The Queen's Necklace

"But often," said the queen, "a grief hurts us which is not personal; have I injured any one belonging to you? Andrée, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such."

Andrée felt touched. "Your majesty knows," said she, "that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies."

"I understand," replied the queen; "you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of caprice."

"My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen," said Andrée, coldly.

The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andrée on this subject; so she said only, "Well, at least, I am ever your friend."

"Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness."

"Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?"

"I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world." She colored as she spoke.

"You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed place."

"Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead."

"Your heart dead, Andrée? you, so young and beautiful."

"I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day."

"Then you like the convent?"

"I embrace with pleasure a solitary life."

"Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?"

"Nothing!"

"Mon dieu!" thought the queen; "shall I fail? If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de Charny – heavens, how unhappy I am! – Andrée," she said, "what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived."

"What hope, madame?"

"Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak."

"If your majesty would explain – "

"You never regret what you have done?"

"Never, madame."

"Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations."

"Still, if your majesty would tell me – "

"Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court."

"Never!"

"You refuse me?"

"Oh, madame, why should you wish me? – sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present."

"But," said the queen, "what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies."

"A marriage?" stammered Andrée.

"Yes."

"Oh, I refuse, I refuse!"

"Andrée!" cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.

"Ah, no, I refuse!"

Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andrée said, "But, madame, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life."

"M. de Charny," said the queen, with an effort.

"M. de Charny?" —

"Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren."

"It is he!" cried Andrée, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; "he consents – "

"He asks you in marriage."

"Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him."

The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andrée kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. "Oh, I am ready," murmured she.

"Come, then!" cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.

Andrée left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, "Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering? and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame?"

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT

Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure. He did not wish to witness the dishonor of the queen, his first and only passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father. For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to feed on the scandals circulating at the court – they were meat and drink to him. When he received his son's message, instead of sending for him, he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andrée had already left him, and it was one less to torment, and he must feel a blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear his father call out, with a burst of laughter, "Oh, mon Dieu! he is going away, I was sure of it, I would have bet upon it. Well played, Philippe, well played."

"What is well played, sir?"

"Admirable!" repeated the old man.

"You give me praises, sir, which I neither understand nor merit, unless you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me."

"Oh! oh!" laughed the old man again, "I am not your dupe. Do you think I believe in your departure?"

"You do not believe? really, sir, you surprise me."

"Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right to pretend to leave; without this ruse all, probably, would have been discovered."

"Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to me."

"Where do you say you go to?"

"I go first to Taverney Maison Rouge."

"Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she is so fiery and incautious, that you must be prudent for both. What is your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news?"

"Taverney, monsieur."

"Taverney, nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have managed so well for your love, can easily manage this."

"Sir, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution."

"Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets, tell me nothing of the huntsman's house, nor the nightly walks with two dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses."

"Monsieur!" cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, "will you hold your tongue?"

"Well, I know it all – your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in the baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever."

"Monsieur, you cause me horror!" cried poor Philippe, hiding his face in his hands. And, indeed, he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself all the happiness of another. All the rumors that the father had heard, he had assigned to his son, and believed that it was he that the queen loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.

"Yes," he went on, "some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny; not one that it was Taverney. Oh, you have acted well."

At this moment a carriage was heard to drive up, and a servant entering, said, "Here is mademoiselle."

"My sister!" cried Philippe.

Then another servant appeared, and said that Mademoiselle de Taverney wished to speak to her brother in the boudoir. Another carriage now came to the door.

"Who the devil comes now?" muttered the baron; "it is an evening of adventures."

"M. le Comte de Charny," cried the powerful voice of the porter at the gate.

"Conduct M. le Comte to the drawing-room; my father will see him; and I will go to my sister – What can he want here?" thought Philippe, as he went down.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

THE FATHER AND THE FIANCÉE

Philippe hastened to the boudoir, where his sister awaited him. She ran to embrace him with a joyous air.

"What is it, Andrée?" cried he.

"Something which makes me happy. Oh! very happy, brother."

"And you come back to announce it to me."

"I come back for ever," said Andrée.

"Speak low, sister; there is, or is going to be, some one in the next room who might hear you."

"Who?"

"Listen."

"M. le Comte de Charny," announced the servant.

"He! oh, I know well what he comes for."

"You know!"

"Yes, and soon I shall be summoned to hear what he has to say."

"Do you speak seriously, my dear Andrée?"

