Chapter I

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THE MYSTERY OF THE LOST DAUPHIN

(Louis XVII)

by

EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN

Translated from the Spanish by Annabel Hord Seeger

Frontispiece Illustration by Raphael Bodé

Funk & Wagnalls Company

New York and London

1906

[Illustration: "When the world salutes me King, I will admit I am your

brother."]

EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN

While Provençal literature blossomed in chivalric splendor along the

northern shore of the Mediterranean and rare pastoral music in madrigals

and roundelays rang through France and Italy, there sounded from the

sea-girt province of Galicia wonderful songs which rivalled the sweetest

strains of the troubadours, making kings to weep and warriors to smile,

thrilling, by their wit and pathos and lyrical beauty, the brilliant

courts of Castile and Leon.

It is an ethnographical phenomenon that, in Great Britain, France and

Spain, the Celt has been pushed to the northwest. Galicia corresponds in

position to Brittany and her people are characterized by the powerful

imagination, infinite delicacy, concentration of feeling and devotion to

nature which are the salient attributes of Gaelic and Cymric genius.

The Modern Literary Renaissance of Galicia, a superb outburst of

Gallegan exuberance, has a noble and eloquent exponent in Emilia Pardo

Bazán, gifted child of this poetic soil.

Senora Pardo Bazán has been called the creator and protagonist of

Spanish Realism. It has been claimed that she bears to Spain such a

relation as Turgénieff to Russia and Zola to France. She herself says

somewhere that she is skeptical regarding the existence of Realistic,

Idealistic and Romantic writers, averring, in her trenchant style, that

authors constitute but two classes, _good_ and _poor_. "Certain critics

would affirm," she remarks, "that, as simple as the cleaving in twain of

an orange is the operation of separating writers into Realistic and

Idealistic camps."

One biographer claims that our author sacrifices sex to art and that the

result warrants the sacrifice. I would insist that 'tis a lady's hand

wielding the mailed gauntlet and that reading Pardo Bazán helps one to

understand why Great Brahm is described as partaking of the feminine

principle.

Castelar has remarked that: "In Belles Lettres we have the illustrious

Celt, Emilia Pardo Bazán, whom, living, we count among the immortals,

and whose works, though of yesterday, are already denominated Spanish

classics." Garcia, in his History of Spanish Literature, calls her the

Spanish de Staël. Rollo Ogden writes: "No masculine pen promises more

than that of Pardo Bazán. Her equipment is admirable; it is based on

exhaustive historical and philosophical studies, from which she passed

on to the novel. In this transition does she resemble George Eliot,

whom, however, she surpasses in many respects."

G. Cunninghame Graham remarks: "We have not in England, no, nor in

Europe, so illustrious a woman in letters as Pardo Bazán." Goran

Bjorkman declares that "Among Spanish writers, Pardo Bazán most resemble

Turgénieff, excelling him, however, in the sane gayety of her

temperament."

Senora Pardo Bazán is descended from a noble and illustrious family, in

whose genealogy Victor Hugo sought the characters of his Ruy Blas. An

only daughter, her childhood was passed amid her father's extensive

library. When scarcely sixteen she was married to the scholarly

gentleman, Don José Quiroga. Several subsequent years were occupied in

European travels and study, at the conclusion of which she consecrated

herself to the literary labors which have yielded so rich a harvest. To

enumerate these masterpieces of contemporaneous Spanish letters would be

superfluous. They have been translated into every European tongue.

Doña Emilia, as she is affectionately called by the Spanish people,

passes her winters in Madrid, her salon being the rendezvous of the

literary, political and diplomatic world. The author smacks not of the

bas bleu; she is a simple woman in the truest sense of the word, and a

regal grande dame as well.

Annabel Hord Seeger.

A GREAT GRANDSON OF LOUIS XVI

Over one hundred and thirteen years ago, in Paris, at ten in the morning

of the twenty-first day of January, seventeen hundred and ninety-three,

Louis Seize bowed his head beneath the guillotine's blade, as the Abbé

Edgeworth called aloud, "Son of Saint Louis, ascend into heaven!" and as

the surging multitude sent up the wild shout, "Vive la République!"

A few months ago, in Paris, at ten in the morning of the twenty-first

day of January, nineteen hundred and six, two automobiles drew up before

the parish church, Saint-Denis de la Chapelle, whose historic walls,

fifteen centuries since, enclosed during life the intrepid and holy

patroness of France, Geneviève de Nanterre; before whose shrine, five

centuries since, the glorious virgin Savior of the realm, Jeanne d'Arc,

passed an entire day in prayer; whose sacred aisles were ever the

avenues for the royal feet in ancient times, on the termination of the

coronation ceremony.

From these automobiles alights a party headed by a slender grave-looking

young man of simple charming manners whose light grey eyes smile often.

He is accompanied by a graceful young matron leading by the hand a

handsome little fellow of some six years who wears a Louis Dix-Sept

coiffure and long auburn curls on his shoulders.

An elderly lady of patrician countenance stands near me. I turn

inquiring eyes into hers. With the grace and courtesy of a salon dame,

she beckons me closer, whispering in my ear:

"His Majesty Jean III, Her Majesty Marie Madelaine and His Royal

Highness the Dauphin, Henri-Charles-Louis."

My companion reverently and profoundly inclines her body, as the

procession rushes past us. I do likewise, albeit with an unpleasant

consciousness of an absence of the grace which envelops this member of

the "Survivance" at my side.

As we raise our heads, a man of distinguished appearance and of a

pronounced Bourbon type hurries past us, to join the advancing party.

"'Tis Monsieur," observes the lady. "'Tis the Prince Charles-Louis. He

is the soul of the cause."

We follow his elegant person past the kneeling congregation which fills

the central nave. The royal family approach the chancel until reaching

the group of crimson prie-Dieus and velvet cushions. The sanctuary is

crimson-draped; the white-haired venerable prelate is crimson-robed; the

altar blazes with the crimson tongues of wax tapers: for 'tis a _Messe

Rouge_ that is to be celebrated today, in honor of the royal victim of

one hundred and thirteen years ago.

"Explain to me the genealogy," I say to my guide, when we have taken

seats.

"The slender dark-haired gentleman and Monsieur are the great grandsons

of Louis Seize."

"In what manner are they descended?"

"Their father was Charles-Edmond Naundorff, fifth child of Charles

William Naundorff, the Prussian watch-maker, who claimed the French

crown during the reign of his uncle, known in history as Louis XVIII."

"Tell me more of these gentlemen."

"Jean III, whose entire name is Auguste-Jean-Charles-Emmanuel de

Bourbon, was born in Maestricht, Holland, in 1872. He and Monsieur were

adopted in early childhood by their father's sister, Amélie, the wife of

Monsieur Laprade of Poictiers--the beautiful, imperious Amélie whose

face was the reincarnation in feature and expression of the ill-fated

martyr queen, Marie Antoinette."

"Was not that resemblance accepted as corroborating evidence of her

father's integrity?"

"Madame," said my aristocratic companion, turning upon me wonderful

glowing eyes that seemed to reflect a throne transformed into a

scaffold, "Madame, the face of Amélie Naundorff convulsed the government

of the Restoration to such an extent that even the palsied limbs of the

man called Louis XVIII, grew rigid in terror. During one crucial moment

the usurper summoned the strength to stand upon his bandaged feet and

shatter with one blow the ascendancy of his nephew, Charles William

Naundorff."

"What arm did he employ?"

"That arm which the iniquitous ever use against the upright; the

rectitude and tenderness of a noble nature."

"Explain."

"Naundorff's despoilers turned upon him the only effectual weapon at

their disposal: they turned, rather they bade him turn upon himself, the

greatness and simplicity of his own heart."

I cast my eyes upon the group before the altar, upon the dark grave man,

all simplicity, candor and earnestness; upon the gentle comely lady

beside him, and the little fellow in the Louis Dix-Sept coiffure....

Just then Monsieur turned his superb head and the fine Bourbon features

irradiated the old charm which history and tradition have sought to

transmit, but which only the blood of Henri de Navarre can make glowing

with life.

The lady placed her elegantly gloved hand upon my arm.

"From their earliest years, the boys were cautioned not to reveal their

real name. Under the appellation of Lisbois they were successively

placed in several schools. Their identity was more than once discovered,

whereupon they were removed. On leaving college, they spent several

years in Brittany and Paris, completing their education. Jean III lived

on the estate of Monsieur Gabaudan from 1893 to 1898. Monsieur Gabaudan

manages an extensive wine business. Jean III, with the shrewd common

sense of his grandfather and with the mechanical instinct of his

great-grandfather, mastered the details of this business. Only one road

seemed to lie before him. He resolutely followed it. In 1900 he removed

to Paris. Under the name of De Lisbois, he was connected with a

petroleum house. During the last two years, he has, under his true

name, been the director of a drilling and sounding company in the

interest of which he has made several voyages to Algeria."

"What are Monseigneur's ideas with regards to royal pretensions and

claims?"

"Jean III has declared that he will never conspire to be placed upon a

throne. 'Circumstances,' says he, 'will decide my destiny.'"

"Has he adherents among the nobility?"

"His following is from all classes. The grandfathers of the present

nobility well knew that Jean de Bourbon's grandfather was the rightful

King of France."

"What of men of letters?"

"Many eloquent pens are consecrated to his cause. Eloquence, however, is

no requisite in the presentations of his claim. The Naundorffists demand

only to tell the plain truth."

"What is the official organ of the party?"

"La Légitimité, edited in Bordeaux, now in its twenty-third year."

"I have never seen a copy."

"C'est bien facile, Madame. You tell me you are leaving for New York.

The Salmagundi Club contains on file numbers of interesting books and

magazines having reference to Louis XVII. But, if you have the time

today, I will gladly accompany you to the official headquarters of the

party, namely, the office of Monsieur Daragon, the accomplished editor

of Le Revue Historique de la Question Louis XVII."

Monsieur Daragon is a true Frenchman, amiable, courteous, charming. His

office is the rendezvous of notable personages pertaining to the cause

and his bookshelves are laden with volumes of Louis XVII literature. I

purchased the scholarly memoirs of Otto Freidrichs entitled

"Correspondance de Louis XVII" and Osmond's "Fleur de Lys," a most

interesting and convincing work.

* * * * *

In the February number of the Critic of New York, Mr. J. Sanford Saltus

asks:

"The next King of France--who will he be? A question often put by the

adherents of the Due d'Orleans, Don Carlos, Victor Napoleon and Jean de

Bourbon.

"Jean de Bourbon is the youngest of the 'Pretenders' and his claim is

based upon the assumption that his grandfather, Charles William

Naundorff was the Dauphin, the son of Louis XVI, who according to

popular rumor, died in prison June 8, 1795, and was buried at night in

an unmarked grave by the church yard of Sainte-Marguerite, in an obscure

Paris quarter. That the Dauphin did _not_ die in prison, but that, with

the assistance of friends, he escaped therefrom,--a sick child being

left in his stead,--is now the almost universally accepted belief of

historians. It is thought that his escape was known to Fouché and

Josephine Beaubarnais and that, beside the sick child, several other

children, whose names were respectively, Tardif Leminger, de Jarjages,

and Gornhaut, were used as blinds, while the real Louis XVII was being

helped out of the country by the Royalists."

Mr. Saltus continues further on:

"At Delft, Holland, August 10, 1845, ended the adventurous life of the

exile Charles William Naundorff. His grave, by official permission, bore

his true name. On June 8, 1904, the remains were exhumed and re-interred

in the new cemetery at Delft and once more, by official permission, the

same inscription appears.

