CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
THE LAST HOPE LOST
Here the affair therefore rested, for Jeanne was determined to share the blame with some one, as she could not turn it from herself. All her calculations had been defeated by the frankness with which the queen had met, and made public, every accusation against her.
At last Jeanne wrote the following letter to the queen:
"Madame,
"In spite of my painful position and rigorous treatment, I have not uttered a complaint; all that has been tried to extort avowals from me has failed to make me compromise my sovereign. However, although persuaded that my constancy and discretion will facilitate my release from my present position, the friends of the cardinal make me fear I shall become his victim. A long imprisonment, endless questions, and the shame and despair of being accused of such crimes, begin to exhaust my courage, and I tremble lest my constancy should at last give way. Your majesty might end all this by a few words to M. de Breteuil, who could give the affair in the king's eyes any color your majesty likes without compromising you. It is the fear of being compelled to reveal all which makes me beg your majesty to take steps to relieve me from my painful position. I am, with profound respect,
"Your humble servant,"Jeanne de la Motte."
Jeanne calculated either that this letter would frighten the queen, or, what was more probable, would never reach her hands, but be carried by the messenger to the governor of the Bastile, where it could hardly fail to tell against the queen. She then wrote to the cardinal:
"I cannot conceive, monseigneur, why you persist in not speaking plainly. It seems to me that your best plan would be to confide fully in our judges. As for me, I am resolved to be silent if you will not second me; but why do you not speak? Explain all the circumstances of this mysterious affair, for if I were to speak first, and you not support me, I should be sacrificed to the vengeance of her who wishes to ruin us. But I have written her a letter which will perhaps induce her to spare us, who have nothing to reproach ourselves with."
This letter she gave to the cardinal at their last confrontation. He grew pale with anger at her audacity, and left the room. Then Jeanne produced her letter to the queen, and begged the Abbé Lekel, chaplain of the Bastile, who had accompanied the cardinal, and was devoted to him, to take charge of it and convey it to the queen. He refused to take it. She declared that if he did not she would produce M. de Rohan's letters to the queen. "And take care, sir," added she, "for they will cause his head to fall on the scaffold."
At this moment the cardinal reappeared.
"Madame," said he, "let my head fall, so that I have the satisfaction of seeing also the scaffold which you shall mount as a thief and a forger. Come, Abbé." He went away, leaving Jeanne devoured with rage and disappointment at her failures at every turn.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.
THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE
Madame de la Motte had deceived herself on all points, Cagliostro upon none. Once in the Bastile, he saw a good opportunity for working at the ruin of the monarchy, which he had been trying to undermine for so many years. He prepared the famous letter, dated from London, which appeared a month after. In this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal, and even M. de Breteuil, he said, "Yes, I repeat, now free after my imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six months in the Bastile. They ask me if I shall ever return to France? Yes, I reply, when the Bastile becomes a public promenade. You have all that is necessary to happiness, you Frenchmen; a fertile soil and genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. You only want, my friends, one little thing – to feel sure of sleeping quietly in your beds when you are innocent."
Oliva kept her word faithfully to Cagliostro, and uttered no word that could compromise him. She threw all the blame on Madame de la Motte, and asserted vehemently her own innocent participation in what she believed to be a joke, played on a gentleman unknown to her. All this time she did not see Beausire, but she had a souvenir of him; for in the month of May she gave birth to a son. Beausire was allowed to attend the baptism, which took place in the prison, which he did with much pleasure, swearing that if Oliva ever recovered her liberty he would make her his wife.
CHAPTER XC.
THE TRIAL
The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to the Conciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent; Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent, menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.
