"I repeat, Jean, you are the undoing of my life. But you shall not save

your soul, if you persist, for a dreadful crime would follow. You refuse

to give her up? Well, let me tell you who the woman is that you continue

to call your wife. She is sacred, poor fool, and as inaccessible to you

as the saints. Listen, dust of the earth. _She is of the race of

kings_--do you hear?--you must never forget this fact--_of our kings_!"

Terror and wonder contorted the peasant's face. He transfixed Amélie

with a look of superstitious, reverence. The revelation exceeded his

power of comprehension.

"The blood of the king martyred by the revolutionists is in her

body,--the king for whom your father bore arms and fought hand to hand

so often,--the king for whom he lay concealed in the woods and for

whom,--do you remember, Jean?--he was shot, his body lying unburied

during seven days. If your father should now awake he would behold his

son attempting to profane the daughter of that king! This is the crime

to which you have lent yourself."

"Is this true?" asked Jean, turning upon Amélie a face contorted with

fear and pain.

"Yes, Jean," she answered, her voice full of compassion. "I swear by my

soul it is true."

"And the honor of Brezé confirms the oath," added René. "Retain the

fruit of your iniquity. I leave you your wife. You no longer have a

master. I shall go away forever."

"No," entreated Jean. "Rather I, rather I."

He crossed himself and grasped the amulets which hung around his neck.

Then, swiftly approaching Amélie, he kissed her on the forehead. His

lips burned and she shrieked in horror. He walked rapidly out of the

boudoir. His heavy feet sounded for a moment in the antechamber, then on

the stairway, the narrow winding stairway leading to the tower's highest

story. René and Amélie listened. Suddenly divining his intention, they

ran after him. The tiny room was dark when they reached it, the window

was curtained by a heavy obstruction which they realized was Jean. They

darted to clutch him, but he rolled out before their eyes. Deeply

affected, they looked down and beheld at the base of the tower the

lifeless body of the grief-crazed Breton, with face upturned to the sky

and glassy eyes gleaming amid the heavy blond hair. Silvano, the

faithful mastiff, sat beside him, howling despairingly.

Book V

THE SISTER

Chapter I

PORTENTS

The apartments of the royal palace which we now enter are those farthest

removed from the stir and distractions of the court. The perennial

austerity of their august occupant seems to have imparted to them a

religious gloom. Owners bestow themselves upon their belongings. The

human soul leaves back of itself its peculiar track, either luminous or

sombre.

The first impression made upon one entering the salons is of absolute

silence. Noise would seem there a trespasser, a deep breath an

infringing of etiquette. Servants and courtiers smother their voices and

footfalls, suppress smiles and even dim the brightness of their eyes on

addressing the Duchess,--the sad Duchess, who daily resembles more and

more those rigid supplicating forms which guard sepulchres. After

passing through a succession of reception rooms, screened from the

sunlight by heavy draperies, and of appointments so symmetrically and

solemnly arranged that it seems impossible they should ever be moved

from their places, we come to the Duchess's boudoir. Passing the

dormitory and visitors' room, we lift a tapestry portière and enter the

small apartment which is her oratory.

A richly wrought silver lamp is the only ornament, wherein float two

burning wicks in perfumed oil. By the pale rays is discernible against a

black velvet screen, a large marble figure of the Christ. He is

represented at the moment of expiring, just when his head falls on his

shoulder and he cries: "It is finished!" At the foot of the altar kneels

a woman in fervent prayer. She rests on a crimson prie-Dieu and her eyes

are raised to the Christ. The light falls full on her face and we see it

is the Duchess.

Beautiful had that face been in youth, but suffering has obliterated all

trace of beauty. The hair once pale yellow,--the family color,--and so

abundant that it was whispered she wore a wig, has now an ashen, almost

a cobwebby look; the skin is yellow and marked with wrinkles; the dry

eyes are inflamed with tears that do not flow. The lips are drawn

tight,--the lips that neither laugh nor kiss. The clasped hands are

emaciated and of waxen whiteness. Bitter thoughts seem to hover around

the pale forehead,--cruel doubt and insistent remorse. An expression of

appalling incertitude, the terror of faith stripped of celestial

consolation are there. Incoherent, rebellious words come from the lips.

At last, heaving a deep sigh, she arose, unclasped her hands and passed

the right one over her forehead as though in an effort to banish her

thoughts. Approaching the lamp, she unfastened two buttons of her waist

and took from her bosom a roll of paper,--a letter. She glanced around,

as if to assure herself that she was alone, and then began to read:

"My sister, well beloved: I live, I live; the hand of your brother

directs these words; disregarding court etiquette, I assure you of my

love--"

Here two timid raps sounded on the door and a gentle voice called: "Your

Grace!"

The lady hastily replaced the paper and buttoned her bodice with an

unsteady hand. By a strong effort of the will, she assumed the

impenetrable mask she put on habitually and opened the door, with a look

of cold surprise on her face. The attendant apologized profusely for the

interruption.

"His--his--Royal Highness wishes urgently to speak with you. He has

ordered me to--"

Without moving a muscle of her face, the Duchess bowed in assent and,

with the gait of an automaton, passed on to meet her husband, who

awaited her in the visitors' room, a small apartment, containing a desk,

some books of devotion and a few classics.

On her entry, the Duke saluted gravely as tho at an official ceremony.

She seated herself, but he continued standing. He was tall and of

patrician and martial bearing. She addressed him a mute interrogatory.

The absence of cordiality between them was at once apparent.

"Thérèse, I come to trouble you and this I regret infinitely. But 'tis

indispensable. I come to talk of state matters, that is of matters

closely related to the state. Some time ago we banished this topic from

our conversation, Thérèse, because--we happen to differ in our views.

You find me somewhat--what phrase shall I use?--well, liberal. I find

you obstinate,--opposed to making concessions and blind to the

exigencies of the times. I am inclined to adopt the opinion of the King

and Ferdinand; you, like our good father--but Thérèse, think as we

individually may, we both desire the same accomplishment. At bottom

there is harmony between us. I could not bear to believe otherwise."

"At bottom there is indeed harmony," she answered. "Neither could I

bear to believe otherwise. We are united, as is the entire family, in

the faith that the Restoration is genuine--a victory over the dragon of

the Revolution. You employ hidden weapons; I am less astute; I fight

unarmed, or, as better said, I do not fight. I resist the foe, arms

folded on my breast, and I should not retreat. I should face him to the

last tho he advanced upon me with an overpowering host."

"The Corsican did not err when he said you were the only man of the

family."

"Do not repeat that absurd speech. Each prince of the House is a man, a

paladin, worthy of the race. Neither you nor your brother Ferdinand,

notwithstanding his delinquencies respecting women, has given the lie to

the proud blood which flows through your veins. I am a weak woman, whose

only refuge, in hours of trial, is religion--the religion which has

taught me to suffer resignedly, but never to yield. Much have I

suffered; much am I yet to suffer."

A trembling convulsed her bosom and passed over her entire body,

rustling the violet silk gown which she wore in half mourning. The Duke

suppressed his annoyance. His wife's gloomy disposition had, from the

first days of their marriage de convenance been a killjoy--that

marriage, consummated for political reasons and in compliance with the

dying request of her parents. Somewhat of warmth, somewhat of human

tenderness would have mingled those two souls, had not constraint been

characteristic of both.

"Thérèse," he replied, "in every life there is a cup of bitterness. Each

thinks that his chalice contains the most gall. Each knows but his own

sorrow. God has tried us indeed, but have courage! I come with another

sorrow to your heart already bleeding. Your strength must sustain you."

"Of what do you speak?" she asked, endeavoring to seem calm.

"Of the impostors, who have, in succession, exploited favorable

circumstances in personating the unhappy prince who perished in

captivity."

A deathlike pallor spread over her face.

"This is the reason you have come?" she murmured.

"Yes, this is the reason. The iniquitous farce grows of sufficient

consequence to threaten the throne."

"Be explicit," she said, recovering command of herself.

"I am come for that purpose," he replied. "The king has entrusted me

with messages for you. He is fearful lest these spurious pretensions

leave an ill effect upon you."

The Duchess drew a handkerchief across her eyes. Her husband and cousin

continued:

"The fate of the young prince has brought sorrow to many. It has also

been the cause of numerous schemes, and served as basis for ambitious

delirium. An Austrian drummer declares before a council of war that he

is your brother; another, whose brain has become addled from a bullet

wound, is so insistent in his claims that it has been found necessary to

incarcerate him in Bicetre; a servant in this asylum disputes with him

the honor, by name Fontolive; a hunch-back assistant to a notary follows

suit and he will likely end his career in Bicetre; there is a Dufresne

who displays on his right calf a fleur de lis. There are others too

numerous to mention, including one who dresses like a woman. To

enumerate them all would be to number the sands of the seashore. I shall

speak only of the most audacious among them, of those who have succeeded

in investing their ridiculous pretensions with the semblance of truth,

namely a certain Fruchard, a man of brains and resolution; Hervagault,

the son of a tailor who plays his cards well indeed; Maturino Bruneau

of Vezins, a most popular impostor; Baron Richemont, the most dangerous

of them all, for he is a man of education, a profound student of

history, and of irreproachable morals. Several gentlemen, formerly

staunch royalists, have placed themselves in his ranks--"

The Duchess listened with attention, fixing upon her husband her

inquisitorial eyes which cut like a keen knife. The Duke hesitated and

she asked coldly:

"And what more? Is the list of farceurs ended?"

"No," he replied, making a visible effort to compose himself.

"There is another, Thérèse--He is seconded--O 'tis incredible!--by such

men as René de Giac, whom we considered so devoted to the throne. His

mother is inconsolable and no longer permits him to visit her. Besides

René, there are La Rochefoucauld, Madame de Rambeau, who was the

Dauphin's guardian during infancy, the family Saint Hilaire, the Marquis

Feuillade, the Marquis de Broglio Solari--a legion, indeed."

"But you do not tell me this impostor's name," she asked in a bitter

voice. "Whence comes he?"

"His name is William Naundorff and he comes from England, though he has

been brought up in Prussia."

The Duchess seemed about to swoon. Her head dropped upon the chair back

and swayed from side to side. The Duke hastened to revive her by holding

to her nose a flask of English smelling salts.

Chapter II

THE QUESTION

More through an effort of her strong will than because of the

efficaciousness of the smelling salts, the Duchess sat upright and fixed

upon the Duke her keen eyes.

"Why," she asked, "does the King desire that; I should be so minutely

informed? Why not settle the matter in those departments wherein the

governmental thunderbolts are forged, since it is a question pertaining

to statecraft? Can I not be left in peace, I the desolate survivor of

the shipwreck?--I who ask only for solitude in which to pray."

"It is natural that we should consult you when THE PRINCIPLE is

involved. Moreover, we depend upon your firmness and energy. You can

offer us valuable suggestions, for no one has so imposing a conception

of the royal dignity."

"That is because no one else has endured so much for the royal cause. I

am the unhappiest woman on earth--" and her tears fell. "I wrote so

upon the walls of my prison and it is still the truth."

"Thérèse, what memories! What a tragedy!"

"In that prison," she exclaimed, "in that horrible prison, while we

underwent the Via Crucis of outrages, there arose like a beautiful star,

illuminating even the prisons and scaffolds,--there arose the PRINCIPLE.

Only the PRINCIPLE is of moment; individuals are as nothing. What matter

our sufferings or the blood that was spilled, or all the heads that fell

if the principle remain the centre of life? But one head fell which

incarnated the PRINCIPLE and it has cried for vengeance to God."

A fire glowed in her faded eyes, her heart beat so rapidly that the

paper beneath the dress rustled. The Duke drew closer but made no effort

to touch even her hands. No sweet transport had united these souls.

"I rejoice to see you thus, Thérèse," he murmured. "What has made the

King fear your attitude on this question?"

"As the King has not suffered, he has no comprehension of the PRINCIPLE.

I pray much for the King. He is a weakling."

"Not so today, Thérèse," the Duke interposed. "His Majesty's tastes

differ, perhaps, from yours, from ours; but when he beholds the ship of

state in danger, then does he recover his spirit, rather then does he

seem to, for in reality he never loses it. Because of his artistic and

philosophical pre-occupations and of his adherence to certain

doctrines--which, to be frank, are not to my liking,--because of these,

he regards at times indifferently what he eventually realizes to be of

supreme importance. There are times when his imagination dominates him,

but he has too great a mind to permit such impressions to be more than

transitory. Do you remember the recent episode of the visionary Martin?

Well, for a while the King was greatly troubled. He believed his end to

be near."

"It is," she observed with no trace of emotion. "His infirmities

increase rapidly."

"All the more reason," he rejoined, "that we should live cautiously. His

Majesty's ill health may cause complications."

"And how does that fear affect your attitude with regard to--imposters?"

"Very closely. Old Martin insisted that one of the imposters was in

reality your brother. May God preserve us from beholding the King a

victim to that illusion. All imposters shall be rebuffed if we stand our

ground. Their multitude and diverse origins destroy whatever advantage

any one of them may have gained. Tho human credulity is infinite, it

seems to me impossible that they should make a lasting impression on the

public or cause any of the European Cabinets to lose confidence in the

government. This last consideration is of the greatest importance.

