The Mystery of the Lost Dauphin Part 27

Rene clutched the Breton's wrist and pressed it till the bones almost cracked.

"I repeat, Jean, you are the undoing of my life. But you shall not save your soul, if you persist, for a dreadful crime would follow. You refuse to give her up? Well, let me tell you who the woman is that you continue to call your wife. She is sacred, poor fool, and as inaccessible to you as the saints. Listen, dust of the earth. _She is of the race of kings_--do you hear?--you must never forget this fact--_of our kings_!"

Terror and wonder contorted the peasant's face. He transfixed Amelie with a look of superst.i.tious, reverence. The revelation exceeded his power of comprehension.

"The blood of the king martyred by the revolutionists is in her body,--the king for whom your father bore arms and fought hand to hand so often,--the king for whom he lay concealed in the woods and for whom,--do you remember, Jean?--he was shot, his body lying unburied during seven days. If your father should now awake he would behold his son attempting to profane the daughter of that king! This is the crime to which you have lent yourself."

"Is this true?" asked Jean, turning upon Amelie a face contorted with fear and pain.

"Yes, Jean," she answered, her voice full of compa.s.sion. "I swear by my soul it is true."

"And the honor of Breze confirms the oath," added Rene. "Retain the fruit of your iniquity. I leave you your wife. You no longer have a master. I shall go away forever."

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

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

Then, swiftly approaching Amelie, he kissed her on the forehead. His lips burned and she shrieked in horror. He walked rapidly out of the boudoir. His heavy feet sounded for a moment in the antechamber, then on the stairway, the narrow winding stairway leading to the tower's highest story. Rene and Amelie listened. Suddenly divining his intention, they ran after him. The tiny room was dark when they reached it, the window was curtained by a heavy obstruction which they realized was Jean. They darted to clutch him, but he rolled out before their eyes. Deeply affected, they looked down and beheld at the base of the tower the lifeless body of the grief-crazed Breton, with face upturned to the sky and gla.s.sy eyes gleaming amid the heavy blond hair. Silvano, the faithful mastiff, sat beside him, howling despairingly.

Book V

THE SISTER

Chapter I

PORTENTS

The apartments of the royal palace which we now enter are those farthest removed from the stir and distractions of the court. The perennial austerity of their august occupant seems to have imparted to them a religious gloom. Owners bestow themselves upon their belongings. The human soul leaves back of itself its peculiar track, either luminous or sombre.

The first impression made upon one entering the salons is of absolute silence. Noise would seem there a trespa.s.ser, a deep breath an infringing of etiquette. Servants and courtiers smother their voices and footfalls, suppress smiles and even dim the brightness of their eyes on addressing the d.u.c.h.ess,--the sad d.u.c.h.ess, who daily resembles more and more those rigid supplicating forms which guard sepulchres. After pa.s.sing through a succession of reception rooms, screened from the sunlight by heavy draperies, and of appointments so symmetrically and solemnly arranged that it seems impossible they should ever be moved from their places, we come to the d.u.c.h.ess's boudoir. Pa.s.sing the dormitory and visitors' room, we lift a tapestry portiere and enter the small apartment which is her oratory.

A richly wrought silver lamp is the only ornament, wherein float two burning wicks in perfumed oil. By the pale rays is discernible against a black velvet screen, a large marble figure of the Christ. He is represented at the moment of expiring, just when his head falls on his shoulder and he cries: "It is finished!" At the foot of the altar kneels a woman in fervent prayer. She rests on a crimson prie-Dieu and her eyes are raised to the Christ. The light falls full on her face and we see it is the d.u.c.h.ess.

Beautiful had that face been in youth, but suffering has obliterated all trace of beauty. The hair once pale yellow,--the family color,--and so abundant that it was whispered she wore a wig, has now an ashen, almost a cobwebby look; the skin is yellow and marked with wrinkles; the dry eyes are inflamed with tears that do not flow. The lips are drawn tight,--the lips that neither laugh nor kiss. The clasped hands are emaciated and of waxen whiteness. Bitter thoughts seem to hover around the pale forehead,--cruel doubt and insistent remorse. An expression of appalling incert.i.tude, the terror of faith stripped of celestial consolation are there. Incoherent, rebellious words come from the lips.

At last, heaving a deep sigh, she arose, unclasped her hands and pa.s.sed the right one over her forehead as though in an effort to banish her thoughts. Approaching the lamp, she unfastened two b.u.t.tons of her waist and took from her bosom a roll of paper,--a letter. She glanced around, as if to a.s.sure herself that she was alone, and then began to read:

"My sister, well beloved: I live, I live; the hand of your brother directs these words; disregarding court etiquette, I a.s.sure you of my love--"

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

The lady hastily replaced the paper and b.u.t.toned her bodice with an unsteady hand. By a strong effort of the will, she a.s.sumed the impenetrable mask she put on habitually and opened the door, with a look of cold surprise on her face. The attendant apologized profusely for the interruption.

