THE FAMILY FEUD.
When Gaston returned to his room, he was obliged to answer the questions
of Dumesnil and Pompadour, who were waiting to hear news from him; but,
in compliance with his promise made to D'Argenson, he did not mention
his sentence, but simply announced a severer interrogatory than
before--but as he wished to write some letters, he asked Dumesnil for a
light. Dumesnil sent him a candle--things were progressing, it may be
remarked; Maison-Rouge could refuse nothing to Mademoiselle de Launay,
and she shared all with Dumesnil, who, in his turn, again shared with
his neighbors, Gaston and Richelieu.
Gaston doubted whether, in spite of D'Argenson's promise, he would be
allowed to see Helene, but he knew that at least he should see a priest
before he died; there could be no doubt that the priest would forward
two letters for him.
As he began to write, Mademoiselle de Launay made a signal that she had
something to send him; it was a letter. Gaston read:
"Our friend--for you are our friend, and now we have no secrets from
you--tell Dumesnil of the famous hope I conceived after the word that
Herment said to me."
Gaston's heart beat. Might not he also find in this letter some ground
for hope? Had they not said that his fate could not be separated from
the others? It is true that those who had said so did not know of his
conspiracy. He read on:
"An hour ago the doctor came, accompanied by Maison-Rouge; from the
latter's manner I drew the most favorable augury; however, when I asked
to speak in private, or, at least, to whisper to the doctor, he made
some difficulties, which I removed with a smile. 'At least,' said he,
'no one must know that I am out of hearing. I should lose my place if it
were known how weak I am.' This tone of love and interest combined
seemed to me so grotesque that I laughingly promised him what he asked;
you see how I keep my promise. He went to a distance, and Herment
approached. Then commenced a dialogue, wherein the gestures meant one
thing while the voice declared another. 'You have good friends,' said
Herment; 'friends in good places, who are greatly interested for you.' I
naturally thought of Madame de Maine. 'Ah, monsieur,' I cried, 'have you
anything for me?' 'Hush,' said Herment. Judge how my heart beat."
Gaston felt his own beating vigorously.
"'And what have you to give me?' 'Oh, nothing myself: but you will have
the object agreed upon.' 'But what is the object? Speak!' 'The beds in
the Bastille are known to be bad, and particularly badly covered, and I
am commissioned to offer you--' 'What?' 'A coverlet.' I burst out
laughing; the devotion of my friends was shown in preventing my catching
cold. 'My dear Monsieur Herment,' said I, 'in my present position it
would be better if my friends were to occupy themselves less about my
feet and more about my head.' 'It is a female friend,' said he. 'Who is
it?' 'Mademoiselle de Charolais,' said Herment, lowering his voice, so
that I could scarcely hear him. Then he withdrew. I, my dear chevalier,
am now waiting for Mademoiselle de Charolais's coverlet. Tell this to
Dumesnil; it will make him laugh."
Gaston sighed. The gayety of those around him weighed heavily on his
heart. It was a new torture which they had invented, in forbidding him
to confide his fate to any one; it seemed to him that he should have
found consolation in the tears of his two neighbors. He had not the
courage to read the letter to Dumesnil, so he passed it on to him, and a
moment after heard shouts of laughter.
At this moment Gaston was saying adieu to Helene.
After passing a part of the night in writing, he slept; at
five-and-twenty one must sleep, even if it be just before death.
In the morning Gaston's breakfast was brought at the usual hour, but he
remarked that it was more _recherche_ than usual; he smiled at this
attention, and as he was finishing, the governor entered.
Gaston with a rapid glance interrogated his expression, which was calm
and courteous as ever. Was he also ignorant of the sentence, or was he
wearing a mask?
"Monsieur," said he, "will you take the trouble to descend to the
council-chamber?"
Gaston rose. He seemed to hear a buzzing in his ears, for to a man
condemned to death every injunction which he does not understand is a
torture.
"May I know the reason, monsieur?" asked Gaston, in so calm a tone that
it was impossible to detect his real emotion.
"To receive a visit," replied the governor. "Yesterday, after the
interrogatory, did you not ask the lieutenant of police to be allowed to
see some one?"
Gaston started.
"And is it that person?" asked he.
"Yes, monsieur."
Gaston had asked for two persons; the governor only announced one; which
one was it? He had not the courage to ask, and silently followed the
governor.
De Launay led Gaston to the council-chamber; on entering, he cast an
eager glance around, but the room was empty.