Europe is at enmity with France, but the Holy Alliance has sustained us,

teas steadied the tottering throne, because we are the principle.

Insidious rumors regarding your brother are being carried to the ears of

European sovereigns. It is insistently claimed that he lives. The

intervention of some foreign cabinet is imminent, which would carry in

train disastrous results. Can we contemplate another invasion of France?

How avoid it if the stigma of usurpers be attached to us?"

The Duchess's eyes were riveted on the carpet.

"Let us thank God," continued the Duke, "that amid the cohort of

adventurers, charlatans and self-deluded fools which is recruited from

all quarters, there is not one whose ability and certificates

differentiate him sufficiently from the others to claim the attention of

Europe. Should such a one arise and triumph over us, the Revolution

which we have crushed would break forth with redoubled fury. Thérèse,

to outward appearance, we lie on a bed of roses; in reality, a volcano

rumbles beneath our feet. We have to act with the greatest

circumspection. We are watched, we are hounded. We, the men and women of

the House Regnant of France, must be wise as the serpent and gentle as

the dove; we must even make compromises. That is why I spoke (in my

proclamation of Saint Jean de Lumière) of crushing tyranny and breaking

chains. That is why I have through the columns of the Meridien prescribed

limits to the zeal of our partizans, who demand blood in the celebration

of our triumph. The King, therefore, would warn you that a false step,

an impulse of generosity from your noble heart might--"

"Do I constitute so great a peril?" she sardonically asked.

"An immense peril,--that of your generous nature, your excessive,--no, I

should not say excessive,--conscientiousness; but, Thérèse, it is so

easy to be misled by our rectitude. Will you believe that my brother

Ferdinand, in whom our hopes of succession lie, (here the Duchess

winced)--for although his children have been girls, a boy may be born to

him,--I repeat that Ferdinand inclines favorably toward the

impostors--that is to say, not all of them, but one in particular."

She revealed her displeasure. Nothing so much irritated her as allusion

to her sterility.

"Ferdinand," she began aimlessly.

"Yes, Ferdinand, following the generous impulses of his heart--or--for

some reason--which--Well, Ferdinand cannot think and act as we

do--because he has lived--has been the slave of his passions. Indeed,

his life resembles, in certain respects that of the impostor whom he

supports. He also lived for a period obscurely and in London, forming

there ties with a woman of the people. You remember Amy Brown and the

children she bore him. When one's antecedents have not been of a licit

character, one is predisposed to make extraordinary excuses for others.

You and I are not of that kind, Thérèse. We may proudly hold up our

heads. Ferdinand has decided to believe that your brother lives, and, in

consequence, places faith in whatever impostor raises his head, saying

that one among them is Charles Louis."

The Duchess trembled, notwithstanding her attempted impassivity.

"My father," resumed the Duke, "alarmed at his attitude, has

remonstrated with him but to no purpose other than that of prevailing

upon him to cease making public display of his opinions. He therefore

no longer proclaims them from the house-top. You, Thérèse, employing the

influence with which your virtues invest you, must caution Ferdinand and

his wife, Caroline, against indiscretions. Insist that the members of

the royal family must act in harmony. What would be the consequence of

the slightest admission?" And, as she remained silent, he added, "You do

not answer."

"Yes, yes, I am about to answer. For three nights I have not slept and

for three days I have prayed continually. O, if among those who assume

my brother's name, there be one who presents proofs,--do you

hear?--irrefutable proofs, to such a one we have no right to apply the

epithet impostor. If he bear incontestable documentary evidence, should

we longer doubt? You know well that Charles Louis's death certificate

has never been found. The copy which exists is not authentic."

Lowering her voice still more, even though aware that they could not be

overheard, she continued:

"You know also that I went incognito to the Hospital of Incurables and

interviewed the cobbler's wife. Notwithstanding my disguise, the

unfortunate woman knew me and said: 'I am not insane. They have placed

me here to silence me. The boy lives.'"

The Duke paced feverishly up and down.

"There are a thousand testimonials and asseverations by conscientious

persons who have recognized this claimant. He says things which only my

brother can say. And as the time has come to speak the whole truth, I

shall tell you that he has written to me. His letter has rested here

three days; it burns like a live coal. It burns my fingers and my

heart."

She pulled the paper from her bosom and placed it before him.

"I had thought myself incapable of tears. I had wept so much that it

seemed impossible to weep always. But this letter has unsealed my tear

ducts. This man knows only what my brother would know. He entreats an

interview. He wishes me to decide his claim. He asks that my heart be

judge, though he offers to bring documentary proofs which any court

would sustain. Why do we refuse to hear him?"

The Duke's perturbation increased.

"Thérèse," he said at length, "your affection for your dead brother is

so well known that these pretenders seek to exploit that affection.

Beware! An imprudent act may blight the dynasty and France; be the ruin

of us all. It rests with you to avert this impending disaster."

"With me? Why with me?"

"Yes, with you," he said almost harshly. "Why did you refuse the

embalmed heart sent you by the physician who performed the autopsy on

the dead boy in the tower? It was a mistake,--a terrible mistake. The

public got wind of it--"

"You say I should have received that offering?--that heart which never

beat in my brother's breast? You dare reproach me with that refusal?

Answer me this: why has the King refused up to this day to be anointed?

Why has the Pope forbidden us to celebrate Charles Louis's funeral

rites? Have you forgotten the singular proceeding of suspending the

mortuary ceremony after the church has been draped in black and the

clergy vested? Have you forgotten the Nuncio's announcement: 'The Church

offers up requiem masses only for the dead?'"

The Duke was dumb.

"Listen," she continued. "Last night as I lay awake the voice of my

mother came to me softly and full of tears. She said only: 'Marie

Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!'"

Losing control of herself, the Duchess sobbed aloud, her face in her

hands.

"We must restore the stolen crown, descend from the usurper's throne.

Ferdinand is right. Why fight an unworthy battle? There are proofs

before which we must recede. You say I am the only man of the family.

'Tis that I am the only member of the family who looks the situation in

the face. Tell the King that there is but one way of demonstrating his

courage; to deliver up his ill gotten goods and make restitution."

The Duke unable to find his voice, mutely rose. Saluting his wife with

the same reverential air he had employed on entering, he passed out of

the door.

Chapter III

REASONS OF STATE

The interior of the King's cabinet contrasted strikingly with the

apartment we have just left. Here we find a veritable museum arranged by

an intelligent hand which has collected something of the most beautiful

in each esthetic epoch.

The Monarch stretched upon his invalid's couch, surrounded by cushions,

his limbs bandaged, converses with his Minister of Police. A fire glows

on the hearth, notwithstanding the warmth of the apartment, all the

windows and doors being closed. 'Tis the loving heart of the young

Countess Cayla that has designed the arrangement of furniture, etc.,

with the effect of securing the greatest comfort.

Disease makes noticeable ravages in the royal countenance, which, though

still expressing a keen intellectual and reflective penetration, even a

repressed enthusiasm, begins to become bloated by an insidious edema.

The eyes, back of their swollen lids, betray blood decomposition. When

the King changes his position, a medicinal odor floats through the

elegant apartment, notwithstanding the profusion of rare flowers in

alabaster Pompeian vases,--prodigies of antique art,--flowers, brought

by the Countess to her invalid friend.

The King economized his conversational forces, replying only when

necessity compelled: his words were always affluent and opportune. He

listened attentively to the Minister, who was saying:

"Greater danger has never threatened the monarchy. I have long foreseen

the evil. 'Tis of many years' standing. My predecessors--I must do them

justice--took every precaution to obviate the result. Le Coq in Berlin

endeavored to prevent what today seems imminent."

Lecazes took a pinch of snuff, and resumed:

"Your Majesty cannot doubt my zeal and activity. My devotion to the

cause has been demonstrated. I have never vacillated in critical

moments, never weakly yielded to circumstances. But in spite of my

efforts and circumspection, a catastrophe stares us in the face."

The King listened attentively and the Minister went on.

"I have endeavored to spare your Majesty the annoyance of listening to

these alarms. I come now to appeal for your help, for only you may avert

the danger.

"One of my deputies, the most resourceful of all, my right hand, indeed,

by name Volpetti, who for a time was in the service of Caroline, Queen

of Sicily;--this Volpetti has for years tracked that--that dangerous

creature. So far he has subjected him to living in a position in which

mischief was impossible of accomplishment. He has been incapacitated for

the attaining of any real advantage--This Volpetti was bequeathed me by

Fouché. He was employed in the surveillance of the individual in

question when I became Minister. During Napoleon's ascendancy, Volpetti

kept this individual well concealed in a Vincennes dungeon; but the

Empress Josephine, with the end of employing him as a weapon in view of

the contingent divorce, adopted the policy of befriending and, finally

of liberating him. After leaving Vincennes, our individual turns up in

Prussia. As he had no civil status, he could give no trouble. He was

nobody. At that time, Volpetti conceived a brilliant idea, that of

playing the friend. He lent him a passport bearing a fictitious name and

authorizing him to reside in Spandau. The individual has never been able

to shuffle off his name. O there is no prison so secure as a name."

"Nevertheless," interposed the King, "when one possesses documents

proving one's identity--"

"I am coming to that," said the Minister, waving his hand in order to

dispel apprehension.

"The preservation of those documents, thro all these years of

vicissitudes is the knot which I cannot unravel. Whence come they? I

conjecture they procede from Barras (with his mania for collections),

and that he gave them to Josephine. She in turn placed them with

Montmorin, who planned his escape and who was subsequently killed in a

skirmish. Those papers constituted an infernal magazine which threatened

to explode at any moment. Volpetti rested not in his search for them,

but they were skilfully concealed. As a last resort, he insinuated into

the life of the individual a woman, excellent hearted and who was

persuaded that she rendered a veritable service by advising him to

deliver the papers to Le Coq."

"And did he?" inquired the King in graceful irony. "I wager that the

woman attained her ends."

"Yes, your Majesty, he delivered certain papers, but the most important

ones he kept--the devil knows where. He preserves them to this day in a

casket."

"Next to woman, the gravest perils to man are documents," murmured the

King in persistent irony.

"Realizing the impossibility of recovering the papers from Le Coq, the

individual subsided. He is of a pacific temperament, tending to inaction

and retirement. He married and devoted himself to his trade of

watch-making--"

"'Tis a family proclivity," observed the King.

"I was saying he is devoted to watch-making and the care of his several

children, among whom there is a daughter, who as a contrast to her

father's impassivity, is action and energy incarnate. It was his ill

fortune to be indicted as an incendiary and counterfeiter and to serve

sentence at hard labor in Silesia--"

"Did this ill fortune come to him in consequence of the cautious policy

of my astute friend and Minister, Lecazes? Let us have no figures of

rhetoric here."

"Your Majesty, when matters arrange themselves in favorable

combinations, a wise man loses no time in hesitation. The sentence

passed was so favorable to our cause, was so strong a card to reserve,

should the individual carry his claims before a tribunal. Think of it!

Counterfeiter, incendiary!--sufficient, I should think, to deter members

of the nobility from advocating his cause, should they be inclined to do

so. Should we complain if hams be rained into our mouths? Shall we

bewail the great number of impostors and dupes who have appeared from

all quarters, finally occasioning so much skepticism among the people

that one more or less makes no difference to them?"

Again the King smiled.

"Come," said he, delighting to pierce the diplomatic artifices of his

minister, "I agree that we have no reason to complain; above all when it

appears that among the horde of spurious Dauphins there is one bearing

marks not unknown to us. Let us talk as men who have learned to vanquish

their conscience; surely we shall not display such bad taste as to

become pedantic moralists."

Lecazes smiled in his turn.

"I do not think," continued the royal invalid in whimsical banter, "that

you class me among the abettors of my nephew; Ferdinand's ardent wish is

to embrace his recovered cousin. Lecazes, prepare to hand in your

resignation on the day of my death."

"Happily for us, your Majesty is much stronger than you yourself

believe. Long life and long reign have you in prospect."

Having delivered himself of this flattery, he resumed:

"It is stated in the court records that the chief cause of the

individual's condemnation was the indignation produced by his absurd

pretensions. He was not proved guilty. He stated that he had been born a

prince and this lost him the respect of the court. My complaint of the

proceedings is that the sentence was for so brief a term. To imprison a

man for a season is only to make him more set in his convictions. When

liberated he is more dangerous than ever. If your Majesty were to ask my

opinion of this man, I should say he was less knave than visionary.

Owing to the stupidity of the Prussian police, it has been impossible to

discover a trace of his ancestry or place of birth. He claims that this

failure to produce confuting evidence proves his claim, and he speaks

logically there."

"He does indeed."

"Well, our--maniac left prison more than ever determined to sustain his

pretensions. To the children that were successively born to him he gave

such names as Amélie (in memory of the flight); Marie Antoinette,

Charles, Edward. This may seem inoffensive, but 'tis far from being so.

Persistency in this fixed idea has continued to envelop him more and

more in a tattered purple mantle. His sceptre is a reed in truth, but it

gives him, nevertheless, the appearance of a persecuted martyr. Your

Majesty will agree that our individual is not to be placed in the same

category as the multitude whom, after disproving, we have endeavored to

construct into a parapet serving as a blockade to effectually shut out

possible pretenders bearing credentials having the appearance of

genuiness."