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

Without moving a muscle of her face, the d.u.c.h.ess bowed in a.s.sent and, with the gait of an automaton, pa.s.sed on to meet her husband, who awaited her in the visitors' room, a small apartment, containing a desk, some books of devotion and a few cla.s.sics.

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

She seated herself, but he continued standing. He was tall and of patrician and martial bearing. She addressed him a mute interrogatory.

The absence of cordiality between them was at once apparent.

"Therese, I come to trouble you and this I regret infinitely. But 'tis indispensable. I come to talk of state matters, that is of matters closely related to the state. Some time ago we banished this topic from our conversation, Therese, because--we happen to differ in our views.

You find me somewhat--what phrase shall I use?--well, liberal. I find you obstinate,--opposed to making concessions and blind to the exigencies of the times. I am inclined to adopt the opinion of the King and Ferdinand; you, like our good father--but Therese, think as we individually may, we both desire the same accomplishment. At bottom there is harmony between us. I could not bear to believe otherwise."

"At bottom there is indeed harmony," she answered. "Neither could I bear to believe otherwise. We are united, as is the entire family, in the faith that the Restoration is genuine--a victory over the dragon of the Revolution. You employ hidden weapons; I am less astute; I fight unarmed, or, as better said, I do not fight. I resist the foe, arms folded on my breast, and I should not retreat. I should face him to the last tho he advanced upon me with an overpowering host."

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

"Do not repeat that absurd speech. Each prince of the House is a man, a paladin, worthy of the race. Neither you nor your brother Ferdinand, notwithstanding his delinquencies respecting women, has given the lie to the proud blood which flows through your veins. I am a weak woman, whose only refuge, in hours of trial, is religion--the religion which has taught me to suffer resignedly, but never to yield. Much have I suffered; much am I yet to suffer."

A trembling convulsed her bosom and pa.s.sed over her entire body, rustling the violet silk gown which she wore in half mourning. The Duke suppressed his annoyance. His wife's gloomy disposition had, from the first days of their marriage de convenance been a killjoy--that marriage, consummated for political reasons and in compliance with the dying request of her parents. Somewhat of warmth, somewhat of human tenderness would have mingled those two souls, had not constraint been characteristic of both.

"Therese," he replied, "in every life there is a cup of bitterness. Each thinks that his chalice contains the most gall. Each knows but his own sorrow. G.o.d has tried us indeed, but have courage! I come with another sorrow to your heart already bleeding. Your strength must sustain you."

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

"Of the impostors, who have, in succession, exploited favorable circ.u.mstances in personating the unhappy prince who perished in captivity."

A deathlike pallor spread over her face.

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

"Yes, this is the reason. The iniquitous farce grows of sufficient consequence to threaten the throne."

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

"I am come for that purpose," he replied. "The king has entrusted me with messages for you. He is fearful lest these spurious pretensions leave an ill effect upon you."

The d.u.c.h.ess drew a handkerchief across her eyes. Her husband and cousin continued:

"The fate of the young prince has brought sorrow to many. It has also been the cause of numerous schemes, and served as basis for ambitious delirium. An Austrian drummer declares before a council of war that he is your brother; another, whose brain has become addled from a bullet wound, is so insistent in his claims that it has been found necessary to incarcerate him in Bicetre; a servant in this asylum disputes with him the honor, by name Fontolive; a hunch-back a.s.sistant to a notary follows suit and he will likely end his career in Bicetre; there is a Dufresne who displays on his right calf a fleur de lis. There are others too numerous to mention, including one who dresses like a woman. To enumerate them all would be to number the sands of the seash.o.r.e. I shall speak only of the most audacious among them, of those who have succeeded in investing their ridiculous pretensions with the semblance of truth, namely a certain Fruchard, a man of brains and resolution; Hervagault, the son of a tailor who plays his cards well indeed; Maturino Bruneau of Vezins, a most popular impostor; Baron Richemont, the most dangerous of them all, for he is a man of education, a profound student of history, and of irreproachable morals. Several gentlemen, formerly staunch royalists, have placed themselves in his ranks--"

The d.u.c.h.ess listened with attention, fixing upon her husband her inquisitorial eyes which cut like a keen knife. The Duke hesitated and she asked coldly:

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

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

"There is another, Therese--He is seconded--O 'tis incredible!--by such men as Rene de Giac, whom we considered so devoted to the throne. His mother is inconsolable and no longer permits him to visit her. Besides Rene, there are La Rochefoucauld, Madame de Rambeau, who was the Dauphin's guardian during infancy, the family Saint Hilaire, the Marquis Feuillade, the Marquis de Broglio Solari--a legion, indeed."

"But you do not tell me this impostor's name," she asked in a bitter voice. "Whence comes he?"