"Listen, Philippe. The queen has brought me suddenly back, and I must go and change my dress for one fit for a fiancée." And saying this, with a kiss to Philippe, she ran off.

Philippe remained alone. He could hear what passed in the adjoining room. M. de Taverney entered, and saluted the count with a recherché though stiff politeness.

"I come, monsieur," said Charny, "to make a request, and beg you to excuse my not having brought my uncle with me, which I know would have been more proper."

"A request?"

"I have the honor," continued Charny, in a voice full of emotion, "to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Andrée, your daughter."

The baron opened his eyes in astonishment – "My daughter?"

"Yes, M. le Baron, if Mademoiselle de Taverney feels no repugnance."

"Oh," thought the old man, "Philippe's favor is already so well-known, that one of his rivals wishes to marry his sister." Then aloud, he said, "This request is such an honor to us, M. le Comte, that I accede with much pleasure; and as I should wish you to carry away a perfectly favorable answer, I will send for my daughter."

"Monsieur," interrupted the count, rather coldly, "the queen has been good enough to consult Mademoiselle de Taverney already, and her reply was favorable."

"Ah!" said the baron, more and more astonished, "it is the queen then – "

"Yes, monsieur, who took the trouble to go to St. Denis."

"Then, sir, it only remains to acquaint you with my daughter's fortune. She is not rich, and before concluding – "

"It is needless, M. le Baron; I am rich enough for both."

At this moment the door opened, and Philippe entered, pale and wild looking.

"Sir," said he, "my father was right to wish to discuss these things with you. While he goes up-stairs to bring the papers I have something to say to you."

When they were left alone, "M. de Charny," said he, "how dare you come here to ask for the hand of my sister?" Charny colored. "Is it," continued Philippe, "in order to hide better your amours with another woman whom you love, and who loves you? Is it, that by becoming the husband of a woman who is always near your mistress, you will have more facilities for seeing her?"

"Sir, you pass all bounds."

"It is, perhaps; and this is what I believe, that were I your brother-in-law, you think my tongue would be tied about what I know of your past amours."

"What you know?"

"Yes," cried Philippe, "the huntsman's house hired by you, your mysterious promenades in the park at night, and the tender parting at the little gate."

"Monsieur, in heaven's name – "

"Oh, sir, I was concealed behind the baths of Apollo when you came out, arm in arm with the queen."

Charny was completely overwhelmed for a time; then, after a few moments, he said, "Well, sir, even after all this, I reiterate my demand for the hand of your sister. I am not the base calculator you suppose me; but the queen must be saved."

"The queen is not lost, because I saw her on your arm, raising to heaven her eyes full of happiness; because I know that she loves you. That is no reason why my sister should be sacrificed, M. de Charny."

"Monsieur," replied Charny, "this morning the king surprised me at her feet – "

"Mon Dieu!"

"And she, pressed by his jealous questions, replied that I was kneeling to ask the hand of your sister. Therefore if I do not marry her, the queen is lost. Do you now understand?"

A cry from the boudoir now interrupted them, followed by another from the ante-chamber. Charny ran to the boudoir; he saw there Andrée, dressed in white like a bride: she had heard all, and had fainted. Philippe ran to where the other cry came from; it was his father, whose hopes this revelation of the queen's love for Charny had just destroyed; struck by apoplexy, he had given his last sigh. Philippe, who understood it, looked at the corpse for a few minutes in silence, and then returned to the drawing-room, and there saw Charny watching the senseless form of his sister. He then said, "My father has just expired, sir; I am now the head of the family; if my sister survive, I will give her to you in marriage."

Charny regarded the corpse of the baron with horror, and the form of Andrée with despair. Philippe uttered a groan of agony, then continued, "M. de Charny, I make this engagement in the name of my sister, now lying senseless before us; she will give her happiness to the queen, and I, perhaps, some day shall be happy enough to give my life for her. Adieu, M. de Charny – " and taking his sister in his arms, he carried her into the next room.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

AFTER THE DRAGON, THE VIPER

Oliva was preparing to fly, as Jeanne had arranged, when Beausire, warned by an anonymous letter, discovered her and carried her away. In order to trace them, Jeanne put all her powers in requisition – she preferred being able to watch over her own secret – and her disappointment was great when all her agents returned announcing a failure. At this time she received in her hiding-place numerous messages from the queen.

She went by night to Bar-sur-Aube, and there remained for two days. At last she was traced, and an express sent to take her. Then she learnt the arrest of the cardinal. "The queen has been rash," thought she, "in refusing to compromise with the cardinal, or to pay the jewelers; but she did not know my power."

