"Preserve that possession well, my son," said Kleber, as he took

leave of his son, and laid his hand on the head of the young man.

"Preserve your heart tender and loving, for if Fate is just, it may

one day be for the advantage of a whole nation that you are so, and

the heart of the man be the mediator between the people and its

king! Farewell, my son; we see each other to-day for the last time,

for in this very hour you will go to your ship with Desaix. It may

be that the ships will sail this very night, and if so, well! A

quick and unlooked-for separation mitigates the pains of parting.

You will soon have overcome them, and when you reach Paris, the past

will sink behind you into the sea."

"Never, oh, never!" cried Louis, with emotion. "I shall never forget

my benefactor, my second father!"

"My son, one easily forgets in Paris, and especially when he goes

thither for the purpose of creating a new future out of the ruins of

the past! But I shall never forget you; and if my presentiment

should not deceive me, and I should soon die, you will learn after

my death that I have loved you as a son. Now go, and I say to you,

as another loved voice once said to you, and as the sick and the

dying once repeated it to you, 'God bless you! All saints and angels

protect you!'"

They remained locked in their tender embrace, and then parted--never

to meet again!

That very night, before the morning began to dawn, General Desaix

started, accompanied by his adjutant Louis, and a few servants.

Their first goal was Alexandria, whither the command of General

Bonaparte summoned them and a few others.

The proposed journey of the commanding general was still a carefully

concealed secret, and the divan in Cairo had merely been informed

that Bonaparte was planning to undertake a short journey in the

Delta.

On the 22d of August, 1799, an hour after midnight, two French

frigates left the harbor of Alexandria. On board of one of them was

Bonaparte, the emperor of the future;--on the other was Louis

Charles, the king of the past. Nameless and unknown, the descendant

of the monarchs of France, with his sixteen years, returned to

France --to France, that seemed no longer to remember its past, its

kings, and to have no thoughts, no love, no admiration for aught

excepting that new, brilliant constellation which had arisen over

France-Bonaparte.

He had returned from Egypt to regain Italy, but he found other work

awaiting him in Paris. This he brought to completion with the energy

and boldness which characterized all his dealings. By a prompt

stroke he put an end to the constitution which had prevailed till

then, abrogated the Convention and the Council of Five Hundred, and

gave the French republic a new constitution, putting at the head of

the government three consuls, Sieyes, Roger Ducos, and himself. But

these three consuls were intended to be a mere transition, a mere

step forward in the victorious march of Bonaparte. After a few weeks

they were superseded, and Bonaparte became the First Consul and the

head of France.

On the 25th of December, 1799, France hailed General Bonaparte as

the First Consul of the French republic. A new century was dawning,

and with the beginning of this new century the gates of the

Tuileries, the deserted palace of kings, opened to a new possessor.

Bonaparte, the First Consul, took up his residence there; and in the

first spring of the new century the consul, accompanied by

Josephine, removed to St. Cloud for summer quarters. The park of

Queen Marie Antoinette was given by the French nation to the First

Consul; and in the apartments where the queen with her son Louis

Charles and her daughter Theresa once dwelt, Josephine, with her son

Eugene and her daughter Hortense, now abode.

"I would I had remained in Egypt," sighed the dauphin often, when in

the silence and solitude of his apartment he surrendered himself to

his recollections and dreams. "It had been better to die young in a

foreign land, while all the stars of hope were beaming above me,

than to protract a miserable, obscure life here, and see all the

stars fade out one by one!"

Yes, the stars of hope were paling one by one for the son of King

Louis. No one thought of him, no one believed in him. He had died in

the Temple, that was all that any one wanted to know. The dead was

lamented by all, the living would have been unwelcome to any. He had

died and been buried, little King Louis XVII., and no one spoke of

him more.

The only subject of men's talk was the glory and greatness of the

First Consul. The beauty and grace of Josephine were celebrated in

the same halls which had once resounded with the praises of fair

Queen Marie Antoinette. The half million lovers who had once bowed

to Marie were now devoted to Josephine, and paid their homage to her

with the same enthusiasm with which they had before worshipped the

queen. The son of the general who once had given the oath of

fidelity to King Louis XVI., the son of General Beauharnais, is now

the adopted son of the ruler of France; while the son of the king

must secrete himself and remain without name, rank, and title. It is

his good fortune that Desaix is there to pity the forsaken one, and

to give him a place in his home and his heart. No one else knows

him; he is the adjutant of General Desaix, that is his only rank and

title.

But he still remained the nephew of General Kleber, who had been

left in Egypt, and who, at the end of the century, gained a decisive

victory at Heliopolis over the Turks and Mamelukes. He remained the

nephew of General Kleber, and at the end of the year 1800 the

frigate l'Aigle, on its return from Egypt, brought a great packet

for General Desaix. It contained many papers of value, many rolls of

gold-pieces, besides gems and pearls. But; it also contained a

sealed black document directed to the adjutant of General Desaix.

This document contained the will of Kleber, commander-in-chief of

the French army in Egypt. He had given it to General Menou, together

with his papers and valuables, with the intimation that directly

after his death they should all be sent to General Desaix in France.

General Menou followed this instruction, for Kleber was dead. The

murderous bullet of a Mameluke killed him on the 14th of June, 1800.

His will was the last evidence of his love for his nephew Louis,

whom he designated as his only heir, and Kleber was rich through

inherited wealth as well as the spoils of war.

But Louis Charles took no satisfaction, and it made no impression on

him, when Desaix informed him that he was the possessor of a

million. "A million! What shall I do with it?" answered Louis,

sadly. "Were it a million soldiers, and I might put myself at their

head and with them storm the Tuileries and make my entrance into St.

Cloud, I should consider myself fortunate. But what advantage to me

are a million of francs? I can begin nothing with them; I should

have to establish a store and perhaps have the custom of the First

Consul of the republic!"

"Hush! young man, hush!" replied Desaix, "you are bitter and sad,

and I understand it, for the horizon is dark for you, and offers you

no cheerful prospect; but a million francs is a good thing

notwithstanding, and one day you will know how to prize it. This

million of francs makes you a rich man, and a rich man is a free and

independent man. If you do not wish to live longer as a soldier, you

have the power to give up your commission and live without care, and

that is something. My next business will be to assure you your

fortune against all the uncertainties of the future, which are the

more to be guarded against, as we are soon to advance into Italy

again for the next campaign. I can, therefore, not put your property

and your papers into your hands, for they constitute your future,

and we must deposit them with some one with whom they shall be safe,

and that must be with a man of peace. Do you know who this man is?"

"I know no one, general, excepting yourself," replied Louis, with a

shrug, "whom I should dare to trust."

"But, fortunately, I know an entirely reliable man; shall I tell you

who he is?"

"Do so, I beg you, general."

"His name is Fouche."

Louis started, and a deathly paleness covered his cheeks.

"Fouche, the chief of police! Fouche, the traitor, who gave his

voice in the Convention for the death of King Louis--to him, the red

republican, a man of blood and treachery, do you want to convey my

papers and my property?"

"Yes, Louis, for with him alone are they secure. Fouche will protect

you, and will stand by you with just as much zeal as he once

displayed in the persecution of the royal family. I know him well,

and I vouch for him. Men must not always be judged by their external

appearance. He who shows himself our enemy to-day, lends us to-

morrow, it may be, a helpful arm, and becomes our friend, sometimes

because his heart has been changed, and sometimes because his

character is feeble. I cannot with certainty say which of these

reasons has determined Fouche, but I am firmly convinced that he

will be a protector and a friend to you, and that in no hands will

your property and your papers be safer than in his." [Footnote:

Desaix's own words--See "Memoires du Due de Nonuandie," p. 61.]

Louis made no reply; he dropped his head with a sigh, and submitted.

On, in the new century, rolled the victorious car of Bonaparte, down

the Alps, into the fertile plains of Italy. The conqueror of Lodi

and Arcole meant to take revenge on the enemies who had snatched

back the booty--revenge on Austria, who had broken the peace of

Campo Formio. And he did take this revenge at Marengo, where, on the

14th of June, he gained a brilliant victory over Austria, and won

all Italy as the prize of the battle.

But the day was purchased at a sacrifice. General Desaix paid with

his death for his impetuous onset. In the very thick of the fight,

mortally wounded by a ball, he fell into the arms of his adjutant

Louis, and only with extreme peril could the latter, himself

wounded, bear the general away from the melee, and not. be trampled

to death by the horses of his own soldiers.

Poor Louis Charles! He now stood entirely alone--the last friend had

left him. Death had taken away every thing, parents, crown, home,

name, friends. He was alone, all alone in the world--no man to take

any interest in him, no one to know who he was.

Sunk in sadness, he remained in Alessandria after the battle of

Marengo, and allowed his external wound to heal, while the internal

one continued to bleed. He cursed death, because it had not taken

him, while removing his last friend.

And when the wound was healed, what should he do?--under what name

and title should he be enrolled in the army? His only protector was

dead, and the adjutant was reported to have died with him. He put

off the uniform which he had worn as the soldier of the republic

which had destroyed his throne and his inheritance, and, in simple,

unpretending garments, he returned to Paris, an unknown young man.

Desaix was right; it was, indeed, something to possess a million of

francs. Poor as he was in love and happiness, this million of francs

made him at least a free and independent man, and therefore he would

demand his inheritance of him whom he formerly shunned because he

was one of the murderers of his father.

Fouche received the young man exactly as Desaix had expected. He

showed himself in the light of a sympathizing protector; he was

touched with the view of this youth, whose countenance was the

evidence of his lineage, the living picture of the unfortunate Louis

XVI., whom Fouche had brought to the scaffold. Perhaps this man of

blood and the guillotine had compunctions of conscience; perhaps he

wanted to atone to the son for his injuries to the parents; perhaps

he was planning to make of the son of the Bourbons a check to the

ambitious consul of the republic; perhaps to humiliate the grasping

Count de Lille, who was intriguing at all the European courts for

the purpose of raising armies against the French republic. The son

of Louis XVI. could be employed as a useful foil to all these

political manoeuvres, and subsequently he could either be publicly

acknowledged, or denounced as an impostor, as circumstances might

determine.

At present it suited the plans of the crafty Fouche to acknowledge

him, and to assume the attitude of a protector. He put on a very

respectful and sympathetic air to the poor solitary youth; with

gentle, tremulous voice he called him your Majesty; he begged his

pardon for the past; he spoke with such deep emotion and so solemn a

tone of the good, great, and gentle Louis XVI., that the heart of

the son was powerfully touched. And when Fouche, with flaming words

of enthusiasm, began to speak of the noble, unhappy Queen Marie

Antoinette, when with glowing eloquence he celebrated her beauty and

her gentleness in time of good-fortune, her greatness and

steadfastness in ill-fortune, all the anger of the young man melted

in the tears of love which he poured out as he remembered his

mother.

"I forgive you, Fouche; yes, I forgive you," he cried, extending

both his hands. "I see plainly the power of political faction

hurried you away; but your heart cannot be bad, for you love my

noble mother. I forgive you, and I trust you."

Fouche, deeply moved, sank upon his knee before the dauphin, and

called himself one of his loyal subjects, and promised to take all

means to restore the young king to the throne of his fathers. He

conjured Louis to trust him, and to enter upon no plan without

asking his counsel.

Louis promised this. He told Fouche that he was the only man who had

talked with him about the past without using ambiguous language;

that he was surprised at this, and compelled to recognize as true

what formerly had been fettered on his tongue. He told him that he

had promised his rescuer, with a solemn oath, never to acknowledge

himself as the son of Louis XVI., and King of France, till this

rescuer and benefactor empowered him to do so, and released him from

his vow of silence. He made it, therefore, the first condition of

his confidence that Fouche should disclose his secret to no one, but

carry it faithfully in his own breast.