"Remain here, monsieur; the person whom you expect is coming," said the
governor, who bowed and went out.
Gaston ran to the window, which was barred, and looked out--there was a
sentinel before it.
The door opened, and Gaston, turning round, faced the Duc d'Olivares.
"Ah, monsieur," cried he, "how good of you to come at the request of a
poor prisoner."
"It was a duty," replied the duke, "besides, I had to thank you."
"Me!" said Gaston, astonished; "what have I done to merit your
excellency's thanks?"
"You have been interrogated, taken to the torture-chamber, given to
understand that you might save yourself by naming your accomplices, and
yet you kept silence."
"I made an engagement and kept it: that does not deserve any thanks,
monseigneur."
"And now, monsieur, tell me if I can serve you in anything."
"First, tell me about yourself; have you been molested, monseigneur?"
"Not at all: and if all the Bretons are as discreet as you, I doubt not
that my name will never be mentioned in these unfortunate debates."
"Oh, I will answer for them as for myself, monseigneur; but can you
answer for La Jonquiere?"
"La Jonquiere!" repeated the duke.
"Yes. Do you not know that he is arrested?"
"Yes; I heard something of it."
"Well, I ask you, monseigneur, what you think of him?"
"I can tell you nothing, except that he has _my_ confidence."
"If so, he must be worthy of it, monseigneur. That is all I wished to
know."
"Then come to the request you had to make."
"Have you seen the young girl I brought to your house?"
"Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny? Yes."
"Well, monsieur, I had not time to tell you then, but I tell you now,
that I have loved her for a year. The dream of that year has been to
consecrate my life to her happiness. I say the dream, monseigneur; for,
on awaking, I saw that all hope of happiness was denied me; and yet, to
give this young girl a name, a position, a fortune, at the moment of my
arrest, she was about to become my wife."
"Without the knowledge of her parents or the consent of her family?"
cried the duke.
"She had neither, monseigneur; and was probably about to be sold to some
nobleman when she left the person who had been set to watch her."
"But who informed you that Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny was to be the
victim of a shameful bargain?"
"What she herself told me of a pretended father, who concealed himself;
of diamonds which had been offered to her. Then, do you know where I
found her, monseigneur? In one of those houses destined to the pleasures
of our roues. She! an angel of innocence and purity. In short,
monseigneur, this young girl fled with me, in spite of the cries of her
duenna, in broad daylight, and in the face of the servants who
surrounded her. She stayed two hours alone with me; and, though she is
as pure as on the day when she received her mother's first kiss, she is
not the less compromised. I wish this projected marriage to take place."
"In your situation, monsieur?"
"A still greater reason."
"But perhaps you may deceive yourself as to the punishment reserved for
you!"
"It is probably the same which, under similar circumstances, was
inflicted on the Count de Chalais, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, and the
Chevalier Louis de Rohan."
"Then you are prepared even for death, monsieur?"
"I prepared for it from the day I joined the conspiracy: the
conspirator's only excuse is, that, while robbing others of their lives,
he risks his own."
"And what will this young girl gain by the marriage?"
"Monseigneur, though not rich, I have some fortune; she is poor; I have
a name, and she has none. I would leave her my name and fortune; and
with that intention I have already petitioned the king that my goods may
not be confiscated, nor my name declared infamous. Were it known for
what reason I ask this, it would doubtless be granted; if I die without
making her my wife, she will be supposed to be my mistress, and will be
dishonored, lost, and there will be no future for her. If, on the
contrary, by your protection, or that of your friends (and that
protection I earnestly implore), we are united, no one can reproach
her--the blood which flows for a political offense does not disgrace a
family--no shame will fall on my widow; and if she cannot be happy, she
will at least be independent and respected. This is the favor which I
have to ask, monseigneur; is it in your power to obtain it for me?"
The duke went to the door and struck three blows: Maison-Rouge appeared.
"Ask M. de Launay, from me," said the duke, "whether the young girl who
is at the door in my carriage may come in? Her visit, as he knows, is
authorized. You will have the kindness to conduct her here."
"What! monseigneur; Helene is here--at the door?"
"Were you not promised that she should come?"
"Yes; but seeing you alone, I lost all hope."
"I wished to see you first, thinking that you might have many things to
say which you would not wish her to hear; for I know all."
"You know all! What do you mean?"
"I know that you were taken to the arsenal yesterday!"
"Monseigneur!"
"I know that you found D'Argenson there, and that he read your
sentence."
"Mon Dieu!"