"I agree with you that this is a grave matter."

"That aureole of martyrdom elicits faith and devotion. For example, when

the individual on leaving prison established himself in Crossen, with

not a sou in his purse, he found there a magistrate who gave him a large

sum of money and became a champion of his cause. His enthusiasm became

so pronounced that the prince of Coralath's secretary was obliged to

observe to the fellow that Prussia contained dungeons for the reception

of those who meddle in what does not concern them. The remark having no

effect, the magistrate soon received in heaven the reward for his

devotion to the cause."

"Did he die?" inquired the King.

"He did, your Majesty, from a sudden illness. We have reason to believe

that he and no other was the guardian of the cursed documents, those

explosives. When dying, he spoke incoherently of the prince's papers."

"Why was the opportunity not improved?"

"Unfortunately I was not on hand. The police got wind of the death and

confiscated what papers they could lay their hands on, but those desired

were evidently well concealed. The German police have leaden feet and

heads of straw. Was it not childish to search for evidences in the house

of the suspected man? A fool indeed would he have been to hide them

there. Not less than ten times has the impostor's house been raided,

under pretext of fire or burglary or what not, but to no purpose. They

have not been near him. But lately since his residence in England he has

kept them, for in England we have not so free a field--"

"He has lived in England?"

"Yes, your Majesty, he moved there from Prussia, realizing that a

country whose cabinet was not on friendly terms with ours and in which

respect for the home is carried to great lengths, was a more appropriate

habitat for him than Prussia. In England our individual, ceasing to

write letters to influential personages of Europe and failing to

receive the desired recognition, devoted himself to watch-making and

chemistry. He is said to have invented a new explosive."

"Why then has he been molested? When a man lives inoffensively--"

"Your Majesty, he was not disturbed, tho we continued to watch him. Our

suspicions were aroused when we learned that he had sent his eldest

daughter to France. This girl is an able strategist, a second edition of

La Mothe. She caught in her net no less a nobleman than the Marquis de

Brezé."

"Eve enters the garden," piquantly observed the King.

"Matters became complicated indeed. The girl sought nothing less than

the undermining of the throne. I tried to sever the cords by making the

Duchess of Rousillon--"

"That inflated hen? Competent agent indeed!"

"I commissioned her to reveal the antecedents of the girl's father to

the infatuated Marquis. But Love was blind as usual, and the Marquis

slipped through our hands and arrived in England just in time to save

his prospective father-in-law's life."

"His life? Who threatened his life?"

"Oh, pickpockets! one of those nocturnal encounters so common in London

streets. That is an unimportant detail in our narrative. We are

reaching the heart of the matter. The girl had captured the Marquis with

the aim of establishing in the very camp of French aristocracy a

following for her father. The precious documents were confided to René

and a journey to France arranged, the three to meet in Dover."

"And how have you ascertained these particulars, Baron?"

"Should I be doing my duty, did I not gather every particular? My

business is to know all things regarding this infernal plot. Volpetti no

sooner learned where the confederates were to meet than he arranged to

put up at the same inn. He possessed himself of the papers by the

cleverest strategy--"

The King, unmindful of his disabled limbs, half jumped from the couch.

"Then we are saved!" he cried. "For Volpetti surely destroyed them at

once."

"Your Majesty, I never trust my agents implicitly. I spy upon my spies.

Fruits of research I require to be always delivered into my hands.

Otherwise, they might report to me that damning testimony has been

destroyed, and meanwhile retain the deadly weapon, to turn it at any

moment against me. No, they have express orders to destroy nothing."

"You were saying that Volpetti obtained possession of the papers."

"Yes; now the imbroglio becomes more complicated. A new power intervenes

in the individual's behalf. Can your Majesty guess whom I mean?"

"The Carbonari."

"Precisely; the Carbonari,--the association which plants mines under our

feet, and which carries on the Revolution beneath the earth. They have

written on their statutes: 'The Bourbons have been brought back by

foreigners; the Carbonari will restore to France freedom of choice.'

Your Majesty, this society has members in every department of

government; they are numerous in the army; they exist even in the Royal

Council. They make it impossible for us to obliterate devotion to

Napoleon; they constitute an incessant protest against the established

régime."

"How the devil did the Carbonari become the champions of this

pretender?"

"A countermine, your Majesty. It happened that in Dover at the same inn

were two members of the order having unsettled scores from old Italian

days against Jacome Volpetti."

"My friend, the spy who was set upon the individual should have had no

unsettled scores pending with members of the Carbonari."

Lecazes winced, tho he was well aware that the words had for their sole

object giving annoyance to him. He continued:

"Well, the Carbonari succeeded in murdering the police agent who

accompanied our spy. They then despoiled Volpetti of the papers, after

which they carried him, tied and gagged, aboard a French vessel, whose

captain was also a member of the association. He would have been

murdered also, had he not succeeded in freeing himself and leaping into

the sea, from which he was rescued by an English schooner. The French

vessel gave chase and so riddled the other by cannon balls, that, unable

to defend herself, and being moreover the victim of a fire which--"

"Bravo, Lecazes, redoubtable romancer!" exclaimed the King mockingly.

"Your Majesty, I relate history, beside which romancing is a tame art.

Weil, to resume: in spite of piracy and conflagration, Volpetti reached

the coast near Pleneuf. At the same time, unaware of their enemy's

salvation, the two Carbonari, de Brezé, Naundorff and his daughter

disembarked also on French soil."

"How do you explain the coalition of the Carbonari and the pretender?"

"Your Majesty is well aware that, provided they work against the present

administration, the association has carte blanche to make such

combinations as are considered best. In that branch of the Carbonari

known as Knights of Liberty, each member is free to follow his own

judgment, to take risks and accept consequences. The Knights of Liberty

constitute the germinating centre of crime. Notwithstanding the dispatch

with which Volpetti issued warnings that the party be denied entry into

Paris, he was outwitted. They arrived. The individual is _here_, beneath

the powerful shelter of the association. The documents are doubtless

well guarded. All efforts to obtain them by violence would be in vain. I

have not the slightest clue to their place of concealment."

"Is de Brezé with the pretender?"

"Yes, and one of the Carbonari, an Italian."

"Where is the girl?"

"She has been placed for security in the Castle of Picmort. She was

guarded by one of the Carbonari, but this man has started on one of

those journeys which are characteristic of the society."

"Do you not consider it possible that the girl carries the documents?"

"I do not think so. In the first place, de Brezé through chivalry,--and

he is a Paladin--would never give her a charge of grave peril; besides,

the place for those papers is Paris."

"Then peace and happiness to the maiden in her Picmort refuge!" sighed

the King.

"The Duchess informs me that the steward of the castle may prove a

formidable rival to the Marquis in the affections of the fascinating

intriguante."

"My blessing on the sylvan pair! An eclogue, indeed! A peasant lover!"

remarked the King with a Voltairian laugh, after which he hummed:

"In the lap of Phillis

Damon streweth flowers

Wet with dews of morning."

Lecazes, not heeding the poetical interruption, continued:

"With regard to the documents, your Majesty, a subject which seems to

bore you, I affirm that they are in Paris, because, among other reasons,

the individual would have need of them in order to convince Madame the

Duchess, whom it is his intention of addressing--"

"Also Ferdinand, I suppose--"

"Ferdinand is already convinced. Is your Majesty, perchance, ignorant

that he recognizes the pretender? But his action is of no moment

compared to that of Madame, the Dauphin's prison companion. Madame

should be warned."

"What plan do you propose, Lecazes? As for me, I confess myself

incompetent to forge methods of outwitting a woman."

"Listen, then. If we might arrange that Madame shall receive the

individual--"

"What!" exclaimed the King.

"If she will grant him this secret interview and exact that he deliver

to her the documents, in order that she may become convinced of his

identity--"

The King applauded, cordially, sonorously, as tho he were a spectator at

a theatrical representation,--the only character, he used to say, that

suited him. He rendered homage to his Minister's genius.

"Enough!" he exclaimed. "I comprehend."

"Your Majesty divines the rest?"

"I divine, my friend, but--"

Lecazes radiantly took a pinch of aromatic snuff, and asked:

"But what?"

"But who is to tie the bell on the cat's neck? Who is to persuade my

niece--"

"Her husband may convince her."

"Her husband? Lecazes, you and I are not children. My good nephew Louis

is unacquainted with the art of influencing his wife. He treats her with

such profound respect that--well, they fail utterly to understand each

other. Whence comes this awkwardness in the second generation in dealing

with women? Louis is my reproach, though I must admit that Ferdinand

does me honor. Besides, Lecazes, you know well that I have instructed

Louis to advise his wife to act as tho no such impostor exists."

Steps sounded in the adjoining apartment.

"Silence!" said the King. "Tis Ferdinand or Louis."

A moment later, the elegant martial figure of the Duke appeared in the

door.

"You arrive opportunely, nephew," said Louis XVIII, as the Duke

respectfully kissed his hand. "Be seated and give us news. What says

Marie Thérèse?"

"Sire, I do not bring you pleasant news. Madame is strangely exalted.

She has received a letter from that--man, which she carries over her

heart."

"Repress your jealousy," replied the King in banter.

"I experience only sadness," replied the Duke with sincerity, "She

suffers greatly and I suffer with her. She has not slept for three

nights nor eaten for three days. She passes hours in prayer--"

"That is your fault!"

"Mine, sire?" exclaimed the Duke.

"Emphatically so, my little Louis. When a woman, such as is your wife, a

woman who would die rather than even look at another man,--when she

becomes fad, 'tis that her husband is indifferent. Listen; the time has

come when I must speak the truth: you have behaved like a simpleton. You

have never won her heart. You have treated her with a veneration such as

the devote evinces toward the marble statues of saints."

"Sire, you know well that I am more in my element at the head of a

regiment than with women. I do not understand them."

"The devil! This cursed generation seems to have been born blasé,

destitute even of a sense of beauty. The reason that I love your brother

Ferdinand is that he is the living reproduction of our ancestor, Henry

of Navarre. The 'ultras' are scandalized at his romance with the English

girl. Well, we must beautify our life with illusion or we should become

stone. I have kept my heart in its place always, even though I have

been a wretched invalid. Not that I have given myself up to material

joys. We become divine through that exaltation evoked by the presence of

woman. The Countess is the intermediary between soul and faith,--faith

in the beautiful. You know that here there is no possibility of descent

into matter--An old man in ruined health!"

The Duke frowned, struggling between respect for his uncle and

repugnance towards his theories.

"In short, Louis, my aching limbs are already in the grave. I have done

ail in my power to protect the institutions in my charge. I have

subjugated my convictions, my reason, my skepticism, in order to be true

to the trust confided to me. With my right hand I have restrained the

Revolution; with my left the excesses of an imbecile and sanguinary

Reaction. Lecazes has aided me and aids me. But Louis, my heir, if you

falter, I shall contend no longer, even tho the monarchy perish. In vain

will you have combatted at the pass of Ivon, at Ravenheim and

afterwards, beside the unfortunate Eugene. Bah! The hardest battles are

these of state, my son."

The Duke was moved. When the King discarded his habitual raillery, he

evinced genuine majesty. Almost subjugated, he knelt at his uncle's

feet, saying:

"What can I do for the monarchy, for God? I am willing to give my life,

if necessary."

"Much less than that is required," replied the King, affectionately.

"All that I ask is that you act the part of an affectionate husband,

which you are; that you treat your wife tenderly, passionately--"

"To what end, Sire?"

"Lecazes will inform you, for I am greatly fatigued. I must be careful

of my forces, as tomorrow will be Wednesday and the Countess Cayla will

be here to make some hours heaven to me."

Chapter IV

CONJUGAL LOVE

That evening at the customary hour for lighting the lamps in the various

apartments of the royal palace, the ladies in waiting to Madame the

Duchess were surprised to see her accompanied by her husband on leaving

the table. As the august pair entered the Duchess's apartments, the

attendants discreetly withdrew and the lady motioned the Duke to a seat;

but he, with unaccustomed gallantry, hastened to place himself beside

her on the sofa and with the precipitation characteristic of a limited

experience in conjugal affectionate demonstration, seized both her hands

and effusively began:

"Thérèse, do you remember what anniversary it is tomorrow? The tenth of

June, our marriage day?"

"Indeed?" she replied. "How slowly time passes."

"To me it seems as tho we had been married yesterday. 'Twas in the

little chapel of Mittau. Listen, Thérèse: I fear at times that I have

not made you happy. Am I mistaken? You treat me so distantly."

"I have been--happy," she stammered. "You know that it is not in my

nature to be violently so."

"The time of mourning has passed," he said, kissing her slender

patrician hands. "Look back no longer. Those who have suffered as much

as we have a right to happiness."

Her face flushed as his warmth increased.

"To live and rejoice!" she sighed. "That is not my destiny, nor yours,

Louis. We have greater trials in store. I feel their approach. I told

you this morning that we have not sufficiently expiated."