Fouche promised all, and took a sacred oath that he would never

reveal the secret confided to him by the King of France. But he

confessed at the same time that the First Consul knew very well that

the son of the king had been released from the Temple, and that

among the posthumous papers of Kleber there was a letter directed to

Bonaparte, stating that he, Kleber, knew very well that the little

Capet was still living, and imploring Bonaparte to restore the

orphan to the throne of the Lilies. The consul had, therefore,

quietly, made investigations, and learned that Louis had taken part

as the adjutant of General Desaix in the battle of Marengo, that he

had been wounded there, and remained in the hospital of Alessandria

till his recovery. Since then all trace of the young man had been

lost, and he had commissioned Fouche to discover the adjutant of

Kleber and Desaix and bring him to him.

"You will not do that?" cried Louis, eagerly; "you will not disclose

me?"

"Are you afraid of him?" asked Fouche, with a suspicious smile.

The young man blushed, and a cloud passed over his clear forehead.

"Fear!" he replied with a shrug. "The sons of my ancestors have no

fear; and I have shown on the battle-fields of Aboukir and Marongo,

and in the pest-houses of Jaffa, that I know not the word. But when

one meets a blood-thirsty lion in his path he turns out of the way,

and when a tiger extends its talons at one he flies; that is the

duty of self-preservation, and not the flight of a coward."

"Do you believe, then, that this lion thirsts for royal blood?"

"I believe that he thirsts for royal rank, and that he will neglect

no means to vanquish all hinderances that might intervene between

himself and the throne. Do you believe, sir, that the man who, after

the battle of Aboukir, sentenced five thousand prisoners to death,

would hesitate a moment to take the life of a poor, defenceless

young man such as I am? He would beat me into the dust as the lion

does the flea which dares to play with his mane."

"It appears you know this aon very well," said Fouche with a smile,

"and I really believe you judge him rightly. But be without concern.

He shall not know from me that I am aware of you and your abiding-

place. In order that Bonaparte shall not take me to be a bad

detective, I shall show him in all other things that I am on the

alert. In case of necessity, it may be that I shall have to resort

to deception, and, in order to save your life, inform the consul

that you are dead. There were a great many young officers who fell

at Marengo, or afterward died as the result of their wounds. Why

should not the adjutant of General Desaix have met this fate? Yes, I

believe this will be the best. I will give you out as dead, in order

to save your life. I will cause a paper to be prepared which shall

testify that the adjutant of General Desaix, who lay there in the

hospital, died there of his wounds and was buried."

"And so I shall disappear from life a second time?" asked Louis,

sadly.

"Yes, sire, in order to enter anew upon it with greater splendor,"

replied Fouche, eagerly.

"Who knows whether this shall ever be?" sighed Louis. "How shall I

be able to establish my identity if I die and am buried twice? Who

will be my pledge that I shall be able to convince men that I am not

a deceiver, and that my whole existence is not an idle tale? There

are only a few who know and believe that little Capet escaped from

the Temple, and went to Egypt as Kleber's adjutant. If, now, these

few learn that the adjutant fell in battle, if the paper that

testifies to his death is laid before them, how shall I subsequently

be believed if I announce that I am alive, and that I am the one for

whom I give myself out? The seal of royalty is impressed on no man's

brow, and we know from history that there have been false

pretenders."

"You shall show with your papers that you are none such," said

Fouche, eagerly, "and God will grant that I, too, shall be living

when the time shall be in which you may come forward with raised

voice and demand your inheritance and your throne. Hope for that

time, and meanwhile preserve your papers well. Carry them always

with you, part with them neither day nor night, for in these papers

rest your future and your c rown. No other man besides yourself can

take care of them These papers are worth more to you than a million

of fras, although oven that should not be scorned. Here are the

documents that give you possession of your wealth. I have deposited

your funds in the Bank of France, and you can draw out money at any

time by presenting these checks that I give you, simply writing your

name upon them."

"By simply writing my name upon them!" cried Louis, bitterly. "But,

sir, what is my name? How shall I be called? I was formerly

designated as the nephew of Kleber, Colonel Louis, the adjutant of

Desaix. But Colonel Louis can no longer acknowledge that he is

alive, and you propose to convince the First Consul that the nephew

of Kleber is dead. Who, then, am I? What name shall I subscribe to

those papers? By what name shall the nameless, the dead and buried,

the resurrected, the again dead and buried one--by what name shall

he draw money from the bank?"

"Very true," said Fouche. "A name, or rather the mask of a citizen's

or nobleman's name, must be your disguise, and it is imperatively

necessary that we give you such, and provide you with papers that

cannot be forged, which shall prove your existence, and secure you

against every assault."

"Very good; then tell me how I shall be called," said Louis, sadly.

"Be the godfather of the solitary and nameless."

"Well, I will," cried Fouche. "In the glamour of political passions

I have raised my voice against the life of your father; full of

regret I will raise my voice for the life of the son, and assist him

to enter afresh upon life and into the society of men. Young man, I

will give you a name and rank, till the French nation restore to you

your true name and rank. You shall henceforth be called the Baron de

Richemont. Will you accept it?"

"Yes, I will accept it," said Louis, gently. "To be the Baron de

Richemont is better than to be a dead and buried person without any

name."

"Very good, my lord baron," cried Fouche, "I will have the necessary

certificates and papers made out, and enter your property in the

Bank of France under the name of the Baron de Richemont. If you

please, come to-morrow to me, and I will deliver to you the papers

of Monsieur de Richemont."

"I shall come, be sure of that," said Louis, giving him his hand;

"it seems to me my fate to go incognito through life, and God alone

knows whether I shall ever abandon this incognito."

He saluted Fouche with a sad smile, and went out. The minister

listened to the resounding footstep, and then broke out into loud,

mocking laughter.

"Foolish boy!" he said, raising his hand threateningly, "foolish

boy! You suppose that only God knows whether you will ever come out

of your incognito. You mistake--besides God, Fouche knows it. Yes,

Fouche knows that this incognito extends over you like a net, from

which you never will escape. No, the Baron de Richemont shall never

be transformed into King Louis XVII. But he shall be an instrument

with which I will hold in check this ambitious Consul Bonaparte, who

is striving; for the throne, and this grasping Count de Lille, who

in his exile calls himself King Louis XVIII.--the instrument with

which I threaten when I am threatened. Only, my little Baron de

Richemont, I do not know what I can make out of you, but I know that

you shall make out of me a rich, dangerous, and dreaded man. Poor,

credulous fool! How easily you fall into the piti The Baron de

Richemont shall never escape from it. I vouch for it--I, Fouche!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

FOUCHE.

The First Consul was walking with hasty steps up and down his

cabinet. His eyes flashed, and his face, which elsewhere was

impenetrable, like that of the brazen statues of the Roman emperors,

disclosed the fiery impatience and stormy passions which raged

within him. His lips, which were pressed closely together, opened

now and then to mutter a word of threatening or of anger, and that

word he hurled like a poisoned arrow directly at the man who, in a

respectful attitude and with pallid cheeks, stood not far from the

door, near the table covered with papers.--This man was Fouche,

formerly the chief of police in Paris, and now a mere member of the

senate of the republic. He had gone to the Tuileries in order to

request a secret audience of Bonaparte, who had now forgotten the

little prefix of "First" to his consular title, and now reigned

supreme and alone over France.

Bonaparte suddenly paused in his rapid walk, coming to a halt

directly in front of Fouche, and looked at him with flaming eyes, as

if they were two daggers with which he meant to pierce deep into his

heart. But Fouche did not see this, for he stood with downcast eyes,

and appeared not to be aware that Bonaparte was so near him.

"Fouche," cried the consul, violently, "I know you, and I am not to

be deceived by your indifferent, affected air! You shall know that I

do not fear you--you and all the ghosts that you can conjure up. You

think that you frighten me; you wish that I should pay you dearly

for your secret. But you shall know that I am not at all of a

timorous nature, and that I shall pay no money for the solution of a

riddle which I may perhaps be able to solve without your help. I

warn you, sir, you secret-vender, be well on your guard! You have

your spies, but I have my police, and they inform me about every

thing out of the usual course. It is known, sir, that you are

carrying on a correspondence with people out of the country--

understand me, with people out of the country!"

"Consul," replied Fouche, calmly, "I have certainly not known that

the republic forbids its faithful servants to send letters abroad."

"The republic will never allow one of its servants to correspond

with its enemies," cried Bonaparte, in thundering tones. "Be silent,

sir! no evasions, no circumlocutions! Let us speak plainly, and to

the point. You are in correspondence with the Count de Lille."

"You know that, consul, for I have had the honor to give you a

letter myself, which the pretender directed to you, and sent to me

to be delivered."

"A ridiculous, nonsensical letter," replied Bonaparte, with a shrug;

"a letter in which this fool demands of me to bring him back to

France, and to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his

government. By my word, an idiot could not write a more crazy

document! I am to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his

government! Well, I shall do that; but there will be no place left

near me for the Bourbons, whom France has spewed out, as one spews

out mortal poison. These hated and weak Bourbons shall never attain

to power and prestige again. Prance has turned away from them.

France abhors this degenerate race of kings; it will erect a new

edifice of power and glory, but there will be no room in it for the

Bourbons! Mark that, intriguer, and build no air-castles on it. I

demand of you an open confession, for I shall accuse yon as a

traitor and a royalist."

"Consul, I shall not avoid this charge," replied Fouche, calmly,

"and I am persuaded that Prance will follow with interest the course

of a trial which will unveil an important secret--which will inform

it that the rightful King of France, according to the opinion of

Consul Bonaparte, did not die in the Temple under the tender care of

Simon the cobbler, but is still alive, and is, therefore, the true

heir of the crown. That would occasion some joy to the royalists,

surely!"

The consul stamped on the floor with rage, his eyes shot flames, and

when he spoke again, his voice rang like peals of thunder, so

angrily and so powerfully did it pour forth.

"I will change the paecans and the joy of these royalists to

lamentations and wailings," he cried. "All the enemies of France

shall know that I hold the sword in my hands, and mean to use it,

not only against foes without, but foes within. France has given me

this sword, and I shall not lay it down, even if all the kings of

Europe, and all the Bourbons who lie in the vaults of St. Denis,

leave their graves, to demand it from me! I am the living sword of

France, and never shall this sword bow before the sceptre of a

Bourbon. Fresh shoots might sooner spring from the dead stick which

the wanderer carries through the desert, than a Bourbon sceptre

could grow from the sword of Bonaparte; and all the same, whether

this Bourbon calls himself Louis XVII. or Louis XVIII.! Mark that,

Fouche, and mark also that when I once say 'I will,' I shall know

how to make my will good, even if the whole world ventures to

confront me."

"I know that, consul," said Fouche, with deference. "God gave you,

for the weal of France, an iron will and a brain of fire, and

destined you to wear not only laurels, but crowns."

A flame glared from the eyes of the consul and played over the face

of Fouche, but the latter appeared not to notice it, for he cast

down his eyes again, and his manner was easy and unconstrained.

"You now speak a word which is not becoming," said Bonaparte,

calmly. "I am the first servant of the republic, and in a republic

there are no crowns."

"Not citizens' crowns, general?" asked Fouche, with a faint smile.

"I mean, that this noblest of crowns can everywhere be acceptable,

and no head has merited such a crown more than the noble Consul

Bonaparte, who has made the republic of France a worthy rival of its

sister in North America."

Bonaparte threw his head proudly back. "I am not ambitious of the

honor," he said, "of being Washington of France."

"Yet you are he, general," replied Fouche, with a smile. "Only the

Washington of France does not live in the White House which a

republic has built, but in the Tuileries, which he has received as

the heir of the French kings. General, as the worthiest, the

greatest, the most powerful, and the most signally called, you have

come into the possession of the inheritance of the kings of France.

For to this inheritance belongs also the crown of France. Why do you

refuse this, while accepting all the rest?"

"And what if I show you that I do not want it?" asked Bonaparte.

"And what if I should tell you that I do not feel myself worthy to

assume the whole, undivided inheritance of the Bourbons? Would you

be foolish and senseless enough to believe such an idle tale?"

"Consul, you have already done so many things that are wonderful,

and have brought so many magic charms to reality, that I no longer

hold any thing to be impossible, as soon as you have laid your hand

upon it."