"I know that you are condemned to death, and that you were bound not to
speak of it to any one."
"Oh, monseigneur, silence! One word of this would kill Helene."
"Be easy, monsieur; but let us see; is there no way of avoiding this
execution?"
"Days would be necessary to prepare and execute a plan of escape, and I
scarcely have hours."
"I do not speak of escape; I ask if you have no excuse to give for your
crime?"
"My crime!" cried Gaston, astonished to hear his accomplice use such a
word.
"Yes," replied the duke: "you know that men stigmatize murder with this
name under all circumstances; but posterity often judges differently,
and sometimes calls it a grand deed."
"I have no excuse to give, monseigneur, except that I believe the death
of the regent to be necessary to the salvation of France."
"Yes," replied the duke, smiling; "but you will see that that is
scarcely the excuse to offer to Philippe d'Orleans. I wanted something
personal. Political enemy of the regent's as I am, I know that he is not
considered a bad man. Men say that he is merciful, and that there have
been no executions during his reign."
"You forget Count Horn."
"He was an assassin."
"And what am I?"
"There is this difference: Count Horn murdered in order to rob."
"I neither can nor will ask anything of the regent," said Gaston.
"Not you, personally, I know; but your friends. If they had a plausible
pretense to offer, perhaps the prince himself might pardon you."
"I have none, monseigneur."
"It is impossible, monsieur--permit me to say so. A resolution such as
you have taken must proceed from a sentiment of some kind--either of
hatred or vengeance. And stay; I remember you told La Jonquiere, who
repeated it to me, that there was a family feud: tell me the cause."
"It is useless, monseigneur, to tire you with that; it would not
interest you."
"Never mind, tell it me."
"Well, the regent killed my brother."
"The regent killed your brother! how so? it is--impossible, Monsieur de
Gaston," said the Duc d'Olivares.
"Yes, killed; if from the effect we go to the cause."
"Explain yourself; how could the regent do this?"
"My brother, who, being fifteen years of age when my father died, three
months before my birth, stood to me in the place of that father, and of
mother, who died when I was still in the cradle--my brother loved a
young girl who was brought up in a convent by the orders of the prince."
"Do you know in what convent?"
"No: I only know that it was at Paris."
The duke murmured some words which Gaston could not hear.
"My brother, a relation of the abbess, had seen this young girl and
asked her hand in marriage. The prince's consent to this union had been
asked, and he made a pretense of granting it, when this young girl,
seduced by her so-called protector, suddenly disappeared. For three
months my brother hoped to find her, but all his searches were vain; he
found no trace of her, and in despair he sought death in the battle of
Ramillies."
"And what was the name of this girl!"
"No one ever knew, monseigneur; to speak her name was to dishonor it."
"It was doubtless she," murmured the duke, "it was Helene's mother; and
your brother was called--?" added he aloud.
"Olivier de Chanlay, monseigneur."
"Olivier de Chanlay!" repeated the duke, in a low voice. "I knew the
name of De Chanlay was not strange to me." Then, aloud, "Continue,
monsieur; I listen to you."
"You do not know what a family hatred is in a province like ours. I had
lavished upon my brother all the love which would have fallen to the
share of my father and mother, and now I suddenly found myself alone in
the world. I grew up in isolation of heart, and in the hope of revenge;
I grew up among people who were constantly repeating, 'It was the Duc
d'Orleans who killed your brother.' Then the duke became regent, the
Breton league was therefore organized. I was one of the first to join
it. You know the rest. You see that there is nothing in all this which
has any interest for your excellency."
"You mistake, monsieur; unfortunately, the regent has to reproach
himself with many such faults."
"You see, therefore," said Gaston, "that my destiny must be
accomplished, and that I can ask nothing of this man."
"You are right, monsieur; whatever is done must be done without you."
At this moment the door opened and Maison-Rouge appeared.
"Well, monsieur?" asked the duke.
"The governor has an order from the lieutenant of police to admit
Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny; shall I bring her here?"
"Monseigneur," said Gaston, looking at the duke with an air of entreaty.
"Yes, monsieur," said he, "I understand--grief and love do not need
witnesses--I will come back to fetch Mademoiselle Helene."
"The permission is for half an hour," said Maison-Rouge.
"Then at the end of that time I will return," said the duke, and bowing
to Gaston, he went out.
An instant after the door opened again, and Helene appeared, trembling,
and questioning Maison-Rouge, but he retired without replying.
