THE FLIGHT.
Oliva kept her promise, and Jeanne also. Oliva hid herself from every
one, and Jeanne made her preparations, and in a few days made her
appearance at the window as a sign to Oliva to be ready that evening
for flight.
Oliva, divided between joy and terror, began immediately to prepare.
Jeanne went to arrange about the carriage that was to convey her away.
Eleven o’clock at night had just struck when Jeanne arrived with a
post-chaise to which three strong horses were harnessed. A man wrapped
in a cloak sat on the box, directing the postilions. Jeanne made them
stop at the corner of the street, saying, “Remain here—half an hour
will suffice—and then I will bring the person whom you are to conduct
with all possible speed to Amiens. There you will give her into the
care of the farmer who is my tenant; he has his instructions.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I forgot—are you armed? This lady is menaced by a madman; he might,
perhaps, try to stop her on the road.”
“What should I do?”
“Fire on any one who tries to impede your journey.”
“Yes, madame.”
“You asked me seventy louis; I will give you a hundred, and will pay
the expenses of the voyage which you had better make to London. Do not
return here; it is more prudent for you to go to St. Valery, and embark
at once for England.”
“Rely on me, madame.”
“Well, I will go and bring the lady.”
All seemed asleep in that quiet house. Jeanne lighted the lamp which
was to be the signal to Oliva, but received no answering sign. “She
will come down in the dark,” thought Jeanne; and she went to the door,
but it did not open. Oliva was perhaps bringing down her packages. “The
fool!” murmured the countess, “how much time she is wasting over her
rubbish!” She waited a quarter of an hour—no one came; then half-past
eleven struck. “Perhaps she did not see my signal,” thought Jeanne; and
she went up and lighted it again, but it was not acknowledged. “She
must be ill,” cried Jeanne, in a rage, “and cannot move.” Then she took
the key which Oliva had given her; but just as she was about to open
the door, she thought, “Suppose some one should be there? But I should
hear voices on the staircase, and could return. I must risk something.”
She went up, and on arriving outside Oliva’s door she saw a light
inside and heard footsteps, but no voices. “It is all right,” she
thought; “she was only a long time getting ready.” “Oliva,” said she
softly, “open the door.” The door opened, and Jeanne found herself face
to face with a man holding a torch in his hand.
“Oliva,” said he, “is this you?” Then, with a tone of admirably-feigned
surprise, cried, “Madame de la Motte!”
“M. de Cagliostro!” said she in terror, feeling half inclined to run
away; but he took her hand politely, and begged her to sit down.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, madame?”
“Monsieur,” said she, stammering, “I came—I sought——”
“Allow me, madame, to inquire which of my servants was guilty of the
rudeness of letting you come up unattended?”
Jeanne trembled.
“You must have fallen to the lot of my stupid German porter, who is
always tipsy.”
“Do not scold him, I beg you, sir,” replied Jeanne, who could hardly
speak.
“But was it he?”
“I believe so. But you promise me not to scold him?”
“I will not; only, madame, will you now explain to me——”
Jeanne began to gather courage.
“I came to consult you, sir, about certain reports.”
“What reports?”
“Do not hurry me, sir; it is a delicate subject.”
“Ah! you want time to invent,” thought he.
“You are a friend of M. le Cardinal de Rohan?”
“I am acquainted with him, madame.”
“Well, I came to ask you——”
“What?”
“Oh, sir, you must know that he has shown me much kindness, and I wish
to know if I may rely upon it. You understand me, sir? You read all
hearts.”
“You must be a little more explicit before I can assist you, madame.”
“Monsieur, they say that his eminence loves elsewhere in a high
quarter.”
“Madame, allow me first to ask you one question. How did you come to
seek me here, since I do not live here?” Jeanne trembled. “How did you
get in?—for there are neither porter nor servants in this part of my
hotel. It could not be me you sought here—who was it? You do not reply;
I must aid you a little. You came in by the help of a key which you
have now in your pocket. You came to seek a young woman whom from pure
kindness I had concealed here.”
Jeanne trembled visibly, but replied, “If it were so, it is no crime;
one woman is permitted to visit another. Call her; she will tell you if
my friendship is a hurtful one.”
“Madame, you say that because you know she is not here.”
“Not here! Oliva not here?”
“Oh you do not know that—you, who helped her to escape!”
“I!” cried Jeanne; “you accuse me of that?”
“I convict you,” replied Cagliostro; and he took a paper from the
table, and showed her the following words, addressed to himself:
“Monsieur, and my generous protector, forgive me for leaving you; but
above all things I love M. Beausire. He came and I follow him. Adieu!
Believe in my gratitude!”
“Beausire!” cried Jeanne, petrified; “he, who did not even know her
address?”
“Oh, madame, here is another paper, which was doubtless dropped by M.
Beausire.” The countess read, shuddering:
“M. Beausire will find Mademoiselle Oliva, Rue St. Claude, at the
corner of the boulevard. He had better come for her at once; it is
time. This is the advice of a sincere friend.”
“Oh!” groaned the countess.
“And he has taken her away,” said Cagliostro.
“But who wrote this note?”
“Doubtless yourself.”
“But how did he get in?”
“Probably with your key.”
“But as I have it here, he could not have it.”
“Whoever has one can easily have two.”
“You are convinced,” replied she, “while I can only suspect.” She
turned and went away, but found the staircase lighted and filled with
men-servants. Cagliostro called out loudly before them, “Madame la
Comtesse de la Motte!” She went out full of rage and disappointment.