"And therefore you hold a concealed magician's wand, which you

propose to draw forth at some decisive moment, and present to me, as

the cross is presented to Beelzebub in the tale?"

"I do not understand you, consul," replied Fouche, with the most

innocent air in the world.

"Well, then, I will make myself intelligible. The magician's wand,

which you are keeping concealed, is called Louis XVII. Oh! do not

shake your cunning head; do not deny with your smooth lips, which

once uttered the death-sentence of Louis XVI., and which now are

used to teach a fool and a pretender that he is the son of the

murdered king. Truly, it is ridiculous. The regicide wants to atone

for his offence by hatching a fable, and making a king out of a

manikin."

"General, no fable, and no manikin," cried Fouche, with a

threatening voice. "The son of the unfortunate king is alive, and--"

"Ah!" interrupted Bonaparte, triumphantly, "so you confess at last,

you reveal your great secret at length! I have driven the sly fox

out of his hole and the hunt can now begin. It will be a hot chase,

I promise you, and I shall not rest till I have drawn the skin over

the ears of the fox, or--"

"Until he says his pater peccavi?" asked Fouche, with a gentle

smile.

"Until he delivers to me the changeling whom he wants to use as his

Deus ex machina," replied Bonaparte. "My dear sir, it helps you not

at all to begin again this system of lies. Your anger has betrayed

you, and I have succeeded in outwitting the fox. The so-called 'son

of the king is alive;' that has escaped you, and you cannot take it

back."

"No, it cannot be taken back," replied Fouche, with a sigh. "I have

disclosed myself, or rather I have been outwitted. You are in all

things a hero and a master, in cunning as much as in bravery and

discretion. I bow before you as before a genius whom God Himself has

sent upon the earth, to bring the chaotic world into order again; I

bow before you as before my lord and master; and instead of opposing

you, I will henceforth be content with being your instrument,

provided that you will accept me as such."

"That is, Fouche, provided that I will fulfil your conditions,"

cried Bonaparte, with a shrug. "Very well name your conditions!

Without circumlocution! What do you demand?"

"Consul, in order that we may understand one another, we must both

be open and unreserved. Will you permit me to be free with you?"

"Certainly," replied Bonaparte, with a condescending nod.

"Consul, you have thrust me aside, you have no longer confidence in

me. You have taken from me the post of minister of police, and given

it to my enemy Regnier. That has given me pain, it has injured me;

for it has branded me before all the world as a useless man, whom

Bonaparte suspects. Your enemies have believed that my alienation

from you would conduce to their advantage, and that out of the

dismissed police prefect they might gain an enemy to Bonaparte.

Conspirators of all kinds have come to me--emissaries of Count de

Lille, deputies from the royalists in Vendee, as well as from the

red republicans, by whom you, Bonaparte, are as much hated as by the

royalists, for they will never forgive you for putting yourself at

the head of the republic, and making yourself their master. All of

these parties have made propositions to me, all of them want me to

join them. I have lent my ear to them all, I have been informed of

all their plans, and am at this hour the sworn ally of both the

republicans and the royalists. Oh! I beg you," continued Fouche, as

Bonaparte started up, and opened his lips to speak--"I beg you,

general, hear me to the end, and do not interrupt me till I have

told you all.--Yes, I have allied myself to three separate

conspiracies, and have become zealous in them all. There is, first,

that of the republicans, who hate you as a tyrant of the republic;

there is, in the second place, the conspiracy of the royalists, who

want to put the Count de Lille on the throne; and third, there is

that of the genuine Capetists, who want to make the 'orphan of the

Temple' Louis XVII. These three conspiracies have it as their first

object to remove and destroy Consul Bonaparte. Yes, to reach this

end the three have united, and made a mutual compromise. Whichever

party succeeds in murdering you, is to come into power, and the

others are to relinquish the field to it: and so if Bonaparte is

killed by a republican dagger, the republic is to remain at present

the recognized form of government; and if the ball of a royalist

removes you, the republicans strike their banner, and grant that

France shall determine, by a general ballot, "whether it shall be a

republic or a kingdom."

"Well," asked Bonaparte, calmly, as Fouche closed, and cast an

inquiring glance at the consul's face, which was, notwithstanding,

entirely cold and impenetrable--" well, why do you stop? I did not

interrupt you with a question. Go on!"

"I will, consul. I have made myself a member of these three

conspiracies; for, in order to contend with the heads of Cerberus,

one must have them all joined; and in order to be the conqueror in a

great affair, one must know who all his enemies are, and what are

all their plans. I know all the plans of the allies, and because I

know them, it is within my power to bring discontent and enmity

among them, using for this end the third conspiracy--that of the

dependants of Louis XVII., the orphan of the Temple. Through

sympathy with him, I have divided the party of royalists; I have

withdrawn from the Count de Lille many of his important dependants,

and even some of the chief conspirators, who came to Paris to

contend for Louis XVIII., have recently in secret bent the knee to

Louis XVII., and sworn fidelity to him."

"That is not true," cried Bonaparte, vehemently. "You are telling me

nurses' stories, with which children may be frightened, but men not.

There are no secret meetings in Paris!"

"General, if your minister of police, Regnier, has told you so, he

only shows that he is no man to be at the head of the police, and

knows nothing of the detective service. I tell you, general, there

are secret societies in Paris, and I ought to know, for I am a

member of four separate ones."

"Ah! sir," sneered Bonaparte, "you are out of your head! Before, you

spoke of three conspiracies, and now they have grown to be four."

"I am speaking now of secret societies, consul, for not every secret

society can be called a conspiracy. Before, when I was giving

account of conspiracies, I mentioned three; now, when we speak of

secret societies, I have to mention a fourth. But this does not

deserve the name of a conspiracy, for its object is not murder and

revolution, nor does it arm itself with daggers and pistols."

"I should be curious to know the name of your fourth society," cried

Bonaparte, impatiently.

"I will satisfy your curiosity, general. This fourth secret society

bears the name 'the Bonapartists,' or--allow me to approach you

closer, that the walls of the old palace may not hear the word--or

'the Imperialists.' "

Bonaparte shrank back, and a glow of red passed for a moment over

his cheeks. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean by that, general, what I have already said: your brow is

made not to wear laurels alone, but a crown, and there is only one

way to destroy the other three conspiracies--the way proposed by the

fourth secret society. In order to make the efforts of the

republicans and royalists ineffective, and to tread them under your

feet, France needs an emperor."

"And do you want to make your manikin, Louis XVII., Emperor of

France?"

"No, general," answered Fouche, solemnly--"no; I want to make Consul

Bonaparte Emperor of the French!"

The consul trembled, and his eyes flashed through the apartment, the

former cabinet of Louis XVI., as if he wanted to convince himself

that no one had heard this dangerous word of the future. Then he

slowly bent forward without meeting Fouche's looks, which were

intently fixed upon him.

A pause ensued--a long, anxious pause. Then Bonaparte slowly raised

his eye again, and now it was filled as with sunlight.

"Is your fourth secret society numerous?" he asked, with that

magical smile which won all hearts.

"It comprises artists, poets, scholars, and above every thing else,

officers and generals," replied Fouche. "It grows more numerous

every day, and as fortunately I have only been deposed from my place

of minister of police, but still remain a member of the senate of

the republic, it has been my effort to gain over in the senate

influential members for my secret society of imperialists. If my

hopes are crowned with success, the secret society will soon become

an open one, and the senate will apply to you with a public request

to put an end to all these conspiracies and intrigues, to place

yourself at the head of France, and accept the imperial crown which

the senate offers you. But--"

"I comprehend your 'but,' Fouche," interrupted Bonaparte, eagerly.

"You want to make your conditions. An imperial crown does not fall

direct from heaven upon the head of a man; there must be hands there

to take it, and it might happen that they would be crushed by the

falling crown. They must be paid for their heroism, therefore. Let

us suppose, then, that I give credence to all your stories, even

that about the empire of the future--tell me, now, what you demand."

"General, if I show you and all France by facts that the country is

rent by conspiracies, that the cancer of secret societies is eating

into the very marrow of the land, and imperilling all its

institutions, will you confess to me then that I am better adapted

to be the head of the police than M. Regnier d'Angely, who insists

and dares to say to you that there are no secret societies in

France?"

"Prove to me by facts the existence of your conspiracies, and I will

commission you to help me destroy this hydra's head. Give me the

proofs, and you shall be head of police again."

Fouche bowed. "You shall have the proofs, general, to-day--at once,

provided that we thoroughly understand each other. I am ambitious,

general, and I have no wish to be driven back for a single day into

nothingness, as I should be, if my enemies withdraw their confidence

in me. Now I am, at least, a member of the senate; but if the senate

is dissolved, and I should subsequently be deposed again from the

head of the police, I should be nothing but Fouche--Fouche fallen

out of favor. Voila tout!"

"No, not so," said Bonaparte, with a smile. "You will always be

known as the murderer of the king; that is a fine title for a

republican, is it not?"

"Ah, general, I see that you understand me," cried Fouche. "We are

now talking about a name, a position, a title for me. Provided that

here in the Tuileries a throne is reestablished, we must have a

court again, men with orders, titles, and dignities."

"It is true," said Bonaparte, thoughtfully. "The world continues to

revolve in the same circles of folly and vanity, and after making an

effort to withdraw from them, it falls back again into the old ruts.

Men are nothing but actors, and every one wants to adorn himself

with glistening rags, in order to take the first part, and have his

name go upon the poster of history. Well, how would you be called,

Fouche, if the drama of an empire should really be brought forward

upon the great stage of the world? "

"I should like the title of a prince or duke, sire." Bonaparte could

scarcely suppress the smile of satisfaction that played over his

face. It was the first time that he had ever been addressed as king

or emperor, and this "sire" which Fouche dropped into the ear of

Bonaparte like a sweet poison, flattered his senses and soothed him

like delightful music. But the strength of his genius soon resumed

its sway, and he broke out into a loud, merry laugh.

"Confess, Fouche," he cried, "that it is comical to hear the consul

talking with a senator of the republic about an empire and ducal

titles. Truly, if the strict republicans of your conspiracy number

one should hear this, they would be justified in accusing us as

traitors and conspirators."

"We must get the start of them--we must accuse them."

"If we possess secure means to do so."

"I possess them, and I will give them to you, Consul Bonaparte, as

soon as the emperor of the future assures me of a princely title, in

addition to the chieftaincy of police."

"Very well," said Bonaparte, laughing, "the emperor of the future

promises you that as soon as he is able to bake a batch of these

delicacies, he will put his chief of police in the oven and draw him

out as a prince or a duke. The emperor of the future gives you his

word of honor that he will do it. Are you satisfied now, my lord

republican?"

"Sire, completely satisfied," said Fouche, bowing low.

"And now let us talk together seriously," said Bonaparte. "You have

spoken of conspiracies; you assert that they exist, but do not

forget that you have promised me tangible proofs--understand me

well, tangible proofs; that is, it is not enough for me to see the

papers and the lists of conspirators who have escaped into foreign

lands--I want persons, men of flesh and blood--traitors whom I may

hang, not in effigy, but in reality, and who may serve as a warning

example to the whole herd of conspirators, and put an end forever to

this nonsense. I am wearied of being perpetually threatened by

traitors, poisoned daggers, air-guns, plots, and intrigues, of all

kinds. It is time to hunt down the chief men of these bravoes who

have been sent here from England, Germany, Russia, and Italy, and I

have had enough of illustrating the old proverb, 'Hang the little

thief and let the great one run.' I mean to have the great thief and

to hang him, for that is the only way of intimidating these fellows

and inspiring them with respect."

"Sire, you shall have your great thieves," said Fouche, with a

smile.