Helene looked round and saw Gaston, and for a few minutes all their
sorrows were forgotten in a close and passionate embrace. "And now--"
cried Helene, her face bathed in tears.
"Well! and now?" asked Gaston.
"Alas! to see you here--in prison," murmured Helene, with an air of
terror, "here, where I dare not speak freely, where we may be
watched--overheard."
"Do not complain, Helene, for this is an exception in our favor; a
prisoner is never allowed to press one who is dear to him to his heart;
the visitor generally stands against that wall, the prisoner against
this, a soldier is placed between, and the conversation must be fixed
beforehand."
"To whom do we owe this favor?"
"Doubtless to the regent; for yesterday, when I asked permission of
Monsieur d'Argenson, he said that it was beyond his power to grant, and
that he must refer it to the regent."
"But now that I see you again, Gaston, tell me all that has passed in
this age of tears and suffering. Ah! tell me; but my presentiments did
not deceive me; you were conspiring--do not deny it--I know it."
"Yes; Helene, you know that we Bretons are constant both in our loves
and our hatreds. A league was organized in Bretagne, in which all our
nobles took part--could I act differently from my brothers? I ask you,
Helene, could I, or ought I to have done so? Would you not have despised
me, if, when you had seen all Bretagne under arms, I alone had been
inactive--a whip in my hand while others held the sword?"
"Oh! yes; you are right; but why did you not remain in Bretagne with the
others?"
"The others are arrested also, Helene."
"Then you have been denounced--betrayed."
"Probably--but sit down, Helene; now that we are alone, let me look at
you, and tell you that you are beautiful, that I love you. How have you
been in my absence--has the duke--"
"Oh! if you only knew how good he is to me; every evening he comes to
see me, and his care and attention--"
"And," said Gaston, who thought of the suggestion of the false La
Jonquiere, "nothing suspicious in those attentions?"
"What do you mean, Gaston?"
"That the duke is still young, and that, as I told you just now, you are
beautiful."
"Oh, Heaven! no! Gaston; this time there is not a shadow of doubt; and
when he was there near me--as near as you are now--there were moments
when it seemed as if I had found my father."
"Poor child!"
"Yes, by a strange chance, for which I cannot account, there is a
resemblance between the duke's voice and that of the man who came to see
me at Rambouillet--it struck me at once."
"You think so?" said Gaston, in an abstracted tone.
"What are you thinking of, Gaston?" asked Helene; "you seem scarcely to
hear what I am saying to you."
"Helene, every word you speak goes to the inmost depth of my heart."
"You are uneasy, I understand. To conspire is to stake your life; but be
easy, Gaston--I have told the duke that if you die I shall die too."
Gaston started.
"You are an angel," said he.
"Oh, my God!" cried poor Helene, "how horrible to know that the man I
love runs a danger--all the more terrible for being uncertain; to feel
that I am powerless to aid him, and that I can only shed tears when I
would give my life to save him."
Gaston's face lit up with a flush of joy; it was the first time that he
had ever heard such words from the lips of his beloved; and under the
influence of an idea which had been occupying him for some minutes--
"Yes, dearest," said he, taking her hand, "you can do much for me."
"What can I do?"
"You can become my wife."
Helene started.
"I your wife, Gaston?" cried she.
"Yes, Helene; this plan, formed in our liberty, may be executed in
captivity. Helene, my wife before God and man, in this world and the
next, for time and for eternity. You can do this for me, Helene, and am
I not right in saying that you can do much?"
"Gaston," said she, looking at him fixedly, "you are hiding something
from me."
It was Gaston's turn to start now.
"I!" said he, "what should I conceal from you?"
"You told me you saw M. d'Argenson yesterday?"
"Well, what then?"
"Well, Gaston," said Helene, turning pale, "you are condemned."
Gaston took a sudden resolution.
"Yes," said he, "I am condemned to exile; and, egotist as I am, I would
bind you to me by indissoluble ties before I leave France."
"Is that the truth, Gaston?"
"Yes; have you the courage to be my wife, Helene? to be exiled with me?"
"Can you ask it, Gaston?" said she, her eyes lighted with enthusiasm,
"exile--I thank thee, my God--I, who would have accepted an eternal
prison with you, and have thought myself blessed--I may accompany,
follow you? Oh, this condemnation is, indeed, a joy after what we
feared! Gaston, Gaston, at length we shall be happy."
"Yes, Helene," said Gaston, with an effort.
"Picture my happiness," cried Helene; "to me France is the country where
you are; your love is the only country I desire. I know I shall have to
teach you to forget Bretagne, your friends, and your dreams of the
future; but I will love you, so that it will be easy for you to forget
them."
