The Queen's Necklace

"I do not refuse to pay, sire. It must be the truth, as the queen permits it to be said." And a second look, still more contemptuous than the first, accompanied this speech.

The queen trembled, for she began to think his behavior like the indignation of an honest man.

"Well, M. le Cardinal, some one has imitated the signature of the Queen of France," said the king.

"The queen, sire, is free to attribute to me whatever crimes she pleases."

"Sir," said the king, "instead of justifying yourself, you assume the air of an accuser."

The cardinal paused a moment, and then cried, "Justify myself? – impossible!"

"Monsieur, these people say that this necklace has been stolen under a promise to pay for it; do you confess the crime?"

"Who would believe it, if I did?" asked the cardinal, with a haughty disdain.

"Then, sir, you think they will believe – "

"Sire, I know nothing of what is said," interrupted the cardinal; "all that I can affirm is, that I have not the necklace; some one has it who will not produce it; and I can but say, let the shame of the crime fall on the person who knows himself guilty."

"The question, madame, is between you two," said the king. "Once more, have you the necklace?"

"No, by the honor of my mother, by the life of my son."

The king joyfully turned towards the cardinal. "Then, sir, the affair lies between you and justice, unless you prefer trusting to my clemency."

"The clemency of kings is for the guilty, sire; I prefer the justice of men!"

"You will confess nothing?"

"I have nothing to say."

"But, sir, your silence compromises my honor," cried the queen.

The cardinal did not speak.

"Well, then, I will speak," cried she. "Learn, sire, that M. de Rohan's chief crime is not the theft of this necklace."

M. de Rohan turned pale.

"What do you mean?" cried the king.

"Madame!" murmured the cardinal.

"Oh! no reasons, no fear, no weakness shall close my mouth. I would proclaim my innocence in public if necessary."

"Your innocence," said the king. "Oh, madame, who would be rash enough, or base enough, to compel you to defend that?"

"I beg you, madame," said the cardinal.

"Ah! you begin to tremble. I was right: such plots bear not the light. Sire, will you order M. de Rohan to repeat to you what he has just said to me."

"Madame," cried the cardinal, "take care; you pass all bounds."

"Sir," said the king, "do you dare to speak thus to the queen?"

"Yes, sire," said Marie Antoinette; "this is the way he speaks to me, and pretends he has the right to do so."

"You, sir!" cried the king, livid with rage.

"Oh! he says he has letters – "

"Let us see them, sir," said the king.

"Yes, produce them," cried the queen.

The cardinal passed his hands over his burning eyes, and asked himself how heaven could ever have created a being so perfidious and so audacious; but he remained silent.

"But that is not all," continued the queen, getting more and more excited: "M. le Cardinal says he has obtained interviews – "

"Madame, for pity's sake," cried the king.

"For modesty's sake," murmured the cardinal.

"One word, sir. If you are not the basest of men; if you hold anything sacred in this world; if you have proofs, produce them."

"No, madame," replied he, at length, "I have not."

"You said you had a witness."

"Who?" asked the king.

"Madame de la Motte."

"Ah!" cried the king, whose suspicions against her were easily excited; "let us see this woman."

"Yes," said the queen, "but she has disappeared. Ask monsieur what he has done with her."

"Others have made her disappear who had more interest in doing so than I had."

"But, sir, if you are innocent, help us to find the guilty."

The cardinal crossed his hands and turned his back.

"Monsieur," cried the king, "you shall go to the Bastile."

"As I am, sire, in my robes? Consider, sire, the scandal will commence, and will fall heavily on whomsoever it rests."

"I wish it to do so, sir."

"It is an injustice, sire."

"It shall be so." And the king looked round for some one to execute his orders. M. de Breteuil was near, anticipating the fall of his rival; the king spoke to him, and he cried immediately, "Guards! arrest M. le Cardinal de Rohan."

The cardinal passed by the queen without saluting her; then, bowing to the king, went towards the lieutenant of the guards, who approached timidly, seeming to wait for a confirmation of the order he had received.

"Yes, sir," said M. de Rohan, "it is I whom you are to arrest."

"Conduct monsieur to his apartment until I have written the order;" said the king.

When they were alone, the king said, "Madame, you know this must lead to a public trial, and that scandal will fall heavily on the heads of the guilty."

"I thank you, sire; you have taken the only method of justifying me."

"You thank me."

"With all my heart; believe me, you have acted like a king, and I as a queen."

"Good," replied the king, joyfully; "we shall find out the truth at last, and when once we have crushed the serpent, I hope we may live in more tranquillity." He kissed the queen, and left her.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal to the officer who conducted him, "can I send word home that I have been arrested?"

"If no one sees, monseigneur."

The cardinal wrote some words on a page of his missal, then tore it out, and let it fall at the feet of the officer.