"King William II, King William III and Queen Wilhelmina have allowed

this inscription to remain unmolested. Why? On the coming of age of the

Naundorffs, the Dutch government gives them permission to assume their

real name."

Annabel Hord Seeger.

Book I MARTIN, THE SEER

The Lost Dauphin

Chapter I

THE LOVERS

In a London quarter near the Thames, little frequented by day and almost

deserted by night, there is a house with a small garden facing an

extensive park from whose centre majestically rise groups of trees that

have stood for a century or more, those trees of the old English soil

which constant moisture nourishes and develops into colossal

proportions. The memories attaching to this modest structure would be

well worth exploitation by the historian, but Clio has chosen to avert

her face from this, the scene of the most dismal historical drama whose

narration was ever stifled into silence.

The tragedy which for a while was bounded by the walls of that pygmy

house will forever remain in shadow, for such has been the decree of

Destiny,--rather, such has been the will of certain powerful men in high

places.

On the evening when this narrative opens, the prolonged spring twilight

had lost every trace of the sunset afterglow when an aristocratic,

stalwart young man enveloped in a gray cloak which did not conceal the

symmetry of his form, approached the grating at the rear of the house

and knocked on the iron bars with his cane four times at regular

intervals. A moment later a white skirt gleamed amid the shrubbery and

the face of its young possessor shone back of the grating. A dainty hand

glided through the bars and the visitor clasped it ardently.

Affectionate greetings followed and anxious questionings, too, for these

plighted hearts could but claim Love's arrears after their long

separation.

"Did you arrive today?"

"I have but just come, not even taking time to change my clothes. The

letter which I sent preceded me but half an hour."

"Do _they_ know you are here?"

"No. They think I am hunting on my Picmort estate."

A brief silence followed. The woman--the girl, rather, for she was

scarcely more than sixteen--contracted the arch of her perfect brow.

"I do not understand the reason for the deception, René. Why should you

be ashamed of loving me?"

He seemed at a loss for an answer and then with an effort, said:

"Amélie, my own, I have taken this journey for the sole purpose of

giving you the reason. It is eight months since we were separated, and

during that time I have written you seldom because you warned me that

letters directed to your family either arrive unsealed or else fail to

arrive. Besides, Amélie, there is something I ought to say to you, but

I--give me both your adored hands, for only so can I speak. Courage,

courage, Amélie. Trust me; I shall be constant. Oh, my love," he

suddenly broke off, "do not ask me to speak, but believe that whatever I

should now attempt toward the realization of our union would fail

utterly--"

"Would fail utterly," she repeated scornfully. "You, a man, speak such

words! What, then, did your vows signify?"

Her beautiful face gleamed like a cameo against the darkness.

"In God's name, Amélie, listen and be not so harsh. I came from France

to ask you to believe in me and not force me to speak. May I not be

silent for the present?"

"No. I demand the truth, be that what it may."

René's attitude revealed the struggle through which he was passing, and

when his words came, it was as if they were hammered out of him.

"Amélie, since we were together at the mill of Adhemar, I have thought

only of you. I had been a madcap; I became serious and high-minded. I

had cared only for Parisian follies and wild hunts in the forests; these

I renounced, for they ceased to charm me. My mother had arranged for me

a brilliant marriage. You know of Germaine de Marigny whose lineage

includes crusader knights. Well, I broke the troth, regardless of

consequences. I asked you not whence you came nor whither you went. You

had said that your father was a mechanic in London and that your life

had been passed almost in indigence. When I thought of my rank and

estates, 'twas to reflect with pride that I should surround my wife with

every luxury. I knew that my mother would execrate and my uncle

disinherit me. Nevertheless, I was determined to overleap all barriers

and disregard almost everything that claimed my allegiance."

"But having had time for reflection," Amélie remarked coldly, "you have

concluded that you had almost committed a signal folly. I admit that

you have decided wisely, and bid you now consider yourself free."

She half turned from the grating, but he seized one of her hands, then

her soft white wrist and passionately kissed it.

"No, no! You are unjust, Amélie. You force me now to say what I would

withhold. Listen. When my mother vehemently declared that a de Brezé

should never give his name to a woman of humble origin, I replied that

the most illustrious ladies of France could not outrival you, and that

beauty and goodness are entitled to the very highest social

distinction."

"But your mother has at length convinced you that you uttered but the

enthusiastic hyperboles of a too ardent lover."

She felt him tremble as he grasped her hands tightly and continued:

"I know not what deity established the code of honor. We hold honor to

be even more sacredly binding than religion. A gentleman may sin a

hundred times daily, but not once does he violate the obligations

bequeathed him by his fathers. Life and happiness are worth much less

than honor, Amélie."

"Well?" she asked, trying to speak calmly, but in vain.

"O my Love," cried the man, "forgive me, forgive me, for I am about to

wound you cruelly. My mother, who had of late refrained from opposing my

attachment to you, called me to her yesterday and shut the door upon us.

Then she said: 'René, after vainly striving for months to change your

purpose, I withdrew my opposition, fearing that I was unduly imposing my

maternal authority. You were free, in possession of your patrimony and

twenty-seven years of age. So I resigned myself to the mésalliance and

began to interest myself in the antecedents of your idol. I wrote to

Spandau, the sometime residence of her people, with the result--"

He could not continue, but Amélie haughtily commanded:

"Go on!"

Hurriedly, almost despairingly, he concluded: "With the result that I

have received the information, corroborated by these documents, that the

girl's father has served a twenty months' sentence at hard labor in

Alstadt, Silesia, having been convicted as a counterfeiter and

incendiary."

"What more?" demanded the girl.

"O Amélie, is not that enough?"

"Enough, indeed," she answered, wrenching away her hands. "Farewell,

Monsieur Marquis de Brezé. We have exchanged our last words." And she

sped into the house before he could detain her.

Chapter II

MEMORIES

The Marquis remained at the grating, hoping that Amélie would return.

When night closed in and she showed no signs of relenting, he wandered

aimlessly through the streets, walking slowly, abstractedly, his mind

absorbed with the beautiful imperious girl he so loved and between whom

and himself had been thrust the proofs of her father's felony. He became

oblivious of even the need of food, though he had eaten nothing since

reaching England and putting up at the Hotel Douglas, a fourth-class

tavern selected with the object of concealment from chance compatriots.

His wanderings conducted him back to the Thames, from whose turbid

surface towered the masts of many vessels as they rocked at their

moorings, His eyes rested vacantly on the waters, spangled with

reflections of the stars overhead, as he recalled the history of his

passion for this unknown woman and his first meeting with her in the

home of Elois Adhemar, the miller on the de Brezé estate.

René had been in the habit of stopping for a glass of beer or warm milk

at the mill, on returning from hunts on his fertile and extensive

domains, and sundry pretty gallantries did he whisper into the ear of

his host's winsome daughter, Geneviève--village beauty and rustic

coquette--with a deep bosom and gleaming teeth.

When during the Revolution the de Brezé castle was fired, a torch was

simultaneously applied to the Adhemar mill, for these loyal servitors

were stanch legitimists. The Marquis de Brezé and the Count de Lestrier,

father and uncle respectively to René, were at the time in exile with

the royal family. Elois Adhemar had fled to Switzerland, serving as a

hand at the great mill of Berne, from which city he returned as an

expert miller to France while the revolutionary ferment was quieting

down. He repaired the mill and awaited the arrival of the de Brezé

family, which was to regain possession of its estates with the advent of

the Restoration. René was the head of the family, for his father had

died in foreign lands. His mother, the Duchess de Rousillon, rebuilt the

castle with increased magnificence, and it was during her occupation of

it with her son that the latter contracted the habit of visiting the

faithful Adhemar.

One day he met at the miller's house a young girl whom the family

called Mademoiselle Amélie. She had come to renew her broken health in

the fresh country air. René, standing now by the river, recalled his

first vision of her, and fairylike memories flitted through his brain

like a swarm of golden butterflies. Was she more beautiful than

Geneviève? He could not answer, but he knew well that thoughts

associated with the personality of Geneviève were impossible in the

atmosphere of Amélie, for not only was she different from the miller's

daughter, but from all women he had known. Only on cameos, medallions,

rare miniatures and enamelled boxes had he beheld her patrician type of

beauty. Her eyes, tenderly imperious and her lips of regal sweetness

never failed to quicken in him an adoring mood.

So great was his infatuation that he did not seek to ascertain her

origin, for she seemed to have descended from heaven. One circumstance,

however, forced itself on his attention, namely that while the miller's

daughter treated Amélie as a companion, Adhemar himself evinced toward

her a deference which closely approached reverence.

"She is the daughter," he would say, "of persons who protected me during

my exile."

How sweet had been those days! He recalled the walks during the summer

along the river bank fringed with lilies and reeds and shaded by the

languid foliage of willows, her arm intertwined in his, their feet

moving rhythmically together; and then the return home in the moonlight

with the perfume of honey-suckle and wild mint in their faces. In his

ravishment he failed to note the satirical remarks and jealous glances

of Geneviève. His eyes were for Amélie only who, pale at first like a

wilted rose, rapidly recovered health and animation. What most

captivated him was her air of distinction, her native dignity, her

manners of a _grande dame_, so unaccountable in a girl of obscure

origin. He said to himself that, compared with Amélie, the arrogant

Duchess de Rousillon, his mother, was a woman most ordinary, almost

vulgar.

It was not long before the news spread throughout the district that the

Marquis de Brezé, the best match in the country, was to wed a young

foreign girl of low extraction who had, in charity, been given an asylum

at the mill. The Duchess de Rousillon was absent in Paris at the time,

for the purpose of securing from the government of the Restoration the

return of properties confiscated during the Reign of Terror.

One morning as the young Marquis was tranquilly sleeping, dreaming,

perhaps, of his fair Dulcinea, his arm was roughly shaken and he opened

his eyes upon the angry countenance of his mother, who held toward him

an open letter. There was no signature, but René recognized the coarse

scrawls and crude expressions of Geneviève. It was addressed to the

Duchess and announced the intended marriage of her son to an adventuress

who had found refuge at the mill.

"I suppose," said the lady disdainfully, "that this is only a

half-truth. Whether your gallantries relate to this girl or to some

other is a matter having no interest for me. What I demand to know is

this: Have you pledged your word?"

René raised himself on his elbow and answered: "If Amélie consents, we

shall be married."

The tempest following this announcement and the ensuing days of conflict

still lived vividly in the mind of the Marquis as the bitterest

experience of his life, especially that occasion when the Duchess

ordered her carriage for the purpose of interviewing Amélie. She took

this resolution after receiving from Court a letter which seemed to

throw her into a violent agitation. On reaching the mill, she demanded

to see Amélie, who appeared with a quiet air of unconcern. The Duchess

stared at her and seemed almost petrified, not mentioning her son. After

some incoherent phrases, she stammered that the object of her visit was

to look upon so beautiful a girl. On taking leave, she bowed

obsequiously, her customary aplomb having been transformed into

something very like the confusion of a raw peasant. The miller was

ordered to accompany her home and, on reaching the castle, they were

closeted together for over two hours. On leaving the apartment, Adhemar

staggered like one drunk with wine and the Duchess flung herself in rage

into a chair. That afternoon two journeys were begun; Adhemar

accompanied Amélie to Calais and the Duchess forced her son to go with

her to Paris.