The first who took his place on the wooden stool, which was appropriated for the accused, was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois, threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was best able to answer this question himself. "Ask him to produce them," said she; "I wish to say nothing about them." She inspired in nearly all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her; and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an armchair brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four attendants, and the governor of the Bastile walked by his side. At his entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it was echoed by loud shouts from without – it was the people who cheered him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him, and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not pronounced till the following day. Jeanne seated herself early at the window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she distinctly heard a passer-by say, "A grand day for the cardinal!" "For the cardinal," thought Jeanne; "then he is acquitted;" and she ran to M. Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. "He must be acquitted!" she said; "they said it was a grand day for him. But I – "
"Well, madame," said he, "if he is acquitted, why should you not be acquitted also?"
Jeanne returned to the window. "You are wrong, madame," said Madame Hubert to her; "you only become agitated, without perfectly understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel comes to communicate your fate."
"I cannot," said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the street.
A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. "He shall have my bouquet, the dear man!" said she. "Oh, I would embrace him if I could!"
"And I also," said another.
"He is so handsome!" said a third.
"It must be the cardinal," said Jeanne; "he is acquitted."
And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, "But, madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released?"
Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, "Oh, you misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish ill to my companions in misfortune? Oh no; I trust he is free. It is only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing."
"We do not know," replied they.
Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of "Vive Cagliostro!" were mingled with the shouts for M. de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the queen's victims; but suddenly the thought flashed on her, "They are already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!" and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach, which was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognized Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her, holding her child in her arms. Then Jeanne, seeing all these people free, happy, and fêted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not also liberated, or at least told her fate.
"Calm yourself, madame," said Madame Hubert.
"But tell me, for you must know."
"Madame."
"I implore you! You see how I suffer."
"We are forbidden, madame."
"Is it so frightful that you dare not?"
"Oh no; calm yourself."
"Then speak."
"Will you be patient, and not betray us?"
"I swear."
"Well, the cardinal is acquitted."
"I know it."
"M. de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are also acquitted, M. Reteau condemned to the galleys – "
"And I?" cried Jeanne, furiously.
"Madame, you promised to be patient."
"See – speak – I am calm."
"Banished," said the woman, feebly.
A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame Hubert. "What would it have been," thought she, "if I had told her the truth!"
"Banishment!" thought Jeanne; "that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it is what I hoped for. I have won!"
CHAPTER XCI.
THE EXECUTION
Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being now at ease, said to herself, "What do I care that I am thought more guilty than M. de Rohan? I am banished – that is to say, I can carry away my million and a half with me, and live under the orange trees of Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer. Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as I please among my friends."
Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her future plans, the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in London. This brought to her mind M. Reteau. "Poor fellow!" thought she, "it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes, and now it terminates with the galleys." She dined with M. and Madame Hubert, and was quite gay; but they did not respond, and were silent and uneasy. Jeanne, however, felt so happy that she cared little for their manner towards her. After dinner, she asked when they were coming to read her sentence.
M. Hubert said they were probably waiting till she returned to her room. She therefore rose to go, when Madame Hubert ran to her and took her hands, looking at her with an expression of so much pity and sympathy, that it struck her for a moment with terror. She was about to question her, but Hubert took her hand, and led her from the room. When she reached her own apartment, she found eight soldiers waiting outside; she felt surprised, but went in, and allowed the man to lock her up as usual. Soon, however, the door opened again, and one of the turnkeys appeared.
"Will madame please to follow me?" he said.
"Where?"
"Below."
"What for? What do they want with me?"
"Madame, M. Viollet, your counsel, wishes to speak to you."
"Why does he not come here?"
"Madame, he has received letters from Versailles, and wishes to show them to you."
"Letters from Versailles," thought Jeanne; "perhaps the queen has interested herself for me, since the sentence was passed. Wait a little," she said; "Till I arrange my dress." In five minutes she was ready. "Perhaps," she thought, "M. Viollet has come to get me to leave France at once, and the queen is anxious to facilitate the departure of so dangerous an enemy."
She followed the turnkey down-stairs, and they entered a room, which looked like a vault; it was damp, and almost dark.
"Sir," said she, trying to overcome her terror, "where is M. Viollet?"
The man did not reply.