"She ruins me," murmured the cardinal; "but I will save her, for your sake, oh! my king, and because it is my duty to forgive."

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

THE PROCÈS-VERBAL

When the king reentered his room he signed the order to consign M. de Rohan to the Bastile. The Count de Provence soon came in and began making a series of signs to M. de Breteuil, who, however willing, could not understand their meaning. This, however, the count did not care for, as his sole object was to attract the king's attention. He at last succeeded, and the king, after dismissing M. de Breteuil, said to him, "What was the meaning of all those signs you were making just now? I suppose they meant something."

"Undoubtedly, but – "

"Oh, you are quite free to say or not."

"Sire, I have just heard of the arrest of M. de Rohan."

"Well, and what then? Am I wrong to do justice even on him?"

"Oh no, brother; I did not mean that."

"I should have been surprised had you not taken part somehow against the queen. I have just seen her, and am quite satisfied."

"Oh, sire, God forbid that I should accuse her! The queen has no friend more devoted than myself."

"Then you approve of my proceedings? which will, I trust, terminate all the scandals which have lately disgraced our court."

"Yes, sire, I entirely approve your majesty's conduct, and I think all is for the best as regards the necklace – "

"Pardieu, it is clear enough. M. de Rohan has been making himself great on a pretended familiarity with the queen; and conducting in her name a bargain for the diamonds, and leaving it to be supposed that she had them. It is monstrous. And then these tales never stop at the truth, but add all sorts of dreadful details which would end in a frightful scandal on the queen."

"Yes, brother, I repeat as far as the necklace is concerned you were perfectly right."

"What else is there, then?"

"Sire, you embarrass me. The queen has not, then, told you?"

"Oh, the other boastings of M. de Rohan? The pretended correspondence and interviews he speaks of? All that I know is, that I have the most absolute confidence in the queen, which she merits by the nobleness of her character. It was easy for her to have told me nothing of all this; but she always makes an immediate appeal to me in all difficulties, and confides to me the care of her honor. I am her confessor and her judge."

"Sire, you make me afraid to speak, lest I should be again accused of want of friendship for the queen. But it is right that all should be spoken, that she may justify herself from the other accusations."

"Well, what have you to say?"

"Let me first hear what she told you?"

"She said she had not the necklace; that she never signed the receipt for the jewels; that she never authorized M. de Rohan to buy them; that she had never given him the right to think himself more to her than any other of her subjects; and that she was perfectly indifferent to him."

"Ah! she said that – ?"

"Most decidedly."

"Then these rumors about other people – "

"What others?"

"Why, if it were not M. de Rohan, who walked with the queen – "

"How! do they say he walked with her?"

"The queen denies it, you say? but how came she to be in the park at night, and with whom did she walk?"

"The queen in the park at night!"

"Doubtless, there are always eyes ready to watch every movement of a queen."

"Brother, these are infamous things that you repeat, take care."

"Sire, I openly repeat them, that your majesty may search out the truth."

"And they say that the queen walked at night in the park?"

"Yes, sire, tête-à-tête."

"I do not believe any one says it."

"Unfortunately I can prove it but too well. There are four witnesses: one is the captain of the hunt, who says he saw the queen go out two following nights by the door near the kennel of the wolf-hounds; here is his declaration signed."

The king, trembling, took the paper.

"The next is the night watchman at Trianon, who says he saw the queen walking arm in arm with a gentleman. The third is the porter of the west door, who also saw the queen going through the little gate; he states how she was dressed, but that he could not recognize the gentleman, but thought he looked like an officer; he says he could not be mistaken, for that the queen was accompanied by her friend, Madame de la Motte."

"Her friend!" cried the king, furiously.

"The last is from the man whose duty it is to see that all the doors are locked at night. He says that he saw the queen go into the baths of Apollo with a gentleman."

The king, pale with anger and emotion, snatched the paper from the hands of his brother.

"It is true," continued the count, "that Madame de la Motte was outside, and that the queen did not remain more than an hour."

"The name of the gentleman?" cried the king.

"This report does not name him; but here is one dated the next day, by a forester, who says it was M. de Charny."

"M. de Charny!" cried the king. "Wait here; I will soon learn the truth of all this."

CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE LAST ACCUSATION

As soon as the king left the room, the queen ran towards the boudoir, and opened the door; then, as if her strength failed her, sank down on a chair, waiting for the decision of M. de Charny, her last and most formidable judge.

He came out more sad and pale than ever.

"Well?" said she.

"Madame," replied he, "you see, everything opposes our friendship. There can be no peace for me while such scandalous reports circulate in public, putting my private convictions aside."

"Then," said the queen, "all I have done, this perilous aggression, this public defiance of one of the greatest nobles in the kingdom, and my conduct being exposed to the test of public opinion, does not satisfy you?"