O those first days of separation! The Marquis shut the door upon the

friends who had been his life-long associates. He wished only to be in

London, reunited to Amélie, but, not knowing her address, to find her

would be impossible. At last a letter from her, forwarded by Adhemar,

gave him the needed information. He was about to set out when a slow

fever fastened upon him and kept him in bed for three months. He did not

tell Amélie of his condition, fearing to alarm her. His letters were

brief, but they breathed an unswerving devotion. When returning health

sent the impetuous blood of youth through his veins, he declared to his

mother an unalterable determination to persist in his love for the

stranger girl. Then it was that, like a bomb exploding at his feet,

these ominous words fell from the lips of the Duchess:

"It would be insanity in the Marquis de Brezé to bestow his name on the

daughter of a mechanic by occupation, a vagabond without lineage, of

tainted blood, an adventurer who has roamed over Europe, supported in

his youth by a woman of middle age whom there is good reason to suppose

was his mistress. I knew well these particulars, dear son of mine, and

you may imagine how they harassed me, but I rebuked myself, saying that

dignity and morality might exist in the humblest rank. Still, as those

who are not blinded by love must ascertain facts, I investigated the

situation and obtained these corroborating documents. You will admit

that my course has not been one of capricious obstinacy. Listen. The

father of your idol, by name Naundorff, seems to be of Jewish

extraction. His past is sullied by grave felonies. Here is the

deposition of the burgomaster of Spandau and letters from other Prussian

authorities--a formal conviction, in fact. As an incendiary, he set fire

to the city theatre, as a counterfeiter, he manufactured sackfuls of

coins, which, when caught in the act, he flung into the river Spree. He

expiated his flagitious acts by serving in the penitentiary of Alstadt

the sentence imposed by a German court. Now you know the truth and if

you still desire to unite the Naundorff blazonry with the unblemished

arms of Brezé, glorious with crusader trophies, you are free to do so. I

cannot restrain you. If I could, I should. I have discharged my duty in

warning you. You cannot allege ignorance. And now, René, leave me. I

trust soon to know whether the heir of Rousillon lives or whether I must

mourn his passing."

This was the speech which the young Marquis had, earlier in the evening,

abridged and modified before Amélie. And now, living over again the

scene at the trellis, he felt that she would not forgive him and,

nevertheless, that he could not live without her. Knightly honor, family

pride, the obligations of nobility--all were impotent in combating his

love for the fascinating, imperious girl.

Chapter III

THE ASSAULT

Telling himself that he was reprehensively weak in failing to resist his

passion, René gazed out upon the river. He reflected that its dark

surface had closed over many human sorrows and perplexities which seemed

beyond alleviation. A chill crept over him, then a dizziness, as he

gazed into the glistening, alluring current of the Thames.

In such situations, the slightest whisper is enough to break the spell.

The Marquis started on beholding two men emerge from a noisome alley,

conversing in French. When abroad, our native tongue always claims our

attention, especially when one using it happens to pronounce a familiar

name. These men twice spoke the name of Amélie's father, whereupon René

stealthily followed the pair. He could not distinguish the topic of

their conversation but was quite close enough to study the physical type

of each of the suspicious characters, one of whom was close-shaven,

coarse and short of stature, the other tall, full-bearded, alert and

enveloped in a huge overcoat which concealed half his face. They walked

slowly, peering at intervals in all directions. On perceiving René, they

nudged each other, for the Marquis's fine clothes were out of keeping

with the place, which was the thoroughfare of dissolute and disorderly

sailors. They ceased talking and, a few moments later, suddenly turned a

corner and disappeared in the labyrinth of malodorous, ill-lighted

alleys. René realized that they had eluded him, but his hunter's scent

and nimble legs put him again upon their trail. Why this espionage? He

could scarcely have answered had he been questioned.

When he next perceived them, they were standing beneath the yellow

lantern of a tavern. He saw them enter the filthy place, order some

glasses of beer, which they gulped down like genuine Londoners and make

their exit. Guardedly he followed them into the wider and better-lighted

streets, through which rolled an occasional cab. Again they described a

capricious curve, descended towards the river and emerged upon the park

which faced the small house and garden--the scene of René's colloquy

with Amélie. On noting the coincidence, his heart beat fast and the

movement was quickened when he perceived that the wily couple were

ambuscading back of the great trees in the centre of the square.

Connecting the name he had twice heard spoken by the ruffians--for so he

classified them--with the place of their concealment, he conjectured

that an act was about to be perpetrated which would affect Amélie, an

act in which he must interpose, whether impelled by fate or chance. He

crept into the zone of shade cast by the dense foliage, his gray cloak

blending in color with the walls and making him almost invisible.

The park remained deserted. The night grew darker each moment and the

silence was broken only by the solemn striking of the church clock or

the impatient step of a laborer returning homeward. Just as the hour of

nine struck, a man appeared from that side of the park opposite the spot

where René was watching. As he entered, walking leisurely, the two

concealed men stepped forth and with a preconcerted movement placed

themselves, the one on the stranger's right, the other on his left. René

had scarcely realized what had occurred when the assault began. A few

vigorous leaps brought him quickly to the assistance of the victim just

as the assailants were about to deliver their blows. He seized the

uplifted arm of the more threatening one, the tall man with the great

coat, whose intended cudgel-blow was thereby made harmless.

The stranger, having no other weapon than a cane, rained blows upon the

enemy until he wrenched himself loose and fled. René then turned upon

the accomplice, seized him by the throat with both hands and gradually

tightened his hold until the man's face was purple from strangulation.

Then he released him, but, suddenly feeling a sharp sensation in his

shoulder, he renewed his grasp, maintaining the pressure until the

villain fell inert, dropping his weapon. The assaulted man quickly

seized the Marquis by the arm and dragged him toward the house, saying

in a voice full of emotion:

"Come, let us hasten. If the police detect us, we are lost."

He spoke in French with a German accent.

"I cannot," said René staggering. "I am wounded and too weak to walk."

Throwing his arms around René in order to sustain him, the stranger

conducted him to his home, rapping three times in a peculiar manner upon

the door, which was then opened by a woman of attractive form and

features and apparently about thirty-five years of age. She shrieked on

beholding the condition of the two men.

"'Tis a wounded gentleman, Jeanne--wounded in defending me," said the

stranger in an authoritative voice. "Close the door securely and help me

to examine his wounds."

The woman obeyed, leaving her lamp on a stand, and aided her husband in

placing René upon a lounge in the room next the entrance. Not till then

did she dare to whisper:

"And you, Charles Louis; has any ill befallen you?"

"Nothing but a slight scratch on the elbow. Quickly bring some water,

ether, balsam and court-plaster and linen. Call Amélie. She is

courageous."

While Jeanne hastened to execute these commands, Charles Louis

unfastened René's outer garments, also his close-fitting jacket,

removing the lace-trimmed shirt soaked in blood and disclosing a wound

near the left shoulder-blade, the ruffian's dagger having been aimed for

a dangerous lung thrust. His weakness was due entirely to loss of blood,

which, continuing to flow, had left a dark, clotted stain on his white

skin. When Jeanne returned with the restoratives, René was smiling

tranquilly. A girl in white entered the apartment, holding a wax taper

and, upon recognizing René, pale, blood-stained and nude to the waist,

she uttered a cry of terror and dropped the light.

"What is the matter, Amélie?" asked her father. "Do not be alarmed, my

daughter. Thank God that our unknown friend is no longer in danger. Come

nearer and hold the light still a moment. Now the bandage. Bring one of

my shirts, also my great-coat and a glass of cognac or a little coffee."

"Do not trouble yourselves further. I am doing well," declared the

wounded man. "At the Hotel Douglas I have changes of clothing."

René's eyes passionately sought those of Amélie, which, dilated with

terror, could not unfasten themselves from his face.

The host insisted: "It is too late to go to the Hotel. The streets, as

we have seen, are dangerous. Accept, then, for a little while the

clothes of a humble artisan, Monsieur--?"

"René de Giac, Marquis de Brezé."

"Charles Louis Naundorff," said the host introducing himself. "And these

are my wife and daughter. Will you believe me when I say that I knew you

were a Frenchman when you sprang to my defense?"

On hearing that René had protected her father, Amélie approached her

lover and gave him a look that was all radiance, an abandon of the soul,

an unconditional surrender. It lasted but a moment. Had it been

prolonged, it would have melted the heart of the man who, not long

before, meditated a leap into the Thames.

"To be a Frenchman and to be a hero from choice are mutual corollaries.

You did not know me. Why, then, should you risk your life? Thus is my

debt; of gratitude to you increased," said Naundorff, smiling.

Amélie had brought René a cup of coffee which, having the effect of a

cordial, made him talkative.

"A half hour since, the bandits and I were concealed in the park; an

hour since, I started on their trail."

"Is it possible?"

"It is indeed. Listen and judge. I wandered aimlessly along the river

bank and soon overheard two men speaking French. They were

suspicious-looking characters and they spoke your name twice. On

perceiving that I followed, they fled. I caught up with them and again

followed cautiously. On reaching the park, they ambuscaded. The rest you

know."

Naundorff gazed attentively at his guest who, having clothed himself in

the borrowed garments, was fast recovering his strength. He strove to

read René's face. At last he said:

"Why, then, you knew me?"

"Yes, Monsieur, I knew you by name, and now that I look at you closely,

I feel that I know your face also. You have one of those countenances

which always seem familiar and linger in the memory. I cannot say when

or where I have seen you, but I believe it has been not once but a

thousand times. When I opened my eyes and looked upon your face, it

seemed to me that long ago I had known you well."

On first beholding his fiancée's father, de Brezé had experienced a

feeling that now returned with renewed force. Although love confiscates

all sentiments, in order to focus them on the adored one, René gazed

beyond Amélie as he spoke, having eyes only for Charles Louis. The

father's age seemed near forty, his head was of spacious front with

arched brow and blond hair, somewhat silvered and curling naturally. An

infantile dimple marked his chin, his breast-bone was high and a slight

obesity marred his form which still, however, preserved graceful

outlines; his hands were finely patrician; his expression was a mingling

of dignity, bitterness and deep distrust. Great sorrows must have been

the lot of this man, for his face seemed furrowed by torrents of tears.

His likeness to Amélie seemed to consist more in what is usually called

family resemblance than in physical similitude. The father and daughter

were of distinct types and yet it seemed impossible to disjoin them

mentally. More and more perplexed, René said to himself, "Where have I

seen this man? Where have I seen him and Amélie together?"

Chapter IV

AMÉLIE

Naundorff, seated near the sofa where René rested, had become pensive.

René's eyes were fastened querulously upon him. The young man scarcely

knew what to say, yet his good breeding impelled him to end the enforced

visit.

"I have almost recovered. I therefore beg of my kind host permission to

depart. I shall take a cab near by in Wellington street and so reach my

hotel in twenty minutes. Tomorrow, unless fever seizes me, I shall give

myself the pleasure of calling upon you to learn how you fare after our

rough experience. There remains now only to inquire whether you deem it

advisable to report this assault, Monsieur Naundorff, in order that the

scoundrels may receive their just deserts."

This very natural query was disquieting to the host, and with contracted

lips, he objected:

"Make report? No, no. I would suffer everything rather than appeal to

human justice. Leave human justice to her caverns, her lairs. I prefer

to deal with the malefactors who all but made off with us. At least," he

added excitedly in a hoarse voice, "at least they strike blows and

dispatch their victims. Oh, deliver me from prolonged martyrdom, from

shredding of flesh fibre by fibre Let the end come speedily and

then--rest. The justice of God is retributive, infallible."

At this point Amélie arose and threw herself into her father's arms,

while Jeanne buried her face in her hands. René observed that the wife

was not really included in the demonstration and that Naundorff and

Amélie constituted a group of attuned souls. As she drew herself from

her father who kissed her fair forehead, she turned to René and said

serenely:

"Monsieur Marquis de Brezé, we have complied to the extent of our power

with the obligations of hospitality and gratitude. We owe you an eternal

debt. On leaving, you shall carry with you my father's pistols, which he

imprudently refuses to carry himself, notwithstanding numerous evidences

of treachery. But before you leave, I wish to hear my father vindicate

himself."

