Marie Antoinette Josephe, Archduchess of Austria.
AS BALSAMO had said, there was no time to be lost, for now on the road — generally so peaceful — which led to the Baron of Taverney’s dwelling, a great sound of carriages, horses, and voices was heard.
Three carriages, one of which was covered with gilding and mythological bas-reliefs, and which, notwithstanding its magnificence, was not less dusty and bespattered than the others, stopped at the great gate of the avenue. Gilbert held it open, his eyes distended, his whole frame trembling with feverish agitation at the sight of so much magnificence. Twenty gentlemen on horseback, all young and splendidly dressed, drew up near the principal carriage, from which a young girl of sixteen, dressed with great simplicity, but with her hair elaborately piled on her forehead, got out, assisted by a gentleman in black, who wore, saltier-wise, under his mantle, the ribbon of St. Louis.
Marie Antoinette, for it was she, brought with her a reputation for beauty which the princesses destined to share the thrones of the kings of France have not always possessed. It was difficult to say whether her eyes were beautiful or not, yet they were capable of every expression, more particularly of the opposite expressions of mildness and scorn. Her nose was finely formed, her upper lip beautiful, but the lower lip, her aristocratic inheritance from seventeen emperors, was too thick and prominent. Her complexion was lovely; her neck, shoulders, and bust were of marble whiteness and beautifully formed; her hands truly regal. At times, when roused to energy, her carriage was majestic, firm, and decided; at other times, when not excited, soft, undulating — one might almost say caressing. No woman ever made a more graceful courtesy — no queen ever bowed with more tact and discrimination. This day the most expressive sweetness shone in her countenance. She had resolved to be only the woman, and to forget the dauphiness. She wore a dress of white silk, and her beautiful bare arms supported a mantel of rich lace.
Scarcely had she touched the ground when she turned to assist one of her ladies of honor whom age had weakened a little, and, refusing the arm of the gentleman in black, she advanced, inhaling the fresh air, and looking around as if determined to enjoy to the utmost the few moments of freedom with which she was indulging herself.
“Oh, what a beautiful situation!” she exclaimed; “what magnificent trees! and such a pretty little house! How happy one might be in this healthful air, under those trees, which form so sweet a retirement!”
At this moment Philip appeared, followed by Andree, on whose arm the baron leaned. She was dressed in a simple gown of gray silk, and the baron in a coat of blue velvet, the remains of some of his old magnificence; he had not forgotten Balsamo’s recommendation, and wore his ribbon of St. Louis. On seeing the three approach, the dauphiness stopped. Her escort then grouped itself around her — the officers holding their horses by the bridles, and the courtiers, hat in hand, whispering to one another. Philip drew near, pale with agitation, yet with a noble bearing.
“With your royal highness’s permission,” said he, “I have the honor of presenting to you the Baron de Taverney Maison Rouge, my father, and Claire Andree de Taverney, my sister.”
The baron bowed profoundly, like a man who knew how to bow to queens. Andree showed, in her graceful timidity, the most flattering kind of politeness — sincere respect. Marie Antoinette looked at the two young people, and recalling what Philip had said of their poverty, she guessed what they suffered at that moment.
“Madame,” said the baron, with dignity, “your royal highness does too much honor to the Chateau of Taverney — such a humble abode is not worthy to receive so much rank and beauty!”
“I know that it is the abode of an old soldier of France,” replied the dauphiness, “and my mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, who was a distinguished warrior, has told me that often in your country those richest in glory are the poorest in meaner treasures,” and with ineffable grace she extended her lovely hand to Andree, who, kneeling, kissed it.
The baron was, however, still haunted by the idea which had so much tormented him, that the train of the dauphiness was about to crowd into his little house, in which there could not be found chairs for a fourth of their number. The dauphiness hastened to relieve him from all embarrassment.
“Gentlemen,” said she, turning to those who formed her escort, “I must not impose on you the trouble of following me in all my caprices. You will wait here, if you please; in half an hour I shall return. Come with me, my good Langershausen,” she added in German to the lady whom she had assisted out of the carriage, “and you sir,” said she to the gentleman in black, “have the goodness to follow us!”