"Oh!" cried Charny, "you are noble and generous, I know – "

"But you believe me guilty – you believe the cardinal. I command you to tell me what you think."

"I must say, then, madame, that he is neither mad nor wicked, as you called him, but a man thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he said – a man who loves you, and the victim of an error which will bring him to ruin, and you – "

"Well?"

"To dishonor."

"Mon Dieu!"

"This odious woman, this Madame de la Motte, disappearing just when her testimony might have restored you to repose and honor – she is the evil genius, the curse, of your reign; she whom you have, unfortunately, admitted to partake of your intimacy and your secrets."

"Oh, sir!"

"Yes, madame, it is clear that you combined with her and the cardinal to buy this necklace. Pardon if I offend you."

"Stay, sir," replied the queen, with a pride not unmixed with anger; "what the king believes, others might believe, and my friends not be harder than my husband. It seems to me that it can give no pleasure to any man to see a woman whom he does not esteem. I do not speak of you, sir; to you I am not a woman, but a queen; as you are to me, not a man, but a subject. I had advised you to remain in the country, and it was wise; far from the court, you might have judged me more truly. Too ready to condescend, I have neglected to keep up, with those whom I thought loved me, the prestige of royalty. I should have been a queen, and content to govern, and not have wished to be loved."

"I cannot express," replied Charny, "how much your severity wounds me. I may have forgotten that you were a queen, but never that you were the woman most in the world worthy of my respect and love."

"Sir, I think your absence is necessary; something tells me that it will end by your name being mixed up in all this."

"Impossible, madame!"

"You say 'impossible'; reflect on the power of those who have for so long played with my reputation. You say that M. de Rohan is convinced of what he asserts; those who cause such convictions would not be long in proving you a disloyal subject to the king, and a disgraceful friend for me. Those who invent so easily what is false will not be long in discovering the truth. Lose no time, therefore; the peril is great. Retire, and fly from the scandal which will ensue from the approaching trial; I do not wish that my destiny should involve yours, or your future be ruined. I, who am, thank God, innocent, and without a stain on my life – I, who would lay bare my heart to my enemies, could they thus read its purity, will resist to the last. For you might come ruin, defamation, and perhaps imprisonment. Take away the money you so nobly offered me, and the assurance that not one movement of your generous heart has escaped me, and that your doubts, though they have wounded, have not estranged me. Go, I say, and seek elsewhere what the Queen of France can no longer give you – hope and happiness. From this time to the convocation of Parliament, and the production of witnesses must be a fortnight; your uncle has vessels ready to sail – go and leave me; I bring misfortunes on my friends." Saying this, the queen rose, and seemed to give Charny his congé.

He approached quickly, but respectfully. "Your majesty," cried he, in a moved voice, "shows me my duty. It is here that danger awaits you, here that you are to be judged, and, that you may have one loyal witness on your side, I remain here. Perhaps we may still make your enemies tremble before the majesty of an innocent queen, and the courage of a devoted man. And if you wish it, madame, I will be equally hidden and unseen as though I went. During a fortnight that I lived within a hundred yards of you, watching your every movement, counting your steps, living in your life, no one saw me; I can do so again, if it please you."

"As you please," replied she; "I am no coquette, M. de Charny, and to say what I please is the true privilege of a queen. One day, sir, I chose you from every one. I do not know what drew my heart towards you, but I had need of a strong and pure friendship, and I allowed you to perceive that need; but now I see that your soul does not respond to mine, and I tell you so frankly."

"Oh, madame," cried Charny, "I cannot let you take away your heart from me! If you have once given it to me, I will keep it with my life; I cannot lose you. You reproached me with my doubts – oh, do not doubt me!"

"Ah," said she, "but you are weak, and I, alas, am so also."

"You are all I love you to be."

"What!" cried she, passionately, "this abused queen, this woman about to be publicly judged, that the world condemns, and that her king and husband may, perhaps, also in turn condemn, has she found one heart to love her?"

"A slave, who venerates her, and offers her his heart's blood in exchange for every pang he has caused her!"

"Then," cried she, "this woman is blessed and happy, and complains of nothing!"

Charny fell at her feet, and kissed her hands in transport. At that moment the door opened, and the king surprised, at the feet of his wife, the man whom he had just heard accused by the Comte de Provence.

CHAPTER LXXX.

THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE

The queen and Charny exchanged a look so full of terror, that their most cruel enemy must have pitied them.

Charny rose slowly, and bowed to the king, whose heart might almost have been seen to beat.

"Ah!" cried he, in a hoarse voice, "M. de Charny!"

The queen could not speak – she thought she was lost.

"M. de Charny," repeated the king, "it is little honorable for a gentleman to be taken in the act of theft."

"Of theft?" murmured Charny.

"Yes, sir, to kneel before the wife of another is a theft; and when this woman is a queen, his crime is called high treason!"