She made a significant gesture to Naundorff, who then said gently to his

wife:

"Jeanne, my own, go and see if the children are sleeping. Don't let

them know what has happened to-night."

Jeanne complied with a smile. Amélie then resumed the conversation with

her usual vivacity.

"Without detracting from our gratitude, Marquis, permit me to say that

friendship must be based upon esteem. If you do not esteem my father

according to his deserts; if, on saving his life through a noble

impulse, you fail to profess for him a respect which is his due, we

shall perpetuate our gratitude but withhold our hospitality in the

future, unless some day you call upon us, to demand the life to which

your conduct tonight entitles you. This is my attitude, Monsieur, and my

father's also."

"What do you mean, my daughter?" interposed Naundorff.

"The Marquis understands me," replied the girl, lowering her eyes. "He

will admit that I speak with warrant."

Naundorff, with unfeigned amazement gazed from one to the other. The

heightened color in both young faces revealed the truth.

"Monsieur le Marquis, have you had previous acquaintance with my

daughter?"

"I have had that honor, Monsieur Naundorff, at the house of Elois

Adhemar, miller on my patrimonial estate."

"What has been the nature of the friendship which you have entertained

for the Marquis?" asked Naundorff of Amélie. "I do not need to urge you

to speak the truth."

"Indeed you do not my father. René de Giac was my lover, pledged to be

my husband. He is," she observed, as though the detail were of extreme

importance, "a scion of the first nobility of France."

"Compose yourself, my daughter," said Naundorff, for her voice had

suddenly quavered with emotion. "To love is law. Your father has loved

intensely. Your lover is worthy of you."

"That is what remains to be proved," she replied haughtily. "That is

what Monsieur le Marquis will demonstrate without delay. We wait--"

René was amazed at her intrepidity and he answered with some vehemence:

"Mademoiselle wounds but does not offend. She will testify that I have

reverenced her honor, that it has been as sacred to me as that of a

beloved sister. And in vindication, I now improve the present occasion

to address my plea to her father. Monsieur Naundorff, the Marquis de

Brezé asks for the hand of your daughter."

Astounded, then thrilled with happiness, Naundorff turned to his

daughter, who interrupting, calmly said:

"Do not concede it, my father, until the Marquis retracts."

René understood. His fealty indicated his line of procedure. Turning to

Naundorff, he said:

"I retract, not because Amélie demands that I should but because my

conscience so dictates. In France I had been assured that you had been

imprisoned as an incendiary and counterfeiter and that you had served

your term in Silesia at hard labor. Two hours since, I said this to

Amélie. Since meeting you, I am convinced that the charge is false.

Forgive me and take my hand."

A melancholy cloud settled upon Naundorffs face and a spasm of pain

convulsed his features. From his eyes darted a lustre like that of

congealed tears. Losing all control of himself, he shrieked:

"Do not take my hand. What they told you in France is true. I have been

dragged before tribunals under the accusation of firing a theatre and

counterfeiting money. Yes, I have ground gypsum in the prison of

Alstadt. You have not been deceived, Monsieur le Marquis."

Amélie, sobbing and on her knees, caressed her father passionately. René

vacillated for a moment and then intuition vanquished reason.

"Your hand, Monsieur Naundorff," he said, extending his own. "If you

refuse, it is because you doubt me. I feel convinced that those

accusations are part of an iniquitous scheme. My heart so speaks and my

heart does not lie. The Marquis de Brezé, of immaculate honor, responds

for the honor of Naundorff."

Not his hand but both of his arms did Naundorff extend to this new

friend whom he embraced impetuously.

"Not only are you innocent of felony," said René, "but, moreover, a man

persecuted, calumniated, victimized. From today you have at your side an

unconditional friend. I will make your reputation to shine as the sun.

Trust yourself to me."

Naundorff shook his head sadly.

"'Tis not in you power to change my fate. Tired of long suffering, I

determined to leave everything to chance. Living obscurely, humbly,

poorly, I thought that, being forgotten, tranquillity was at last to be

permitted me. What evil had I done? Of what might I be accused? May I

not even enjoy the love of my family and the peace of the laborer's

hearth? No, they have decreed my assassination as they decreed my

dishonor. Today you have saved me, my friend, but you will not always be

near and if you dare to place yourself between me and my fate, alas for

you! A voice prophetic and awful pronounced to me, one day, these words

in the darkness of my dungeon: 'Your friends shall perish.'"

Amélie fell into an armchair, sobbing.

"Do not weep, rose of heaven," said Naundorff, leading her toward René.

"Divine providence permits at last that you shall be happy. My dream was

to see you the wife of a French nobleman. He whom you love is noble in

birth and noble in soul. Love one another. Charles Louis blesses you."

"No," protested René. "We shall not marry until you are rehabilitated.

Amélie would not consent." Amélie extended her hand in approval.

"Not until my father recovers his name and honor may we be happily

married, René."

"Do as you will," murmured Naundorff. "I will not again buffet Fate,

knowing in advance that I shall fall a victim."

He made a signal to the Marquis, who followed him into the basement of

the house. It was a species of work-shop, illumined by the dim light of

a lantern hanging from the smoky ceiling. On benches were scattered the

implements of a watch-maker--springs, pincers, bridges, wires, minute

tongs, unmounted watches, others in cases, machinery of various kinds

and firearms. Naundorff double-locked the door and then, removing one of

the tables, counted the bricks in the wall and, reaching the fifteenth

numbering from the floor, he pried it out. A secret compartment was now

revealed from which he took a yellow parchment and a small square box

with a gold key hanging from it.

"René de Giac," said Naundorff solemnly, "I confide this treasure to

your unblemished honor. Herein is contained the last gleam of hope for

me and my children. To no one have I delivered this manuscript and

casket because my misfortunes have driven away all my friends, a result

to be expected from the prediction heard within my prison walls. There

have been moments in which I have thought to throw these proofs into the

fire, for they seemed valueless, but tonight's episode has put an end to

such an inclination. As I do not attain peace by living obscurely; as a

dagger continues to be suspended over my head; as my sorrows flood the

life of Amélie, my best-loved child--the only being who knows my

secret; since, contrary to my desire, I am compelled to defend my

rights, I resume the struggle. I shall secretly go to France and if you

consider that the testimonials enclosed in that box constitute a solid

basis for my claims before a French tribunal, or even before a human

tribunal, then I shall proceed to my demands. No longer will I remain

silent. But listen to my warning. From the very moment you possess the

box and parchment, do not consider yourself safe on earth. Tremble, keep

vigils, start in your sleep, trust no man. Treachery will bristle on all

sides and spies will track you, to despoil you of the treasure. You look

at me amazed and, perhaps, doubt my sanity, but reflect on the assault

of this night. You will not wonder at my warnings when you read the

manuscript. It is a plea addressed to a woman, to her whom I have most

loved on earth, excepting my mother and daughter--a woman upon whom may

God have pity! After you have read it, judge whether or no it should be

placed in her hands and, if it should, be you the bearer, that the woman

may not say she sinned through ignorance.

"As for this casket containing the important documents," he added,

"conceal it in a crypt beneath French soil or in the bowels of the

earth. A time will come when we shall have need of it. Until then, let

not your right hand know where the left has hidden it."

"I swear!" said de Brezé, "that no man shall track me."

"Transform yourself, René. He who becomes my friend must adjust to his

face a mask, must envelop himself in mystery--for I am a mystery, an

abysmal mystery. Here are my pistols--they are loaded. And now farewell,

for you must find a place of safety for these things which in my hands

incur grave danger. I shall see you again in Calais where Amélie and I

shall be one week from today, if all goes satisfactorily, at the Red

Fish Inn. Let us not meet again in London, for we are watched."

"No divining rod shall indicate the cavity beneath French soil where I

conceal this treasure," said de Brezé. "Permit me now, on leaving, to

kiss my lady's hand."

"Go seek her. She is yours."

At eleven, René again crossed the solitary park. He approached the

square, curious to see if there still remained evidences of the

struggle. All was deserted, but a blade gleamed at the foot of a tree,

and he took it up in his hand. It was a short, wide knife such as

mariners use for cutting fish. As he stooped, the casket dropped from

his bosom and struck on the tree. Much alarmed, he replaced it inside

his jacket which he securely buttoned and, pressing his hand to the

treasure, he proceeded along Wellington street.

On passing a corner to call a cab, he caught sight of two men, those of

the assault, shadowed in a great doorway and watching his movements.

"There goes the throttler," said the thickset fellow, who still wheezed

from the pressure of René's fingers.

"He carries a box," said the other. "It has a metallic sound and cannot

be empty. Shall we fall on him and seize it?"

"Fool! he must be armed. If not, do you think I should let him pass?"

"He goes toward Wellington."

"Let's follow him now as he followed us. Let's find out who this young

aristocrat is that drops from the skies into other men's fights."

And the two ruffians, creeping along in the shadow of the walls, tracked

de Brezé until he leaped into a cab, giving directions which they

overheard. The listeners did not need to incur the expense of another

cab.

René had failed to heed the warning of Naundorff regarding

circumspection. Just from the arms of Amélie, he floated like one in a

trance; his thoughts were all of love.

Chapter V

THE FIRST THREADS OF THE NET

The office of the Superintendent of Police, Baron Lecazes, was an

apartment severely sumptuous and furnished in the purest Imperialistic

style. The power of the great Napoleon, laid low forever after the

ephemeral sway of the Hundred Days, lived still in art. How could the

suite of Lecazes be furnished otherwise, when it had been the official

headquarters of Fouché, Napoleon's chief minister, the "Great Second" in

power and, perhaps, behind the throne's draperies, the "Great First." He

had occupied it during the stirring period in which the power of the

police department attained its zenith,--Fouché, the only man who in

reality knew the history of the epoch.

Lecazes was said to have reaped the harvest of his predecessor's

ingenious policy--tangled labyrinths of tunnels, secret passages, back

stairways, hidden closets, dungeons wherein dangerous citizens kept

gloomy vigils while gagged and fettered, awaiting presentation before

the all-potent superintendent. There were chiffoniers and garde-robes

whose compartments held every variety of disguises. Smothered

voices, could they have become audible again, might have told of

torture-galleries consummately fitted up, containing indented wheels,

Austrian steel-blocks, English pricking-forks, Spanish weights and

cords, Prussian metal helmets and other devices no less terrifying. The

truth of these rumors cannot be vouched for but it is enough to say that

they were disseminated by the Carbonari, whose society was then

starting. It has also been said, perhaps rashly, that under the eye of

Fouché there existed a chemical laboratory in which a turbaned doctor

from the Orient, envoy from the Great Turk, concocted distillations of

herbs which induced stupor, insanity or death. However legendary some of

these statements may seem, however rash it may be to gainsay the erudite

historians who give credit only to what is found in the records, it is

well to recognize the fact that some of the most dramatic and highly

significant happenings are among those of which all trace has been

obliterated.

The private office of Lecazes was reached from the outside by an

antechamber with apparently but one entry, that of the rear, leading to

the hall and before which hung a green silk portière brocaded in

yellow palms. The walls of the office were covered with green silk laid

on in squares and retained in place by carved gilt-edged mahogany

strips. The floor was a mosaic of rare and variegated woods which in

their natural tints formed a Grecian fret encircling a serpent-locked

head of Medusa. There were swan-formed sofas and chairs and stools of

artistically wrought brass, depicting processions of nymphs with airy

coiffures, slender necks and beribboned sandals, or groups of cupids

bearing hymeneal torches. A splendid bronze railing surrounded the desk

on which stood an inkstand with the figure of Laocoön struggling in the

coils of serpents. The Laocoön and the Medusa, strongly suggestive of

martyrdom and despair, could not be more fittingly placed. Above the

baron's seat, a canopy overhung the portrait of the reigning king, Louis

XVIII. Lecazes was seated and although many papers lay before him, he

was not busy. His attitude was meditative, his head resting in the left

hand, while his right fingered a silver pen tipped with steel. It would

have been difficult to classify the quality of his meditation--to

determine whether it was artful or idle. His face was keenly intelligent

and in public it expressed an ingenious frankness, with an affability

too unremitting to be sincere, and a smile half abstracted and half

mellow, which, when in solitude was replaced by lines of astute and

tenacious determination. It was the expression of a man who travels

without deviation to his ends.

As superintendent of the restored monarch, he was impelled to display

greater vigor than as the superintendent of the great Corsican. In the

latter capacity he was guided by a superior genius; in the former he

stood back of the throne to guard the government--including himself.

"What would become of them without me?" Lecazes asked himself, on the

successful termination of a coup. "It is often necessary to act without

consulting. There are questions which must not be asked. I am the

contriver. I direct the play and they are the audience. Much cause for

congratulation is it if I can prevent them and their vengeful partisans

of the south from spoiling the plot."

The baron's reflections were not those of one who seeks a path amid

thorns and thistles. They had, rather, to do with the balancing of

probabilities and the best way to carry out his purpose. Suddenly he

began to arrange the documents, some of which he tied together. After

extracting and reading a letter over and over, he placed that important

paper in his pocket-book.

A project of much consequence agitated his mind, for his hand shook

nervously as he took up his pen, and deep furrows lined his brow. Two

clocks, standing upon artistic brackets at his right and left

respectively, joined their crystalline voices in musical precision. It

was two o'clock in the afternoon--time to stop reflecting and go to

acting. He struck the bell and inquired of the attendant, who

immediately appeared:

"What person waits?"

"Professor Beauliège is in the anteroom."

"Show him in."

A moment later there appeared a man who was a type of the

literary-scientific proletariat, such as may always be found in Parisian

bookstores, lingering before shelves containing antique works marked at

extravagant prices. A greasy looking hat, uncombed hair, coat collar

soiled with dandruff, tattered gloves pierced by dirty fingernails, a

faded portfolio (apparently full of manuscripts) beneath his arm; a

shaven face with a peaked nose and myopic eyes which seemed to peer

through a dusty web--such were the unpleasing features of Monsieur

Beauliège's exterior.

The baron, scarcely looking up, motioned him to a seat. Active and

practical himself, he professed for litterateurs a disdain which he made

no effort to conceal.

"How does the book come on?" he asked.

"Monsieur le Baron," faltered the poor old fellow, "I make little

advance because, as you are well aware, I absolutely lack basis. I have

no corroborating documents for establishing the boy's demise. I am in

ignorance of what transpired during the latter part of his imprisonment

and my labor is most arduous since, thanks to the spirit of the age,

history seems to be taking on new methods and insisting on indisputable

evidences. When I received your summons, I jumped for joy, for I thought

you had important documents to entrust to me."

"Monsieur Beauliège" replied Lecazes, in slightly repressed irony, "if

we possessed the papers that you wish, we should have no need of you. Le

diable! In that case I should transfer them to the columns of Le

Moniteur. What I expect of your genius and erudite pen is a

compilation--do you follow me?--a compilation of, well, of materials

conjectural and plausible, tender, affecting, poetic, descriptive of the

unhappy prince's life in prison. The theme is pregnant. You have a

virgin field and an ample horizon. You are not asked for a romance.

Beware! You must bring forth a historic revelation to serve as a beacon

for the future. 'Tis an enterprise which, above all, if believed to have

been spontaneously undertaken, will redound to your literary glory. A

seat in the Academy shall not be deemed too lofty an honor by way of

reward for your distinguished merit."

The word "Academy" caused the savant to leap from his seat and grasp the

railing. Lecazes eyed him astutely. This man was not purchasable in

money. He had wisely held to him the bait of literary eminence.

"A book of your writing, Monsieur Professeur, does not require much help

from documentary evidence, since your personal authority is sufficient.

It might, if you were one of those fools who invent narratives having

neither head nor tail, but the fact of your being a scholar and a

collector of historical manuscripts imparts the strength of credibility

to your productions. The test of your ability shall consist in imparting

stability to a monument without a pedestal. We have unfortunately lost

the pedestal."

"I am told," said the professor, "that there exists in the Hospital for

Incurables a woman capable of throwing light on this chapter of

history. She is the widow of the shoemaker who tortured the wretched

little prince. I have decided to interview this woman."

The baron's fist dealt the table a fearful blow.

"With what instrument must I inject into your brain the idea that you

are to interview nobody except the person or persons to whom I direct

you? Is your book to be the recital of old women's garrulities or a

dignified exposition?"

The savant drooped his head. The magic charm of membership in the

Academy constrained him into a meek submission. Nevertheless, he timidly

stammered:

"If only I might possess the death certificate! Resting upon that

solitary document, the book would have a basis of adamant. It would

suffice to refute conclusively those vile impostors, the cobbler of

Rouen, the lackey of Versailles, and the mechanic of Prussia."

Lecazes again assumed his habitual smile in order to restrain himself

from flinging the Laocoön inkstand at the savant's head,--the old

imbecile, seeking Jerusalem artichokes in the depths of the sea! Then he

amiably remonstrated:

"Refrain, my dear Professor, from desiring such evidence, or--renounce

your seat in the Academy. You must convince yourself that the aforesaid

death certificate has not yet been unearthed, and that it is not yet

expedient to record the facsimile. But what does this matter to a sage

like yourself?"

Gliding his hand into his pocket, the superintendent extracted a roll of

banknotes.

"This insignificant sum is not intended as payment for your labor but

only as a reimbursement for expenses incidental to the mechanical part

of your task. In two weeks I shall expect the manuscript, may I not?"

An authoritative gesture dismissed the Professor, who retired in an

absorbed mental condition, for already he had begun framing his

initiatory address on entering the Academy. Lecazes glanced, at the

clock. The hands indicated twenty-five minutes of three.

"Volpetti has doubtless arrived," he said to himself and then rising, he

took up the package of papers which had recently been collected and

pressed a finger upon a hidden spring back of his chair, whereupon one

of the panels swung open, revealing a dark, narrow passageway, at the

farther end of which there was an iron shutter. Entering, he touched

this lightly with his knuckles and no sooner had it rolled upward than a

man's voice hoarsely whispered from the opened room:

"I am here, Excellency."

The chamber which the baron entered was furnished in mahogany, the walls

painted to match, and the floor was covered with a cheap carpet. It

lacked windows and was ventilated only by the stovepipe. A lantern was

suspended from the ceiling and he quickly turned it upon the individual

who had announced himself.

"Lower the shutter," ordered the baron, and the man obeyed, closing the

chamber's only exit.

"Now bring cup and salver."

The man took from the cupboard a deep bronze cup with handles

representing two sirens of protruding bosom. Unstopping a bottle, he

emptied its contents into the cup and then, striking a flint, ignited a

taper which he applied to the liquid. He then placed the cup on the

stove. A blue flame arose, and in it the baron lighted, one by one, the

documents he had just been handling at his desk. He watched the burning

sheets as they turned to black crumpled shapes and then to shapeless

ashes upon the metal salver. The odor from the burning seals was wafted

to his face and a slight shiver came over him. He was enjoying his power

of obliterating history, cunningly causing past happenings to seem as

though they had not been. Feeling relieved at the destruction of the

papers, he said amiably to Volpetti:

"When you are again here, 'twill be because _that_ has been

accomplished."

Chapter VI

THE BAILIFF

The man to whom those significant words A were addressed, and whom the

baron called Volpetti, appeared to have just arrived after a long

journey. Much dust whitened his clothes, his shoes and his abundant dark

hair, which last was in a disorderly condition. He seemed somewhat over

thirty, of a southern type, having tanned skin and a heavy beard which

extended almost to his eyes. His answer was formal:

"_That_ shall be accomplished tonight."

"Are you certain?"

"Infallibly so. The fool is in clever hands. I am just from London,

bringing two boxes of steel implements, scissors and knives, which have

served to corroborate my commercial character. Beyond the Channel I was

Albert Serra, a Catalan, making purchases in London to smuggle through

Gibraltar. Not the devil himself could have spotted me."

"Come to the point," commanded the superintendent. "You are skillful in

disguises. I myself hardly recognize you in that beard and mop of hair."

"I have taken these precautions, Excellency, because the Carbonari and

the police are on my scent. They are making shrewd guesses and 'twould

be very awkward for me to enter London in handcuffs, on the charge of

being party to an assault upon that puzzling personage. One must be on

the qui vive. I picked out two hardy fellows and gave them only such

information as was required for the performance of their parts. Besides,

the plan was as simple as sucking eggs. The personage lives in an

obscure quarter and opposite his house is a park which is always

deserted after nightfall. A Methodist church stands on one side of this

park and a college on another. In the centre is a group of big trees

which cast a deep shade; indeed, everything was arranged to suit us. The

personage takes an evening stroll after his day's work, for he has been

warned that failure to take the air will be bad for his eyes which he

uses hard all day, looking at the fine mechanism of the watches and

machines which he repairs. How have I found all this out? Therein lies

my genius, Excellency. I can answer every question concerning that

house. The personage, after wandering through certain streets, and

visiting his friends, the Prussian mechanic, Hartzenbaume, returns home

regularly at a given hour. He is very punctual in his habits and whoever

passes through the square at that time is almost sure to meet him."

The superintendent shook his head. The faint creases upon his brow

deepened.

"And if they are captured?"

"If they are captured? but they will _not_ be captured. They know just

what to do. If they are arrested, 'twill be for assault with intent to

rob, something that occurs every day. And even though Albert Serra is

named as accomplice, what of that? The English police will look for a

Catalan smuggler--not for me. The fellows know only half the story and

you may be certain that the net is well laid. Has your Excellency

further orders for me?"

"Await me here and arrange a new make-up. I shall return."

The bailiff bowed and, at a signal, raised the iron shutter through

which the autocrat passed back to his private office. On reaching it, he

felt in his pocket for the letter which he had placed there not long

since, and said to the usher:

"Has not her Grace, the Duchess de Rousillon, arrived?"

"She has been waiting some time for your Excellency."

"Ask her to be good enough to enter."

The baron gallantly advanced to place a chair for the lady. She

approached boldly, trying to smile, but her pale face and the reddened

semi-circles beneath her blue eyes revealed acute suffering. The duchess

must have been beautiful in her prime and her style of dressing showed

that she had not given up her claim to attractiveness. Her skirt was of

taffeta silk ornamented with narrow lace ruffles. She wore an exquisite

dulleta of rare green velvet, bordered with white embroidery mingled

with gold and chenille, a large silk English bonnet of such shape as to

permit the escape on each side of clusters of curls still golden. A

parasol like that which had been last graced by the hand of the Duchess

de Barri, of white satin embroidered in violets, completed her outfit.

From her left wrist hung a reticule of pearls over satin with a jeweled

clasp. She made a court bow to Lecazes and seated herself in the

proffered chair with somewhat more than her usual aristocratic manner.

"In what can I serve your Grace?"

"If you but knew what has happened," she began in an agonized voice. To

his querulous look, she resumed: "You had appointed today for the

conference which we were to hold regarding the Montereux mines, which

form part of the ducal estate of Rousillon. The possession of this

property is disputed by the municipality of Montereux on the pretext of

prior occupation, and I desire to place my claim in your hands for

enforcement, even though it be a matter that does not concern you

officially. But if it were not for this engagement with you, I should

have come today to earnestly solicit an audience."

The baron noted her agitation from the trembling of the rich jewels on

her bosom.

"Compose yourself," he said almost affectionately, taking in his own one

of her gloved hands "Your trouble may not be as serious as you imagine."

"You consider me capable of being afflicted over a trifle!" she

exclaimed. "Listen; my son has escaped to England."

"To England!" ejaculated Lecazes, starting in his seat.

"Ah! so you see my distraction is not over a small matter. Yes, to

London and slyly, too, for he told me that he was going hunting on

Picmort. But as I have eyes, I discovered that the clothes which he had

taken were hardly appropriate to the chase and that the guns and bags

which were left behind satirically grinned at each other. I then hurried

to our bankers and indifferently inquired whether René had ordered money

to be sent to him. On being told that a large credit had been placed for

him in London, I concluded that my presentiments were well founded."

"When did the Marquis leave?"

"Four days ago. He should reach London tonight."

The baron was not in the habit of showing his feelings, and only a

slight contraction of the mouth could be detected as the effect of his

chagrin.

"You know well," proceeded the lady, "that the girl is there. When I

revealed the truth to him and proved it by the documents which you

kindly procured for me--showing her father's criminal record--René

seemed overwhelmed with sadness. After some grieving over his ruined

hopes, he appeared to be cured of his absurd passion. But now I realize

that the chains are not broken."

The superintendent brusquely inquired:

"Why did you not notify me the moment that your son started on his

trip?"

"I blundered," she mournfully admitted. "I did not realize that

precautions are unavailing when one contends with intrigants of low

breed. Why do you not have that monstrous impostor put in prison? He

should be deprived of his mischief-making power. I trust to you, Baron,

to dispel from his Majesty's mind any notion that I am implicated in

this conspiracy. Assure him of my loyalty, of my condemnation of René's

perversity. How iniquitous so to exploit a resemblance, a freak of

Nature! 'Tis truly an amazing likeness. On seeing the girl I was almost

petrified. She has the air, the face, the eyes, the mouth and even the

gait of the martyr-queen. Mountebanks of that stripe always attract

followers. Adhemar, for one, believes in him to the death. I shall

banish him from the mill for his treason! O Baron, rescue René! If my

son were to become a partisan of this impostor, I could not endure his

Majesty's displeasure. Were I treated coldly at court, I should die of

mortification. Reverence for my liege is my chief sentiment. My beloved

husband used often to say to me, 'Matilde, let your first care be to

please the king!'"

"That is not the question at present," drily rejoined the

superintendent. "Your fidelity is evident to me. But what a mistake you

made in not keeping me better posted."

"Do you fear, as do I, a clandestine marriage--one of those

entanglements--?"

"Like that of his Highness, Duke Ferdinand, with the sentimental Amy

Brown?" interposed Lecazes.

"Mon Dieu, no!" protested the duchess. "That was a vicious calumny."

"Well, your Grace, I shall try to nullify your mistakes. Compose

yourself and depart. Pardon my abruptness. I require time to formulate

plans and to prevent further trouble. Trust to me. The Marquis de Brezé

will not rush headlong into marriage with a culprit's daughter. Such

acts are not perpetrated in real life, impromptu, as in Cimarosa's

operas. We shall find preventives for such an awkward faux pas."

The lady rose, drawing across her eyes a perfumed lace handkerchief.

"You are my protector," she said, clasping the baron's hand. To herself

she said, "Trickster! Newly manufactured noble! Renegade Bonapartist!"

As soon as the duchess had departed, Lecazes clenched his fist and shook

it vigorously in her direction. Then again placing a finger on the

secret spring, he glided through the paneled door and passageway into

the room where he had burned the documents. He called, in a low voice,

to Volpetti.

Some moments later, the bailiff appeared in immaculate dress of the

correct style, blue coat with gilded buttons, nankeen breeches,

riding-boots and in his hand a fancy whip with carnelian handle. He wore

a white muslin cravat which with his pale face made a pleasing contrast

with the dark brown whiskers. His head was fringed with chestnut

ringlets, amid which rose, on the left, the romantic tupé, the

Chateaubriand coiffure. And Volpetti did strikingly resemble the author

of the Genius of Christianity.

"You certainly have an amazing facility in transforming yourself," said

the superintendent. "There now remains only a cloak for the road. Take

two passports and make use of that which is the more appropriate. Spare

no expense and reach London without losing a moment."

"Will your Excellency be so good as to give me definite instructions? Am

I sent to spy upon my agents?"

"Your business is to dog the steps of the Marquis de Brezé and to

discover his lodging, his acts, his thoughts and even the frequency of

his heart-beats. This young gentleman is enamored of Naundorff's

daughter and he reaches London this evening. He will doubtless, on

arriving, take the road leading to his mistress. He may be Naundorff's

ally, yes, he may be his rescuer this very night. We did not count on

his presence and, to say the least, it complicates matters. Volpetti,

there is no need to give you further instructions."

The bailiff bowed and departed, while the superintendent unfastened his

coat, took out the letter which he had withheld from the flames,

leisurely unfolded it and again lost himself in its perusal as though he

were committing it to memory.

Chapter VII

THE EPICUREAN

Were the superintendent's office compared with the monarch's sanctum,

the former would appear to be more ostentatious, but on deliberately

examining the latter, much that was admirable, indicating the cultured

tastes of the occupant, would be found. The windows opened toward the

royal gardens which spread before the eye, like a rich tapestry, its

beds of rare flowers and shrubbery, among which could be seen alabaster

statues of Grecian deities glistening in the sunlight. Within, the walls

were covered with paintings both modern and antique, and splendid

armorial trophies from the East. Among the paintings were a nude in

pearly tints by Titian, a Bacchante by Rubens, an Odalisque by

Delacroix, and a Jupiter and Ganymede by Prudhon. There were fancy

china-pieces of Saxon ware encased in glass, Grecian statuettes, bas

reliefs in which consummate skill triumphed over crudity of subject,

silver-plate ornately engraved, medallions, coins, pottery and jewels,

many of these rarities being the treasures of an antiquarian

connoisseur.

Back of the armchair and desk, which were superb specimens of Louis

Quinze furniture, stood a book-case richly paneled and containing among

its choicest volumes, editions of Plantin and Manuce, bound in morocco

and Spanish-American calf. On the right, back of the screen, which

concealed it was a costly piano awaiting the touch of fingers that were

wont to interpret its enchanting secrets.

Before the desk and at the feet of the armchair was spread--a present

from the Countess Cayla--a white bearskin, upon which lay a diminutive

dog with black mouth and silken hair, one of those cunning miniatures

which today are a fad in France, but at that time were rarely seen.

It was near five o'clock when a side door opened and the king entered,

supported, almost carried, by two attendants. The dog leaped for joy and

covered the monarch's feet with caresses. Sighing deeply, his Majesty

dropped into an easy-chair near a window. He suffered from a life-long

malady, in spite of which an active spirit stirred within him. To look

upon him made one quickly see the force of Marquis de Semonville's

remark: "How could one expect his Majesty to forgive his brother for

walking?"

Having settled himself in the easy-chair, his bandaged legs and swollen

feet propped with cushions, he took a pinch of snuff from a jeweled case

and said: "Summon Baron Lecazes."

Awaiting the execution of his order, the king cast his eyes over the

enchanting view from the open window. The western sky was like molten

gold and, against this brilliant background the sombre trees took on the

look of bronze bas reliefs. The spraying fountains tossed up in dazzling

glee myriads of fantastic aquiform flower-petals, charming the eye and

cooling the atmosphere. A sweet, voluptuous peace pervaded the

apartment, the garden perfume mingling with that of unfolding

narcissuses and springtide hyacinths in jardinieres. It was with

unfeigned delight that the royal personage sated his esthetic nature

amidst these rich and varied offerings to the senses, and on such

occasions he was given to saying to himself, as though he might never

enjoy its like again:

"'Tis an elysian hour. Let us lose none of its nectar."

Always lurking behind this sentiment was the conviction: "Life is brief,

whatever the number of its days. A breathing, a striving, a sighing,

and then--who can tell? Eternal mystery."

Giving himself up to the play of his imagination, the king seemed to

hear the onrushing and receding of the tides of human destiny through

the centuries, now holding high, then sweeping to their fall, the

splendors of earth's thrones and dynasties. Was he also to be soon

submerged in those merciless tides and dashed about like a straw? O,

before sinking into the deeps, how he wished to live and feel the

complete man!--to have health and a day--and laugh to scorn all the

fears of frail humanity.

"Were I but strong!" he at times exclaimed in rage. "Might I but love,

suffer, weave into my life the thread of a romantic adventure. But this

despicable body!--this diseased and impotent flesh!--"

His eyes wandered from the garden view to the objects of art around him.

He enjoyed in them the fruition of artistic beauty rescued from

voracious Time. They seemed to smile to him like the choicest friends.

In these and such as these he found more real contentment than in aught

else.

"I am very like an Athenian, or a Roman contemporary of Horace," he

assured himself complacently. Correct lines and classic symmetry

transported him so much that the vision was at times inspired within him

of his own person restored to health, with rich and virile blood

coursing through his veins.

Suddenly his face grew haggard and his head fell on the back of the

chair, a shadow obscuring his Bourbonic countenance, so like that of his

decapitated brother, though it lacked the placid benevolence of that

unfortunate monarch's face encircled in curls which terminated in a cue.

In the reigning Louis's face that benevolent look was replaced by an

expression of sordid indifference or of caustic irony.

The king's collapse had been caused by the sight of a man standing in

the garden opposite the window, near the statue: "A wrestler preparing

for the Combat." The man's keen eye was fixed upon the monarch. He was

of a weazened type and might be of any age between eighty and ninety,

for there is a limit beyond which the passage of time is not apparent in

the human form. His head shone like burnished silver, his bristly

eye-brows surmounted prophetic eyes and his knotty hands, upon which his

chin was leaning, rested on a rough staff. His garb was that of the

provinces--where tradition and superstition held sway and druids still

sharpened the ax beneath the trees--loose gaskins, wooden shoes, woolen

scarf and embroidered jacket over a white vest. As a whole the attire

was picturesque and the passers-by turned to gaze attentively at the old

man, an ideal model for a painter wishing to personify the past.

The king, attracted by the strange figure, prolonged his stare, then

suddenly turned his eyes upon the pompous usher and the Superintendent

of Police, who advanced making a profound salutation.

After taking the seat designated by the monarch, Lecazes inquired

solicitously:

"Does your Majesty improve in health?"

"The vulture does not tire of preying upon me. Believe me, Baron, the

lives of all men make up equal totals. To reign, having disabled limbs,

or to break stone, having nimble ones--'tis a balance. No, I am in

error. To break stone, under such conditions, is preferable. After all,

the breakers of stone can make love and be merry, while an invalid like

me--Poor Zoe! poor Countess! 'Tis true that she and I adore genius and

beauty. Who can deprive us of those joys?"

The baron's facial muscles assented.

"What of the English doctor?" he asked.

"Bah! the English doctor? Another instance of the Anglomania enslaving

us! Have you ever witnessed inanity so grotesque as this servile

imitation? And the claim that 'tis the English who have imparted to the

world the ideas of cleanliness and hygiene! The reign of the water,

indeed! Have we forgotten the ablutions of the Greeks and Romans, their

cult of health, their purifying hot baths? And the fad of eating meat

raw bloody! I tell you it was the eating of beefsteak that set my gout

rampant. The only commendable thing about the English is that they

kicked the Corsican off the throne. But what is the news, Monsieur

Superintendent?"

