THE LADY IN THE PARK.
The object that had arrested Doctor Gosner’s attention was a group of
ladies sauntering beneath the trees of the Park. One, who seemed the
superior of the rest, walked a little in advance. She was young, very
beautiful, and paused now and then to address some of the ladies with a
playful turn of the head, and a smile light and careless as that of a
school-girl enjoying her holiday. She was dressed in simple white
muslin, gathered up like a cloud around her slender person, and a jaunty
little straw hat gave piquancy to a dress which any pretty woman in
France might have worn without comment. This young person had broken a
straight branch from the shrubberies as she passed through them, and was
tearing away the green leaves with one ungloved hand. Once she turned
her eyes toward the palace, gave a quick look around, as if she had come
upon it unawares, and addressing the lady nearest to her, shook her
rustic whip in playful reproach.
The countess watched every motion of this lady through the window with
nervous trepidation, as if she half expected that she would enter the
palace. In her anxiety she leaned out of the window so far as to become
visible. The man who stood just behind her saw that the Dauphiness was
seriously annoyed. The quick crimson flashed over her face, and she
turned to retrace her steps with a queenly lift of the head, haughty as
it was graceful.
An exclamation, so fierce that it amounted to an oath, broke from the
countess; a flame of angry crimson rushed over her face, and with a rude
gesture, she flung herself away from the window.
“You saw this Austrian, how haughtily she turned away, as if
contamination lingered in the very walls of any place I live in. Yes, as
you said just now, I am one of the people, that is why she dashes that
whip against her dress, as if beating away the dust of my presence from
her garments. Tell me, you who profess to know everything, is it strange
that I hate her?”
Dr. Gosner took no heed of this question; he was gazing after the group
of ladies, silent and absorbed, while the countess paced the room to and
fro, panting with noisy rage. Not till a winding path hid the group from
view did he leave the window, or become aware of the angry storm that
lovely woman had provoked.
“You saw her—you saw that proud lift of the head when she discovered me,
as if I were the dirt under her feet, and she treading me down with her
heels. Oh! she shall pay for this!”
“Yes,” said the doctor, gently. “I have seen her once before in Vienna.
She was very young, then, and far less beautiful. It is the Dauphiness
of France. Poor lady! Poor, unhappy lady!”
“Ha! You speak as if the things they tell me were true; as if your
divination had found out some great misfortune in store for her. Is it
so? Is it so? I would give this right hand to be sure of it.”
“Madame, I cannot answer.”
“But you shall!”
The doctor smiled very gravely, but in a way that exasperated the woman,
who usually found slaves to her will on every side.
“You brave me! You will do nothing that I desire!”
“I will do anything honorable that appertains to yourself, madame.”
“Then sit down here. I would test your power, let it come from what
source it will. Tell me of my own fate?”
“If you insist, madame, I will.”
The countess went to a table, and began to array writing materials upon
it; but finding no pen, she rang a bell, all crusted with jewels, and
the figure of a dwarf, in a fanciful costume, presented itself at the
door.
“Bring me a pen, Zamara, and see that no one approaches nearer than the
ante-room.”
The dwarf went out, making a bow, as he walked backward, so deep, that
it amounted almost to an Oriental salam.
“That little marmoset is the only true friend I have at court, the only
creature I can really trust,” said the countess; and a gleam of light
softened the haughty boldness of her face. “I think he loves me! Yes, I
think he loves me!”
These words were said more to herself than as if she wished to be
answered. So the doctor took no heed of them in words, but seated
himself in a chair, which she wheeled toward the table, forgetting all
her assumed dignity in an eager desire to learn something of the future.
The doctor seated himself just as Zamara came in with a pen in his hand,
one of those golden and jeweled extravagances which it was the delight
of this low-born woman to have about her.
Dr. Gosner took the pen, and drawing a sheet of vellum toward him,
prepared to make a calculation. The countess, in her anxiety, placed
herself behind him, and folding her arms on the back of his chair,
watched his movements while a sensation of awe crept over her. The
dwarf, Zamara, knelt down upon a cushion, which still had an imprint of
the countess’ foot pressed in the velvet, and regarded first one and
then the other with the vigilance of a favorite dog.
Then a profound stillness fell upon the room. Gosner was making
calculations on the vellum, the other two were watching him. Neither of
them seemed to breathe.