"My Thérèse, you who are so good a Christian should not impugn the

justice of God. Have you not suffered sufficiently to appease Him? Have

you not even the right to breathe? Do you experience no emotion now that

your husband is at your side? Were the reasons of state which prescribed

our marriage not in accord with your sentiment? Would you choose me

again if you were free? Can you not love?"

She blushed to hear these extraordinary words. His transformation was

wonderful and seemed to be changing her, the austere Duchess, into a

girl of twenty.

"Louis," she answered with noble simplicity, "since the death of my

parents, I have loved only you. I fear at times that God will punish

this excessive devotion to a creature."

"Cousin, wife," he ardently exclaimed, "'tis God's will that we love

each other. You know well that tho at times I seem absorbed and cold, I

am never even in thought unfaithful. Have you any complaint, any

accusation?"

"I have believed," she replied, "that you did not love me. But I have

never doubted you. That would have been unendurable."

He clasped her to his breast.

"Since you are so well convinced of my love," he whispered, "you will

grant a request, you will permit me to influence that upright

conscience, that noble heart."

She drew herself away instinctively, but he clasped her more closely,

and she remained a happy prisoner.

"My wife," he pursued, "you are under the domination of a great sorrow.

This morning you were almost hysterical. I suffered in seeing you so

troubled. Now, we must be absolutely frank with one another. I fear for

your reason if you continue to torment yourself about an ambitious fool.

Listen to me and listen tranquilly. Your clear intelligence has become

temporarily clouded. Your mind will soon recover its lucidity. You are

now of the opinion that the man is being victimized, whereas he is

nothing more than a keen-witted impostor, bolder and armed with more

formidable documents than his predecessors."

"Do you really believe that the writer of this letter is an impostor?"

"Well: not precisely an impostor, Thérèse,--a dupe, rather, believing

himself to be the prince. 'Tis a frequent phenomenon. Our reason is

subject to such fluctuations that one is capable of confusing even his

own individuality with that of another. You doubtless remember the case

of the Spanish pie-vender who believed himself King Sebastian; or

Pougatchef of Russia who under the name of Demetrius claimed the

throne."

"What of the documents mentioned in the letter which he maintains would

confirm his claim before any French tribunal?"

"Little by little. To begin with, we are not certain that they exist.

Have you seen them? Doubt, then, of their existence, until you have them

in your hands for examination. Let us suppose that the documents are

genuine, does it therefore follow that the possessor is the prince? So

great has been the confusion caused by the Revolution, unscrupulous

persons have acquired such unrestricted power, our family secrets have

been so profanely exploited, that 'twould be no wonder indeed that the

papers should be in the hands of the veriest adventurer."

She remained silent, but the voice she loved so well opened an ever

widening breach in her faith.

"Reflect," he continued, "how the Revolution has scattered important

papers. Great frauds have stood upon stolen or spurious documents. But

in this instance 'tis evident that the entire plot has for its object

the exploitation of your credulity and tender memories. In order to

prove whether his claim be true or false, subject your correspondent to

a test."

"Louis," she said, clasping her hands, "on listening to you, my reason

vacillates. My God, what shall I do?"

"Bid the man come to you."

"Did you not this morning express disapproval of my receiving him?"

"I have changed my mind. You must grant him a secret interview. You must

discover the nature of those documents. Require him to bring them to

you. You surely do not intend to take his word for it that they exist.

Get possession of his proofs and then we shall be able to judge.--Now,

let me tell you something of this man's past life. You know nothing of

his history, tho he is proposing to throw himself into your arms. He

belongs to the lowest class of Prussian people. His father was a

mechanic, son of a kettle-mender. Until very recently he has been a

watch-maker. He has been convicted of two grave crimes,--counterfeiting

and arson. He has served a sentence at hard labor in a Silesia prison.

What say you, Thérèse, to the seating upon the throne of Saint Louis a

felon whose wrists and ankles have borne infamous manacles?"

She looked affrightedly at her husband.

"You are horrified? Well, you have heard but the beginning. This man was

the victim of misery owing, in all probability, to his vices. He was

rescued by a woman. This woman, many years his senior, was for a long

period his--Thérèse I dare not explain the relation to you. I respect

you too highly to pronounce the revolting words. But what do you say to

the artifice of calling this woman his sister? Can you longer believe it

probable that his body holds the royal blood?"

The blow was well aimed. The color mounted to the Duchess's face and she

assumed an indignant attitude. The Duke caressed her consolingly:

"After that unsavory episode, he contracted matrimony. His wife is a

woman of the lowest origin, vulgar, insignificant. But, in compensation,

he has an ambitious daughter, a veritable phenomenon indeed. 'Tis not an

ordinary spectacle, that of a girl of eighteen or nineteen occupying

herself with vaulting schemes--"

"Perhaps not with vaulting schemes," rejoined the Duchess meditatively.

"Nevertheless at eighteen there exists a clear comprehension of duty and

expediency--"

"O Thérèse, _you_, you were early matured through suffering."

"And perhaps this young girl also."

The Duke was silent. He regretted the turn their conversation had taken.

He sought not to awaken pity, so he suddenly faced his battery in

another direction.

"Your would-be brother, the Prussian mechanic, seeks to found a new

religion. He is therefore a heretic, which is reason sufficient for

excommunication and deprivation of the Church's sacraments."

These words produced an extraordinary effect upon the Duchess. She was a

fervent Catholic devotee, intensified by the Revolution. Her cheeks

burned and her eyes shot anger.

"Not only does he profess heresy," resumed the Duke, "but he proclaims

and propagates his doctrines. He has written a book entitled 'The

Heavenly Doctrine.' It contains an arraignment of the Church and

interprets arbitrarily the Holy Scriptures. 'Tis clear that his motive

in attacking Catholicity is retaliation, the Pope having refused to

indorse his absurd pretensions. His marriage was according to Protestant

rites. It is claimed that he reckons as a saint that old Martin who

pretends revelations from the archangel Raphael."

"The King has received that old man," remarked the Duchess. "It is said

that he spoke dreadful prophecies. The hand of God weighs heavily upon

us!"

"Thérèse, it is unworthy a strong intelligence to attach importance to

such nonsense. The old idiot would today be in a mad-house but for the

indulgence of the King."

"Well," said she, making a great effort, "am I to grant this interview,

then?"

"Certainly, that your mind may be at rest. Light drives away phantoms.

The King desires you to receive the man. Make it a condition that he

bring the documents. Arrange that the conference be secret, for 'tis

necessary to proceed with the greatest caution. Our enemies are

vigilant. Thérèse, I hold forth both arms to sustain the tottering

throne, but shall be powerless unless you help me. Have I in you an

ally? You and I must not work at cross purposes."

He clasped his wife in his arms, uttering endearing words which seemed a

promise of new days, full of happiness, and of a perfect union. The

Duchess listened rapturously to the husband whom the state and church

had given her. Her smothered youth rose in a strong tide. She realized

that the grief which had really oppressed her through so many years was

the glacial attitude which she and the Duke had maintained towards; each

other. Closing her eyes, she leaned upon his; breast. He folded her in

his arms and led her into the adjoining apartment, her dormitory,

through which they passed into the oratory. They walked to the crimson

prie-Dieu and knelt together upon; the velvet cushion. Holding her hand

tightly, he solemnly said:

"Before God, who hears us, Thérèse,--sole woman that exists on earth for

me,--and He knows I speak the truth,--promise me that you will save the

royal House of France from perishing, that you will not permit the

impious to rejoice nor the enemies of the cause to triumph, that you

will prevent the sacred oil from being poured upon the head of this

counterfeiter, this incendiary, this heretic. If he be an impostor,

'twould be sacrilegious; if he be not an impostor (to state an

impossible case) his accession to the throne would let loose again

license and unbridled passions which would precipitate a second

Revolution. Promise, Thérèse. Swear!"

She raised her eyes to the crucifix. The thorn-crowned face against the

dark background seemed, in a sublime melancholy, to murmur: "Father

forgive them--" The oath died on her lips.

"Swear, Thérèse, my love, my wife!" repeated the Duke.

Tears coursed down her face as she groaned: "I swear, my God, I swear,"

and sank in a nervous paroxysm into her husband's arms. He had

triumphed. Sustaining her, he led the Duchess from the oratory.

Chapter V

THE SISTER

In the sitting-room of a small inn whose sign reads "Hotel d'Orleans"

sat the five persons whom the Polipheme brought to France. Amélie, no

longer a fresh radiant girl, and in deep mourning for her husband, Jean

Vilon, sits beside René who whispers:

"When shall I see you light-hearted, Amélie? I am jealous of the dead.

He robs me of you."

"What else may I do than wear black? He was a great heart. Do not wonder

at my grief, René."

Naundorff's face was almost transfigured. He looked twenty years

younger. He seemed to have lost consciousness of his past sufferings.

Joy obliterated sorrow and his lips were wreathed in smiles.

"My friends," he was saying, "I reproach myself for having doubted of

human justice. Early or late, the human heart turns to good as the body

to earth. This is the happiest moment of my unhappy life. I am about to

receive a great consolation and greatly did I require it, for on

reaching Paris, my old wounds were re-opened. To return here after so

many years and with such a record fastened to my name! I have visited my

parents' prison. Yes, I have had the courage to do so. I am a man of

memories. The tower has already been demolished. What haste to

obliterate my past! In the remainder of the building a convent has been

established, to which I have been refused admittance. I was brave enough

to walk on the bloody ground whereon my mother--"

Amélie rose and threw her arms around her father's neck.

"Why do I dwell on this theme?" he asked, resuming his radiant

expression. "Has not my destiny changed aspect? In spite of what we have

suffered on the voyage, in spite of what you, my loved Amélie, have

suffered, I say: 'Blessed be the hour in which I left London! Blessed

the inspiration whereby I saved that wretch! These things have been

registered to my credit. Blessed the faith I had in the one person who

can save me and whose heart throbs at the sound of my name!'"

He fervently crossed his hands in an attitude of prayer.

"It is my duty to announce to you the secret of my happiness. You have

cast your lives into my cause and braved even death. But danger has at

last ceased; and the sun has chased away the clouds. I am happy, happy.

O how strange that word sounds on my lips!"

Louis Pierre fixed on Naundorff a penetrating look and said:

"Monseigneur, we are waiting to know in what that happiness consists--"

"Listen, listen. This morning at about eleven o'clock a most affable

gentleman brought me a message in answer to a letter I had written,--can

you guess to whom?"

Then with his heart in his voice, he added:

"My sister, my sister!"

There was a moment of silence. Then Amélie asked almost sharply:

"Are we to infer that Madame does not Know how to write?"

"My dear child, what more can she do than send me word she will receive

me--"

"Receive _us_?" asked the girl.

"No, myself only. Amélie, consider that you are a stranger to her,

whereas I am the companion of her childhood, the boy who wept and

suffered with her during captivity. She consents to see me. Do you

think this little? I asked only that much, for I know that once

together, she will run to embrace me. O that embrace!"

"Does she summon you to the Palace?"

"No--not to the palace--"

"Aha! the meeting is to be clandestine!"

"My God!" groaned Naundorff. "How you poison the first happiness I have

tasted! Can you not read the state of my soul? Ambition! 'Tis an

illusive folly. I long only for those arms to be opened to me in which

as a little child I slept. What are a crown and sceptre worth? Such

baubles do not allure me. I wish above all things to recover my name and

to feel my sister's kisses. Those kisses will banish the spectre back of

my forehead. Am I mad? Have I dreamed my past life? _She_, _she_ will

tell me the truth."

"But father," remonstrated Amélie, "why do you permit such doubts to

overpower you? Do you not possess proofs? Have you not cited many

corroborating circumstances? Have you not been recognized by your

father's faithful servitors? By Madame Rambaud who rocked you in your

cradle? Did you not remind her that the blue velvet dress you were to

wear to Versailles was tight in the sleeves and that it was in

consequence removed? Did she not exclaim on hearing you: 'This is my

prince and my king?"

"Well, Amélie, in spite of these testimonials, I, myself falter in

faith. My past seems too extraordinary to fit within the bounds of the

possible. Perhaps I _am_ a visionary, one of the many in the ranks of

spurious Dauphins who have emerged from every corner of France. 'Tis

true that I possess genuine documentary proof; of that I am certain. But

these papers may have been placed in my hands for an end

incomprehensible to me. Montmorin, himself, that hero of loyalty, may

have been duped. This is the terrible suspicion which seizes me always

at the moment when I most require confidence and courage."

Amélie sent René a look almost of anguish. Naundorff continued:

"_She_ is the only cure for this unbearable incertitude. _She_ is all

that remains of my past. Her voice calling me 'Brother' will sweep the

cobwebs from my brain and restore my faith forever."

"Are we to understand, Monseigneur," asked René, "that you may not enter

the Palace? Is Madame to visit you here?"

"No; we have agreed to meet in Versailles park, the place where as

children we so often played together. My sister is accustomed to visit

Versailles occasionally that she may be undisturbed in her religious

devotions and perform works of charity among the poor. Ah! my sister is

an angel. In the midst of the brilliant court life, she is an angel.

