At the invitation of the archduke, Frantz de Neuberg continued his
recital with charming frankness:
"For three days Mlle. Antonine did not appear, monseigneur. Overwhelmed
with sadness, and hoping nothing, I went, nevertheless, at the
accustomed hour to the garden. What was my surprise, my joy,
monseigneur, when, arriving near the wall, I saw just below me Mlle.
Antonine, seated on the bench! She held in her hand, lying on her lap,
my bouquet of roses, faded a long time; her head was bent over; I could
only see her neck and the edge of her hair; she did not suspect I was
there; I remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, for fear I might
drive her away by revealing my presence. Finally I grew bolder, and I
said, trembling, for it was the first time I had spoken to her, 'Good
evening, mademoiselle.' She trembled so that the faded bouquet fell out
of her lap. She did not notice it, and, without changing her attitude or
lifting her head, she replied, in a low voice, as agitated as my own,
'Good evening, monsieur.' Seeing I was so well received, I added: 'You
have not come to water your flowers for three days, mademoiselle.' 'That
is true, monsieur,' answered she, in a broken voice, 'I have been a
little sick.' 'Oh, my God!' I exclaimed, with such evident distress that
mademoiselle raised her head a moment and looked at me. I saw, alas!
that she was, monseigneur, really very pale, but she soon resumed her
first attitude, and again I saw only her neck, which seemed to me to be
slightly blushing: 'And now, mademoiselle, you are better?' 'Yes,
monsieur,' said she. Then, after a short silence, I added: 'You will
then be able to water your flowers every evening as you have done in the
past.' 'I do not know, monsieur, I hope so.' 'And do you not feel afraid
the fresh evening air will be injurious to you, after having been sick,
mademoiselle?' 'You are right, monsieur,' replied she, 'I thank you, I
am going back into the house.' And really, monseigneur, it had rained
all the morning and it was growing very cold. The moment she left the
bench I said to her: 'Mademoiselle, will you give me this faded bouquet
which has fallen at your feet?' She picked it up and handed it to me in
silence, without lifting her head or looking at me. I took it as a
treasure, monseigneur, and soon Mlle. Antonine disappeared in a turn of
the garden walk."
The prince listened to his godson with profound attention. The frankness
of this recital proved its sincerity. Until then, his only thought was
that Frantz had been the sport of one of those Parisian coquettes, so
dangerous to strangers, or the dupe of an adventurous and designing
girl; but now a graver fear assailed him: a love like this, so chaste
and pure, would, for reason of its purity, which banished all remorse
from the minds of these two children,--one fifteen and a half and the
other twenty,--become profoundly rooted in their hearts.
Frantz, seeing the countenance of the prince grow more and more gloomy,
and meeting his glance, which had regained its usual haughty coldness,
stopped, utterly confounded.
"So," said the archduke, sarcastically, when his godson discontinued his
story, "you wish to marry a young girl to whom you have addressed three
or four words, and whose rare beauty, as you say, has turned your head."
"I hope to obtain the consent of your Royal Highness to marry Mlle.
Antonine, because I love her, monseigneur, and it is impossible for our
marriage to be postponed."
At these words, so resolutely uttered in spite of the timidity of
Frantz, the prince trembled and reproached himself for having believed
it to be one of those chaste loves of such proverbial purity.
"And why, sir," said the prince, in a threatening voice, "why cannot
this marriage be postponed?"
"Because I am a man of honour, monseigneur."
"A man of honour! You are either a dishonest man, sir, or a dupe."
"Monseigneur!"
"You have basely abused the innocence of a child of fifteen years, I
tell you, or you are her dupe. Parisian girls are precocious in the art
of cheating husbands."
Frantz looked at the prince a moment in silence, but without anger or
confusion, vainly trying to ascertain the meaning of these words which
touched him neither in his love nor in his honour.
"Excuse me, monseigneur, I do not understand you."
Frantz uttered these words with such an expression of sincerity, with
such ingenuous assurance, that the prince, more and more astonished,
added, after a moment's silence, looking at the young man with a
penetrating gaze:
"Did you not just tell me that your marriage with this young lady could
not be deferred?"
"No, monseigneur; with the permission of your Royal Highness, it ought
not to be and will not be!"
"Because without marriage you would be wanting in honour?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And in what and why would you be wanting in honour, if you did not
marry Mlle. Antonine?"
"Because we have sworn before Heaven to belong to each other,
monseigneur," replied Frantz, with restrained energy.
The prince, half reassured, added, however:
"And pray, under what circumstances have you exchanged this oath?"
"Fearing to displease you, monseigneur, or fatigue your attention, I
discontinued my story."
"Well, continue it."
"Monseigneur, I fear--"
"Continue,--omit nothing. I wish to know all of this affair."
"The uncle of mademoiselle went out in the evening, monseigneur, and she
remained at home alone. The season was so beautiful that Mlle. Antonine
spent all her evenings in the garden. We grew better acquainted with
each other; we talked long together many times,--she, on the little
bench, I, leaning on my elbow on the wall; she told me all about her
life; I told her about mine, and, above all, monseigneur, my respectful
affection for you, to whom I owe so much. Mlle. Antonine shares this
moment my profound gratitude to your Royal Highness."