At last the doctor turned his face to the woman, who was partly leaning
over his shoulder.
“You will have me go on, madame?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Remember, it is only at your imperative command. From the very first I
shrunk from this task.”
“I will remember anything you wish, only go on.”
Still he paused. She saw that his face was pale, and a quiver of light
on the jeweled pen, warned her that his hand was trembling.
“Reflect,” he said, very earnestly.
The countess was bold and brave to recklessness; the visible agitation
of this man only made her the more determined.
“Go on! go on!” she repeated, impatiently; but her face grew white, and
her eyes shone.
The dwarf sprang from his knees and caught hold of her dress.
“No, mistress, do not let him go on. It frightens you. It makes
him tremble. He sees something wicked coming out from the
parchment—something that will hurt you.”
The countess stooped down and patted Zamara’s head exactly as she would
have pacified a pet spaniel.
“Go back to your cushion, marmoset,” she said; “this will not hurt me.
It is only writing.”
“Strange writing,” muttered the dwarf, with a glance at the parchment.
“It is like the tracks of a spider, and spiders are venomous. I do not
like it—I do not like it.”
No one seemed to heed these muttered words. The doctor was absorbed by
the hieroglyphics he worked out, and the countess watched him in
breathless suspense. All at once he lifted his head and laid the pen
down.
“We are not alone; send that child out.”
“Child!” exclaimed the dwarf, laying his hand on a little poniard that
glittered in his belt. “Monsieur calls me a child, when I am twenty
years of age, and stay only to protect my mistress.”
The countess laughed. A few minutes before she had been white as a
ghost; but rapid transitions were a part of her reckless character; the
pompous bravery of this little creature was enough to change her mood.
“Go, go,” she said, waving her hand; “this gentleman does not wish to
hurt me. Keep watch at the door—I will call you presently.”
“But should some one call?”
“Send some one away.”
“What if it should be the king?”
“Oh! let the king wait!”
The low-born audacity of this answer did not astonish the dwarf, who
backed out of the room, saying, between his bows, that madame should be
obeyed.
“Now!” exclaimed the impatient woman, “now, monsieur, we are alone. Tell
me what it is that makes your face so pale.”
“Madame, you but now demanded that I should tell you what the future has
in store for Marie Antoinette, who will be Queen of France.”
“Will be Queen of France? When—where?”
“Have I not said it is treason to divine, or prophesy the death of the
king?”
“But I absolve you—I, who have more power than any queen, pardon this
treason in advance.”
“Still I must not speak.”
“Not when my entire destiny depends on that one question?”
“Madame, I have spoken.”
“And still refuse me?”
“Madame, I still refuse!”
“This is cruel! How can I bribe—how can I force you into speaking?”
“This much I can say, as you will have the truth; before another year
passes Marie Antoinette will be Queen of France.”
“Before the end of another year? You are trifling with me! The king is
not so very old, and his health—no, no! I will not believe that; the
stars cannot tell you such horrible things. You are angry because I
persisted. What is it now? Your very lips are white, your hand shakes,
your eyes are looking away into the distance. What is it that you see?”
The man answered like one in a dream. His eyes grew dim, his voice was
low and hoarse.
“I see a great concourse of people heaving and jostling each other along
many streets, all leading into a public square, in which a scaffold
stands reeking with blood, scattered over with saw-dust. Great heavens!
I have seen that picture before. A cart comes lumbering through the
crowd; a woman sits in the cart, her hands bound, her feet tied. She
reels to and fro in the seat; her cries for mercy are mocked by the mob;
the hair, cut short at the neck, has fallen over her face. She flings
herself back in the agony of a last appeal, the hair sweeps aside.
Woman, the face is yours!”
Gosner started up, cast a wild look on the countess, and retreated from
her backward till his progress was stopped by the wall, where he stood
shuddering like a man who had been aroused out of some terrible dream.
The woman seemed turned to marble. The rouge upon her cheeks stood out
frightfully scarlet from the dead whiteness of her lips and face. At
length she fell upon her knees by the chair she had left, threw her arms
over the cushion and shrieked aloud. The dwarf rushed in, seized upon
her dress, and began to cry. Gosner leaned against the wall, and must
have fallen but for its support; great drops of perspiration stood on
his forehead. He had come out of that fearful trance weak as a child.