Gaston could do nothing but cover her hands with kisses.
"Is the place of your exile fixed?" said she; "tell me, when do you go?
shall we go together?"
"My Helene," replied Gaston, "it is impossible; we must be separated for
a time. I shall be taken to the frontier of France--I do not as yet
know, which--and set free. Once out of the kingdom, you shall rejoin
me."
"Oh, better than that, Gaston--better than that. By means of the duke I
will discover the place of your exile, and instead of joining you there,
I will be there to meet you. As you step from the carriage which brings
you, you shall find me waiting to soften the pain of your adieux to
France; and then, death alone is irretrievable; later, the king may
pardon you; later still, and the action punished to-day may be looked
upon as a deed to be rewarded. Then we will return; then nothing need
keep us from Bretagne, the cradle of our love, the paradise of our
memories. Oh!" continued she, in an accent of mingled love and
impatience, "tell me, Gaston, that you share my hopes, that you are
content, that you are happy."
"Yes, Helene, I now am happy, indeed; for now--and only now--I know by
what an angel I am beloved. Yes, dearest, one hour of such love as
yours, and then death would be better than a whole life with the love of
any other."
"Well!" exclaimed Helene, her whole mind and soul earnestly fixed on the
new future which was opening before her, "what will they do? Will they
let me see you again before your departure? When and how shall we meet
next? Shall you receive my letters? Can you reply to them? What hour
to-morrow may I come?"
"They have almost promised me that our marriage shall take place this
evening or to-morrow morning."
"What! here in a prison," said Helene, shuddering involuntarily.
"Wherever it may be, Helene, it will bind us together for the rest of
our lives."
"But suppose they do not keep their promise to you; suppose they make
you set out before I have seen you?"
"Alas!" said Gaston, with a bursting heart, "that is possible, Helene,
and it is that I dread."
"Oh, mon Dieu! do you think your departure is so near?"
"You know, Helene, that prisoners are not their own masters; they may be
removed at any moment."
"Oh, let them come--let them come; the sooner you are free, the sooner
we shall be reunited. It is not necessary that I should be your wife, in
order to follow and join you. Do I not know my Gaston's honor, and from
this day I look upon him as my husband before God. Oh, go proudly,
Gaston, for while these thick and gloomy walls surround you I tremble
for your life. Go, and in a week we shall be reunited; reunited, with no
separation to threaten us, no one to act as a spy on us--reunited
forever."
The door opened.
"Great Heaven, already!" said Helene.
"Madame," said the lieutenant, "the time has elapsed."
"Helene," said Gaston, seizing the young girl's hand, with a nervous
trembling which he could not master.
"What is it?" cried she, watching him with terror. "Good Heaven! you are
as pale as marble."
"It is nothing," said he, forcing himself to be calm; "indeed, it is
nothing," and he kissed her hand.
"Till to-morrow, Gaston."
"To-morrow--yes."
The duke appeared at the door; Gaston ran to him.
"Monseigneur," said he, "do all in your power to obtain permission for
her to become my wife; but if that be impossible, swear to me that she
shall be your daughter."
The duke pressed Gaston's hand; he was so affected that he could not
speak.
Helene approached. Gaston was silent, fearing she might overhear.
He held out his hand to Helene, who presented her forehead to him, while
silent tears rolled down her cheeks; Gaston closed his eyes, that the
sight of her tears might not call up his own.
At length they must part. They exchanged one last lingering glance, and
the duke pressed Gaston's hand.
How strange was this sympathy between two men, one of whom had come so
far for the sole purpose of killing the other.
The door closed, and Gaston sank down on a seat, utterly broken and
exhausted.
In ten minutes the governor entered; he came to conduct Gaston back to
his own room.
Gaston followed him silently, and when asked if there was anything he
wanted, he mournfully shook his head.
At night Mademoiselle de Launay signaled that she had something to
communicate.
Gaston opened the window, and received a letter inclosing another.
The first was for himself.
He read:
"DEAR NEIGHBOR--The coverlid was not so contemptible as
I supposed; it contained a paper on which was written
the word already spoken by Herment--'Hope!' It also
inclosed this letter for M. de Richelieu; send it to
Dumesnil, who will pass it to the duke.
"Your servant,
"DE LAUNAY."
"Alas!" thought Gaston, "they will miss me when I am gone," and he
called Dumesnil, to whom he passed the letter.