"What do you want?" continued she; "have you anything to say to me? you have chosen a very singular place for a rendezvous."
"We are waiting for M. Viollet," he replied.
"It is not possible that M. Viollet should wish for me to wait for him here." All at once, another door, which Jeanne had not before observed, opened, and three men entered. Jeanne looked at them in surprise, and with growing terror. One of them, who was dressed in black, with a roll of papers in his hand, advanced, and said:
"You are Jeanne de St. Rémy de Valois, wife of Marie Antoine, Count de la Motte?"
"Yes, sir."
"Born at Fontette, on the 22d of July, 1756?"
"Yes, sir."
"You live at Paris, Rue St. Claude?"
"Yes, sir; but why these questions?"
"Madame, I am the registrar of the court, and I am come to read to you the sentence of the court of the 31st of May, 1786."
Jeanne trembled again, and now looked at the other two men; one had a gray dress with steel buttons, the other a fur cap on and an apron, which seemed to her spotted with blood. She drew back, but the registrar said, "On your knees, madame, if you please."
"On my knees?" cried Jeanne; "I, a Valois!"
"It is the order, madame."
"But, sir, it is an unheard-of thing, except where some degrading sentence has been pronounced; and banishment is not such."
"I did not tell you you were sentenced to banishment," said he gravely.
"But to what, then?"
"I will tell you, madame, when you are on your knees."
"Never!"
"Madame, I only follow my instructions."
"Never! I tell you."
"Madame, it is the order that when the condemned refuse to kneel, they should be forced to do it."
"Force – to a woman!"
"There is no distinction in the eyes of justice."
"Ah!" cried Jeanne, "this is the queen's doings; I recognize the hands of an enemy."
"You are wrong to accuse the queen; she has nothing to do with the orders of the court. Come, madame, I beg you to spare me the necessity of violence, and kneel down."
"Never!" and she planted herself firmly in a corner of the room.
The registrar then signed to the two other men, who, approaching, seized her, and in spite of her cries dragged her into the middle of the room. But she bounded up again.
"Let me stand," said she, "and I will listen patiently."
"Madame, whenever criminals are punished by whipping, they kneel to receive the sentence."
"Whipping!" screamed Jeanne; "miserable wretch, how dare you – "
The men forced her on her knees once more, and held her down, but she struggled so furiously that they called out, "Read quickly, monsieur, for we cannot hold her."
"I will never hear such an infamous sentence," she cried; and indeed she drowned his voice so effectually with her screams, that although he read, not a word could be heard.
He replaced his papers in his pocket, and she, thinking he had finished, stopped her cries. Then he said, "And the sentence shall be executed at the place of executions, Cour de Justice."
"Publicly!" screamed she.
"Monsieur de Paris, I deliver you this woman," said the registrar, addressing the man with the leathern apron.
"Who is this man?" cried Jeanne, in a fright.
"The executioner," replied the registrar.
The two men then took hold of her to lead her out, but her resistance was so violent that they were obliged to drag her along by force, and she never ceased uttering the most frantic cries. They took her thus into the court called Cour de Justice, where there was a scaffold and which was crowded with spectators. On a platform, raised about eight feet, was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount to it. This place was surrounded with soldiers. When she appeared, cries of "Here she is!" mingled with much abuse, were heard from the crowd. Numbers of the partisans of M. de Rohan had assembled to hoot her, and cries of "A bas la Motte, the forger!" were heard on every side, and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced. Then she cried in a loud voice, "Do you know who I am? I am of the blood of your kings. They strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival; not only a rival, but an accomplice. Yes," repeated she, as the people kept silence to kept listen, "an accomplice. They punish one who knows the secrets of – "
"Take care," interrupted the registrar.
She turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. At this sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her hatred, and sinking on her knees she said, "Have pity!" and seized his hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her shoulders. She jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a hot iron. At this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by the people.