The count was about to speak, but the queen, ever impatient in her generosity, forestalled him.

"Sire," said she, "you seem in the mood for evil suspicions and unfavorable suppositions, which fall falsely, I warn you; and if respect chains the count's tongue, I will not hear him wrongfully accused without defending him." Here she stopped, overcome by emotion, frightened at the falsehood she was about to tell, and bewildered because she could not find one to utter.

But these few words had somewhat softened the king, who replied more gently, "You will not tell me, madame, that I did not see M. de Charny kneeling before you, and without your attempting to raise him?"

"Therefore you might think," replied she, "that he had some favor to ask me."

"A favor?"

"Yes, sire, and one which I could not easily grant, or he would not have insisted with so much less warmth."

Charny breathed again, and the king's look became calmer. Marie Antoinette was searching for something to say, with mingled rage at being obliged to lie, and grief at not being able to think of anything probable to say. She half hoped the king would be satisfied, and ask no more, but he said:

"Let us hear, madame, what is the favor so warmly solicited, which made M. de Charny kneel before you; I may, perhaps, more happy than you, be able to grant it."

She hesitated; to lie before the man she loved was agony to her, and she would have given the world for Charny to find the answer. But of this he was incapable.

"Sire, I told you that M. de Charny asked an impossible thing."

"What is it?"

"What can one ask on one's knees?"

"I want to hear."

"Sire, it is a family secret."

"There are no secrets from the king – a father interested in all his subjects, who are his children, although, like unnatural children, they may sometimes attack the honor and safety of their father."

This speech made the queen tremble anew.

"M. de Charny asked," replied she, "permission to marry."

"Really," cried the king, reassured for a moment. Then, after a pause, he said, "But why should it be impossible for M. de Charny to marry? Is he not noble? Has he not a good fortune? Is he not brave and handsome? Really, to refuse him, the lady ought to be a princess, or already married. I can see no other reason for an impossibility. Therefore, madame, tell me the name of the lady who is loved by M. de Charny, and let me see if I cannot remove the difficulty."

The queen, forced to continue her falsehood, replied:

"No, sire; there are difficulties which even you cannot remove, and the present one is of this nature."

"Still, I wish to hear," replied the king, his anger returning.

Charny looked at the queen – she seemed ready to faint. He made a step towards her and then drew back. How dared he approach her in the king's presence?

"Oh!" thought she, "for an idea – something that the king can neither doubt nor disbelieve." Then suddenly a thought struck her. She who has dedicated herself to heaven the king cannot influence. "Sire!" she cried, "she whom M. de Charny wishes to marry is in a convent."

"Oh! that is a difficulty; no doubt. But this seems a very sudden love of M. de Charny's. I have never heard of it from any one. Who is the lady you love, M. de Charny?"

The queen felt in despair, not knowing what he would say, and dreading to hear him name any one. But Charny could not reply: so, after a pause, she cried, "Sire, you know her; it is Andrée de Taverney."

Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her heart, and could hardly support herself.

"Mademoiselle de Taverney? but she has gone to St. Denis."

"Yes, sire," replied the queen.

"But she has taken no vows."

"No, but she is about to do so."

"We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows?"

"She is poor," said the queen.

"That I can soon alter, madame, if M. de Charny loves her."

The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging him to deny it. He did not speak.

"And I dare say," continued the king, taking his silence for consent, "that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves M. de Charny. I will give her as dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank the queen, M. de Charny, for telling me of this, and ensuring your happiness."

Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received an instant's life.

"Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!" said the king.

The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who left on it a burning kiss.

"Now," said the king, "come with me."

M. de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen.

CHAPTER LXXXI.

ST. DENIS

The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andrée even the chance of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she refused, would not the king's suspicions reawaken, and everything seem only the worse for this falsehood? She dared not risk this – she must go to Andrée and confess, and implore her to make this sacrifice; or if she would only temporize, the king's suspicions might pass away, and he might cease to interest himself about it. Thus the liberty of Mlle. de Taverney would not be sacrificed, neither would that of M. de Charny; and she would be spared the remorse of having sacrificed the happiness of two people to her honor. She longed to speak again to Charny, but feared discovery; and she knew she might rely upon him to ratify anything she chose to say. Three o'clock arrived – the state dinner and the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her carriage, and, without any guards, and only one companion, drove to St. Denis, and asked to see Andrée. Andrée was at that moment kneeling, dressed in her white peignoir; and praying with fervor. She had quitted the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen occupied all his thoughts? Yet, when she heard that the queen was asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavoring to think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.

"Come here, Andrée," said the queen, with a smile, as she entered.

CHAPTER LXXXII.

A DEAD HEART

"Andrée," continued the queen, "it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb."

"Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty."

"That was never my wish," said the queen; "tell me truly, Andrée, had you to complain of me when you were at court?"

"Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame."