful.”
“Yes, but the evil is not there. To give a man a rose, to let him kiss
your hands, and call you ‘your majesty,’ was all good fun; but, my
little Oliva, it seems you did not stop here.”
Oliva colored.
“How?” stammered she.
“There was a third interview.”
“Yes,” replied Oliva, hastily, “you know, for you were there.”
“Excuse me, dear friend; I was there, but at a distance. I neither saw
nor heard what passed within, I only know what you told me, that he
talked and kissed your hands.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” murmured Oliva.
“You surely could not have exposed us both to such a terrible danger
without telling me of it.”
Oliva trembled from head to foot.
Jeanne continued. “How could I imagine that you, who said you loved M.
Beausire, and were courted by a man like Count Cagliostro, whom you
refused; oh! it cannot be true.”
“But where is the danger?” asked Oliva.
“The danger! Have we not to manage a madman, one who fears nothing, and
will not be controlled. It was no great thing for the queen to give him
her hand to kiss or to give him a rose; oh, my dear child, I have not
smiled since I heard this.”
“What do you fear?” asked Oliva, her teeth chattering with terror.
“Why, as you are not the queen, and have taken her name, and in her
name have committed a folly of this kind, that is unfortunately
treason. He has no proof of this—they may be satisfied with a prison or
banishment.”
“A prison! banishment!” shrieked Oliva.
“I, at least, intend to take precautions and hide myself.”
“You fear also?”
“Oh! will not this madman divulge my share also? My poor Oliva, this
trick of yours will cost us dear.”
Oliva burst into tears.
“Oh!” she cried, “I think I am possessed of a demon, that I can never
rest: just saved from one danger, I must rush into another. Suppose I
confess all to my protector?”
“A fine story to confess to him, whose advances you refused, that you
have committed this imprudence with a stranger.”
“Mon Dieu! you are right.”
“Soon this report will spread, and will reach his ears; then do you not
think he will give you up to the police? Even if he only send you away,
what will become of you?”
“Oh! I am lost.”
“And M. Beausire, when he shall hear this——?”
Oliva started, and wringing her hands violently, cried out, “Oh, he
would kill me; but no, I will kill myself. You cannot save me, since
you are compromised also.”
“I have,” replied Jeanne, “in the furthest part of Picardy, a little
farm. If you can gain this refuge, you might be safe.”
“But you?”
“Oh, once you were gone, I should not fear him.”
“I will go whenever you like.”
“I think you are wise.”
“Must I go at once?”
“Wait till I have prepared everything to insure safety; meanwhile, hide
yourself, and do not come near the window.”
“Oh yes, dear friend.”
“And to begin, let us go home, as there is no more to say.”
“How long will your preparations take?”
“I do not know, but remember henceforth, until the day of your
departure I shall not come to the window. When you see me there, you
will know that the day has arrived, and be prepared.”
They returned in silence. On arriving, Oliva begged pardon humbly of
her friend for bringing her into so much danger through her folly.
“I am a woman,” replied Jeanne, “and can pardon a woman’s weakness.”