"Give them into my hands, and I promise you they shall never

escape," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is high time to make an

example, and show these people at last that I claim the right of

paying back. The Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien are always

egging their conspirators upon me; they appear to have no other aim

than to get rid of me, and are unwearied with their daggers,

infernal machines, and counter-plots. But their own persons, and

those of their highest helpers, always remain beyond reach. They

arrange their plans always at a safe distance, and risk nothing by

this; for, if we take some of their subordinate tools and punish

them, they make an outcry about barbarity and cruelty, and appeal to

their sacred right of using all means to regain their inheritance,

and reestablish the throne in France. They do not deny that they

would have no conscientious scruples about shedding my blood. Now,

why should I have any about shedding theirs? Blood for blood, that

is the natural and unavoidable law of retaliation, and woe to him

who lays claim to it! These Bourbons do so. I have never injured one

of them personally; a great nation has placed me at its head; my

blood is worth as much as theirs, and it is time at last that I make

it al pari with theirs. I will no longer serve as a target for all

murderers, and then afterward only find the dagger, instead of

seizing the hands that ply it. Let me once have hold of the hands,

and all the daggers will disappear forever!"

"I will give these hands into your power, or, at least, some fingers

of them."

"I want them all," cried Bonaparte, eagerly,--"all the fingers, all

the hands. You have spoken of three different conspiracies. I want

the leaders of them, and then all others may run. If the hydra loses

its three heads, it must at last die. So give me the three heads,

that of the republicans and of the two royalist parties. The head of

conspiracy number two I know; it is the Count de Lille. He is the

sly spider who always withdraws behind his nets, but I know the

hand, too, that is set in motion by this head; it is the Duke

d'Enghien. He is an untiring conspirator, wholly occupied with

infernal machines and daggers for me. Ah! let him take care of

himself, the little Duke d'Enghien. If I take him, I will exercise

the right of retaliation upon him, for I am determined to have

peace. "We now come to your conspiracy number three, to your Deus ex

machina, the so-called Louis XVII. This Deus really exists?"

"Yes, general, he exists."

Bonaparte laughed aloud, but his laughter sounded like a threat. "I

have heard of this story," he said. "The good-natured Kleber

believed it, and, after his death, a paper was given to me, written

by him, and directed to me, which stated that his so-called nephew

Louis was the heir of the King of France, and implored me earnestly

to take the orphan of the Temple under my protection. I instituted

inquiries for him at once; it was after the battle of Marengo, and

this Monsieur Louis was, till then, adjutant of General Desaix."

"Yes, general, adjutant of Desaix, down to the battle of Marengo--

that is, to the death of Desaix."

"If I mistake not, his adjutant was wounded in the battle, and lay

at the hospital in Alessandria."

"It is so, general. I wonder how closely you have been informed

respecting the fortunes of this young man."

"From that time all trace of him has been lost, and all my inquiries

have proved in vain. The adjutant of Desaix, who fought so bravely,

and who bore my dying comrade in his arms, deserved advancement, and

I wanted to give it to him, and therefore searched for him, but in

vain. I believed him dead, and now you come and tell me about a

conspiracy in favor of Louis XVII. This young pretender is still

alive, then, and there are childlike souls who believe his story,

are there?"

"General, he says little, for he is very silent and reticent, but he

has testimonials which speak for him, and which show that his story

is not an idle tale, but a fragment of history. His papers give

clear and undeniable evidence cf his lineage and the course of his

life."

"I should like to see these papers once," said the consul.

"He never lets them go out of his hands, for he knows very well that

they are his security for a crown."

"Then bring me the man himself, and then I shall have him and his

papers," said Bonaparte, with a growl like a lion's. "Is not he the

head of the conspiracy?"

"Yes, general, the head of a conspiracy which I have conducted,

because I meant to have all the threads in my hands, if I was to see

clearly. In order to prove the royalists, I threw them this bait,

and many of them have taken the hook and come over to the young

king. In this way I have made a division in the ranks of the

royalists, and the Count de Lille already sees the consequences. The

so-called orphan of the Temple has at this hour no enemy who hates

him more than the Count de Lille."

"But this enmity of the Count de Lille vanishes like a glow-worm in

the darkness. I want tangible proofs by which I can arrest my

enemies. Can you give them to me?"

"General, it will not be difficult to do this. We will speak of it

hereafter. Allow me first a word about this dangerous adjutant of

Desaix, Colonel Louis. You said, general, that you made futile

efforts to gain information about this interesting and brave young

man. Those efforts were made in the years when M. Regnier d'Angely

was chief of police, in which my enemies succeeded in withdrawing

the confidence of the First Consul from me. But had I been chief of

police at that time, I should have been able to tell you that the

young man whom you were seeking, and respecting whom you obtained no

information, was living here in Paris."

"What!" cried Bonaparte, in amazement. "This so-called Louis XVII.

in Paris, then?" "General, he is still here; he has been living in

Paris for about four years--about as long as M. Regnier has been

head of police."

"And Regnier has told me nothing about it! Has he not known that so

dangerous a person was living in Paris?"

Fouche shrugged his shoulders. "Monsieur Regnier--who doubts the

existence of secret societies in France, and tells you that the

assassins who have so often of late imperilled your life have all

been sent hither from foreign parts by the pretenders to the crown,

and that there are no conspirators in France--Monsieur Regnier could

not of course know the head of this secret society. He left them to

follow their own pleasures unhindered here in Paris. But I know

them, and I give you my word of honor, general, that the so-called

nephew of Kleber is living here in Paris. Directly after his arrival

he came to me, and I handed to him the papers and documents which

Desaix intrusted to me, and which I had solemnly sworn to deliver to

his adjutant Louis. The young man gave me his confidence, and when I

spoke to him regretfully and with enthusiasm about his father and

his mother, and addressed him as 'his majesty,' I won his love. He

opened his heart to me, confessed that he was Louis XVII., and asked

my counsel and help. I promised him both, and showed myself to him

in a very compliant and devoted mood. My first counsel was, that he

should live incognito under a borrowed name. In order that this

might be possible, I gave him the name for his incognito, and had

all the necessary documents prepared, the certificate of his birth,

baptism, the marriage of his parents, and the will of his

relatives."

"And all these documents were false and forged?" said Bonaparte, in

amazement.

"There are everywhere pliable public officials in France," replied

Fouche, with a smile. "I did not content myself with procuring for

my protege the papers which insured him an honorable name,

respectable family position, and a life without care; I did much

more for him. I followed the efforts already related with others. I

had a certificate of the death of M. Louis prepared, so as to give

him a passport out of life. In order to protect himself from every

injury, I told him that he, as the adjutant of Desaix, must pass as

dead. He approved of it, and I took the pains to procure from the

hospital at Alessandria a duly signed and sealed certificate that

Colonel Louis, the adjutant of General Desaix, died of his wounds

there."

"Good God!" cried Bonaparte, "is every thing in life to be bought

and sold thus?"

"Yes, general, every thing--loyalty and love, life and death. I have

caused the son of the King of France to die, and then rise again--

and all with gold. But, when the certificate arrived, a change had

occurred in my relations. I had been removed from office, and

Regnier was my successor. I kept the certificate in my possession;

but, in order to secure my protege against what might befall me in

case of my death, I wrote to him that I had received the papers, and

that he would live without danger in Paris, under his assumed name.

This letter I signed with my whole name, and set my seal to it, that

in case of need it might be of service to him."

"Fouche, you are a sly fox," said Bonaparte, with a laugh. "It is

easier to get out of the way of a cannonball than out of your

snares. One might say to you, in the words of the King of Prussia,

'God defend mo from my friends, from my enemies I can defend

myself!' According to this you have caused Colonel Louis to die for

friendship's sake, and rise again under another name."

"Yes, general, that is it! Colonel Louis--that is, the rightful

king, Louis XVII.--is a tool in my hands, which I hold as a check to

all parties, and which I can hold up or withdraw according as it

pleases me. At present my game is not merely to bring disunion and

hatred into the ranks of the royalists, but to bring over many

republicans who have a soft heart, to be zealous partisans of the

young and unfortunate king."

"And afterward," said Bonaparte, with a sterner tone, "you might

make use of this instrument to intimidate that fourth party of which

you spoke before--the Bonapartists. But you have been mistaken,

Fouche; this reckoning does not do--your cunning has overreached

itself. You do not terrify me; and if it could really happen that

the French nation should offer me an imperial crown, at the same

time that I should accept it, I should put my foot on the neck of

all rebels and pretenders. With a single tread I would crush them

all. I want no parties, no political factions; I want to bring all

these risings and agitations to silence. There shall be no secret

societies in France; and against each and every conspirator,

whatever his rank may be, I will bring from this time forth the

whole weight of the law. Mark this, Fouche! I mean to make an end of

all parties, and only when you shall give their chiefs into my hand-

-not for my personal vengeance, for I cherish no vengeance against

those cowardly worms of conspirators, but for the righteous

punishment and retaliatory laws of France--only when you are able,

by one grand coup, and one well-founded charge, to destroy all

conspiracies, and bring all secret coalitions to the light, only

then shall you become chief of police--only then will the future

emperor give you the title of duke."

"General, I build on your word, and I am sure of becoming chief of

police and duke. We will put an end to all conspiracies."

"And to the Monsieur Louis, too," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is a

disagreeable and troublesome figure. So long as he lives he would

live in the ermine of the imperial cloak like a troublesome insect,

which always stings and pricks. One must not allow such insects to

find their way into his fur, and this Monsieur Louis must be put out

of the way once for all. I hope he has entered deeply enough into

the conspiracy, not to come out of it again with a whole skin!"

"General, I have told you already, that day before yesterday his

dependants saluted him, in a secret gathering, as their king. It is

true, indeed, that the poor little fellow strongly opposed it, and

obstinately refused to accept all honors, but the fact remains

unchanged."

"And on the ground of this fact shall he be apprehended," cried

Bonaparte, with a threatening voice.

"There must be an example made, and this Louis is a suitable person

for it. He must be the bete de souffrance for all the rest. He is

the head of a conspiracy; we will crush this head, and the limbs

will fall of themselves. Besides the sensitive souls who love

nurses' stories and believe in every thing, there will be no one who

will weep for him. No one will lament his death, but he will be a

warning to all. Direct yourself to this, Fouche, and set all the

infernal machines of your intrigues in operation that we may put an

end to conspiracy."

"General, only one thing is wanting; it is that I be at the head of

the police, and have the power in my hands to make my infernal

machines effectual."

"But I have told you that I will appoint you as minister only when

you give me incontrovertible proofs that your conspiracies are not

the fabric of your own phantasy."

"Very well, general, now that we are at one, I am prepared to give

you these proofs. I have told you that the royalists and republicans

have united for the purpose of taking your life. They have chosen

fifty men by ballot, in foreign parts, who are to come to Paris and

accomplish here the great work of your destruction. These fifty

assassins have arrived in Paris, and their chief men had an

interview yesterday with the chiefs of the conspiracies here."

"Fouche!" cried Bonaparte, with a threatening voice, "think well

what you are saying. You are playing for the stake of your own head!

If these fifty assassins are creatures of your own imagination, it

is you who will have to pay for it."

"These fifty men have been in Paris since the day before yesterday,"

rejoined Fouche, quietly. "They came hither by different roads, and

appearing like simple travellers, and yesterday they had their first

interview with the chief of the republican party."

"Who is this chief? Name him, or I will call you a liar and

impostor!"

"This chief," said Fouche, slowly, and measuring every word, "this

chief is General Moreau."

Bonaparte uttered a low cry, an ashy paleness suffused his cheeks;

he pressed his lips together, and his eyes flamed out such darts of

rage that even Fouche trembled and lowered his gaze.

"Moreau," muttered Bonaparte, after a long pause, "Moreau a

conspirator, a traitor! Moreau in an alliance with assassins whom

the royalists are sending out against me! I knew very well that he

was my enemy, but I did not think that his enmity would lead him to

be a murderer!"

He walked up and down with quick steps, his hands folded behind his

back, then stopped short before Fouche and looked him full in the

face.

"Fouche, do you abide by your assertion, that Moreau is a

conspirator?"

"I abide by it, general."

"And those fifty assassins, whom the royalists have sent, are in

Paris?"