"Monsieur," said she to the officer who arrested her, "do you love the queen?"

"Certainly, madame."

"Well, in the name of that love I beg you to conduct me straight to her. Believe me, you will be doing her a service."

The man was persuaded, and did so. The queen received her haughtily, for she began to suspect that her conduct had not been straightforward. She called in two ladies as witnesses of what was about to pass.

"You are found at last, madame," said the queen; "why did you hide?"

"I did not hide, madame."

"Run away, then, if that pleases you better."

"That is to say, that I quitted Paris. I had some little business at Bar-sur-Aube, and, to tell the truth, I did not know I was so necessary to your majesty as to be obliged to ask leave for an absence of eight days."

"Have you seen the king?"

"No, madame."

"You shall see him."

"It will be a great honor for me; but your majesty seems very severe towards me – I am all trembling."

"Oh, madame, this is but the beginning. Do you know that M. de Rohan has been arrested?"

"They told me so, madame."

"You guess why?"

"No, madame."

"You proposed to me that he should pay for a certain necklace; did I accept or refuse?"

"Refuse."

"Ah!" said the queen, well pleased.

"Your majesty even paid 100,000 francs on account."

"Well, and afterwards?"

"Afterwards, as your majesty could not pay, you sent it back to M. Bœhmer."

"By whom?"

"By me."

"And what did you do with it?"

"I took it to the cardinal."

"And why to the cardinal instead of to the jewelers, as I told you?"

"Because I thought he would be hurt if I returned it without letting him know."

"But how did you get a receipt from the jewelers?"

"M. de Rohan gave it to me."

"But why did you take a letter to them as coming from me?"

"Because he gave it to me, and asked me to do so."

"It is, then, all his doing?"

"What is, madame?"

"The receipt and the letter are both forged."

"Forged, madame!" cried Jeanne, with much apparent astonishment.

"Well, you must be confronted with him to prove the truth."

"Why, madame?"

"He himself demands it. He says he has sought you everywhere, and that he wishes to prove that you have deceived him."

"Oh! then, madame, let us meet."

"You shall. You deny all knowledge of where the necklace is?"

"How should I know, madame?"

"You deny having aided the cardinal in his intrigues?"

"I am a Valois, madame."

"But M. de Rohan maintained before the king many calumnies, which he said you would confirm."

"I do not understand."

"He declares he wrote to me."

Jeanne did not reply.

"Do you hear?" said the queen.

"Yes, madame."

"What do you reply?"

"I will reply when I have seen him."

"But speak the truth now."

"Your majesty overwhelms me."

"That is no answer."

"I will give no other here;" and she looked at the two ladies. The queen understood, but would not yield; she scorned to purchase anything by concession.

"M. de Rohan," said the queen, "was sent to the Bastile for saying too much; take care, madame, that you are not sent for saying too little."

Jeanne smiled. "A pure conscience can brave persecution," she replied; "the Bastile will not convict me of a crime I did not commit."

"Will you reply?"

"Only to your majesty."

"Are you not speaking to me?"

"Not alone."

"Ah! you fear scandal, after being the cause of so much to me."

"What I did," said Jeanne, "was done for you."

"What insolence!"

"I submit to the insults of my queen."

"You will sleep in the Bastile to-night, madame!"

"So be it; I will first pray to God to preserve your majesty's honor."

The queen rose furiously, and went into the next room.

"After having conquered the dragon," she said, "I can crush the viper!"