They have sought to harden her and weaken her clear judgment, but such

effort has been futile. Yes, 'tis Versailles where we shall meet in six

days, next Thursday. I am to be just without the garden. We are to meet

in the grove of Apollo, from which the public is excluded; she visits

the park only on festival days. All these details have been

explained.--I know so well that our first act will be to cast ourselves

into each other's arms and mingle our tears. We have not yet mourned our

mother together!"

Louis Pierre contracted his thin lips in a bitter smile and caustically

remarked:

"So this is to be all, Monseigneur? Only a fraternal embrace?"

"No, indeed. She wishes to see the documents. I shall therefore take

them to her and also the manuscript--"

If a bomb had exploded in their midst, not more consternation could have

been evinced. They exclaimed in chorus:

"The papers!"

"Never!" protested Amélie.

"'Tis an infernal trap!" exclaimed Louis Pierre.

"Bandits! The snare is well laid," added Giacinto.

"Monseigneur!" implored de Brezé. "Those papers are of inestimable value

to us; they should be exhibited only before a court of justice. Our

enemies seek to obtain possession of these papers, and, if they succeed,

our cause is lost. The watch-maker Naundorff will be without proofs of

his identity."

Naundorff became tremulous with anger.

"Dare not impute such infamy to my sister or I shall attribute villainy

to yourselves. In this matter, I accept suggestions from no one. 'Tis an

affair between God and myself. This is not a question for man to settle,

for what value have the misleading judgments of earth? _I_ alone decide.

_I_ am the State! _I_ am the King. These papers pertain to myself only,

even as my life is my exclusive property. If my sister, on seeing me,

shall waive material proofs, how happy I shall be! But if she doubt or

repulse me, what a joy, what a Satanic joy 'twill be to fling these

testimonials in her face and say, 'Farewell forever. Our mother curses

you!'"

He broke into a mocking laugh, such a laugh as terminates in nervous

hysteria, while the others with saddened faces remained silent. Then he

rose to leave, saying to de Brezé:

"René, I trust to you to bring me the papers Thursday morning. If you do

not accede to this request, you will force me to violence."

As he passed out, Amélie said entreatingly to her lover:

"Save him in spite of himself. Keep them in their place of concealment,

for there they are secure."

"Most secure," replied de Brezé. "They are with a friend, Gontran de

Lome. He thinks them a compromising love correspondence of mine. Who

would suspect that amiable Lovelace? Nevertheless, in spite of his

dissipations, he is a man of honor and discretion. I guarantee the

security of the papers while they remain with Gontran. But should your

father demand them, Amélie, I cannot refuse. He is the arbiter of his

fate and of our own as well."

The Carbonari meanwhile conversed in low tones. After a while Louis

Pierre advanced saying:

"There lives in Versailles a sister of mine, who terminated her vagrant

peddling existence by the establishment of a little shop. Giacinto and I

have formulated a plan which we shall explain to you. We cannot fold

our arms in the moment of danger."

"Noble friends!" said Amélie, extending her hands to the two men.

"No, Mademoiselle; you are entitled to our lives. You were made in

heaven and the mourning you wear for that unfortunate peasant testifies

to the greatness of your soul. I would let myself be torn to pieces for

you. Our danger is grave. From the moment the papers are delivered to

our enemies, our necks will be in danger. Louis Pierre and I are

endeavoring to counteract the blunder which--pardon me,--was committed

in consequence of your father's generosity. I take an oath that 'tis the

man whom I have vowed to kill that has woven the net which has caught

your father. Has not your father suffered enough to destroy the

impression that all men are to be trusted?"

"My opinion," said Louis Pierre, "is that the hands that have woven the

snare are whiter and more patrician than the spy's, however much he love

and care for them. An iniquitous plot has been hatched at the Duchess's

shoulders, for the securing of the papers. If we find it impossible to

prevent the catastrophe, why vengeance remains," he concluded, his face

taking on a tragic grandeur.

Chapter VI

LOUIS PIERRE'S SISTER

Those to whom the gardens and parks of Versailles are not familiar can

form no idea of the manner in which aristocratic dignity imparts

elegance to rural, sites. The impression is not that of sweet melancholy

so often produced by country scenes but rather of a lofty magnificence,

which weighs upon the soul and becomes even a solemn ennui, which

proceeds from the very regularity and grandeur of the royal domain,

wherein one still involuntarily looks for powder-headed dames and

cavaliers in embroidered waist-coats.

On Sundays it was permitted the public to enjoy the park, which during

the week was deserted save for the gardeners and guard, who, wearing

bandoliers and holding rifles, watched over the safety of whatever

members of the royal family happened to be in the Palace.

Nazario Patin, sergeant of the guard, was quite taken aback on receiving

orders to retire the soldiers on Thursday from the avenue leading to

the Great lawn, from the Latona pond, the Columnata wood and the Apollo

grove. A second order, no less explicit, followed to the effect that he

was to hold these guards in waiting in the assembly hall, in case they

should be needed.

On Wednesday evening the Duchess arrived at the Palace. Patin

soliloquized:

"She wishes to promenade tomorrow and look on no human countenance, so

greatly is she given to prayer and meditation. But that the guard should

be retired! Hum! I can't understand."

On Thursday four men wearing the simple uniform of the ordinary guard,

bearing rifles and in their belts hunting knives, arrived in the

deserted park from the Ville d'Avray road and approached one of the

little gates opening towards les Trianones which Marie Antoinette,

discarding pompous ceremonial, used to frequent. Cautiously they opened

the gate, using a key carried by him who seemed the leader. They held a

conference in low tones, as tho fearful of disturbing the birds in the

trees. The leader's southern type revived recollections of the Catalan

smuggler, Albert Serra, a gentleman whom we met in the apartments of

Baron Lecazes, just returned from London and professing to have

successfully lightered a ship of a cargo of cutlery. This was

Volpetti's disguise when he wished to represent a man of the lower

classes.

"Beware!" he was saying to the others. "Listen well and execute even

better. A false step will be fatal to our object. You, Lestrade, are to

guide him into the garden. He comes by the route we have taken and will

travel on foot from this side Le Chesnay. As for you, Sec and La Grive,

remain without, near the gate. I only shall remain inside the park. When

he leaves the garden, I shall follow him; and if I signal you by raising

my arm, throw yourselves upon him, gagging and binding him. Whatever you

find upon his person is to be taken to my superior, the Minister of

Police. No matter what happens save the booty. Your lives, my life, are

worth nothing in comparison. Whoever carries the prize to the Minister

will be a lucky man, I pledge my word."

Making motions of assent, the party dispersed. A deep quiet spread over

the park, along whose paths the Duchess was even now walking. Her dress

of violet silk embroidered in passementerie, betokened mourning. She

held her hand on her heart to still its beating. At about the same time,

Patin, sergeant of the guard, his services not being required, turned

his steps in the direction of a lady friend, a certain laundress, in

whose kitchen, so gossip had it, there was never lack of savory dishes

and pleasant chitchat for the handsome sergeant. On ascending the

stairway, he met a girl whose face seemed glorified by the splendor

light of yellow hair, arranged in curls, according to the style of the

period. As he drew back to make room for her, he muttered to himself:

"The picture of the beheaded Queen!"

Some moments later he was asking the laundress, as she stood at her

table ironing a dainty garment:

"Who is that young girl in mourning that has just left your neighbor's

apartment?"

"I do not know. I have never spoken with her but I scent a mystery.

There is a cat in a bag, several cats, rather. You know my neighbor

well."

"I should say I did. I have known her and her brother Louis Pierre

Louvel a lifetime. Such a sullen silent fellow! I wonder where he is

now. No one seems to have heard of him since the banishment of his

beloved Emperor."

"Why he is here, my boy. He has been here for three days. He brought

with him to his sister's house that young girl and a handsome young man.

They came stealthily and they have all kept as quiet as mice. I have not

seen even Louis Pierre's sister. She must however go out at night to

buy provisions. But through a window I have seen the f aces of Louis

Pierre and the handsome gentleman."

"Has he been casting eyes at you?" jealously inquired Patin, whereupon

his mistress boxed his ears, and so diverted his thoughts from this

trend of suspicion regarding the new comers.

"I could swear that these people are conspiring," remarked the

laundress.

"You are dreaming, my dear. I have but just met the girl on the stairs.

Why should you become suspicious because a brother visits his sister?"

"That a brother should visit a sister causes me no surprise, but there

are queer kinds of brothers and queer ways of paying visits. Will you

believe that the sister denied to me yesterday that her brother was with

her?"

"Rosa, that is indeed strange," remarked the sergeant pensively.

"I do not like Louis Pierre. He is capable of anything."

"Well, my little Rosa, stop your gossip. I don't suppose danger is being

plotted. Neither the King nor Princes are in the castle; as for the

Duchess, she is a saint whom no one would harm. What amazes me is the

resemblance of the girl to the dead Queen."

"She is a live bird, I'll warrant," answered the woman.

While this dialogue was in progress, the blond girl in black rapidly

crossed several streets and reached a deserted square shaded by elm

trees. She was almost immediately joined by a man with whom she walked

for some distance, entering at last the beginning of a park by a path

which skirted the wall. The man consulted from time to time a paper plan

which he carried in his hands. He stopped suddenly and examined a breach

in the wall.

"Louis Pierre was right," he said.

He vaulted the fence and held forth his arms for the girl, who, crawling

along the ruins, came within his reach. Taking her by the waist, he held

her for a moment against his breast and spoke passionate words of love.

"Amélie!" he whispered, "when will you become mine for all time? I adore

you more than ever."

"René, I long for it as much as you. But O the saddest of presentiments

weighs upon me. My father's mind seems giving way beneath the weight of

his sorrows. His reason is clouded and confused. If his sister does not

open her arms today, alas for him, alas for us! And she will not; this

interview is part of an infernal plot--"

"Amélie, you express my fears also. But none of your father's friends

are sleeping on their oars. Louis Pierre knows every inch of ground on

this place. We are here to defend the cause, he, Giacinto and I. 'Twould

have been better had you not come."

"Perhaps so, René, but I wanted so much to be near you. Do not heed my

seeming coldness of the last few days. How could I fail in mourning for

that innocent, noble man,--victim of low intrigues and his own loyalty?

He typifies the people, the people sacrificed to the classes."

"I have been jealous of your devotion, your gratitude. I have longed to

be the dead. Had I died, what should you have done?"

"Died with you, René."

He stooped and kissed her eyes, holding her close in his arms.

Chapter VII

THE INTERVIEW

On reaching the appointed place, the Duchess fell upon a garden seat,

seemingly very tired. Taking a lace handkerchief from the reticule which

hung at her wrist, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She

consulted the watch at her belt and found it lacked ten minutes of the

time set. She sighed, resigning herself to wait.

At last she heard the approach of footsteps; some moments later a man

with uncovered head stood before her. Marie Thérèse de Bourbon uttered

no cry. She was stricken dumb. After so many years, she beheld standing

before her against the crimson background of the sky, which looked like

a nimbus of blood, the Past, the terrible, tragic Past. It surged again

to overwhelm her, that Past, the sorrows of which seemed to have been

calmed by time; the terrors of the prison; the flaring up of frail hopes

destined to be dashed to earth; the incertitude of the fate of loved

ones; ardent prayers to heaven to work miracles; entreaties; outrages;

infinite despair: all these rose again out of that terrible Past and

stood before her.

She could not speak; she could scarcely see; but she felt hot tears

through her silk skirt and trembling arms clasp her knees while a

heart-rending voice cried:

"Marie Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!"

"Rise," she said at last, almost inaudibly. "Be seated."

He staggered to the stone bench beside her. She averted her head in

order to avoid seeing his grief-stricken face. A silence followed which

the lady at last broke:

"You perceive, Sir, that I have complied with your request. What do you

wish?"

"To remind you that I am your brother, the brother whom your mother

bore."

"My brother--died," she faltered.

"He lives and speaks to you. Dare you look upon me and deny it? I carry

on my face the marks of royal baptism and of prison torture."

"My God!" she groaned.

"Why do you not acknowledge me?" he cried with waxing indignation. "I

believed that on receiving me you would take me to your heart. I thought

you felt the great thirst that devours me. I thought that you and I

should mourn our mother in each other's arms. Why did you receive me, if

you had already decided to treat me as an impostor? Are you about to

turn me out of your palace gates along with the dogs and beggars? After

all that I have suffered?"

Making a terrible effort, she said:

"You have spoken of proofs, irrefutable proofs."

"Miserable woman, until today I thought that the wall which separates us

should be demolished on our meeting. But I see it is of iron. Listen,

then. You ask me for the documents. Well, those documents shall be

presented at a French tribunal, and you with the others shall be brushed

off the usurped throne. You refuse to acknowledge me; well, when the

world salutes me King, you will admit I am your brother. Europe will

proclaim what no court can deny. Until then, farewell."

She trembled and softly spoke his name:

"Charles Louis!"

Her voice seemed to come from an immense distance. He cried out almost

in delirium:

"Thérèse, Thérèse, my adored sister!"

He caught the Duchess in his arms almost strangling her. He wept and

laughed together for at last his overmastering desire was filled. He

felt a wild longing to dance. Scarcely realizing the craftiness of her

thoughts, she assured herself with feminine complacency that she should

now do with him as she chose.