"Yes, general, they are in Paris, and Georges and Pichegru are at

their head."

"Fouche," cried Bonaparte, clinching his fist and raising it

threateningly, "Fouche, so sure as God lives, I will have you hanged

as a traitor if you have lied!"

"General, as surely as God lives, I have spoken the truth. I came

here to show you what I am, and what Regnier is. I have waited here

till the whole net of these conspiracies should be spread out and be

fully complete. The time has come when I must speak; and now I say

to you, general, take some steps, for there is danger on foot!"

Bonaparte, trembling with emotion, had thrown himself into an arm-

chair, and took, as was his custom in moments of the greatest

excitement, his penknife from the writing-desk, and began to whittle

on the back of the chair.

Fouche stood leaning against the wall, and looked with complete

calmness and an invisible smile at this singular occupation of the

general, when the door of the cabinet was opened, and the Mameluke

Roustan appeared at the entrance.

"Consul," he said, softly, "Councillor Real is again here, and

pressingly desires an audience."

Bonaparte rose, and threw away the knife. "Real!" he cried in a loud

tone.

The man who was summoned immediately appeared at the open door--a

tall, grave personage, with a face so pale and distorted that

Bonaparte noticed it, despite his great agitation.

"What is it, Real?" he asked, eagerly. "Have you spoken with the

condemned man?"

"Yes, general, I have spoken with him," whispered Real, with pale

lips.

"And it is as I said, is it not? This Doctor Querolle has only

pretended to be able to make great disclosures, only to prolong his

own life a few hours. He has poisoned his wife, in order to marry

his mistress, and the poisoner is executed."

"General," cried Fouche, almost with an air of joy, "I knew

Querolle, and I knew that his wife poisoned herself. Querolle is not

a poisoner."

"What is he then, M. Omniscience?"

"General, he is a conspirator!"

"A conspirator!" repeated Bonaparte, and now his troubled face

turned again to the councillor. "Real, what do you know? What did

the condemned man say to you?"

"Consul, he swore that he was innocent of the death of his wife, but

he acknowledged himself a member of a conspiracy, the object of

which is to murder General Bonaparte. He asserts that the royalists

and republicans have allied themselves; that fifty emissaries of the

Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien, Pichegru and Georges at their

head, have crept into Paris; that they had an interview yesterday

with General Moreau, and with the so-called King Louis XVII., who is

secreted in Paris, and that at this hour those fifty men are

prowling around the streets of the city, and are watching the

Tuileries, waiting for an opportunity to kill the First Consul."

The troubled eye of Bonaparte turned slowly from the pale face of

Councillor Real to the calm, sagacious face of Fouche, which guarded

itself well from expressing any token of triumph and satisfaction.

The consul then walked slowly through the room, and with his foot

pushed open the door leading into the great reception-room, in

which, at this hour every day, all the dignitaries of the republic

were assembled, to receive the orders of Bonaparte.

"Murat!" cried Bonaparte, loudly; and at once the person summoned,

General Murat, at that time governor of Paris, appeared at the door

of the cabinet.

"Murat," said Bonaparte, in the tones in which he issued his

commands on the battle-field, "give orders at once that the gates of

Paris be closed, and that no stranger be allowed to go out of the

city till you have further orders. You will come to me in an hour,

and receive a proclamation to your soldiers, which you will sign;

have it printed and posted at the street-corners of Paris. Make all

these preparations! Go!"

Murat withdrew from the room with a salutation of deference, and now

the commanding voice of Bonaparte summoned his chief adjutant from

the reception-room.

"Duroc," said the First Consul, with calm, almost solemn voice, "you

will go with twelve soldiers in pursuit of General Moreau, and

arrest him wherever you find him."

The noble, open face of Duroc grew pale, and put on an expression of

horror and amazement. "General," he whispered, "I beg that-"

But this time Bonaparte would not listen to the soothing words of

his favorite.

"No replies!" he thundered. "You have only to obey! Nothing more!"

Duroc, pale and agitated, withdrew, and Bonaparte closed the door of

the cabinet. "Real," he said, "return to the prison of the condemned

man; take him his pardon, and bring him to me, that I may hear him

myself. Hasten!"

Real withdrew, and Bonaparte and Fouche remained alone.

"You have given your proofs, Fouche, and now I believe you. When

wolves are to be hunted down you are a good bloodhound, and we will

begin the chase. I make you from this moment chief of the secret

police; your first duty will be to bring this matter to an end, and

help me to tear to pieces the whole murderous web, your reward being

that I will nominate you again minister of police. [Footnote: The

appointment of Fouche as the chief of police took place in June of

the year 1804.] I will fulfil my promise so soon as you shall have

made good yours, and put me in possession of the chief

conspirators."

"You have just arrested Moreau, general," replied Fouche,

deferentially. "I give you my word that in a few hours Pichegru and

Georges will be apprehended."

"You forget the chief person," cried Bonaparte, over whose brazen

forehead a thunder-cloud seemed to pass. "You forget the caricature

of buried royalty, the so-called King Louis XVII. Hush! I tell you I

will have this man. I will draw out the fangs of this royal adder,

so that he cannot bite any more! Bring the man before me. The

republic is an angry goddess, and demands a royal offering. Give

this impostor into my hands, or something worse will happen! Go, and

I advise you to bring me, before the sun goes down, the tidings that

this fabled King Louis is arrested, or the sun of your good fortune

is set forever! Now away! Go out through the little corridor, and

then through the secret gate-you know the way. Go!"

Fouche did not dare to contradict the imperative order, but softly

and hastily moved toward the curtain which led to the gloomy

anteroom, and thence through a door, which only those initiated knew

how to open, and which led to the little corridor.

But scarcely had Fouche entered this little dismal room, when a hand

was laid upon his arm, and a woman's voice whispered to him:

"I must speak to you--at once! Come! this way!"

The hand drew him forward to the wall, a door sprang open without

sound, and the voice whispered: "Four stairs down. Be careful!"

CHAPTER XXXII.

JOSEPHINE.

Fouche did not hesitate; he followed his guide down the little

staircase, along the dark corridor, and up another short staircase.

He had recognized the voice, and knew that his leader was no other

than Josephine, the wife of the First Consul.

Through the secret door at the end of the corridor they entered a

small and gloomy antechamber, exactly like the one which adjoined

the cabinet of the consul, and from it Josephine ushered Fouche into

her cabinet.

"You will say nothing to Bonaparte about this secret way, Fouche,"

said Josephine, with a gentle, supplicatory tone. "He does not know

of it. I have had it made without his knowledge while he was in

Boulogne last year. Will you swear to me that you will not reveal

it?"

"I do swear, madame."

"God knows that I have not had it made out of curiosity to overhear

Bonaparte," continued Josephine. "But it is necessary sometimes for

me to know what is going on, and that when the general is angry I

should hasten to him to calm him and turn aside his wrath. I have

warded off many a calamity since this private way was opened, and I

have been able to overhear Bonaparte. But what have I been compelled

to listen to to-day! Oh, Fouche, it was God Himself who impelled me

to listen! I was with him when you were announced, and I suspected

that your visit purported something unusual, something dreadful. I

have heard all, Fouche--all, I tell you! I know that his life is

threatened, that fifty daggers are directed toward him. 0 God! this

perpetual fear and excitement will kill me! I have no peace of mind,

no rest more! Since the unhappy day when we left our dear little

house to live in the Tuileries, since that day there has been an end

to all joy! Why did we do it? why did we not remain in our little

Luxembourg? why have we been persuaded to live in the palace of the

kings?"

"It is proper for the greatest man in France to live in the house

where the departed race of kings once had their home," replied

Fouche.

"Oh, yes," sighed Josephine. "I know these tricks of speech, with

which you have turned the head of my poor Bonaparte. Oh! you, you,

his flatterer, you who urged him on, will bear the blame if

misfortune breaks in upon us! You have intoxicated him with the

incense of adulation; you pour into his veins daily and hourly the

sweet poison which is to destroy our happiness and our peace! He was

so good, so cheerful, so happy, my Bonaparte! He was contented with

the laurels which victory laid upon his brow, but you continued to

whisper in his ear that a crown would add new grace to his laurels.

You flattered his ambition; and what was quietly sleeping at the

bottom of his heart, and what I hushed with my kisses and with my

hand, that you took all efforts to bring out into the light: his

vanity--his love of power! Oh, Fouche! you are wicked, cruel, and

pitiless! I hate, I abhor you all, for you are the murderers of my

Bonaparte!"

She spoke all this softly, with quick breath, while the tears were

streaming over her beautiful face, and her whole frame trembled with

emotion. She then sank, wholly overcome, upon a lounge, and pressed

her small hands, sparkling with jewels, over her eyes.

"Madame, you are unjust," replied Fouche, softly. "If you have

overheard my conversation with the First Consul, you are aware that

the direct object of my coming was to save him from murderers, and

to insure his precious life."

"And, moreover, to pour into his ear the poison of a future imperial

crown!" said Josephine, indignantly. "Oh, I know it! With talk of

conspiracies and of daggers you urged him on. You want him to be an

emperor, that you may be a prince or duke! I see it all, and I

cannot prevent it, for he no longer listens to me, he no longer

heeds the voice of his Josephine, only that of his ambitious

flatterers, and he will put on the imperial crown and complete our

misfortune! Oh! I knew it! This imperial crown will ruin us. It was

prophesied to me in my youth that I should be an empress, but it was

added that it would be for no long time. And yet I should like to

live, and I should like to be happy still!"

"You will be so, madame," said Fouche, with a smile. "It is always

good fortune to wear an imperial crown, and your beautiful head is

worthy to bear one."

"No, no," she cried, angrily. "Do not try me with your flatteries! I

am contented with being a beloved and happy wife; I desire no crown.

The crowned heads that have dwelt in the Tuileries have become the

prey of destruction, and the pearls of their diadems have been

changed to tears! But what advantage is it that I should say all

this to you? It is all in vain, in vain! I did not bring you to talk

of this. It was something entirely different. Listen, Fouche, I

cannot prevent Bonaparte's becoming an emperor, but you shall not

make him a regicide! I will not suffer it! By Heaven, and all the

holy angels, I will not suffer it!"

"I do not understand you, madame. I do not know what you mean."

"Oh, you understand me very well, Fouche. You know that I am

speaking of King Louis XVII."

"Ah, madame, you are speaking of the impostor, who gives himself out

to be the 'orphan of the Temple.' "

"He is it, Fouche. I know it, I am acquainted with the history of

his flight. I was a prisoner in the Conciergerie at the same time

with Toulan, the queen's loyal servant. He knew my devotion to the

unhappy Marie Antoinette; he intrusted to me his secret of the

dauphin's escape. Later, when I was released, Tallien and Barras

confirmed the story of his flight, and informed me that he was

secreted by the Prince de Conde. I have known it all, and I tell you

I knew who Kleber's adjutant was; I inquired for him after he

disappeared at the battle of Marengo, and when my agents told me

that the young king died there, I wore mourning and prayed for him.

And, now that I learn that the son of my beautiful queen is still

alive, shall I suffer him to die like a traitor? No, never! Fouche,

I tell you I will never suffer it; I will not have this unfortunate

young man sacrificed! You must save him--I will have it so!"

"I!" cried Fouche, in amazement. "But you know that it is

impossible, for you have heard my conversation with the consul. He

himself said, 'The republic demands a royal victim. If it is not

this so-called King Louis, let it be the Duke d'Enghien, for a

victim must fall, in order to intimidate the royalists, and bring

peace at last."

"But I will not have you bring human victims," cried Josephine; "the

republic shall no longer be a cruel Moloch, as it was in the days of

the guillotine. You shall, and you must, save the son of Queen Marie

Antoinette. I desire to have peace in my conscience, that I may live

without reproach, and be happier perhaps than now."

"But it is impossible," insisted Fouche. "You have heard yourself

that if, before the sun goes down, Louis be not imprisoned, the sun

of my good fortune will have set."