This personage, though dressed thus simply, was remarkable for the elegance of his manners, and was about thirty years of age, and very handsome. He drew to one side to allow the princess to pass. Marie Antoinette took Andree for her guide, and made a sign for Philip to come near his sister.
As to the baron, he was left to the personage of high rank, doubtless, to whom the dauphiness had granted the honor of accompanying her.
“So you are a Taverney Maison-Rouge?” said he, playing with his splendid ruffles of the most expensive lace, and turning to the baron with truly aristocratic impertinence.
“Must I reply, sir, or my lord?” asked the baron, with equal impertinence.
“You may say simply prince, or your eminence, which you choose,” the other replied.
“Well, then, your eminence, I am a Taverney Maison-Rouge! a real one!” said the baron, in that tone of raillery which he so seldom abandoned.
His eminence, who had the usual tact of great nobles, felt that he had to do with no country clown, and continued, “This is your summer residence?”
“Summer and winter,” answered the baron, who wished to put an end to disagreeable queries, but accompanying each reply with a low bow.
Philip could not help turning from time to time uneasily toward his father, for the house, as they drew nearer it, wore an aspect threatening and ironical, as if pitilessly determined to show all their poverty. The baron had already resignedly extended his hand to point the way to the door of his house, when the dauphiness, turning to him, said, “Excuse me, sir, if I do not enter; these shades are so delightful that I could pass my life in them. I am tired of rooms. For fifteen days I have been received in rooms — I, who love the open air, the shade of trees, and the perfume of flowers.” Then, turning to Andree, “You will bring me a cup of milk here, under these beautiful trees — will you not?”
“Your highness,” said the baron, turning pale, “how should we dare to offer you such poor refreshment?”
“I prefer it, sir, to anything else. Newlaid eggs and milk formed my banquets at Schoenbrunn.”
All at once La Brie, swelling with pride, in a splendid livery and a napkin on his arm, appeared under an archway of jessamine, the shade of which had attracted the eye of the dauphiness. In a tone in which importance and respect were strangely mixed, he announced, “Her royal highness is served!”
“Am I in the dwelling of an enchanter?” cried the princess, as she ran rather than walked to the perfumed alley.
The baron, in his uneasiness, forgot all etiquette, left the gentleman in black, and hurried after the dauphiness. Andree and Philip looked at one another with mingled astonishment and anxiety, and followed their father.
Under the clematis, jessamine, and woodbine was placed an oval table, covered with a damask cloth of dazzling whiteness, on which was arranged, in a brilliant service of plate, a collation the most elegant and rare. There were exotic fruits made into the most delicious confections; biscuits from Aleppo, oranges from Malta, and lemons of extraordinary size, all arranged in beautiful vases. Wines, the richest and most esteemed, sparkled like the ruby and the topaz, in decanters ornamented and cut in Persia, and in the center, in a silver vase, was placed the milk for which the dauphiness had asked.
Marie Antoinette looked around and saw surprise and alarm imprinted on the face of her host, and on the countenance of his son and daughter. The gentlemen of her escort were delighted with what they saw, without understanding it, and without endeavoring to understand it.
“You expected me, then, sir?” said she to the baron.
“I, madame!” stammered he.
“Yes; you could not in ten minutes have all this prepared, and I have only been ten minutes here,” and she looked at La Brie with an expression which said, “above all, when you have only one servant!”
“Madame,” answered the baron, “your royal highness was expected, or rather, your coming was foretold to me.”
“Your son wrote to you?”
“No, madame.”
“No one knew that I was coming here, as I did not wish to give you the trouble which I see I have done. It was only late last night that I expressed my intention to your son, and he reached this but half an hour before me.”
“Scarcely a quarter of an hour, madame.
“Then some fairy must have revealed to you what was to occur. Mademoiselle’s godmother, perhaps?”