"The news is good, your Majesty. We have succeeded in collecting the

rest of the dispersed documents pertaining to the creole. All of these

we have burned, in compliance with your Majesty's instructions. And a

wise precaution it was, for they contained much that should be

suppressed, such as letters from the Russian emperor and from Barras

relating to the impostor--noxious papers, all of them."

"And what writing, except good poetry, is not noxious?" disdainfully

inquired the king. "A perpetual conflagration should exist for the

consuming of all private letters and documents. Continue the

destruction. My desire is well known to you, namely, that only purely

official documents remain after me. Spare not a page of confidences,

intrigues or anything calculated to embroil historians or encourage

romanticists. To ashes with the whole! While the verses of the great

poets, the Latins especially, exist, what matters it about other

writing? Here is a Petrarch in antique vignettes which I secured

yesterday. Crude, is it? Why, the devil, Excellency! There was no mock

modesty in those days."

Lecazes smiled, remembering Talleyrand's epigram: "The King reads Horace

in public and yellow-backs when alone."

"Your Majesty," said he, "ever discourses on the intellectual and the

artistic--"

"Ever, ever," rejoined the flattered monarch. "It is this diversion

alone that buoys me up in supporting the weight of the crown, for 'tis

heavy, so heavy! Lecazes, I do not lie on roses. If 'twere not for

madrigals--eh? The prettiest madrigal ever written to my sister-in-law,

Marie Antoinette, was from my pen. Do you remember it? 'Twas of the

zephyr and love. Not even Voltaire surpassed it. I ought to have devoted

my life to the art of verse and not been obliged to desert the Muse in

order to treat with those devilish emigrants who return from exile as

they left, having learned nothing, forgotten nothing. The importunate

creatures wish to obliterate the Red Terror with the White. They would

return to '86, and the guillotine, hang, drown, seeking only a fierce

revenge. Such imbecility! One may take vengeance on an individual, but

never on a nation. Do you follow me, Lecazes? The fools! They would be

better royalists than the King himself."

The Superintendent was pleased at this apt epigram, heard then for the

first time.

"They must be restrained," he said. "Between them and the Carbonari the

throne totters."

The King turned his face with a look half quizzical, half contemptuous.

"Lecazes, you talk inanities. Do you think we are to last long enough

for that? Do you believe in a future for us? Better that I repeat with

my great-grandfather and Pompadour, 'After us, the deluge.' Had I

ambition--You well know how foreign 'tis to my nature--"

Again Lecazes assumed the mellow expression, and again came to his mind

words of Talleyrand, uttered many years earlier before Revolutions were

dreamed of: "A king loves his crown."

"Were I ambitious," resumed the monarch, "I should now be contented. But

ambition is puerile. I was not born for the throne but for art--highest

art! Beauty sways my soul. Poetic art rather than the prerogatives of

supreme rank should have filled my life. You, who are also an artist,

can understand how I am starved in my exalted station, not filled.

Happiness is found in the refined pleasures of the imagination rather

than in state-craft and pomp. What memory is my reign to perpetuate? I

have been despoiled of the nation's conquests. I have acquired the crown

by giving up thirty-six strong-holds and ten thousand cannon. Glory has

turned her face and fled from me. Is the fault my own?"

The baron failed to reply and the King resumed:

"I do not know--not even _you_ know--how great is my joy in discovering

an antique cameo, a rare edition or an Italo-Grecian vase to add to my

Iliad collection. But the exercise of power does not permit me to enjoy

such pleasures tranquilly. Perhaps some day I shall enjoy reigning, but

at the present time I long to seclude myself in the country, surrounded

by my art collections and a few witty, erudite friends--above all,

writers of verse. Those melodious youths adoring the moon from Our

Lady's tower would be most entertaining if they were more deferential to

the classics. I should indeed be happy in such a retreat. O how the

pastoral life, eclogues and idyls allure me! I was born for the society

of pagan philosophers beneath a Grecian sky and mine is a plain case of

the error of Destiny. Baron, commiserate me. I am most unfortunate."

"Is Your Majesty greatly tormented by your ailments?" inquired Lecazes

with aptly simulated solicitude.

"Greatly so. I suffer the pains of one condemned to torture. How I am

racked! As I said before, Baron, to break stone is preferable."

Lowering his voice, he added:

"You know that one of the calumnies floating here and there for my

discomfiture is that I am satirical and given to discharging arrows of

cynicism, quite indiscriminately, too. They say this because I am an

appreciator of Voltaire and his expose of the hypocrites of his day. I a

cynic!--an unbeliever! Would that they could know what depths of faith

and of tenderness are in my heart! It is not easy to be a pagan. Modern

life stultifies the attempt. Behold in me an instance--"

The King suddenly ceased talking and motioned to the aged peasant

outside who had not averted his piercing gaze.

"That man--"

"Yes, Your Majesty, what of that man?" answered Lecazes, with a frown.

"That beggar? Does Your Majesty wish alms given him?"

"No, Baron. How does it happen that you, from whom nothing is hidden, do

not know who that man is and what he wants?"

The superintendent's shoulders shrugged indifferently.

"Your Majesty, I _do_ know. That man has been watched from the moment he

set foot in Paris. It has been found that he is inoffensive and probably

idiotic. He prays much and aloud. In times past he was a partisan of the

good cause and he now prophecies strangely concerning Your Majesty. Such

visionaries are plentiful during this tumultuous time. Are we to heed

them all? He doubtless has some favor to ask."

"No, Baron, your sagacity is not up to the mark in this case. That man

is not to be despised. I must see and hear him. Perhaps my fears are

groundless, but they are so persistent that only reality can dissipate

them. How persevering he is! Daily, almost hourly, he fixes his greenish

eyes upon the palace. I see him from whatever window I look. He

mesmerizes me. Call it caprice if you will, but I wish you to send for

this man. I _must_ see him. He has stood there for a fortnight. Perhaps

he is a poor unfortunate wishing to have a word with the king."

"Does Your Majesty ask my advice in the matter or am I receiving a

command?"

"A command."

"Then I leave Your Majesty, in order to execute the command."

"No, remain. I shall send for him myself. You are to listen to our

interview and give me your opinion. If he be really daft, 'twill amuse

us. He is sure to be interesting."

"He will no doubt wish to be left alone with Your Majesty."

"Perhaps so. Well, place yourself back of that screen. The dear Countess

de Cayla often listens from there to fatuities which greatly amuse her.

Do not reveal yourself, unless I call or foul play be attempted."

Chapter VIII

THE SEER

A few minutes later, the door opened to admit the imposing figure of the

octogenarian, Martin. The king graciously motioned him to advance. He

approached diffidently, a pale ray from the setting sun shining upon his

face and lighting up a flaming mark across his breast. This was the red

flannel scapula of the Heart of Jesus stamped with the words: "I shall

reign."

"Come forward, my friend. Ask what you wish. We have seen you so often

opposite the palace that we decided to attend to your request. Take a

seat and do not be timid."

The monarch pointed to a tabouret, but the peasant did not heed the

invitation. Glancing around the apartment, he suddenly noticed the

voluptuous Pompeian lamp and then turned indignantly, almost

threateningly, upon the king who, somewhat disconcerted--though he

scarcely knew why--repeated:

"Ask what you wish."

"I ask for nothing," said the old man with emphasis. "I come not to

implore from the king either honors or riches. I am sent by God to speak

to your Royal Highness certain truths, to remind you of the past and to

reveal to you the future. I come not of myself. I am the obscurest

laborer in France, by name Martin. I live in a village of but twelve

cottages. I am a Christian. I believe in our holy religion and our holy

monarchy. When evil men rebelled against God and His earthly agent, my

sword remained sheathed because to shed blood is forbidden. But I placed

on my breast this Heart, that men might know that with my life I would

maintain my faith."

"Good man, be seated," insisted the monarch.

"I have too great a reverence for your person to remain otherwise than

standing. I should be kneeling, for so should I choose to honor the

uncle and heir of my king."

"What do you mean? Am I not the king, himself?" And Louis XVIII smiled

indulgently.

"Your Royal Highness well knows that I am of no importance," Martin

calmly replied. "My custom has been to hold my tongue, work my team and

pay my rent. My life has been passed in hard and constant labor, and I

have wronged no man. My arms are still strong and my head steady, so I

plow my own fields. But a month since I stopped working and left home

and family to expose myself to the raillery of the foolish and the

contempt of the powerful. The people jest at me in the streets and your

Royal Highness probably considers me demented."

"My good fellow," said the king, "we always overlook much in the aged--"

"Your Royal Highness, if I offend, it is because I know not the usages

of courts. Consign me to punishment if I deserve it, but let me first

deliver my message."

"Say what you will, Martin. We listen."

"'Tis not Martin who speaks. Of himself, Martin would not dare. My words

are from heaven."

"From heaven!" mockingly echoed, in refined irony, the admirer of

Voltaire. "Perchance from God himself."

"Praised ever be his name!" reverently exclaimed the peasant, upon whom

the sarcasm was lost. "Let me now begin. Be it known to your Royal

Highness that on the sixteenth of January while ploughing in my field, I

noted that the oxen were seized with fright. I marveled and asked myself

the reason of it. Turning, I beheld at my side a beautiful boy in

court-dress, with long curls falling upon his shoulders. A chill seized

me while I was wondering how he came there. The boy laid his hand upon

me, saying: 'Martin, go to him who sits upon the throne' and, without

further words, he vanished. All this occurred so rapidly that I regarded

the apparition as due to my advanced age. 'Bah!' said I to myself, ''tis

because of the fog. One sees all sorts of strange things in a fog.' Two

days later, in the twilight, while returning home, I saw the boy again

at the cross-roads. He said: 'Martin, go to him' and again he vanished.

I then fell kneeling. On the following day I saw him amid the willows,

near the edge of the river. Finally, on the twenty-first of January I

saw him on the border of the woods, leaning upon the trunk of an oak

which we call the witch's tree. He said many things that I could not

understand, some of which I have forgotten. Others are in my mind now

but just as though they were shut in a box. When I open the lid and

speak them, they will fly away like released birds and I shall no longer

remember them. But until I speak them, they are in here as though red

branded," and he motioned toward his forehead.

The date _January twenty-first_ made the monarch shudder.

"Describe the boy's appearance and do not be afraid to tell me all."

"I do not fear," declared the peasant. "What could be done to me? Might

my life be taken? I am over eighty-five, a dry trunk awaiting the ax. An

open grave already yawns for me. The apparition, your Royal Highness,

was a beautiful creature and, excepting the dress, like the figure of

the archangel Raphael in the parish church. For this reason and in order

to set my conscience at rest, I consulted our priest, but he, not daring

to give advice, sent me to the bishop, by whom I was told that I related

only delusions. I then resolved to keep silent, but the spectre came

again, pale, terrible, saying, 'Martin! Martin!' 'Twas night and I in my

cot, but, in spite of the late hour, I seized my pouch and staff and,

begging my bread along the roadside, journeyed to Paris."

"Go on, go on--The king awaits Martin's revelations."

"Martin's revelations? Here is one, your Royal Highness: _The throne is

usurped_."

"I do not follow your line of reason. Do you mean that there are two

kings?" inquired the Bourbon, laughing and remembering Lecazes back of

the screen. "Did not my brother die and his son also? Am I not,

therefore, the heir to the throne?"

"Your Royal Highness, the apparition giving warning that you should say

these words to me, bade me reply: '_All the dead are not in their

tombs_.'"