"And I told you, Fouche, that if you do this--if you become a

regicide a second time--I will be your unappeasable enemy your whole

life long; I will undertake to avenge on you the death of the queen

and her son; I will follow your every step with my hate, and will

not rest till I have overthrown you. And you know well that

Bonaparte loves me, that I have influence with him, and that what I

mean to do, I accomplish at last by prayers, tears, and frowns. So

do not exasperate me, Fouche; do not make me your irreconcilable

enemy. Save the son of the king whom you killed, conciliate the

shades of his unhappy parents. Fouche, we are in the cabinet of the

queen! Here she often tarried, here she often pressed her son to her

heart, and asked God's blessing on him. Fouche, the spirit of Marie

Antoinette is with us, and she will know it if you in pity spare the

life of her son. Marie Antoinette will accuse you at the throne of

God, and plead with God to show you no compassion, if you refuse to

be merciful to her son. Fouche, in the name of the queen--on my

knees--I implore you, save her son!"

And Josephine, her face bathed in tears, sank before him and raised

her folded hands suppliantly to Fouche. The minister, deeply moved,

pale with the recollections which Josephine awakened within him,

stooped down to her, and bade her arise; and when she refused, and

begged and threatened, and wept, his obstinacy was at last touched,

or perhaps his prudence, which counselled him to make a friend,

rather than an enemy, out of the all-powerful wife of the future

emperor.

"Rise, madame," he said. "What mortal is able to resist your

requests, since Bonaparte himself cannot? I will save your protege,

whatever shall come to me afterward from it."

She sprang up, and in the wildness of her joy threw her beautiful

arms around Fouche's neck, and kissed him.

"Fouche," she said, "I give you this kiss in the name of Queen Marie

Antoinette. It is a kiss of forgiveness, and of blessing. You swear

to me that you will save him?"

"I swear it, madame!"

"And I swear to you that as soon as he is saved, and Bonaparte's

anger can no longer reach him, I will confess all to my husband, and

put it in such a Light that Bonaparte shall thank and reward you.

Now tell me, how you will save him."

"I shall only be able if you will help me, madame."

"I am ready for any thing--that you know well. Tell me what I shall

do."

"You must yourself direct a few lines to the young man, conjuring

him in the name of his mother to fly, to save himself from the anger

of the First Consul--to leave Europe."

"Oh! Fouche, how sly you are!" said Josephine, sadly.

"You want my handwriting, in order to justify yourself to the First

Consul in case of emergency, very good. I will write the billet."

She hastened to her table, dashed a few words upon paper, and then

passed the note to Fouche. "Read it," she said; "it contains all

that is necessary, does it not?"

"Yes, madame; and you have written in such beautiful and moving

words, that the young man will be melted, and will obey you. Will

you now have the goodness to put the note in an envelope and to

address it?"

She folded it, and put it into an envelope. "To whom shall I address

it?" she then asked.

"Address it to King Louis XVII."

She did so with a quick stroke of the pen and handed the letter to

Fouche. "Take it," she said, "it is your justification. And in order

that you may be entirely secure," she continued, with a slight

smile, "retain this letter yourself. What I would say to this young

man I would rather communicate by word of mouth."

"How," cried Fouche, " you want--"

"To see and speak with the king," she said, sorrowfully, "to beg his

forgiveness for myself and Bonaparte. Hush! do not oppose me, I am

resolved upon it. I want to see the young man."

"But he cannot come here, madame--here, into the very den of the

lion."

"No, not here, into the desecrated palace of the kings," she

answered, bitterly. "No, he cannot come here--I shall go to him."

"You are jesting, madame, it is impossible. You, the wife of the

First Consul, you will--"

"I want to fulfil a duty of gratitude and of loyalty, Fouche. In my

heart I still feel myself the subject of the queen. Let me follow

the call of my heart! Listen! My carriage stands ready. I was

intending to drive to my friend Madame Tallien. I will take a

pleasure-drive instead. In the Bois de Boulogne I will cause the

carriage to stop, send it away, and return on foot. You will await

in there with a fiacre and take me to the king."

"It shall be so," said Fouche. "Your will shall be my law. I only

ask that you hasten, for you know well that I have much to do to-

day. I shall take advantage of the time to procure for the young man

the necessary passports for travel. But, madame, you must help him

leave the city. For you know that the gates are all closed."

"I will tell Bonaparte that I am troubled to be in the city, now

that it is so shut in. I will drive out to St. Cloud. His carriage

can follow mine, and if the gate-keeper puts hinderances in the way,

I will command him to let Louis pass. Now let us hasten!"

An hour later Josephine, after dismissing her equipage with the

servants, entered the fiacre which was waiting for her near the

fountain. Fouche received her there, and was unwearied in his

complaints of the poor carriage which the wife of the First Consul

must use.

Josephine smiled, "My dear sir," she said, "there have been times

when I should have been very proud and very happy to have had such a

fiacre as this, and not to have been compelled to walk through the

muddy streets of Paris. Let it be as it is! The present days of

superfluity have not made me proud, and I have a vivid recollection

of the past. But tell me, Fouche, whither are we driving, and where

does the young king live?"

"We are driving, if you graciously approve of it, to my house, and I

have brought the young man there, for in his own house he is no

longer safe. I have had it surrounded by agents of the secret

police, with orders to arrest him on his return. He will, of course,

not return, and it will be easier to assume the appearance that he

received an intimation of his peril and escaped in season. But here

we are before my door, and if you will draw the thick veil which

happily you have fastened to your bonnet, carefully before your

face, I hope that no one will see that the most beautiful lady in

Paris honors my house with her distinguished presence."

Josephine made no reply to this flattery, but drew the black lace

veil closely over her face, and hastened to leave the fiacre, and

entered the house.

"Fouche," she whispered, as she ascended the staircase, "my heart

beats as violently as it did when I drove to the Tuileries to be

presented to Marie Antoinette. It was the first time that I spoke

with the Queen of France."

"And now, madame," said Fouche, with a smile, "you will speak with

the last King of France."

"Does he know who I am?"

"No, madame; I have left it to you to inform him. Here we are at the

saloon--he is within!"

"Wait only a moment, Fouche. I must collect myself. My heart beats

dreadfully. Now, now you may open the door!"

They entered the little saloon. Josephine stood still near the door,

and while she hastily removed her bonnet and the thick veil and

handed them to Fouche, her large, brilliant, brown eyes were turned

to the young man who stood in the window-niche, his hands calmly

folded over his breast. In this attitude, with the calm look of his

face, the gentle glance of his blue eyes, he bore so close a

resemblance to the pictures which represented Louis XVI. in his

youth, that Josephine could not repress a cry of surprise, and

hastened forward to the young man, who now advanced out of the

window recess. "Madame," he said, bowing low before this beautiful

and dignified lady whom he did not know, but whose sympathizing face

made his heart tremble--"madame, doubtless you are the lady whom M.

Fouche said I might expect to meet here."

"Yes, I am she," replied Josephine, with a voice trembling with

emotion, her eyes, flooded with tears, all the while being fixed on

the grave, youthful face which brought back so many memories of the

past. "I have come to see you and to bring you the greetings of a

man whom you loved, who revered you, and who died blessing you."

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Louis, turning pale.

"Men called him Toulan," whispered Josephine. "Queen Marie

Antoinette termed him Fidele."

"Fidele!" cried Louis, in a tone of anguish. "Fidele is dead!--my

deliverer, he whose fidelity and bravery released me from my

dreadful prison. Oh, madame, what sad thoughts do you bring back

with his name!"

Josephine turned with a triumphant look to Fouche, who was still

standing behind her in the neighborhood of the door. Her look said,

"You see he is no traitor, he has stood the proof."

Fouche understood the language of this look perfectly, and a smile

played over his features. Then Josephine turned again to the young

man.

"You did not know that Toulan was dead?" she asked, softly.

"How could I know it?" he cried, bitterly. "I was taken at that time

to a solitary castle, where I remained several years, and then I

went to Germany, and from that time I have always lived in foreign

parts. Since I have been in Paris I have made the effort to learn

something about him, but no one could inform me, and so I solaced

myself with the hope that he had really gone to America, for that

was his object, as the other gentleman who assisted me in my release

informed me at that time."

"This other gentleman," said Josephine, softly, "was the Baron de

Jarjayes, and the child who was carried into the Temple was the--"

"The son of the Count de Frotte," rejoined Louis.

"Fouche, it is he!" cried Josephine. "It is the son of my noble,

unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette.--Oh, sire, let me testify my

homage to you, as becomes a subject when she stands before her king.

Sire, I bow my knee before you, and I would gladly pour out my whole

life in tears, and with each of these tears beg your forgiveness for

France, for us all."

And the beautiful, passionate creole sank upon her knee, and raised

her tearful eyes to the young man who, perplexed and blushing, gazed

at her, then hastily stooped to her and conjured her to rise.

"Not, sire," she cried, "until you tell me that you have forgiven

me--that you have forgiven us all."

"I forgive you? What have I to forgive in you? Monsieur Fouche, who

is this lady who knows me and my destinies, and who brings me

greetings from Fidele? What have I to forgive in her? Who is she?

Tell me her name?"

"Monsieur," said Fouche, slowly approaching, "this lady is--"

"Hush! Fouche, I will tell him myself," interrupted Josephine.

"Sire, when your beautiful, exalted mother was still living in

Versailles, I had the honor to be presented to her, both at the

grand receptions and at the minor ones. One day--it was already in

the unhappy Reign of Terror--when the queen had left Versailles and

Trianon, and was already living in the Tuileries, I went thither to

pay my respects."

"That is to say, madame," cried Louis, "you were a brave and loyal

woman, for only the brave and the loyal ventured then to go to the

Tuileries. Oh, speak on! speak on! You wanted to pay your respects

to the queen, you were saying; she received you, did she not? You

were taken into the little saffron saloon?"

"No, sire, the queen was not there, she was in the little music-

hall; and, because at that time etiquette was no longer rigidly

enforced, I was allowed to accompany the Marchioness de Tourzel into

the music-room. The queen did not notice our entrance, for she was

singing. I remained standing at the door, and contemplated the

wondrous picture that I saw there. The queen, in a simple white

dress, her light brown, slightly powdered hair concealed by a black

lace head-dress, sat at the spinet on which her white hands rested.

Near her in the window-niche sat madame, engaged with her

embroidery. Very near her sat, in a little arm-chair, a boy of five

years, a lovely child, with long golden locks, with large blue eyes,

and looking like an angel. The little hands, surrounded by lace

wristbands, leaned on the support of the chair, while his looks

rested incessantly upon the countenance of the queen, and his whole

child's soul was absorbed in the gaze which he directed to his

mother. The queen was singing, and the tones of her soulful voice

resound still in my heart. The song was this:

'Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent le coeur:

Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere A bien assez de sa douleur.'

And while she sang she turned her head toward her son, who listened

to her motionless and as if enchanted. 'See,' cried madame, the

sister of the pretty boy, 'I believe Louis Charles has fallen

asleep.' The child started up, and a glowing redness suffused his

cheeks. 'Oh! Theresa,' he cried, 'how could any one go to sleep when

my mamma queen was singing'?' His mother stooped down to him,

pressed a long kiss upon his brow, and a tear fell from her eyes

upon his golden hair. I saw it, and involuntarily my eyes filled; I

could not hold back my tears, aud went softly out to compose myself.

Sire, I see you still before me--this beautiful queen and her

children--and it is with me to-day as then, I must weep."

"And I!--oh, my God!--and I!" whispered Louis, putting both his

hands before his quivering face. Even Fouche seemed moved, his lips

trembled and his cheeks grew pale.

A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard but the convulsive sobbing of

the young man, who still held his hands before his face, and wept so

violently that the tears poured down in heavy drops between his

fingers.

"Sire," cried Josephine, with supplicatory voice--" sire, by the

recollection of that hour, I conjure you, forgive me that I now live

in those rooms which Marie Antoinette once inhabited. Ah! it has not

been my wish, and I have done it only with pain and grief. Believe

me, sire, and forgive me that I have been compelled to live in the

palace of the kings."