At this point of the conversation, the sound of a gradually approaching
step attracted the attention of the prince. He turned and saw one of his
aids, who advanced, but stopped respectfully at a little distance. At a
sign from the archduke, the officer came forward.
"What is it, sir?" asked the prince.
"His Excellence, the minister of war, has just arrived; he is at the
order of your Royal Highness for the visit which is to be made to the
Hôtel des Invalides."
"Say to his Excellence that I will be with him in a moment."
As the aide-de-camp departed, the prince turned coldly to Frantz, and
said:
"Return to your apartments, monsieur; you are under arrest until the
moment of your departure."
"My departure, monseigneur?"
"Yes."
"My departure?" repeated Frantz, amazed. "Oh, my God! And where are you
going to send me, monseigneur?"
"You will see. I shall confide you to the care of Major Butler; he will
answer for you to me. Before twenty-four hours you shall leave Paris."
"Mercy, monseigneur!" cried Frantz, in a supplicating voice, not able to
believe what he had heard. "Have pity on me, and do not compel me to
depart."
"Return to your apartments," said the prince, with the severity of a
military command, making a sign for Frantz to pass before him. "I never
revoke an order once given. Obey!"
Frantz, overwhelmed, returned in sadness to his chamber, situated on the
first floor of the palace, not far from the apartment of the archduke,
and looking out upon the garden. At seven o'clock a dinner was served
the young prisoner, which he did not touch. Night came, and Frantz, to
his great astonishment, and to his deep and painful humiliation, heard
his outside doors fastened with a double lock. Toward midnight, when the
whole palace was asleep, he opened his window softly, went out on the
balcony, and leaning outside, succeeded, with the aid of his cane, in
removing a little of the wall plastered on one of the posts of a
window-blind on the ground floor. It was on this tottering support that
Frantz, with as much dexterity as temerity, having straddled the balcony
railing, set the point of his foot; then, aiding himself by the rounds
of the blind as a ladder, he reached the ground, ran into the shady
walk, jumped the little wall, and soon found himself in the garden of
the house occupied by Antonine.
Although the moon was veiled by thick clouds, a dim light shone under
the great trees which had served as a place of meeting for Antonine and
Frantz; at the end of a few moments, he perceived at a distance a figure
in white, rapidly approaching; the young girl soon approached him and
said, in a voice which betrayed her excitement:
"I came only for one minute, that you might not be disappointed, Frantz.
I have taken advantage of my uncle's sleep; he is very sick, and I
cannot stay away from him a longer time. Good-bye, Frantz," added
Antonine, with a deep sigh; "it is very sad to part so soon, but it must
be. Good-bye, again,--perhaps I can see you to-morrow."
The young man was so crushed by the news he had to communicate to the
young girl that he had not the strength to interrupt her. Then, in a
voice broken by sobs, he exclaimed:
"Antonine, we are lost!"
"Lost!"
"I am going away."
"You!"
"The prince compels me to go."
"Oh, my God!" murmured Antonine, turning pale and leaning for support on
the back of the rustic bench. "Oh, my God!"
And, unable to utter another word, she burst into tears. After a
heartrending silence, she said:
"And you hoped for the consent of the prince, Frantz."
"Alas! I hoped to obtain it by simply telling him how much I loved you,
and how much you deserved that love. The prince is inflexible."
"To go away,--to be separated from each other, Frantz," murmured
Antonine, in a broken voice; "but it is not possible,--it would kill us
both with sorrow, and the prince would not do that."
"His will is inflexible; but whatever may happen," cried Frantz, falling
at the young girl's knees, "yes, although I am a foreigner here, without
family, without knowing what may be the consequence, I will stay in
spite of the prince. Have courage, Antonine--"
[Illustration: "_'Monseigneur, listen to me.'_"
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.]
Frantz could not continue; he saw a light shining in the distance, and a
voice in great pain called:
"Mlle. Antonine!"
"My God! that is my uncle's nurse,--she is looking for me!" cried the
young girl; then, turning to Frantz, she said, "Frantz, if you go away,
I shall die."
And Antonine disappeared in the direction of the light.
The young man, overcome by grief, fell on the bench, hiding his face in
his hands. Presently he heard a voice, coming down the walk in the
garden of the Élysée, calling him by name:
"Frantz!"
He started, thinking it was the voice of the prince; he was not
mistaken. A second time his name was called.
Fear, the habit of passive obedience, and his respect for the archduke,
as well as his gratitude, led Frantz back to the little wall which
separated the two gardens; behind this wall he saw the prince standing
in the light of the moon. The prince extended his hand with haughty
reserve, and assisted him to regain the walk.
"Immediately upon my return, I entered your apartment," said the
archduke, severely. "I did not find you. Your open window told me all.
Now, follow me."
"Monseigneur," cried Frantz, throwing himself at the feet of the prince,
and clasping his hands, "monseigneur, listen to me."
"Major Butler," said the prince, in a loud voice, addressing a person
who until then had been hidden by the shade, "accompany Count Frantz to
his apartment, and do not leave him a moment. I hold you responsible for
him."