"You know me at last,--do you, Thérèse? You no longer repulse me? O how

happy I am! Only thro you do I believe in myself, for tho I told you

with so much assurance just now that I was your brother, I doubted my

own words. Are you surprised that much suffering seems to have clouded

my brain? On leaving prison, you found friends and shelter and affection

and at last a throne; you returned to our father's palace amid

acclamations and festivities. How can you divine my suffering? See, I

have written them that you may read."

He took from his pocket an oblong case of yellow calf.

"I intended that the Marquis de Brezé, whom I regard as my son should

bring you this. But perhaps 'tis better that you receive it from me.

When you read my via crucis, you will not marvel that my past life seems

to me a dream, a forgery of a madman's delirium. Only you can relieve me

of this intolerable fear and restore me to faith in myself. You have

called me Charles Louis, my name in infancy and early childhood. Those

who now call me Louis do not know this. Ah, Thérèse, God bless you!"

Again he embraced her and together they recalled incidents of the past.

"Do you remember," he asked, "how in prison a wall separated us and we

were never permitted to speak together? Well, I used to place my ear to

the wall and listen for your footsteps."

"Charles Louis," she said with a great effort, "if love of your sister

has caused you to seek me, prove that love by granting a request."

"Ask my life if you will."

"What I ask may be more difficult to give. I am going to beg

you,--listen!--to renounce what you have so long desired. Be very calm.

The Revolution submerged the throne, the altar and whatever our family

represented and supported. Providence has replaced us on the throne; the

great days of the monarchy have returned; the churches have been

re-opened; our country has been reconciled to its monarchs and its

God,--the God who has placed the crown upon our uncle's head rather than

upon yours. God has perhaps selected you as the victim, innocent tho you

be. He has required your sacrifice and he continues to require it. To

what do you aspire today? Are you thinking of placing arms in the hands

of our father's executioners? Have you come, Charles Louis, to win the

applause of hell?"

He could not answer for gazing upon her.

"Your duty is to retire to peace and quietude. Whatever be your rights,

your duty is to stifle your pretensions. I assure you this is true."

"And my children, Thérèse? My sons? I have the sons which have been

denied to both you and Ferdinand. No one but me can present an heir. My

seed has fallen upon blessed ground in being mingled with the people."

The Duchess experienced great anger, as she always did at any allusion

to her sterility, and she retorted harshly:

"The heir whom you present is from a woman of low extraction, the fruit

of a union unsanctioned by the Catholic Church. And you dare aspire to

the throne? Remember the Corsican! He also sought to improvise a

dynasty. All that survives of that farce is the daughter of a real

emperor and the son of the adventurer, sheltered by that emperor's

throne. If you believed yourself a king, why did you marry a plebeian?

Why did you not restrain your passions? And you complain of your fate?

As for your heart, you have followed its impulses. I married my cousin

because the state required the union--Ferdinand separated from his

loved Amy Brown and abandoned his children, one of them a son, in order

to marry Caroline. Are you willing to do likewise? I know well you are

not. Believe me, believe me, Charles Louis, life is not what we would

wish but as God ordains it to be. Your fate has been to live far from

the throne--Resign yourself to the decree. Do not violate the most holy

PRINCIPLE, the PRINCIPLE for which our father died. He adjures you from

the tomb to accept your lot."

Her eloquence subjugated him, for she spoke from her heart's conviction.

"God was God, yet he lived and died a man," she continued. "Live then

and die a man, my brother. Will you?--a man of the people."

In a transport of abnegation, he kissed her cheeks and said:

"I will."

In confirmation of his promise, he drew the casket of documents from his

breast and held them toward her.

"Here they are," he said. "Here are the papers which sustain my claims.

They are of such a nature, especially the testimony of the unhappy

Pichegru, Charette, Hoche and Josephine that I could demand the throne

by presenting them in a court. I despoil myself of my personality, of

my strength. I become again Naundorff, the obscure mechanic, the

impostor, the convict, the outlaw! Take the papers, Marie Thérèse, I

give them to you. The sacrifice is accomplished. Have you more to ask of

me? And now, sister, holy love of my life, all that remains to me of my

mother,--call me once more Charles Louis--let me rest my forehead on

your breast."

She was scarcely able to control herself. He attracted and repelled her

by turns. She was about to extend her hand for the papers when, by the

light of the setting sun, intense and red, he so greatly resembled her

father that she dared not accomplish her purpose. With involuntary

reverence, she said:

"No, Charles Louis, the papers are yours. Keep them. Promise me, only,

that you will not misuse them. I shall be satisfied with your word. I

ask this of you because I must. Accept your fate, as I accept mine.

Accept it as you would a cross. O Charles Louis, the Past is

irrevocable, your Past and mine, and who knows which of us has suffered

the more greatly? Farewell, farewell, my brother. Do not forget your

oath."

"I shall remember it, my sister. God bless you! I have received all that

I expected from you. I count this day happy. I shall remove with my

family to Holland. May my children never suffer the pangs of poverty! I

trust that no further assaults will be made upon my life. And now, for

one moment--"

He laid his head upon the lady's shoulder and wept.

Chapter VIII

THE AMBUSH

As Naundorff left the garden, a man, hidden amid the shrubbery advanced

cautiously and reached the little gate holding there a short

conversation with one of the spies, La Grive.

"He carries a casket which must be captured. I reiterate my previous

instructions. That casket must be seized. Where are Sec and Lestrade?"

"Within two steps. Shall I call them?"

"Keep very quiet. Remember to make no use of firearms. If he make no

resistance, do not harm him. Run. Find the others. He is almost here."

"Very well."

The two spies, disguised as guards, separated. Volpetti waited back of

the gate and on Naundorff's arrival, he solicitously held it open.

Naundorff did not look toward the other, but even had he, the black hair

and beard of Albert Serra would have misled him completely. He was

surrounded by the party of spies, who were in turn surrounded by de

Brezé and the Carbonari. The latter were concealed by the foliage, from

a height dominating the path. Like the spies, they had planned to use

firearms only in case of an extremity.

Naundorff passed through the gate, deep in thought. His sister's voice

was in his ears; he felt again her caresses. His mind was at peace and

the incertitude regarding his individuality set at rest. Had she not

called him brother? Now he was tranquil, free from tormenting doubts.

Despoiled of his rights, perhaps, but impostor or maniac never! He

thought of Amélie, dreading to tell her the result of the interview.

Suddenly a hand was placed over his mouth, his arms were pinned to his

sides and he could neither cry nor defend himself. Volpetti searched him

and possessed himself of the case of papers with a triumphant laugh.

There was no need to employ force; nevertheless, through an excess of

precaution the spies gagged their victim and tied his hands.

All this was accomplished with the utmost celerity. Naundorff had been

reduced to immobility when de Brezé and the two Carbonari ran up. Using

cudgels, they stunned Lestrade and disabled La Grive. De Brezé then

devoted himself to Sec, and Giacinto turned, infuriated, on Volpetti.

This king of spies held the papers, determined to keep them at the cost

of his life, and was for this reason unable to handle his hunting knife

with his accustomed dexterity. The Sicilian dealt him a vigorous blow on

the collar bone which caused him to drop the case of papers. Lights

danced in his eyes and he felt as tho about to swoon. With a great

effort he recovered his senses sufficiently to aim a blow at Giacinto's

neck, as the Sicilian stooped to grasp the case. The wound would have

been fatal had not Giacinto evaded it by a rapid movement which

resembled the spring of a tiger. All the evil which his family had

suffered from Volpetti flashed thro lis mind and outweighed Naundorffs

interests; he forgot the papers for his own grievances, especially his

brother's body hanging from the gibbet. Clinching his white teeth, he

dashed upon the enemy, knocked the knife out of his hand and jerked the

false beard from his face. Volpetti lacked neither courage nor coolness,

but he was a constructive intelligence rather than a physical force.

Giacinto was much the younger and just now impelled by a homicidal

vertigo. Volpetti sought to rise, but Giacinto pushed his head back and

knelt with one knee upon his breast. In an access of savage joy, he cut

through his neck, accompanying the action with dreadful oaths and

invocations to the Madonna.

While the Sicilian satiated his thirst for vengeance, one of the other

spies, La Grive, regained his footing and fought desperately with Louis

Pierre, whom he quickly so battered with fist blows that the Knight of

Liberty lay prone upon the grass. La Grive next turned his attention

upon Giacinto and Volpetti. The latter lay dead in a pool of blood. The

case of papers was near. He remembered the leader's injunction: 'The

casket must be saved, at all costs.' Seizing his opportunity, while

Giacinto feasted his eyes upon his dead enemy, he grasped the papers and

ran off, soon being lost among the trees. So vanished the last proofs of

Naundorff's identity.

The defeat was complete. It was the culmination of the lengthy drama

initiated in prison and developed in London, Dover, Picmort and Paris.

While La Grive possessed himself of the papers René was engaged in

combat with the brutal and athletic Sec. At length he dispossessed him

of his hunting knife and threw him senseless, as he thought, to the

ground. Then he ran swiftly to Naundorff and cut his cords. Sec watched

his opportunity. Gliding noiselessly toward his vanquisher, he aimed a

bullet which made René spin around and fall lifeless to the ground. It

had pierced his heart.

Meanwhile, the Duchess, motionless on her garden seat, was powerless to

summon the courage to return to the castle. Scarcely could she restrain

herself from running after Naundorff, calling, "Brother, brother!" The

sun no longer reddened the sky. The evening was chill. Suddenly a shot

rang out. She shuddered but remained paralyzed, in the throes of

conflicting emotions. The branches rustled and swift footsteps hurried

along the path. Was this an apparition? A young girl in black, her face

framed in a glory of golden hair, her hands raised menacingly and

dropping blood! It was the image of her mother, her eyes gleaming, her

mouth livid and mutely pronouncing maledictions and her forefinger held

prophetically and accusingly in the Duchess's face.

Marie Thérèse de Bourbon fell upon the ground, writhing and groaning:

"Mother, mother!"

Chapter IX

GIACINTO'S FATE

Soliviac nimbly leaped to the wharf from a skiff and held out his hands

to Louis Pierre and Giacinto. He uncovered respectfully to Naundorff and

Amélie and caressed Baby Dick's head, as the little fellow clung to his

adoptive mother's hand.

Amélie, in deep mourning, was the shadow of her former self. Wasted

away, almost blue in her pallor, her sunken eyes surrounded by red

circles, and of an agonized expression, she was indeed the picture of

the unhappy queen; not the queen in faces and crowned with roses, but

the queen of the prison and the guillotine. Like unto Marie Antoinette,

sorrow only augmented her grace and dignity. When she held her hand to

Soliviac to be kissed, no court might show so regal a movement.

Naundorff opened his arms to Soliviac, both shedding tears.

"When do we start?" the former asked, as though longing to be off.

"At once, if Monseigneur wishes."

"Do not call me 'Monseigneur.' That is over, Captain. I am only

Naundorff, the mechanic, the chemist. You are taking me from a land

where I have known only sorrow to a country of peace and liberty. In

Holland my good wife and little children await me. There shall I forget

my insensate dreams, the cause of my ills. Because of my refusal to

accept the decrees of fate, I have been punished in whom I most love,

this daughter. A widow twice, never having been a wife, her life is

blighted forever. The prison walls did not lie in speaking to me the

terrible words: 'Your friends shall perish.'"

Amélie laid her hand on her father's shoulder. Her eyes were dry. She

seemed to forgive him all that she had suffered.

"My friends," added Naundorff, turning to the Carbonari, "let us give

the lie to the prison prophecy. Since I am given respite and my

persecutors seem to be satiated from having rifled me of my

certificates; since they ignore my interview with the woman--whom I have

forgiven (may my mother in heaven forgive her also)--; friends, return

to a quiet life and cease to combat, cease to conspire, cease to avenge!

A clear light illumines my mind and heart. I see what I would impart to

you. Listen: Resist not evil; rather return good for evil. He who

uproots the hedge will be bitten by the serpent, say the words of

eternal wisdom. Forgive that you may be forgiven."

Louis Pierre turned his face away that Naundorff might not see the keen

light in his eyes.

"Farewell, farewell!" repeated the outlaw. "I am a simple man,

henceforth. My only title is that of Man. I go to earn my bread by the

sweat of my brow. I go to die obscurely. Embrace me again."

The two Carbonari folded their arms around him, Giacinto shedding tears.

Naundorff said gently:

"Thanks, thanks! Peace descend upon you both. Cease to struggle, claim

not your dues. And you, Giacinto, do penance. Your hands are stained

with blood."

The Sicilian involuntarily looked upon those members. Just then they

were seized by Amélie, who whispered in his ear:

"O Giacinto, do not reproach yourself! 'Twas simple justice. Listen. She

who prepared the ambuscade shall herself leave France in banishment, or

else there is no God."

Some moments later the sloop glided out of port. Erect and majestic,

like unto a dethroned queen, Amélie waved an adieu to the Knights of

Liberty.

Giacinto and Louis Pierre stood motionless on the wharf which now began

to be covered with fishermen, sailors and venders. Their eyes were

riveted upon the sloop as she reached the schooner Polipheme. They could

still distinguish the black form of Amélie and her father's grave

outlines. The Polipheme weighed anchor, spread sails and gracefully

cleaved the waves red with the morning sun.

