SEARCHING FOR THE SERPENT RING.
The Queen of France nearly lost her courage when news reached her of the
storming of the Bastille, but she kept bravely up in presence of the
court, and only indulged in sad forebodings when a moment of solitude
was given her.
One evening as the sun went down, she escaped from her ladies and went
alone into the park. Finding a secluded seat she fell into a painful
reverie, and gave way to it until the new moon dropped down among the
purplish whiteness of the clouds, from which all the scarlet and gold
had died softly out, and hung there like a golden sickle, waiting for a
harvest of stars. Then Marie Antoinette remembered the hour, and how far
she was from the palace, with a little thrill of fear. She gathered the
shawl over her head, and, holding its shadowy lace to her bosom with one
hand, went out into the Park, and walked swiftly away.
Everything was still as death; the birds had ceased their soft
fluttering among the leaves; and all the pretty animals had crept away
to their coverts among the ferns and undergrowth.
All at once the queen paused, and stepped back with a faint shriek. The
shadow of a man fell across her path—the man himself stood in her way.
The moon had just traveled through an amethystine cloud, and came out
clear as crystal, illuminating that strange face, the bright blue eyes,
the ivory forehead, and that long, white beard, which waved down the
man’s bosom.
“Lady,” he said, “you look kind and good; tell me how I can gain access
to the daughter of Maria Theresa.”
The voice was low and broken, but sweet with humility. There was nothing
to fear from a man who spoke like that.
“You speak of the queen?” said Marie Antoinette, with gentle dignity.
“Yes, I speak of the queen; that fair, brave woman, whose mother, a
saint in heaven, was once my friend.”
“You have seen my mother?” cried Marie Antoinette, surprised out of all
prudence.
“Your mother? Oh! that I do not know. It was Maria Theresa, the good
Empress of Austria, of whom I was speaking; and it is her child, the
young queen of France, I wish to see.”
“The young Queen of France! Alas! she is no longer young,” said Marie
Antoinette, with a pathetic recollection of the silver threads that were
creeping into her hair.
The man shook his head, and lifted one hand to it with an air of
bewilderment.
“You mistake, lady; I saw her twice, and she was young and fair, like
the lilies—so fair, so beautifully fair!”
“Was that in Austria, old man?”
“Yes, it was in Austria. She stood by the side of her mother, a grand,
princely woman, dauntless as a lion—but I saw her tremble. It is awful
to see such terror in the eyes of a brave woman; but it was there, and I
had done it. Ah, me! there is a power beyond that of monarch’s—a fearful
power. They wrested it from me—they wrested it from me; and I am only a
poor, weak old man.”
“Who are you? I cannot make out by the tones of your voice to what
nation you belong; they carry the accent of no country with them that I
can discern.”
“That is because I have been born again; buried, you know, and risen
from the grave.”
Marie Antoinette looked anxiously about her. This was the talk of a
madman. How had he come there? By what device could she escape him?
“You cannot understand me,” persisted the man, plaintively. “You are
afraid of a poor, helpless old man, who has but one wish in the world.”
“And what is that?” inquired the queen, reassured by his meek
earnestness.
“To see Marie Antoinette, to take the serpent from her hand, and the
curse from her destiny.”
Again the queen recoiled; these words seemed to her the wild talk of a
madman.
“Can you tell me how to reach her, lady?”
“That is impossible. The queen admits no strangers to her presence.”
“Ah, me! and I am a stranger to every one now. They all seem afraid of
the creature they have dragged up from his grave.”
“Who are you?”
“No matter; you would not care to know; a great many do not love the
queen; but I think you are something to the daughter of Maria Theresa,
or you would not be in this place. It is strange, but at first I thought
it was the queen walking by herself—as if she ever did! It would be
dangerous, I can tell her that—very dangerous; for there exist people
over yonder who hate this fair young queen. But I pity her; oh, yes! I
pity her from the depths of my heart!”
“Why—why do you pity her?”
