For a moment the king stared upon it speechless. Then he turned it
over, and ejaculated, roughly almost under the emotion of his violent
surprise:
“Great God--why--it is--!”
And he pointed to the small, delicately engraved initials, surmounted by
a crown, in the middle of the cross. Very pale and with heaving breast
he went on:
“A nun, a gray nun, you say? What would the object of such a joke be?
and how--how should this cross come back among the living? Baron, come
with me, I must request your confidence and secrecy!”
We passed through several rooms, and then arrived at a narrow gallery
whose walls were hung with portraits of royal personages. The king came
abruptly to a halt, and without himself looking up indicated a certain
picture:
“Observe that painting! Do you see the same Cross there that you have in
your hand?”
Involuntarily I uttered the loud cry:
“Why, that is she! Holy Heavens! It is my nun!”
“The cross--compare the cross!” urged the king, his slender, white hand
trembling with agitation.
A frosty current ran through my veins as I compared the pictured cross
with that in my companion’s hand. It was the same--not a doubt of
it--and the eyes, too, were the same, as also the dress and the whole
figure were unmistakably those of the gray nun I had danced with. Yet
in those conspicuously large, deep black eyes lay not an expression of
peacefulness and mild resignation, but a world of passionate feeling.
Having assured the king of the identity of the cross, and he having
informed me that it was an ancient heirloom of which no duplicate
existed, he bade me accompany him further.
Arrived in the antechamber to his apartments, the king gave an order to
one of the attendants on duty there. He walked up and down the room for
a few moments in visible excitement, and then, stopping before me, and
looking at me searchingly, he asked:
“Have you ever, in the course of your life, met with a manifestation of
the supernatural?”
I was so bewildered and nervous that I scarcely could remember enough
French to reply:
“May it please your Majesty, I have not.”
“Do you believe in the possibility of the dead returning?”
“Not in the sense of their coming as apparitions. I always was, still
am, a skeptic on the point of ghost stories in general, nevertheless I
am a Christian, and I believe and know that we continue to live after
death.”
The king stared at me mechanically:
“You are a Protestant, and you say you are a skeptic. Curious--only you
saw the apparition--it was revealed to no one else?”
“Then your Majesty is of the opinion that this is actually a case of a
spectral apparition?”
“Certainly. It seems much more plausible than open theft. This very
cross I myself--”
He interrupted his sentence as he turned to the door, through which,
with profound obeisances, entered two ladies in waiting--probably the
queen’s. His Majesty addressed one of them in French, no doubt to enable
me to participate in the conversation:
“You were present, Madame M., when Princess A. was laid in her coffin
seventeen years ago?”
A low curtsey was the affirmative reply.
“And you also, Madame U.?”
“I had the honor, your Majesty, of rendering her royal highness the last
earthly services.”
“You remember perfectly what dress the deceased was buried in?”
“Quite well, your Majesty. It was the regular dress of the Order of Gray
Sisters, of which her royal highness was a member.”
“Do you recollect whether she took any ornaments to her last resting
place?”
“Excepting the golden cross which your Majesty hung round her neck
on the day she took the vow, no jewelry was put on the princess. The
duchess even drew the little sapphire ring from her royal highness’
finger, to keep it as a remembrance and wear it herself.”
“You are absolutely certain that the cross went into the coffin? You
could swear to it?”
“I could do so with fullest conviction, your Majesty.”
“Would you recognize the cross?”
“To be sure I should.”
“Is this it?”
“Good Heavens--it is! On the back there ought to be the initials of her
royal highness!”
“Here they are,” said the king, reversing the cross. The old woman
shrank back appalled.
“Then, your Majesty, the vault has been broken into!”
“Possibly it has. The matter shall be investigated. I am much obliged to
you, ladies, and earnestly request you will both preserve unconditional
silence as to our present interview.”
“Well,” said the king to me, after the ladies in waiting had withdrawn,
“how do you account for this cross being here in my hand, considering
it was put into the coffin? You think the vault may have been pillaged?