He took his hands from his face, and gazed at her.

"You live in the Tuileries? Who are you? Madame, who are you?"

"Sire, I was formerly Viscountess Beauharnais; now I am--"

"The wife of the First Consul!" exclaimed the prince, drawing back

in terror--" the wife of him who is pursuing me, and who, as Fouche

says, means to bring me to the scaffold."

"Oh, sire, forgive him!" implored Josephine; "he is not wicked, he

is not cruel; but circumstances compel him to act as he does. God

Himself, it would seem, has chosen him to restore, with his heroic

sword and his heroic spirit, peace and prosperity to this

unfortunate land, bleeding from a thousand wounds. He was the savior

of France, and the grateful nation hailed him with paeans, and full

of confidence laid the reins of government in his hands. Through his

victories and his administration of affairs, France has again grown

strong and great and happy; and yet he is daily threatened by

assassins, yet there are continual conspiracies whose aim is to

murder the man to whom France is indebted for its new birth. What

wonder that he at last, to put an end to these conspiracies, and

these attempts upon his life, will, by a deed of horror, inspire the

conspirators with fear? He is firmly resolved on this. The lion has

been aroused from his calmness by new conspiracies, and the shaking

of his mane will this time annihilate all who venture to conspire

against him. Sire, I do not accuse you; I do not say that you do

wrongly to make every attempt to regain the inheritance of your

fathers. May God judge between you and your enemies! But your

enemies have the power in their hands, and you must yield to that

power. Oh, my dear, unfortunate, pitiable lord, I conjure you, save

yourself from the anger of the First Consul, and from the pursuers

who have been sent out to seek you. If you are found, you are lost,

and no one in the world will then be able to save you. Fly,

therefore--fly, while there is still time!"

"Fly!" cried the young prince, bitterly, "evermore fly! My whole

life is a perpetual flight, a continuous concealment. Like the

Wandering Jew, I must journey from land to land--nowhere can I rest,

nowhere find peace. Without a home, without parents, without a name,

I wander around, and, like a hunted wild beast, I must continually

start afresh, for the hounds are close behind me. Well, be it so,

then; I am weary of defying my fate longer; I surrender myself to

what is inevitable. The First Consul may send me as a conspirator to

the scaffold. I am prepared to die. I shall find that peace in death

at least that life so cruelly denies me. I will not fly--I will

remain. The example of my parents will teach me how to die."

"Oh, speak not so!" exclaimed Josephine. "Have pity on me, have pity

on yourself. You are still so young, life has so much for you yet,

there remains so much to you yet to hope for. You must live, not to

avenge the death of your illustrious parents, but to make its memory

less poignant. Son of kings, you have received life from God, and

from your parents, you may not lightly throw it away, but must

defend it, for the blessing of your mother rests upon your head,

which you must save from the scaffold."

"You must live," said Fouche, "for your death would bring joy to

those who were the bitter enemies of Queen Marie Antoinette, and who

would be your mocking heirs. Will you grant to the Count de Lille

the uncontested right of calling himself Louis XVIII.?--the Count de

Lille, who caused Marie Antoinette to shed so many tears."

The prince flamed up at this, and his eyes flashed.

"No," he cried, "the Count de Lille shall not have this joy. He

shall not rest his curse-laden head upon the pillow with the calm

consciousness that he will be the king of the future. My vision

shall disturb his sleep, and the possibility that I shall return and

demand my own again, shall be the terror that shall keep peace far

from him. You are right, madame, I must live. The spirit of Marie

Antoinette hovers over me, and demands that I live, and by my life

avenge her of her most bitter enemy. Let it be so, then. Tell me,

Fouche, whither shall I go? Where shall the poor criminal hide

himself, whose only offence lies in this, that he is alive, and that

he is the son of his father? Where is there a cave in which the poor

hunted game can hide himself from the hounds?"

"Sire, you must away, away into foreign lands. The arm of the First

Consul is powerful, and his eagle eye scans all Europe, and would

discover you at any point."

"You must for the present find a home beyond the sea," said Fouche,

approaching nearer. "I have already taken measures which will allow

you to do so. There are ships sailing southward from Marseilles

every day, and in one of these you must go to America. America is

the land of freedom, of adventures, and of great deeds. You will

there find sufficient occupation for your spirit and for your love

of work."

"It is true," said Louis, with a bitter smile; "I will go to

America. I will find a refuge with the savages. Perhaps they will

appoint me as their chieftain, and adorn my head with a crown of

feathers instead of the crown of gold. Yes, I will go to America, In

the primeval forests, with the children of nature, there will be a

home for the exile, the homeless one. Madame, I thank you for your

sympathy and your goodness, and my thanks shall consist in this,

that I subject myself wholly to your will. You loved Queen Marie

Antoinette. A blessing on you, and all who love you."

He extended both his hands to Josephine, and, as she was about to

press them to her lips, he stooped toward her with a sad smile.

"Madame, bless my poor brow with the touch of those lips which once

kissed the hand of my mother."

Josephine did as she was asked, and a tear fell from her eyes upon

his fair hair.

"Go, sire," she said, "and may God bless and protect you! If you

ever need my help, call upon me, and be sure that I will never

neglect your voice."

An hour later the wife of the First Consul drove out to St. Cloud.

At the corner of the Rue St. Honore a second carriage joined her

own, and a young man who sat in it greeted Josephine deferentially

as she leaned far out of the carriage to return his salute.

At the barriers the carriage stopped, for the gates of the city were

still closed. But Josephine beckoned the officer of the guard to her

carriage, and, fortunately, he knew the wife of the First Consul.

"It is not necessary," said Josephine, with a charming smile, "it is

not necessary that I should procure a permit from the First Consul

to allow myself and my escort to pass the gate? You do not suppose

that I and my secretary, who sits in the next carriage, belong to

the villains who threaten the life of my husband?"

The officer, enchanted with the grace of Josephine, bowed low, and

commanded the guard instantly to open the gate and allow the two

carriages to pass.

And so the son of the queen was saved. For the second time he left

Paris, to go forth as an exile and an adventurer to meet his fate.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AFTER LONG WANDERINGS.

For the city of Paris the 16th of February, 1804, was a day of

terror. The gates remained closed the whole day, military patrols

passed through the streets, at whose corners the proclamations were

posted, by which Murat, the governor of Paris, announced to the city

that fifty assassins were within the walls, intent on taking the

life of the First Consul.

The condemned surgeon, Querolle, had, meantime, made his confession,

and named the heads of the conspiracy and their accomplices, and,

only after all the persons mentioned by him were arrested, were the

gates of the city opened.

A great trial then commenced of the men who had been sent by the

Bourbons for this nefarious purpose. Among the accused were General

Pichegru, the abettor of Georges, and General Moreau, the most

prominent of all.

The history of this trial was enveloped in obscurity, and it was

faintly whispered that Pichegru had taken his own life in prison,

and more faintly yet was it rumored that he was secretly dispatched

in prison. And then, on one of these days, there were to be seen

through all Paris only pale, sad faces, and a murmur of horror ran

through all the streets and all the houses.

The story was current that the Duke d'Enghien, the grandson of the

Prince de Conde, had been arrested by French soldiers at Baden,

beyond the frontier, and had been brought to Vincennes; that he was

accused there that same night of being an accomplice in a plot to

take the life of the First Consul, and to disturb the peace of the

republic; that he was quickly condemned by a court-martial, and shot

before morning within the fortress of Vincennes.

The report was only too true. Bonaparte had kept his word; he had

sacrificed a royal victim to the threatened cause of the republic;

he would, by one deed of horror, fill the conspirators with fear,

and cause them to abandon their bloody plans.

The means employed were cruel, but the end was reached which

Bonaparte hoped to attain, and thenceforth there were no more

conspiracies against the life of the First Consul, who, on the 18th

of May, that same year, declared himself emperor.

A few days after this, the public trial of the accused began, which

Fouche attended as the reinstalled minister of police, and over

which Regnier presided in his new capacity of chief judge.

Seventeen of those indicted were condemned to death, others to years

of imprisonment, and among these was General Moreau. But the popular

voice declared itself so loudly and energetically for the brave

general of the republic, that it was considered expedient to heed

it. Moreau was released from prison, and went to the Spanish

frontier, whence he sailed to North America.

On the 25th of June, twelve of the conspirators, Georges at their

head, were executed; the other five, who had been condemned to

death, had their sentence commuted to banishment.

The gentle, kind-hearted Josephine viewed all these things with

sadness, for her power over the heart of her husband was waning, and

the sun of her glory had set. Her prayers and tears had no longer a

prevailing influence over Bonaparte, and she had not been able to

avert the death of the Duke d'Enghien.

"I have tried all means," she said, with tears, to Bourrienne, the

chief secretary of the emperor; "I wanted at any cost to turn him

aside from his dreadful intention. He had not apprised me of it, but

you know in what way I learned it. At my request he confessed to me

his purpose, but he was steeled against my prayers. I clang to him,

I fell on my knees before him. 'Do not meddle with what is none of

your business!' he cried, angrily, as he pushed me away from him.

'These are not women's affairs--leave me in peace.' And so I had to

let the worst come, and could do nothing to hinder it. But

afterward, when all was over, Bonaparte was deeply affected, and for

several days he remained sad and silent, and scolded me no more when

he found me in tears." [Footnote: Bourrienne, "Memoires du Consulat

et de l'Empire."]

The days passed by, the days of splendor, and then followed for

Josephine the days of misery and grief. Repelled by Napoleon, she

mourned four years over her spurned love and her ruined fortunes;

but then, when Napoleon's star went down, when he was robbed of his

imperial crown and compelled to leave France, Josephine's heart

broke, and she hid herself in her grave, in order not to witness

Napoleon's humiliation.

And thus the empire was abolished, and the Count de Lille called

back by foreign potentates, and not by the French nation, in order,

as Louis XVIII., to reerect the throne of the Lilies.

And where, all this time, was the son of Queen Marie Antoinette?

Where was Louis XVII.?

He had kept his word which he gave to Josephine. He had gone to the

primeval forests and to the savages, and they had given him a crown

of feathers and made him their king.[Footnote: "Memoires du Due de

Normandie," pp. 89-102.] For years he lived among them, honored as

their king, loved as their hero. Then a longing for his country

seized him, and going to Brazil in the service of his people, he

made use of the opportunity to enter into a contract with Don Juan,

and not return to his copper-colored tribe. The precious treasure

which he possessed, his papers, he had been able to preserve during

all the journeys and amid all the perils of his life, and these

papers procured him a hospitable and honorable reception with Don

Juan. From him the king without name or inheritance learned the

changes that had meanwhile taken place in France, and, at the first

opportunity which offered, he returned to Europe, arriving at Paris

in the middle of the year 1816.

The Prince de Conde, now the Duke de Bourbon, received the wanderer

with tenderness, but with deep regret, for now it was too late, and

his hope for a restoration of the returning prince could rest on no

basis. The Count de Provence was now King Louis XVIII., and never

would he descend from his throne to give back to the son of Marie

Antoinette that crown which he wore with so much satisfaction and

pride.

Much more simple and easy was it to treat the pretender as a lunatic

or as an adventurer, and to set his claims aside forever. Useless

were all the letters which the Baron de Richemont, the name that

Louis still bore, addressed to his uncle the king, to his sister the

Duchess de Angouleme, imploring them for an interview. No answer was

received. No audience was granted to this adventurer, whose claims

could not be recognized without dethroning Louis XVIII., and

destroying the prospects of the crown for the duchess's son, the

Duke de Berri. Louis XVII. had died and he could not return to the

living. He saw it, he knew it, and a deep sorrow took possession of

him. But he rose above it--he would not die; he would live, a terror

and an avenger to his cruel relatives.

But it was a restless life that the son of the queen must lead, in

order to protect himself from the daggers of his powerful enemies.