“Because I know. Because they have taken the good from me and turned it
into evil for her. Ah! if I could see her; if she would only believe
me!”
“Believe you in what?”
“In the thing I would ask of her.”
“What would that be?”
“No matter. I can tell no one but herself.”
“Tell me, and if the thing you want is reasonable, I will ask it of
her.”
“Do you see her? Are you one of her ladies! You should be, else how came
you here?”
“How came you here?” demanded the queen.
“Oh! I accomplished it at last. Days and days I have waited and watched;
but this morning I saw a man go warily through a gate. He left it
unlocked. I dared not follow, but lingered near, for the temptation was
strong upon me. I waited patiently. Oh, lady! I have learned to be
patient; to wait, and wait, and wait——”
The man broke off dreamily. His hand waved to and fro in the air, as if
grasping at the moonbeams.
“But you have not told me?”
“Told you about what?”
“About the man.”
“About the man—I have seen a great many people since then; and they all
talk before me, thinking that I, most of any one, must hate the man they
call Louis Capet, and his wife. Poor thing! Poor thing! Why should I
hate her or him! He was not to blame for the cruel acts of his
grandfather. But about the man, he went out of the gate without locking
it, then I crept in. What if I had been an enemy? but I am not. No one
shall ever make me that.”
“Well, no harm is done,” said the queen.
“Not yet; but, lady, if you see the queen, warn her about the gate. I
would, but that my business with her is so much more important.”
“I will warn her,” said the queen.
“That is kind. Oh! if I could only see her, and undo the evil thing
which is sure to carry a curse with it, when a minute could turn it into
a blessing. You could not ask her?”
His great, wistful eyes were turned on her face imploringly; he grasped
the lace of her shawl with his eager hand. She stepped back nervously,
and wrenched the lace from his grasp. In doing this her hand flashed out
from its covering; the moonlight struck the great starlike diamonds on
her fingers, and dimly revealed a serpent of twisted gold, with a green
beetle in its coils, twined around one finger.
The old man uttered a cry so sharp and wild that it rang through the
park.
“Give it me! Give it me! It is mine! It is mine!” he cried, snatching at
the hand on which he had seen the serpent ring. “Oh, my God! it shall
not escape me again! All the fiends themselves shall not keep it from
me!”
The old man caught the hand, which again buried itself in the black
shawl; but he trembled so violently that the lace tore in his grasp, and
the queen broke from him in extreme terror. This insane violence
convinced her that the man was mad. She darted away, and ran for her
very life, not daring to cry out, but rushing on, and on, till the
breath left her.
The old man followed the flying woman, calling after her with pathetic
cries, and beseeching her to stop. She looked back, a hand grasped at
her shoulder, but she swerved aside quickly, and the old man fell
headlong.
The queen uttered a quick cry of thankfulness, and sped on, and on, till
she came in sight of the palace.
The old man, who had fallen headlong on the turf, lay insensible for a
few minutes; but after a little he lifted himself up, and looked around
for the lady who had almost reached the private door.
“Gone! gone! gone!” he cried out, with pathetic mournfulness. “How near
I was! My hand touched it! I felt the thrill and the power flash through
me like an arrow, and then it was gone! Who was the lady? How did that
ring come on her finger? Does she know that to her it will bring nothing
but curses, to me power, strength, the blessedness of memory—spring of
youth. Ah! why does she escape me!”
He stood awhile with his clasped hands uplifted, his eyes full of tears.
The agony of his disappointment quivered in every mild feature. Then he
tottered on, muttering to himself.
“Oh! how they baffle me! How long am I to wait! Are the fiends forever
to have mastery? Oh, me! I could bear it if no evil came to others,
while good is withheld from me. How long am I to wait?”
There was no madness in the old man’s voice, but unutterable
disappointment, the very mournfulness of despair. His step was slow and
feeble; tears dropped from his eyes, and fell upon his beard, where they
trembled like jewels. His lips quivered, and gave out soft murmurs of
distress, as he followed after the queen, who fled from him.