“Madame,” said the baron, offering a chair to the princess, “it was not a fairy who announced my good fortune to me.”
“Who, then?” asked she, observing that he hesitated.
“An enchanter, madame!”
“An enchanter — how can that be?”
“I know nothing of the matter, for I do not meddle with magic myself, yet to that, madame, I am indebted for being able to entertain your highness in a tolerable fashion.”
“In that case we must not touch anything, since the collation is the work of sorcery. His eminence,” added she, pointing to the gentleman in black, who had fixed his eye on a Strasbourg pie, “seems in a hurry to begin, but we shall assuredly not eat of this enchanted collation, and you, dear friend,” turning to her governess, “distrust the Cyprus wine, and do as I do!” and she poured some water from a globe-formed carafe with a narrow neck into a golden goblet.
“In truth,” said Andree, with alarm, “her royal highness is perhaps right!”
Philip trembled with surprise, and ignorant of what had passed the evening before, looked alternately at his father and his sister for explanation.
“But I see,” continued the dauphiness, “his eminence is determined to sin, in spite of all the canons of the Church.”
“Madame,” replied the prelate, “we princes of the Church are too worldly to be able to believe that Heaven’s wrath will fall on us about a little refreshment for the body, and, above all, too humane to feel the least inclination to burn an honest sorcerer for providing us with good things like these!”
“Do not jest. I pray, monseigneur,” said the baron. “I swear to you that a sorcerer — a real sorcerer — foretold to me, about an hour ago, the arrival of her royal highness and my son!”
“And has an hour been sufficient for you to prepare this banquet?” demanded the dauphiness. “In that case you are a greater sorcerer than your sorcerer!”
“No, madame, it was he who did all this, and brought the table up through the ground, ready served as you see.”
“On your word, sir?”
“On the honor of a gentleman!” replied the baron.
“Ha!” said the cardinal, in a serious tone, putting back the plate which he had taken, “I thought you were jesting. Then you have in your house a real magician?”
“A real magician! — and I should not wonder if he has made all the gold on that table himself.”
“Oh, he must have found out the philosopher’s stone!” cried the cardinal, his eyes sparkling with covetousness.
“See how the eyes of his eminence sparkle! He who has been seeking all his life for the philosopher’s stone!” said the dauphiness.
“I confess to your royal highness,” replied his very worldly eminence, “that nothing interests me more than the supernatural — nothing is so curious, in my estimation, as the impossible.”
“Ah! I have traced the vulnerable part, it seems!” said the dauphiness; “every great man has his mysteries, particularly when he is a diplomatist — and I — I warn your eminence, know a great deal of sorcery. I sometimes find out things — if not impossible, if not supernatural, at least incredible!” and the eye of the dauphiness, before so mild, flashed as from an internal storm, but no thunder followed. His eminence alone doubtless understood what this meant, for he looked evidently embarrassed. The dauphiness went on:
“To make the thing complete, M, de Taverney, you must show us your magician — where is he? In what box have you hidden him?”
“Madame,” answered the baron, “he is much more able to put me and my house in a box, than I to put him!”
“In truth you excite my curiosity,” said Marie Antoinette. “I must positively see him!”
The tone in which this was uttered, although still retaining the charm which Marie Antoinette knew so well to assume, forbade all idea of refusal to comply with her wish.
The baron understood this perfectly, and made a sign to La Brie, who was contemplating with eager eyes the illustrious guests, the sight of whom seemed to make up to him for his twenty years of unpaid wages.
“Tell Baron Joseph Balsamo,” said his master, “that her royal highness the dauphiness desires to see him.” La Brie departed.
“Joseph Balsamo!” said the dauphiness. “What a singular name!”
“Joseph Balsamo!” repeated his eminence, as if reflecting, “I think I know that name.”
Five minutes passed in silence — then Andree felt a thrill run through her frame — she heard, before it was perceptible to other ears, a step advancing under the shade of the trees — the branches were put aside — and Joseph Balsamo stood face to face with Marie Antoinette.