"Help! help!" she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they were tying her hands. The executioner at last forced her on her knees, and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard through all the tumult, "Cowardly Frenchmen! you do not defend me, but let me be tortured; oh! it is my own fault. If I had said all I knew of the queen I should have been – "
She could say no more, for she was gagged by the attendants: then two men held her, while the executioner performed his office. At the touch of the iron she fainted, and was carried back insensible to the Conciergerie when the crowd gradually dispersed.
CHAPTER XCII.
THE MARRIAGE
On the same day at noon the king entered a drawing-room, where the queen was sitting in full dress, but pale through her rouge, and surrounded by a party of ladies and gentlemen. He glanced frequently towards the door. "Are not the young couple ready? I believe it is noon," he said.
"Sire, M. de Charny is waiting in the gallery for your majesty's orders," said the queen, with a violent effort.
"Oh! let him come in." The queen turned from the door. "The bride ought to be here also," continued the king, "it is time."
"Your majesty must excuse Mademoiselle de Taverney, if she is late," replied M. de Charny, advancing; "for since the death of her father she has not left her bed until to-day, and she fainted when she did so."
"This dear child loved her father so much," replied the king, "but we hope a good husband will console her. M. de Breteuil," said he, turning to that gentleman, "have you made out the order of banishment for M. de Cagliostro?"
"Yes, sire."
"And that De la Motte. Is it not to-day she is to be branded?"
At this moment, Andrée appeared, dressed in white like a bride, and with cheeks nearly as white as her dress. She advanced leaning on her brother's arm. M. de Suffren, leading his nephew, came to meet her, and then drew back to allow her to approach the king.
"Mademoiselle," said Louis, taking her hand, "I begged of you to hasten this marriage, instead of waiting until the time of your mourning had expired, that I might have the pleasure of assisting at the ceremony; for to-morrow I and the queen commence a tour through France." And he led Andrée up to the queen, who could hardly stand, and did not raise her eyes. The king then, putting Andrée's hand into Philippe's, said, "Gentlemen, to the chapel," – and they began to move. The queen kneeled on her prie Dieu, her face buried in her hands, praying for strength. Charny, though pale as death, feeling that all eyes were upon him, appeared calm and strong. Andrée remained immovable as a statue; she did not pray – she had nothing to ask, to hope for, or to fear. The ceremony over, the king kissed Andrée on the forehead, saying, "Madame la Comtesse, go to the queen, she wishes to give you a wedding present."
"Oh!" murmured Andrée to Philippe, "it is too much; I can bear no more; I cannot do that."
"Courage, sister, one effort more."
"I cannot, Philippe; if she speaks to me, I shall die."
"Then, you will be happier than I, for I cannot die."
Andrée said no more, but went to the queen. She found her in her chair with closed eyes and clasped hands, seeming more dead than alive, except for the shudders which, shook her from time to time. Andrée waited tremblingly to hear her speak; but, after a minute, she rose slowly, and took from the table a paper, which she put into Andrée's hands. Andrée opened it, and read:
"Andrée, you have saved me. My honor comes from you; my life belongs to you. In the name of this honor, which has cost you so dear, I swear to you that you may call me sister without blushing. This paper is the pledge of my gratitude, the dowry which I give you. Your heart is noble and will thank me for this gift."MARIE ANTOINETTE DE LORRAINE D'AUTRICHE."
Andrée looked at the queen, and saw tears falling from her eyes; she seemed expecting an answer, but Andrée, putting the letter in the fire, turned and left the room. Then Charny, who was waiting for her, took her hand, and they, each pale and silent, left the room. Two traveling-carriages were in the courtyard; Andrée got into one, and then said:
"Sir, I believe you go to Picardy."
"Yes, madame."
"And I to where my mother lies dead. Adieu, monsieur."
Charny bowed, but did not reply, and Andrée drove off.
Charny himself, after giving his hand to Philippe, got into the other, and also drove off.
Then Philippe cried, in a tone of anguish, "My task is done!" and he too vanished.