The Prince de Conde conjured him to secure himself against the

attacks which were made more than once upon the Baron de Richemont,

and Louis gave heed to his requests and tears. He travelled abroad;

but after returning in two years from a journey in Asia and Africa,

on landing on the Italian coast, he was arrested in 1818, at the

instigation of the Austrian ambassador at Mantua, and confined in

the prison of Milan.

Seven years the unhappy prince spent in the Austrian prison, without

once being summoned before a judge--seven years of solitude, of

darkness, and of want. But the son of Marie Antoinette had learned

in his youth to bear these things, and his prison-life in Milan was

not so cruel as that in the Temple under Simon. Here there were at

least sympathizing souls who pitied him; even the turnkeys of the

prison were courteous and kind when they entered the cell of the

"King of France;" and one day, beyond the wall of his apartment, was

heard a voice singing, in gentle, melodious tones, a romanza which

Louis had composed, and written on the wall when he occupied the

neighboring cell.

This voice, which sounded like a greeting from the world, was that

of Silvio Pellico. The celebrated author of "Le Mie Prigioni,"

relates in touching words this salutation of his neighbor:

"My bed was carried," he said, "into the new cell that was prepared

for me, and as soon as the inspectors had left me alone, my first

care was to examine the walls. There were to be seen there some

words, recollections of the past, written with chalk, with pencil,

or with a sharp tool. I found there also two pretty French lines,

which I am sorry I did not copy. I began to sing them to my melody

of 'The Poor Mugdalen,' when a voice near me responded with another

air. When the singer ended, I called out, 'Bravo!' He replied with a

polite salutation, and asked me if I was French.

"'No, I am Italian, and am called Silvio Pellico.'

"'The author of Francesca da Rimini?'

"'Yes, the same.'

"And now there followed a courtly compliment, with the usual regrets

for my imprisonment. He asked in what part of Italy I was born, and

when I told him in Saluzzo, in Piedmont, he awarded the Piedmontese

some words of high praise, and spoko particularly of Bodoni (a

celebrated printer, director of the national printing establishment

at Parma). His compliments were brief and discriminating, and

disclosed a finely cultivated mind.

"'And now, sir,' said I, 'allow me to ask you who you are.'

"'You were just singing a song that I wrote.'

"'These pretty verses here upon the wall, are they yours?'

"'Yes, they are.'

"'You are therefore--'

"'The Duke de Normandie.'

"The watchman was just then walking past my window and so I was

still. After some time we resumed our conversation. When I asked

whether he was Louis XVII., he responded in the affirmative, and

began to declaim hotly against Louis XVIII. his uncle, the usurper

of his rights.

"I implored him to give me his history in brief outlines. He did so,

and related to me all the details connected with the life of Louis

XVII., which I knew only in part. He told me how he had been

imprisoned with Simon the cobbler, been compelled to sign a

calumniating charge against his mother, etc. He then related to me

the story of his escape and his flight to America, of his return to

reclaim the throne of his fathers, and his arrest in Mantua.

"He portrayed his history with extraordinary life. All the incidents

of the French Revolution were present before him; he spoke with

natural eloquence, and wove in piquant anecdotes very apropos. His

manner of expression smacked once in a while of the soldier, but

there was no lack of the elegance that disclosed his intercourse

with good society.

"'Will you allow me,' I asked him, 'to treat you as a friend and

leave off all titles?'

"'I want exactly that, 'he answered. 'Misfortune has taught me the

good lesson to despise all the vanities of earth. Believe me, my

pride does not lie in this, that I am a king, but that I am a man.'

"After this we had long conversations mornings and evenings, and I

recognized in him a noble, beautiful soul, sensitive to all that is

good. He knew how to win hearts, and even the turnkeys were kind to

him. One of them said to me on coming from the cell of my neighbor:

'I have strong hopes that he will make me chief porter when he is

king; I have had the boldness to ask him for the position, and he

has promised it.'

"To the veneration of the turnkeys for the king of the future I owe

it that one day when I was led to trial, and had to pass by his

cell, they opened the doors that I might see my illustrious friend.

He was of medium size, from forty to forty-five years of age,

somewhat embonpoint, and had a thoroughly Bourbon physiognomy."

[Footnote: Silvio Pellico, "Le Mie Prigioni," p. 51 et seq. An

examination of Silvio Pellico's work will convince the reader that

Silvio Pellico was by no means a believer in the genuineness of his

companion's claims. Miss Muhlbach seems to have been scarcely just

in leaving the impression conveyed in the text.-TB.]

After seven years of imprisonment, the gates opened at last for the

Baron de Richemont; and he who had been placed there without the

sentence of a judge, was released with as little show of authority.

The son of the queen was free again; the death of King Louis XVIII.

had restored him to the walks of men. But another King of France

assumed his place at once; the Count d'Artois ascended the throne

under the title of Charles X.

The poor Baron de Richemont bore his sorrows and his humiliation

into the valleys of Switzerland. But when, in the year 1830, King

Charles X. abdicated the throne, the son of Marie Antoinette again

came forth from his solitude, issued a proclamation to the French

people, and, in the presence of all Europe, demanded his

inheritance.

Yet, amid the clash of weapons and the roar of revolutions, the

voice of the unfortunate prince was overborne. He had no soldiers,

no cannon, to enforce silence and make himself be heard. But the

Duke d'Orleans, Louis Philippe, had soldiers and cannon; and the

arms of his dependants, and the magic of his wealth, placed him upon

the throne in July, 1830. [Footnote: It was the 9th of August.--Tr.]

The poor Baron de Richemont, the son of kings, the last of the

Bourbons in France, had now a single friend, who, perhaps, would

receive him. This friend was the Duke de Bourbon--Conde, now an old

man of eighty years. One day, some weeks after the accession of

Louis Philippe, the Duke de Bourbon received at his palace of St.

Leu a gentleman whom nobody knew, who announced himself as the Baron

de Richemont.

The duke went out into the anteroom, greeted his guest with the

greatest deference, and led him into his cabinet. There the two

gentlemen carried on a long and earnest conversation, and the

secretary of the duke, who was at work in the library hard by,

distinctly heard his master say, with trembling tones: "Sire, I

implore you, forgive me. The circumstances were stronger than my

will. Sire, go not into judgment with me--forgive me."

To this an angry voice replied: "No, I will not forgive you, for you

have dealt perfidiously with the son, as you did once with the

mother! You have not redeemed the oath that you once gave me. I

leave you. May God be gracious to you, and pardon you. Take care

that He does not punish you for the treachery that you have shown to

me. You swore that you would acknowledge no other king but me, and

yet you have taken your oath to the third king. Farewell! May the

Almighty protect you! We shall see each other, perhaps, in a better

world, and there you will have to give your account to a Judge whom

nothing can mitigate. Be happy, and may the dead sleep in peace!"

[Footnote: The very words of Richemont.--See "Memoires du Duc de

Normandie," p. 243.]

The secretary then heard the forcible closing of a door, and all

became still. After an hour he entered the duke's cabinet, because

the silence troubled him. The old duke sat in his arm-chair, pale,

and gazing with constant looks at the door through which the

stranger had departed. He was reticent the whole day, and in the

night following his valet heard him softly praying and weeping. On

the next morning, August 27th, 1830, on entering the sleeping-room

of his master, he found him dead and already rigid. The duke had

hanged himself at the window of his own room.

The last dependant of the unhappy king, who still bore the name of

the pretender, was dead, as were all his relations, including his

sister, the Duchess d'Angouleme.

But from the dead there came a greeting. She had ordered a large sum

to be paid yearly to the Baron de Richemont, and the report was that

she had wished to recognize him on her death-bed as her brother. But

her confessor had counselled her that such a recognition would

introduce new contentions among the Bourbons, and give the pretender

Henry V. equal claims with Louis XVII.

Yet the Duke de Normandie was not silent; he spoke so loudly of his

rights that Louis Philippe at last held it advisable to arrest him

and bring him to trial. The preliminary investigation continued

fifteen months; then he was brought before the court, and accused of

conspiracy against the safety of the state.

The Gazette des Tribunaux of the 3d, 4th, and 5th of November, 1834,

gave the details of this trial. Spectators poured in from all sides,

and also, in an unexpected manner, witnesses who declared themselves

ready to prove the identity of the Baron de Richemont with the Duke

de Normandie, son of Louis XVI. The accused appeared entirely calm

and dignified before the bar, and when the counsel for the

government accused him of appropriating a name that did not belong

to him, he asked quietly,

"Gentlemen, if I am not Louis XVII., will you tell me who I am?"

No one knew how to reply to this question; but many eminent

legitimists had come to solemnly declare that the accused was in

truth their king, and that he was the rescued orphan of the Temple.

Even the president of the court seemed to be convinced of this, and

his closing words in addressing the jury were these: "Gentlemen, who

is the accused who stands before you to-day? What is his name, his

lineage, his family? What are his antecedents, his whole history? Is

he an instrument of the enemies of France, or is he, much more, an

unfortunate who has miraculously escaped the horrors of a bloody

revolution, and, laid under bans by his birth, has now no name and

no refuge for his head?"

The jury, however, were not called upon to answer this question;

they had simply to reply to the question whether the accused was

guilty of a conspiracy against the state. This they answered with a

"Guilty," and condemned the accused to an imprisonment of twelve

years.

The Duke de Normandie, or King Louis Charles, as we may choose to

call him, was taken to St. Pelagic; but during the next year,

through the assistance of powerful friends, which his trial had

gained over to him, he was released from prison, and again spent

some quiet years in Switzerland.

Then came the year 1848, the year of revolutions, whose storm-waves

drove Louis Philippe to England, never to ascend again the throne of

France.

Again Louis Charles issued from his solitude, and this time not

alone. A swarm of rich and powerful legitimists thronged around him,

a journal--L'Iflexible--was secured to the interests of the Duke do

Normandie, and La Vendee, with a thousand loyal voices, summoned

King Louis XVII. to herself. There, as he was on the point of

hastening to his faithful ones, God laid his hand upon him and held

him back; a stroke of paralysis crippled his limbs. After recovering

from this attack, the strength of his mind was taken away, and the

decided, fiery, indefatigable pretender became a gentle, pious monk,

who fasted and prayed, and wandered to Rome to have an interview

with Pope Pius IX., and received absolution from him for all his

sins.

The pope met the Duke de Normandie at Gaeta on the 20th of February,

1849, and had a long and secret conversation with him; and, when

Louis Charles withdrew, it was as a quiet, pious, smiling man, who

never denied his high extraction, but who had no longer a wish to be

restored to the inheritance of his fathers. More and more he

withdrew from the world, and lived only in the circle of a few

noble-born legitimists, who never addressed him excepting as "sire."

He accepted the title as one that was his due, and never refused it

even when approached by many adherents of the new Napoleonic

dynasty. At that time he wrote to his friends:

"You ask me what I wish, what the end of my struggle is, which has

now lasted more than a half century? I will tell you. You do not

suppose, I trust, that I am still determined to ascend the throne of

France: to do this would be a great misfortune for me, but it would

certainly be a greater one for France, and it would rightly be said

of both of us that we merit our misfortune; still less do I hope to

attain to wealth and high station by being recognized. You know that

I need very little for my support, and that this little is amply

provided for. What else should I strive for? To avenge myself? My

friend, I am at an age when the blood flows slower through the

veins, and when one finds an inexpressible charm in forgiving. What,

then, do I wish? What could I have? Why do I incessantly strive?

This is the reason, my friend: I should like, before my death, to

convince all who have disinterestedly believed in me, that it is not

a political adventurer, but the royal 'orphan of the Temple,' who

owes them his friendship, and gives them his gratitude."

And this last goal of his life was within his reach. The friends and

legitimists who surrounded him believed in him, and when he died his

dependants and servants mourned for him as for a departed king. They

bore him with solemn pomp to his grave, at the dead of night.

Some fifty persons followed his coffin, and a priest went before it.

He was buried in the churchyard of Villefranche, and his tombstone

bears the following inscription:

Here rests Louis Charles of France Born at Versailles, March 27,

1785. Died in the Chateau of Vaux-Renaud, August 10, 1858.