The effect of these words upon the king was like a blow from an

invisible power and he would have started from his chair had his

bandaged legs permitted. But disabled as he was, he half raised himself,

his hands cleaved the air and his pupils dilated while his face grew

crimson.

"Does your Royal Highness require proofs of what I say?" exclaimed the

old man, his green eyes darting fire. "Well, then, listen. I will reveal

to you a secret thought which you have never imparted to man. Does your

Royal Highness remember the morning when you accompanied his late

Majesty to the chase and the fearful temptation which assailed you in

the woods of Saint Humbert? The king was a dozen steps ahead of you.

Your finger was already on the trigger. A branch impeded your arm--"

The alarmed monarch held his throbbing head in his hands while the

merciless indictment grew more and more ominous.

"From your earliest years you coveted the throne. The ill-fated king

was the obstacle and you sought to remove him. Unremitting were your

fratricidal schemes. You scrupled not to encourage the discontented and

to instigate the seditious. What obloquy to have made pacts with the

violators of the crown and compromises with the destroyers of churches!

Providence permitting, the monarchy would perish. It _shall_ perish! I

am chosen to announce its fall. Not through the sword of an enemy but by

its own hand shall it come to its end."

The screen seemed to move and a rushing was audible, but the king

remained silent, terrified and incapable of speech or motion.

"Your cousin, the Duke of Orleans, interposed between your Royal

Highness and your partisans. Another crime,--was it? You continued to

plot the destruction of your brother and the dishonor of the queen. Does

your Royal Highness remember who wrote those scurrilous verses and the

words dropped at the baptism of the king's daughter? What ferocious joy

the first Dauphin's death caused you! Who notified the Convention that

the royal family might be detained on the frontier--the mission of

Valory? To what end was Favras sacrificed? Who burned the documents?

Those ashes appeal! Blood, blood has been spilled! but only the first

blood. More is to follow!"

As Martin paused, the only sound to be heard in the apartment was the

chattering of the king's teeth. The screen creaked repeatedly as though

to suggest and to warn, but the king remained speechless and the

implacable peasant resumed:

"Your Royal Highness was not brave enough to head the Revolution which

you had incited. You fled, notwithstanding your offer to your august

brother to share his fate. While abroad, you disregarded his orders and

intrigued for the foreign invasion of your country and for the erection

of your brother's scaffold. Have you forgotten the king's letter to the

Prince of Condé? He disclaimed all responsibility for the invasion. 'Let

there be no war!' he entreated 'Behead me rather.' But there _was_ war

and his head fell besides. Oh the blood!--in pools, in puddles, in the

air, on the guillotine! a deluge of blood,--reeking, sickening,

revolting! Do you not see it now? Look! It trickles from the ceiling and

stains these walls!"

With frenzied indignation the old man continued to gaze at a vision that

no other eyes beheld. His arm was thrust forward and his forefinger

almost touched the king's forehead.

"The wretched queen, bleeding and headless, speaks through me. Listen

to her, shrieking 'Cain, Cain!'"

The screen creaked as though animated by furious protests and the king

remonstrated with what strength he could muster, while the affrighted

dog barked timidly and hid himself in the bearskin under his master's

bandaged feet.

"For a time the crime was sterile and the Corsican star lighted the

French sky. During that period the innocent boy lived concealed,

unknown. Your Royal Highness was the hope of many who were ignorant of

the boy's existence. I placed faith in you. We believed that the feet of

the Corsican colossus were of clay and must soon sink into the earth.

And they did sink. Your Royal Highness seized the crown. But why do you

even today contrive pitfalls for the orphaned heir and place arms in the

hands of the iniquitous?"

The king, with folded and almost supplicating hands, seemed like a

criminal imploring clemency, while tremors shook his head and convulsive

breathing agitated his breast. Martin suddenly changed his attitude of

pitiless accuser and dropped on his knees, saying gently:

"The archangel declares that it is not yet too late for repentance, but

that the time is brief and fleeting. Oh, your Highness, I adjure you to

refrain from being anointed. Let not the oil from the holy vials be

poured sacrilegiously upon your head. Dare not desecrate the sacred

altars by requiem masses for those who have not yet died! No crime is so

great as profanation. The tree is accursed, and it shall be uprooted!"

In a prophetic frenzy, he continued:

"It shall be swept away! It shall perish! Uprooted in Italy, uprooted in

Spain, uprooted shall it be in France and everywhere!--The canker

spreads, rises from limbs to heart--The corroded flesh--Pray God for

mercy!"

The king no longer listened. His head fell upon the back of his chair,

his face became purple and foam covered his lips as he lay a victim to

syncope, which at times overcame him. Martin turned and addressed the

screen.

"Concealed fox, come to your master's aid." And slowly he walked toward

the door while the baron, in a panic ran to unfasten the monarch's

neckpiece and fan him with a music sheet. Louis XVIII opened his

terror-stricken eyes and stammered:

"Let the man go in peace. See that no harm is done him."

Book II

THE CASKET

Chapter I

THE MINIATURE

In the long colloquy which Amélie and her father held with their

unexpected guest, they planned a voyage to France which should be a

tentative effort to master the paths and places leading to their

proposed goal. As a matter of precaution, they arranged to have no

further meetings in London and to join one another in Dover on a day

which should be previously designated.

Before leaving, the young Marquis said to his host:

"If you wish to make a generous return for a trifling service--give me

this picture."

His eyes were riveted upon a medallion displaying the face of a lady of

patrician beauty, which, with other miniatures, was set in a framing of

diminutive chrysolites, stones much used during the eighteenth century

and which imitate in a marvelous manner the brilliancy of diamonds. The

lady's hair rose in curls above a splendid forehead, enclosed her cheeks

and fell upon her shoulders. Roses and feathers surmounted the graceful

coiffure and white laces opened at the neck to reveal a perfect throat.

"Which of the pictures?"

"Amélie's," said René.

Naundorff gravely removed the image and pressed it reverently to his

lips. Then he handed it to de Brezé, saying in a broken voice:

"'Tis not Amélie, but my unhappy, my adored mother."

As René, through delicacy, made a movement of refusal, the mechanic

said:

"To only the Marquis de Brezé would I give this medallion. Farewell,

loved image, that has so often rested on my heart. I am almost glad to

part with you, for who knows how soon my house will for the hundredth

time be rifled and I deprived of the last evidences of my personality,

my dearest memories, my real life. I am more tranquil when other hands

than mine guard my treasures. Watch over them, René, and over all that I

have confided to your keeping. This face will bring Amélie to your eyes,

for the resemblance is so remarkable, in spite of the difference in

dress, that I do not wonder at your mistake."

On reaching the Hotel Douglas, René's first act was to take the

miniature from his breast and cover it with kisses. Then, as he gazed

upon the face of the dame of 1780, he murmured:

"How, in heaven's name, have I taken this face for Amélie! Why 'tis the

wretched queen, Marie Antoinette, whom it resembles amazingly."

He became thoughtful, and then suddenly felt himself growing weak,

almost fainting. The loss of blood began to have effect and he hastened

to his bed. Even his curiosity ebbed away. He had not the strength to

turn the leaves of the manuscript. Instinct moved him to place it and

the casket beneath the mattress.

Hardly had he stretched his limbs, when a fever overcame him. A

disturbed sleep, in which incoherent and fantastic ideas surged,

oppressed his brain. The extraordinary events of the previous night were

grotesquely reproduced. Amélie, in her white dress, broke through the

garden trellis and threw herself into his arms, imploring him to carry

her away from London; the Duchess de Rousillon, erect and haughty,

barred the passage to Naundorff's door; Naundorff, himself, lay upon the

pavement of the square, gashed and bloody; the streets were red torrents

rushing toward the Thames, and he, René, battled for his life in the

river of blood.

With parched throat and tongue, he tossed through the night, to

welcome, at last, the dawn gleaming through his window curtains. He

vainly tried to raise himself and so lay helplessly until the entry of a

servant, whom he immediately dispatched for a doctor. The doctor

prescribed quiet and rest, forbidding his patient to leave his bed

during four days. On the fifth, with clearer head and diminished thirst,

René closed his eyes in a sweet sleep.

During the morning a travelling coach drew up before the Hotel upon

whose front seat valises and handsome wallets bore a count's heraldric

blazonry. A valet de chambre, thickset and awkward, preceded an elegant

gentleman whose dress harmonized with the sumptuous equipage. His cloak

and gray felt hat eminently merited the adjective _fashionable_ which

was an English term then beginning to be applied in France to whatever

was distinguished by good taste.

"Attend the gentleman! Bring in his baggage!" called out the host, whose

patrons consisted usually of impecunious Scotch lairds and shabby

Glasgow tradesmen, and rarely numbered such distinguished guests as the

invalid French marquis and this newly arrived nobleman so showy and

immaculate, bearing no marks of his recent journey. The irreproachable

traveler ordered a suite. The valet superintended the conveying of the

baggage, his purple face and red whiskers gleaming above the folds of an

ample cravat. As soon as the master and servant were alone in the

count's sleeping chamber, they drew close together and the valet

whispered:

"We have caught the bird in his cage. What are we to do now?"

"Find out all that has happened to the precious Marquis. Show some

brains in this business since you played the fool in the square." And,

as he concluded this speech, Volpetti removed his hat, arranged his

Chateaubriand tuft of hair, viewed himself in the mirror and extracted

from his pockets a variety of toilet appurtenances,--files, pincers,

scissors, etc., which doubtless pertained to the collection which

Alberto Serra was to pass through Gibraltar.

The valet was absent about twenty minutes, during which he introduced

himself in the kitchen by the name of Brosseur and began a chat with the

cook. He was holding in one hand a steaming jug when his master called

out in an infuriated tone:

"Well, rascal, how long am I to wait? Do you want your head broken?"

Brosseur hurried to Volpetti's chamber, locked the door, set down the

jug and gleefully rubbed his hands together, saying:

"Wonderful news! Just what I expected! I did not play such a great fool

after all. The Marquis has been ill in bed four days from his wounds and

has seen only his physician."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"The gospel truth."

"Have letters come to him?"

"Not one. I played the greenhorn, asking questions. I stumbled on a

steward whose tongue is a jewel."

"Is the wound serious?"

"I believe not. It has produced a fever. The knife missed the lung by

half a centimeter,--cursed be the devil! Why, we saw him leave

Naundorff's house afoot and take a cab for Wellington street."

"Very well! Now, repeat to me in detail all that occurred after the

Marquis left the house."

"After remaining within a long time, he came forth, lighted to the door

by a woman. Then he started off alone and, on reaching the centre of the

square, picked up the knife which we had there forgotten. In doing so,

he dropped an object which he carried beneath his arm. This he quickly

recovered. It looked rectangular in shape and had a metallic sound on

striking the trunk of the tree."

"Did he have the box during the scuffle in the square?"

"I swear he did not, for his movements were most free. No; he received

that box in Naundorff's house."

On hearing these words, Volpetti could not restrain an exclamation of

joy, and passing his patrician hand over his Chateaubriand tuft, he

said, motioning toward the baggage and the bath:

"Make arrangements for the changing of my clothes. I wish an embroidered

shirt, silk stockings, violet coat and grey breeches. And, using the

greatest caution, find out the number of the Marquis's chamber and

sketch me a plan of the hotel. Remember well the entrances and exits.

Secure for yourself, if possible, a room next that of the Marquis, and

'twould be most fortunate that it have a fireplace. Well, later, I shall

give you further instructions. Be diligent and discreet."

The valet, with malignant flashing eyes, hastened away to carry out

these instructions.