THE ABBEY
Eleven o'clock had just struck in the cloisters of the abbey of
Montmartre. The night was stormy; the heavens gray and veiled,
notwithstanding the brightness of the moon, which peeped out at long
intervals beneath dank clouds rent by the wind. In order to reach the
chapel, Mlle. de Soissons was obliged, after leaving her apartment, to
cross an open gallery, whose arches opened on one of the interior courts
of the abbey.
In the midst of this court was the tomb of the Countess of Egmont, the
charming and unhappy daughter of Marshal Richelieu. The princess Julie
had received, by the aid of her nurse and Dame Landry, a message from
Létorière. He announced to her that he should endeavor to introduce
himself into the abbey that very night. It was eleven o'clock; Mlle. de
Soissons, oppressed by inexplicable presentiments, was praying on the
steps of Madame Egmont's tomb. At any moment the Marquis might arrive by
the subterranean passage. The silence was profound, and interrupted only
by the groaning of the wind which whirled through the arches. Despite
her resolution, despite the noble and religious purpose which dictated
her action, and the purity of her soul, the princess Julie was almost
frightened at having given a rendezvous to Létorière in the chapel of
the abbey. It seemed to her a sacrilege. Little by little her terrors
ceased, giving place to anxiety and devouring uneasiness.
A lamp burning in the chapel threw a dim light upon the gloom. Mlle. de
Soissons, kneeling near the door which communicated with the
subterranean passage of the cloister, listened eagerly on that side.
Presently steps were heard, the lock was broken, and Létorière
appeared before the princess, who could not repress a cry of surprise
and love.
"At last it is you! . . . I see you again . . . my friend!" . . . cried
she with delirious joy; and added immediately: "But come into the
gallery; let us leave this holy place."
When the light of the moon permitted the princess to see the Marquis,
she was struck by the pallor of his countenance. He was enveloped in a
brown cloak, and walked with difficulty. In spite of his wound received
that very day, in spite of the progress of the disease, and the tears
and supplications of Dominique, the Marquis, accompanied by Jerome
Sicard, had succeeded in scaling the walls of the Abbey.
"I see you once again, Julie!" said he, with an accent of inexpressible
tenderness. . . .
"Soon nothing shall separate us again, my friend!" said the princess,
extending her hand towards the Marquis.
"My hand! . . . no . . . no . . . just heaven! . . ." cried
Létorière, withdrawing in affright; and he wrapped himself more
closely in his cloak.
Mlle. de Soissons, profoundly astonished, looked at him in silence.
"Julie . . . Julie . . . pardon me . . . if I thus withdraw myself from
you . . . but hearing of the illness of the king, and that he was
abandoned by all . . . I went to him; I did not quit him for an instant,
until his death." . . .
"Ah! I understand," cried the princess. "This terrible disease is
contagious, and your devotion will perhaps cost you your life . . . will
cost us, perhaps, our happiness!"
"No, no, reassure yourself, Julie . . . all hope is not yet lost. . . .
Although suffering, I wanted to see you to relieve you of all anxiety,
to tell you that my lawsuit is gained . . . and that no obstacle now
opposes our happiness." . . .
"None . . . none but death, perhaps!" exclaimed the princess, in
despair. "My God! . . . My God! . . . in what frightful apprehension am
I obliged to live!"
"Calm yourself! . . . Madelaine Landry will try every day to bring news
of me to Martha. . . . You see . . . I am not seriously sick, although I
may become so" . . . said the Marquis, with a feeble voice.
"I cannot live in such anxiety," replied the princess. "I will flee with
you . . . this very night."
"Julie . . . it is impossible . . . nothing is prepared for such a step.
In the name of Heaven, listen! . . . Do not compromise our future by
precipitation." . . .
"But I can see that you are suffering horribly; I will not leave you in
such a state . . . it is impossible! Energy and courage will not fail
me; where you have passed, I will pass. . . . Once away from here, I
will go and put myself under the protection of the Judge of Solar; they
will not dare to snatch me openly from the asylum I shall have chosen in
the house of the Ambassador of Sardinia. But at least there . . . every
day . . . every hour . . . I shall hear news from you."
"Once again, Julie . . . it is impossible!" said Létorière, hardly
able to stand, and leaning against one of the pillars of Madame Egmont's
tomb.
"And you believe," resumed Mlle. de Soissons, feelingly, "you believe
that during five years I could have followed you step by step with all
the solicitude of a mother . . . that I could have bravely struggled
against the wishes of my family, to abandon you to-day, under I know not
what pretext of propriety, suffering, almost dying. . . . No, no, this
love is too pure and too holy to fear to show a bold front."
"Julie . . . pardon me," murmured Létorière, falling on one of the
steps of the tomb. "I have not told you all."
"Heavenly Father! . . . he is ill!" . . .
"Silence! . . . Julie . . . one last prayer . . . let me feel your lips
on my forehead."
"He is going to die! he is dying! Charles! . . . Charles!
Charles!" . . . cried the princess despairingly; and throwing herself on
her knees by the Marquis, still so tightly enveloped in his cloak that
Mlle. de Soissons sought his hand in vain.
"I have not told you . . . that the Baron of Ugeon challenged me,"
murmured Létorière, with a voice growing rapidly weaker.
"A relative of the _Maréchale!_ . . . They have assassinated him! . . .
traitorously assassinated him!"
"No. . . . I fought . . . this morning . . . with him . . . it was
honorably conducted . . . and I received . . . in the breast . . . a
wound . . . Julie . . ." added the Marquis, faintly. "I wanted to see
you again. . . . Adieu! . . . This ring . . . you know . . . you will
take it again. . . . _Your look has followed me everywhere_ . . . EVEN
UNTO DEATH. . . . My God! . . . pardon me! . . . I thought myself strong
enough to live until to-morrow. . . . Julie . . . once more . . .
Adieu." . . .
And Létorière died as he uttered this last word.
* * * * * * *
These lines are to be found in the "Souvenirs of Madame la Marquise de
Créquy":
"The princess Julie, poor unhappy child, never again saw her charming
friend M. de Létorière. . . . His wounds reopened, and all the blood
that remained in his veins flowed out during the night. . . . He expired
without aid, and the next morning was found dead on the flag-stones of
the cloister.
"Perhaps it was on the stone which covered the tomb of my poor friend
Madame d'Egmont. Having been educated at the convent of Montmartre, she
had begged to be buried near Madame de Vibraye, her friend from infancy,
and Superior of this house."
They hushed up this horrible affair. The corpse was magnificent; it was
wrapped in a winding-sheet. They carried him to his bed, and it was
reported that "the Marquis of Létorière had died of small-pox."
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Some years after, the princess Julie married a prince of Saxe-Coburg.