MADAME’S CRIME COMES HOME TO TORTURE HER.
Zamara drew close to his mistress.
“Madame will, perhaps, remember a man whom she once summoned from his
home in Germany—a learned physician——”
The countess put a hand up to her forehead, and seemed to search her
memory. All at once she looked up.
“You mean that Dr. Gosner, with the ring?”
“Yes; that is the man.”
“Well, what of him? He was sent to the Bastille; I remember it all. It
seems to me that I intended to let him out; but the king died, and then
all my power for good or harm ended. Of course, there was no one to
intercede for him. The Bastille makes quick work with its inmates. Of
course, he died.”
“No, my mistress, he still lives; and the young girl you saw yonder with
Dame Tillery has his release in her bosom. To-morrow he will be the lion
of Paris. All France will know that a word of yours took this man from
his family, and shut him up in a dungeon deep below the sewers of the
street, where his best companions have been toads and creeping things
from which human nature revolts. In this dungeon a good man, a learned
man, has grown old in misery. He will come forth with hair like the
drifted snow, weak and tottering, perhaps imbecile; and the people, who
hate you, will cry out, ‘This is the work of that monster, Du Berry. She
kills souls! She had no mercy! She——’”
The countess uttered an impatient cry, and clapped both hands to her
ears.
“Stop, Zamara—stop, if you have not resolved to kill me. All that was so
long ago, I had almost forgotten it. Can men live forever under ground?”
“Not often; but some lives defy nature, and all that outrages it.
Another man has spent half a lifetime in those hideous vaults, and came
out at last to exasperate the people. This will complete their frenzy.
Gosner will appear in the clubs, in the marketplaces, everywhere. His
white hair will madden the people like a hostile banner; his own lips
will tell the story of his wrongs. This will draw tears from the women,
clamors of rage from the men. They will demand the author of this
cruelty, and he will pronounce your name.”
Madame shrunk back in her chair, white and craven with fear; the dwarf
had drawn his picture with terrible force. Shuddering, she acknowledged
its truth, and cried out,
“What can I do, Zamara? How can all these horrors be averted? They know
that I am in France. I cannot leave; I cannot exist in that horrible
England. Oh! why will all one’s little errors keep upon the track so
long? I had forgotten this but for the ring—you remember the ring,
Zamara?”
“Yes, my mistress. It was only to-day that I saw it coiling around the
queen’s finger. They tell me it never leaves her hand.”
“I placed it there. It was only by the ring I remembered this man Gosner
at all. It was to get that I obtained the _lettre-de-cachet_. You know
how I hated her then. She scorned me so, it was natural; but when the
king died how forbearing she was, how generous. No insults reached me
from her; all my estates were left; she crushed me beneath the grandeur
of her magnanimity. Then I repented; then I would gladly have taken that
fatal serpent from her finger. I remember well what he said of its
power—to every hand but his it would bring disgrace and sorrow. Without
it, all these evils would fall on him. I took it from him and gave it to
her. See how his prediction has turned out, Zamara—from that day to this
he has languished in a dungeon; while she, who wears the ring, has seen
her great popularity vanish from the hearts of the people. All the power
of the throne began to crumble beneath her feet from the very hour that
she mounted it.”
“I have often thought of that,” said Zamara, who was now more than
formerly the companion of his mistress. “When I heard that he was alive,
a great terror seized upon me, for I saw danger to the queen in his
release, more fearful danger to yourself. The people will know that you
cast this learned man into prison without even naming his crime; they
will believe that the queen kept him there through all these long
years.”
“When she did not even know of his existence!” exclaimed the countess.
“See how just this great monster, the people, is!”
“Just! It is a ferocious wild beast, with no higher reason than instinct
of rage and greed—a wild beast that may easily be goaded into madness.”
“And the release of this man may do it—I see that, I see that!” cried
the countess. “But how to avoid the peril? The populace had almost
forgotten me; this will arouse the old hatred afresh. Ah! if I had but
one friend!”
Poor woman! this was a mournful cry from one who had seen a whole nation
at her feet; but of all that host of abject flatterers, this Indian
dwarf, the creature of her bounty, the plaything of her fancy, the scoff
of her former worshipers, alone stood faithful. This it was that wrung
the cry from her heart.
The dwarf stood near her, troubled and anxious as a dog waiting for
orders. At last he drew close to her chair, a gleam of partial relief
came into her face as she looked into his.
“You have thought of something,” she said. “What is it, my friend?”
“Mistress, this man must not come out of the Bastille.”
Zamara spoke almost in a whisper, and looked warily around, as if afraid
of being overheard.
“But how can we prevent it?”
“You know the governor?”
“Yes. When he was young, I obtained for him a subordinate place in the
prison,” answered the countess.
“That is a pity!”
“But why?”
“Gratitude does not often stretch back so many years—it has neither the
life or grasp of revenge. I would rather this man owed you nothing.”
A low, bitter laugh broke from the countess as she replied,
“Never fear, the man will have forgotten it.”
“Then our task is easier. I do not know how it is to be done. Give me a
little time for thought. Will it be possible to keep this young girl
here till morning?”
“Not of her own free will, if she has her father’s pardon, as you say,
in her bosom. I have never seen so much happiness in a human face. She
is very lovely. Ah! it is a terrible thing to break up all this joy!”
“But more terrible to be driven to a strange land, or torn by a mob,”
answered Zamara.
“I know—I know. Oh! why did I not let this poor man alone! He would have
done me no harm. Now, I think of it, the girl looks like her father; his
face was almost as fair as hers, his eyes of the same tender blue. It is
strange how clearly I remember them—and she is so happy?”
There was irresolution in the woman’s words, and in her heart.
Disappointment, trouble, and ingratitude, had broken down her arrogance
and humanized her conscience. She felt a yearning desire to protect this
young girl in her happiness, and give her wronged father back to his
life.
Zamara saw all this, and trembled. He understood better than she did the
danger that lay before them.