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

HOW IT CAME TO PASS THAT M. BEAUSIRE WAS TRACKED BY THE AGENTS OF M. DE CROSNE

Madame de la Motte was imprisoned as the queen had threatened, and the whole affair created no little talk and excitement through France. M. de Rohan lived at the Bastile like a prince: he had everything but liberty. He demanded to be confronted with Madame de la Motte as soon as he heard of her arrest. This was done. She whispered to him, "Send every one away, and I will explain." He asked this, but was refused; they said his counsel might communicate with her. She said to this gentleman that she was ignorant of what had become of the necklace, but that they might well have given it to her in recompense for the services she had rendered the queen and the cardinal, which were well worth a million and a half. The cardinal turned pale on hearing this repeated, and felt how much they were in Jeanne's power. He was determined not to accuse the queen, although his friends endeavored to convince him that it was his only way to prove his innocence of the robbery. Jeanne said that she did not wish to accuse either the queen or the cardinal, but that, if they persisted in making her responsible for the necklace, she would do so to show that they were interested in accusing her of falsehood. Then M. de Rohan expressed all his contempt for her, and said that he began to understand much of Jeanne's conduct, but not the queen's. All this was reported to Marie Antoinette. She ordered another private examination of the parties, but gained nothing from it. Jeanne denied everything to those sent by the queen; but when they were gone she altered her tone, and said, "If they do not leave me alone I will tell all." The cardinal said nothing, and brought no accusations; but rumors began to spread fast, and the question soon became, not "Has the queen stolen the necklace?" but "Has she allowed some one else to steal it because she knew all about her amours?" Madame de la Motte had involved her in a maze, from which there seemed no honorable exit; but she determined not to lose courage. She began to come to the conclusion that the cardinal was an honest man, and did not wish to ruin her, but was acting like herself, only to preserve his honor. They strove earnestly but ineffectually to trace the necklace. All opinions were against Jeanne, and she began to fear that, even if she dragged down the queen and cardinal, she should be quite overwhelmed under the ruins she had caused; and she had not even at hand the fruits of her dishonesty to corrupt her judges with. Affairs were in this state when a new episode changed the face of things. Oliva and M. Beausire were living, happy and rich, in a country house, when one day Beausire, going out hunting, fell into the company of two of the agents of M. de Crosne, whom he had scattered all over the country. They recognized Beausire immediately, but, as it was Oliva whom they most wanted, they did not arrest him there, but only joined the chase. Beausire, seeing two strangers, called the huntsman, and asked who they were. He replied that he did not know, but, if he had permission, would send them away. On his questioning them, they said they were friends of that gentleman, pointing to M. Beausire. Then the man brought them to him, saying, "M. de Linville, these gentlemen say they are friends of yours."

"Ah, you are called De Linville now, dear M. Beausire!"

Beausire trembled; he had concealed his name so carefully. He sent away the huntsman, and asked them who they were.

"Take us home with you, and we will tell you."

"Home?"

"Yes; do not be inhospitable." Beausire was frightened, but still feared to refuse these men who knew him.

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

THE TURTLES ARE CAGED

Beausire, on entering the house, made a noise to attract Oliva's attention, for, though he knew nothing about her later escapades, he knew enough about the ball at the Opera, and the morning at M. Mesmer's, to make him fear letting her be seen by strangers. Accordingly, Oliva, hearing the dogs bark, looked out, and, seeing Beausire returning with two strangers, did not come to meet him as usual. Unfortunately the servant asked if he should call madame. The men rallied him about the lady whom he had concealed; he let them laugh, but did not offer to call her. They dined; then Beausire asked where they had met him before. "We are," replied they, "friends of one of your associates in a little affair about the Portuguese embassy."

Beausire turned pale.

"Ah!" said he: "and you came on your friend's part?"

"Yes, dear M. Beausire, to ask for 10,000 francs."

"Gentlemen," replied Beausire, "you cannot think I have such a sum in the house."

"Very likely not, monsieur; we do not ask for impossibilities. How much have you?"

"Not more than fifty or sixty louis."

"We will take them to begin with."

"I will go and fetch them," said Beausire. But they did not choose to let him leave the room without them, so they caught hold of him by the coat, saying:

"Oh no, dear M. Beausire, do not leave us."

"But how am I to get the money if I do not leave you?"

"We will go with you."

"But it is in my wife's bedroom."

"Ah," cried one of them, "you hide your wife from us!"

"Are we not presentable?" asked the other. "We wish to see her."

"You are tipsy, and I will turn you out!" said Beausire.

They laughed.

"Now you shall not even have the money I promised," said he, emboldened by what he thought their intoxication; and he ran out of the room.

They followed and caught him; he cried out, and at the sound a door opened, and a woman looked out with a frightened air. On seeing her, the men released Beausire, and gave a cry of exultation, for they recognized her immediately who resembled the Queen of France so strongly.

Beausire, who believed them for a moment disarmed by the sight of a woman, was soon cruelly undeceived.

One of the men approached Oliva, and said:

"I arrest you."

"Arrest her! Why?" cried Beausire.

"Because it is M. de Crosne's orders."

A thunderbolt falling between the lovers would have frightened them less than this declaration.

At last Beausire said, "You came to arrest me?"

"No; it was a chance."

"Never mind, you might have arrested me, and for sixty louis you were about to leave me at liberty."

"Oh no, we should have asked another sixty; however, for one hundred we will do so."

"And madame?"

"Oh, that is quite a different affair."