The gay voices of the crowd ashore awaiting the arrival of the fishing

smacks constituted so brilliant a tout ensemble that Giacinto,

notwithstanding the sad parting from his friends, felt new life rushing

through his veins and joy tugging at his heart strings. He looked at

Louis Pierre. That face wore an expression recalling vengeance and the

scaffold. Shuddering, the Sicilian returned to reality.

"They are gone, Louis Pierre," said he, in order to break the silence.

"They are gone,--those royal personages whom history will fail to

enumerate."

"Giacinto, you should have gone to Holland with them. I advise you as a

friend, for in Versailles you have a mistress whom you have filched from

a guard,--a dangerous experiment. O, I know all about it; she lives on

our floor. Do you think the bird worth the risking of your neck? Yes,

it was best for our friends to go. The police pretend to have forgotten

us. 'Tis a trap. They will not forget to square accounts with the man

who sent Volpetti to his brother Satan.--You are a child, Giacinto, and

may be led to any pasture by a petticoat string--"

"Bah!" interrupted the other. "Were it not for petticoats, what savor

would remain to life? My dear little laundress has set me quite crazy

with love and the sergeant is dying with jealousy. Will you believe that

here also I have discovered a jewel of a woman?--the daughter of a

tinker. And I am either a fool or this night--"

"So you remain? You are indeed a fool, Giacinto. I shall work out my

ends, henceforth, without your aid. Tho I be sought, I shall not be

found; even tho I be found, I shall not be caught, and even tho I be

caught, I shall not be retained. In this enigma I speak the truth."

Giacinto's superstitious nature was aroused.

"Why do you say these words, friend?" he asked.

"Because no man is overcome until he has performed his assigned task,"

serenely replied the Knight of Liberty. "Was the Other One overcome

before he had subjugated Europe? Today he is chained to Saint Helena,

but he first demonstrated the might of the Revolution. Before he could

demonstrate the might of Despotism, he was overpowered, for this the

Fates would not permit."

"We are not the Other One."

"Each man is the Other One. Each man may change the world if he acts of

himself."

"Bah!" retorted Giacinto. "We are pawns on a chess-board. Poor devils,

we but play our part. What matters it to me that it be primary or

secondary? I have sent to hell the devil who killed my brother. For the

rest, a fig!--I feel his warm blood on my hands now!"

His nostrils dilated at the ghastly memory, his lips smacked with savage

joy, his handsome face glowed with exultation.

"Yes," answered Louis Pierre in a solemn voice. "Your work is

accomplished. Fear, Giacinto, for you are now a hollow shell. Remember

how the dastardly Volpetti was given life only to accomplish his

mission. Volpetti was delivered to you when he had secured the documents

for Lecazes. But my work is as yet unfulfilled. For that reason I am

secure. My history is as yet unwritten."

"And it shall remain unwritten, my friend. What have two poor devils

such as you and I to do with history, especially since we no longer

accompany royalty?"

"I am a man," retorted Louis Pierre Louvel. "Have you measured the power

of a man? Giacinto, the birth of an individual is of transcendent

importance. Remember Him who was born in Judea. Consider the

significance of a male child to the House of France! This rotten dynasty

which the Cossack has forced us to again endure may yet sprout forth

fresh and green, and all because of a child's birth."

By this time the two Carbonari had reached their lodgings. They ascended

to their humble apartments. Louis Pierre took up his knapsack and,

according to the French custom, kissed his companion on the cheek.

"Are we not to breakfast together?" asked Giacinto.

"By breakfast time, I shall be far away from this place. You should be

also," replied Louis Pierre.

"What would the tinker's daughter think of her sweetheart? She has this

morning peeped from her window five times. She has thrown me a flower

and waved her hand--"

The fatalist remonstrated no further. Carrying his light equipage, he

descended the rickety stairs. Naundorff had paid the bills. He might,

therefore, depart, without seeking the host. His rickety form took the

direction of the woods and was soon lost to view.

An hour later Giacinto sat before a succulent repast of stewed fish. A

girl held to his lips a glass of foamy beer. Just then steps and the

clanking of muskets sounded on the stairway. The officer heading the

soldiers laid a hand on the Sicilian's shoulder, saying:

"Manacle his hands."

Chapter X

A DESCENDANT OF HENRI OF NAVARRE

In a human existence there may be a culminating moment,--a moment in

which ambitions are realized and reality adapts itself to the dreamed-of

ideal. The maneuvers of a subterranean state-craft during that epoch of

incessant conspiracy had raised Lecazes to the pinnacle of glory. The

Police was in its apogee, holding triumphantly in its hands the warp

whose reverse side was espionage, provocation, indictment, torture, and

whose obverse consisted of brilliant court ceremonials, stormy

discussions in Councils and diplomatic strife in the royal coterie,

wherein conservative and reactionary parties contended bitterly.

Dominating the maneuvers from his cabinet, the genial Minister

reigned,--the arbiter of the nation. He was the real master. He held the

reins and guided the King with well dissembled strategy, as well as the

other members of the royal family and the courtiers and officials,--all

of whom complacently obeyed him, in their solicitude for the

maintenance of the legitimate government.

Nevertheless, to use his own expression, "his life flowed between two

walls of paper." He was accustomed to say that Paper was his worst

enemy, adding, "You may rid yourself of a man but not of a piece of

written paper." Excepting those retained as future shields, he tore all

such sheets into bits, and compromising documents he burned.

It was the month of February. Lecazes sat in the same closet in which he

had received the Duchess de Rousillon. A cloud was upon his face and an

expression at once stealthy and rapacious, such as characterizes the

countenances of all selfishly ambitious men, when alone. The cause of

his preoccupation was a letter just received. It was anonymous and

contained only these brief clauses:

"Naundorff is despoiled, de Brezé murdered, Giacinto executed. They

shall be avenged. Guard the trunk; as for the limbs they are

despicable."

Such communications seldom troubled the Minister, accustomed as he was

to the language of charlatans. He usually destroyed the epistles,

smiling a Machiavellian smile. But this letter troubled him, for it was

not the first of the series; others had periodically preceded it,

giving no clue to the writer and seeming to have for object a warning to

the intended victim.

"There is not a thread of the net which I may not snap at will," he

soliloquized. "They are not indeed thinking of avenging de Brezé or

Naundorff--nor even that insignificant Carbonaro whom I have had to

execute. I did not do so as retaliation for Volpetti's death. However

much I miss him, I can not replace him. He was my hands and feet. But

pshaw! in state-craft we waive vengeance and travel direct to our

ends,--the Carbonari to the demolishing of the throne, I to the

sustaining of it. To sustain it I have wrought miracles. Had I not

obtained the papers which have cost me Volpetti, alas for the dynasty!

The happy exit must console me for the loss of my best man."

Re-reading the anonymous sheet, his attention was arrested by the phrase

"Guard the trunk."

"Who is the trunk?" he asked himself. "I should overestimate even my own

importance to suppose they mean me. Can it be the King? Poor decayed

trunk, soon to fall beneath the great woodman's ax! Can it be his

brother? Impossible!--that hollow reactionary, incorrigible trunk. He is

the Carbonari's best ally. I know not what will be the outcome of the

King's succumbing to gout. Can it be the Duke Louis? Sterile trunk! No,

if any one in particular is signified, 'tis Ferdinand,--the destined

perpetuator of the race. Let us see! Lecazes, imagine yourself a

conspirator. Whom would you attack? Why Ferdinand! Ferdinand the

debonnaire, the well-loved, the generator of heirs. May this writing be

the effusion of some fool? Or is it a conspirator's dash of romantic

honor in warning the intended victim? However that be, I must warn the

Prince. He is as unsuspicious and gay and heroic as his ancestor, Henry

of Navarre. Flatterers assure him that he is that great monarch's

prototype. He and his wife go about so freely and to every kind of

diversion. During one of these sky-larkings--Ah! kings may not live as

other men. Naundorff little realizes the good turn I did him and his

family by barring his approach to the throne, nor she either, the

audacious little intriguante. She has ample opportunity now to devote

her energies to the weaving of Flemish laces."

These thoughts still occupied him when he that afternoon entered the

royal cabinet. Before the monarch stood a table whose draperies were

arranged to conceal the swollen feet, for the gout grew daily worse.

Nevertheless, in frequent carriage rides and an incessant sortie of fine

classic raillery from his patrician lips, Louis XVIII demonstrated an

increased activity.

When Lecazes entered, the valetudinarian smiled piquantly, as one might

in slipping manacles on the wrists of an astute diplomat. Handing the

Minister a threatening letter, he vehemently asked:

"What does this mean, Baron? I am asked for an audience. I am told that

some one possesses knowledge of impending evil to the royal family. I am

warned that the refusing of this interview will be the cause of disaster

to those dearest to me. It follows that some one is better informed than

I concerning our interests. Is not this a humiliating position for a

King?"

As Lecazes was about to answer, there entered unannounced a man in the

prime of life. He had a prepossessing nonchalant impetuous manner. This

was Prince Ferdinand, second son of the King's brother Charles, sole

hope of the race's continuation. He was not handsome but he possessed in

a high manner the simple frankness and graceful address characteristic

of certain members of the Bourbon family, which was so captivating as to

create around them, even in times of popular discontent, an atmosphere

of loyalty. Ferdinand was short of stature and irregular in feature, but

his bright glance and irradiating vitality acted always as a great

jubilant wave enveloping all near him. A generous and cordial nature,

rising spontaneously to heroism, was revealed in his face, mingled with

a noble energy.

"Sire," he said, kissing his uncle's hand, "I pray you to pardon my

intrusion. I have an urgent communication which must not be delayed a

moment."

Lecazes made a discreet movement of withdrawal.

"No, no, Baron," interposed Ferdinand. "I pray you to remain. I expected

to find you here. I know, besides, that His Majesty has no secrets from

you. Indeed, I suppose you are better informed concerning this tangle

than I, for your fingers it is that have woven the mesh."

"To what does your Royal Highness allude?" asked Lecazes guardedly.

"To letters which I constantly receive," replied Ferdinand sharply.

"Letters which have kept me awake more than one night."

"Love letters?" ironically inquired Lecazes. "Your Royal Highness

inspires innumerable passions. 'Tis no marvel that these letters rain

upon you. What I find amusing is your simplicity in taking them

seriously."

The Prince's frank countenance darkened. His brow contracted and his

lips curled disdainfully as he replied:

"Baron, I am not accustomed to discuss such questions with

others,--least of all with the police! The matter concerns,--bah! why

should I relate this to you?--the matter concerns a member of our family

who has been rifled of personal documents and forced into exile, in

order to avoid even more barbarous treatment."

"Will Your Royal Highness be good enough to mention the name

of--this--member of the royal House?"

"You know his name better than I, since 'twas you who prepared the

villainous ambuscade and the other iniquities which I shall not

enumerate."

"Who is Your Royal Highness's informant?" asked Lecazes, turning livid.

"One who knows whereof he speaks," replied the Prince producing a packet

of letters.

"But Ferdinand, my son, why do you credit such calumniators?" interposed

the King.

"Sire, these are not calumnies. If you consider them such, why not turn

upon them the light of day? To me they have ample confirmation in the

face of Monsieur the Superintendent of Police, or in your own, Sire, or

in that of Madame my cousin and sister-in-law. I have seen her swoon on

hearing the name of the man whose personal history contains the tragic

episodes enacted last summer in Versailles park. The life of that true

knight and gentleman, my dear friend, René de Giac, there paid the

penalty for his loyalty--he, the son of one of the most valiant of

Condé's officers--"

"Ferdinand," stammered the King, his face growing paler and paler, "your

words are audacious and unwarranted. From any other than you, I should

pronounce them the ravings of a madman. What inference is to be drawn

from your asseverations? None other than that we are a usurper, that the

Restoration was a robbery and that as restitution, we must deliver up

the throne, after having played the role of thief, and retire into

private life amid the jeers of the spectators. What would follow then,

think you? Nothing less than an armed intervention of Europe to restore

order in France a second time and clear the bandit caves of their

booty."

"We are not speaking of an impostor," insisted Ferdinand bravely.

"Dare you call us usurper, then?" shrieked the King.

The smile on Lecazes's lips was a discharge of gall and the gleam in his

eyes was Satanic.

"For my part, Sire," retorted the nephew, "I believe you to be such. I

refuse--O more than the glory of thrones and crowns do I cherish honor

and the religion of Knighthood. I may or may not have a right to the

tide Royal Highness, but beyond question I am a soldier, and

notwithstanding certain gallantries, a Christian. I do not proclaim my

virtue as does my brother Louis, but neither do I ravish another man of

his rights. I will not longer live this life. I have tried to make light

of these letters. Does Your Majesty know why? Because in all of them

breathes a threat, and no man shall think me coward. If God gives me

life and France wars,'twill be demonstrated whether or not I am such. My

coming to you now has for object that of declaring to your Majesty that

if this matter be not adjudicated according to law and justice and in a

manner befitting our family dignity, I shall be forced to the

alternative of going to Holland and offering my services to my cousin,

as a partial reparation for the iniquity practised upon him."