That, I believe, is out of the question. The object of a carnival freak,
which could have been perpetrated just as easily in any other dress, is
far too slight to make such a horrible offense as the violation of the
dead worth while! But I intend to have the vault examined, and beg, my
dear baron, that you will attend. For the present, good night.”
I spent a dreadful night, torturing my sleepless brain for a solution
of the riddle, and being forever haunted by the nun’s dark eyes. It was
late when I woke.
Some hours after, the coffin was opened in the presence of the king,
whose surmise proved correct. The bolts on the coffin were intact. The
gold chain was there, safe round the princess’ neck. But the cross was
gone. There was not the remotest sign of violence.
How I got out of that vault, I do not know. I remember feeling faint,
and being supported by two court officials. I am unaware of what
happened next. It was the only instance in my life in which my system
had so entirely given way. A serious illness was apprehended, but
my strong constitution won the day. For a long time my mind was in a
precarious state.
When I had recovered, the king sent for me.
“Are you still a skeptic?” he asked in a grave voice.
“No, your Majesty, I am convinced now.”
Whereupon the king himself deigned to communicate to me the particulars
relating to the golden cross.
Princess A. was a daughter of one of his cousins, and she was their
fifth child. The duchess, a very pious woman, made a vow before the
birth of her sixth child, that if it was a boy, her youngest daughter
should be dedicated to the service of the church and take the veil. A
son was born, and Princess A. henceforth was educated for the profession
of a nun in becoming retirement and seclusion. Unfortunately, however,
the natural traits of the girl seemed to be entirely in opposition to
that reverend calling. An irrepressible vivacity of spirit, an intense
coveting of worldly joys and pleasures characterized her, and the more
she was separated from the world the more ardent grew her desire to live
in it. Heartrending scenes of resistance and tears were enacted, and
the reigning sovereign felt so much pity for the spirited young creature
that he attempted to save her from her fate of being immured in convent
walls by offering to apply to the pope for a dispensation releasing the
mother from her promise. But the duchess desperately combated this idea.
Her wild laments, that to break her vow would entail her forfeiture of
eternal salvation, her protestations, her tears, her entreaties, at last
prevailed upon the princess to join the Order of the Gray Sisters. For a
short space all seemed to go well. The fervid heart of the royal nun was
apparently beating placidly, in the quiet claustral surroundings. But
during the winter the duchess fell sick, and the young bride of the
church was called to her bedside. Princess A. had remained with her
mother for several weeks, and about that time the carnival season began.
Masked balls were given in the palace, and while the horns and violins
were sounding in the ballroom Princess A. lay on her knees in the throes
of dreadful despair, tearing her hair in furious longing for that lost
paradise. She at last succeeded in bribing a chambermaid to secretly
procure her a fancy dress. If it was to cost her immortal soul, once
she would dance and be young and happy! The plot was betrayed, and the
angriest reproaches were poured out by her parents upon the perjured,
rebellious nun! Princess A. was locked up, and was to be removed to the
convent the next day. However, as the festivities in the palace were
reaching their height that night, the unhappy young nun lay expiring in
her room. She had taken poison, although the report was spread in the
capital that failure of the heart had caused her death. How she came
into possession of the poison no one ever discovered. While she was
writhing in terrible agony her half-crazed mother put a cup of milk to
her lips as an antidote. She dashed it passionately aside and the spilt
milk left stains on her dress.
How hard it was to die! Again and again she tore her black hair. Again
and again she uttered the bitterest imprecations and the fiercest cries
for a taste of youth and happiness. At length she stood up, straining
her ears for the music in the ballroom.
And then she screamed aloud:
“Oh, I must dance once! I must kiss once! Let me be happy once! I cannot
die before I dance! Let me go--let me dance--let me--”
She drew herself up to her full height, her eyes glowed like live coals,
she took a few steps towards the door--
“I must dance--let me dance!” she gasped, and fell stiffly forward on
the floor--dead.