"And I should not be surprised at your extravagance, my dear nephew,"

replied the King, irate and sarcastic. "Your action would be in keeping

with the conduct of a man who never considers the consequences of his

acts, a man who married a London woman of base extraction,--the plebeian

Amy Brown, a man who disregards court etiquette so far as to imitate the

Corsican in his policy of acquiring popularity with the army, a man

whose language in public is such as to undermine the established regime.

You would be more satisfactory nephew, were you to fulfill your office,

of furnishing France with a male heir of whom we stand in so great

need."

Ferdinand, far from evincing annoyance at the burst of wrath, answered

serenely:

"Sire, I scarcely think you hold me accountable for failing to

counteract the decrees of Providence regarding the birth of an heir. As

for the matter which brings me here, I declare that my regard for Your

Majesty cannot prevent my speaking my mind. I have considered that it

was due you to make you a party to the knowledge of the iniquity, that

you might have the opportunity of seconding my resolution. But if our

strength is to have its foundation in infamy, a sad future has the

House! I ask for but my commission in the army or to be a soldier in the

ranks. Your Majesty accuses me of imitating the Corsican. I reply that

the only glory I seek is the glory of arms and of a fearless heart."

"Is this all you would say, nephew?" asked the King, white with rage.

"Your Majesty is offended? Your Majesty dismisses me?"

"His Majesty's strength is unequal to such shocks," interposed Lecazes.

"My Lord Baron," said the Prince, "you are right. I retire. Henceforth,

Ferdinand de Bourbon has no guide but his conscience."

Saluting the monarch gravely and the Minister with mock respect, he

departed.

Lecazes followed him with a smile. As his footsteps died away, the Baron

shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you think of this Lecazes?" inquired the King.

"That we must let the Prince continue the road he has chosen. Place no

obstacles in his way--and do not trouble your mind about him.--Many

important historical events have just such origins as this.--I shall not

meddle in the affairs of His Royal Highness."

In the minister's mind there was formed the picture of a young vigorous

tree felled at a blow.

Chapter XI

FERDINAND'S FATE

Two days later a tumultuous carnival animated Paris. Crowds jostled each

other in the streets and gazed upon the procession of the Bull crowned

with flowers and the triumphal car freighted with maidens in gala

clothes and singing their applause. One of these maidens, a Versailles

laundress, was a shining mark, by reason of the brilliancy of her

complexion and the gleaming of her hair. On passing the Gate of

Saint-Denis, seeing a small man of puny frame and bilious skin she

called merrily out to him:

"Hello, Louis Pierre, old owl, de profundis face, don't you want to sup

tonight with some happy people at the Inn Mariscale?"

The masks and students near laughed to split their throats, and the

interrogated man hastened to conceal himself amid the crowd. He took

refuge in his lodgings and devoured his dinner with an almost savage

hunger, a strange action, for he was usually abstemious. Then he went

out again and mingled with the crowd. He leaned against the glass

windows of the royal theatre and watched the brilliant concourse within.

A great festival was in progress. The program announced the "Carnival of

Venice" and "The Marriage of Camacho." Carriages rolled, torches

gleamed, the crowd surged. The Court was arriving. Louis Pierre felt his

head swim. "Now, now!" a voice seemed mockingly to whisper. But in spite

of the mandate, he remained inert. Action refused to travel from brain

to hands.

"What ails me?" he asked himself. "Is it fear? Is it that I should not?

Am I about to perpetrate an act of justice or a crime? Have not my

warnings remained unheeded? I could do no more than I have done, unless,

indeed, I should deliver myself into their hands--"

While thus he vacillated, Prince Ferdinand and his wife the Princess

Caroline descended from their carriage and entered the theatre.

"Another opportunity lost! Vacillations, scruples, absurd perplexities,

culpable weaknesses! Have not these people given entrance to the

Cossacks and oppressed and rifled the innocent Naundorff? De Brezé's

blood cries for vengeance. This besotted city steeped in a Carnival

orgie! What is the Association doing? The Knights seem to sleep on

their arms. But Brutus keeps vigil--. Notwithstanding my numerous

letters, they have set no watch on me. 'Tis that Destiny protects me. I

was born to put my project into execution.--Let us wait, and then--the

ax to the trunk."

He walked away objectless through the royal gardens, stumbling at every

moment upon groups who sang bacchanalian refrains and prurient couplets

from Beranger. Women, with painted faces wearing flowers and greens,

flung cynical jests in his face. A drunkard insulted him. He heeded

nothing, thirsting only for the fresh night air, which in his feverish

condition he inhaled voraciously. Incoherent words rumbling through his

brain seemed to urge him to the deed.

"I must obey, I must obey!" he kept saying. "Then I shall find rest.

Indecision and torture will be over."

He computed the moments with burning anxiety.

"It must be tonight. When again shall I have the opportunity? Tomorrow I

must return to Versailles."

He walked stealthily back and forth, between the garden and the theatre.

The night advanced and the streets were growing deserted; the taverns

were being emptied of their occupants; the great clock sounded two, then

the half hour; the royal carriages drew up. The Carbonaro glided along

the solitary street of Louvois and made his way amid a group of lackeys.

His insignificant stature enabled him to remain there unmolested. He was

supposed to be some hackney coachman or an assistant placed there for

the purpose of guarding horses. Louis Pierre stood motionless close to

the wall.

He had not long to wait. Prince Ferdinand descended the steps,

accompanying his wife, who was leaving early, being fatigued from a ball

which she had attended the previous night. The Prince intended remaining

longer,--perchance to hover around some fair face. But, in order to

forestall any jealous pangs, he whispered to her gallantly and

affectionately, according to his winning nature:

"I shall be with you very soon."

The suspicious, ardent Italian wife and the impulsive, gallant husband

were a happy devoted pair. Caroline had warned him, as they left the

box, not to remain late.

"Don't wait for the sun to chase you home," she had said, half

playfully, half seriously. "I must go now, myself, in order to--be

careful of--our secret--the heir we are to give to France."

He reassured her tenderly, solicitously, pressing her arm to his side.

On reaching the carriage, he spoke the words we have already reproduced

and which are recorded in history as the last words of Ferdinand: "I

shall be with you very soon."

She stepped lightly into the carriage and turned her head at the window

to have a last look at her husband as he started towards the theatre. He

was walking along the pavement of Rameau street, beneath the gay

buntings. Louis Pierre stood among the lackeys and sentinels. When

later, in the solitude of the dungeon, he lived again the tragic moments

of his deed,--he could not understand how he accomplished with such

admirable dexterity that which a half hour earlier seemed so difficult

of execution. An invisible hand seemed to have guided him and sent his

own hand unflinchingly to its task. That powerful man, surrounded by

courtiers, friends and sentinels, who, drawn up on each side, presented

arms; that man whose splendid physique was revealed through his elegant

dress and who with one hand could have hurled to earth the puny creature

inflicting death:--that man, Louis Pierre assured himself, had been

delivered helpless and unsuspicious into his hands by Fate. He was no

longer overpowered by the consciousness of his insignificance; no longer

did he regard himself a despicable atom; within him was a species of

lucid inebriation, a glorious wave of pride and confidence. His moment

shone. The obscure plebeian had written his page of history.

"Before that moment, my life had amounted to naught. My latent self

suddenly sprang into being. To be satisfied with killing a spy! What

puerility! So little sufficed the inferior nature of Giacinto."

Thus communed Pierre Louis, as the imperious face of Amélie, her mouth

drawn in bitter disdain, with a terrible frown as of an avenging

archangel, came to his mind's eye. She stood for the feminine suggestion

there is in all tragedy. Great souls are lonely. They so love their

ideals that they cannot compromise nor forgive. It seemed to him that

the splendid eyes of Naundorff's daughter had fearlessly and

unhesitatingly shown him the way to the Prince. As a somnambulist moves,

he had accomplished the deed. With his small dagger, he had dealt a

marvelously dexterous blow, rapid and to the spot. Ferdinand felt no

wound, not even the coldness of the blade; he thought some one chanced

to strike against him; suddenly he realized he was about to fall. None

of the others suspected the truth. Meanwhile the assailant disappeared.

On reaching the corner of Richelieu street, Louis Pierre nonchalantly

slackened his speed and started toward the dark arcades, today in ruins,

opposite the stupendous edifice of the library. He was safe from

pursuit. None of those near whom he had stood before the theatre knew

him. He told himself that his life had trembled on the edge of a blade.

Just then he passed an inn wherein coffee was being served. Fate

ordained that a waiter carrying a tray upon which the fragrant beverage

steamed should step out of the door and stumble against him, an accident

occasioning the breaking of the dishes. The waiter turned infuriated

upon the causer of the damage, and, chasing him into the darkness of an

alley, caught him by the collar and shook him soundly. The Carbonaro was

such a weakling! He seemed to hear an interior voice saying:

"You have wrought. Now 'tis this man's turn."

When Ferdinand reached the vestibule, he involuntarily put his hand to

his side, over the unsuspected wound. He felt the projecting hilt of the

dagger. The entire blade was buried in his body. He cried out in pain as

the fine triangular weapon was extracted. The Princess Caroline hurried

back from her carriage and threw her arms around him and those bare

round arms were bathed in blood. Then followed tender heart-rending

adieux. The dying Prince poured out his soul during his last hours even

as his body delivered up its life. He spoke of glory, of patriotism, of

Christian faith, of love, of past faults; but more insistently than

ought else, did he plead for the assassin's pardon. As the King bent

over him, his lips, livid with the approach of death, implored:

"Forgive him, forgive him! We are all sinners, having need of

forgiveness. Sire and uncle, say yes!"

As the King maintained silence, he groaned:

"O my God, do you deny me this dying consolation?"

In his agony, as fever consumed his ebbing life, this descendant of

Henry of Navarre, so like that glorious ancestor, even in the manner of

his death, murmured:

"Forgive him, forgive him!"

Lecazes, meanwhile, amazed at the swiftness with which the trunk had

fallen, approached Louis Pierre, who was a prisoner in one of the lower

apartments, and whispered, as he drew him aside:

"Did you do this for money? Have you accomplices"

The Carbonaro cast upon the Minister a look of scorn, saying:

"Do men do these things for money? I am the avenger of my country and of

Naundorff and his daughter. The race perishes. There will be no heir."

"Fool," replied the Minister, gloating over that somber soul's

discomfiture, "the Princess is promised an heir."

Louis Pierre turned pale as the futility of the crime overwhelmed him.

"No matter," said he. "I did the deed and I would repeat it a thousand

times."

Again he assumed the stoical air and supreme command of self which

characterized him in such a high degree both during his trial and upon

the scaffold.

The whispered dialogue between Lecazes and the assassin was remarked by

the other occupants in the apartment and became the basis of the charge

of complicity brought against the Baron, and was the cause of his

removal and fall. It was said of him that:

"He slipped in the puddle of blood and fell."

FINIS.

CONTENTS

EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN

A GREAT GRANDSON OF LOUIS XVI

Book I MARTIN, THE SEER

Chapter I--THE LOVERS

Chapter II--MEMORIES

Chapter III--THE EMPTY COFFIN

Chapter IV--AMÉLIE

Chapter V--THE FIRST THREADS OF THE NET

Chapter VI--THE BAILIFF

Chapter VII--THE EPICUREAN

Chapter VIII--THE SEER

Book II--THE CASKET

Chapter I--THE MINIATURE

Chapter II--THE DAUPHIN'S SISTER

Chapter III--THE EMPTY COFFIN

Chapter IV--MARIE

Chapter V--A COURTEOUS MAN

Chapter VI--TORTURE

Chapter VII--THE BLACK HOLE

Chapter VIII--THE EXECUTION

Chapter IX--THE ESCAPE

Chapter X--PRUSSIA

Chapter XI--NAUNDORFF

Chapter XII--THE DAUPHIN'S WIFE

Chapter XIII--THE INCENDIARY

Book III THE KNIGHTS OF LIBERTY

Chapter I--LYING IN WAIT

Chapter II--THE TRAPPED FOX

Chapter III--RENÉ WAITS

Chapter IV--MINE AND COUNTERMINE

Chapter V--THE CREAKING BOOTS

Chapter VI--THE PARDON

Chapter VII--THE REVELATION

Chapter VIII--THE CAPTAIN

Chapter IX--THE SCHOONER

Book IV PICMORT

Chapter I--THE CASTLE

Chapter II--BAD NEWS

Chapter III--GIACINTO'S RETURN

Chapter IV--NIGHT

Chapter V--THE CHILD

Chapter VI--THE MARRIAGE

Chapter VII--DEATH

Book V THE SISTER

Chapter I--PORTENTS

Chapter II--THE QUESTION

Chapter III--REASONS OF STATE

Chapter IV--CONJUGAL LOVE

Chapter V--THE SISTER

Chapter VI--LOUIS PIERRE'S SISTER

Chapter VII--THE INTERVIEW

Chapter VIII--THE AMBUSH

Chapter IX--GIACINTO'S FATE

Chapter X--A DESCENDANT OF HENRI OF NAVARRE

Chapter XI--FERDINAND'S FATE