The Baron De Taverney Thinks He Sees At Last a Small Opening Into the Future.
THE BARON was the first to perceive that the dauphiness had fainted, he had kept on the watch, more uneasy than any one else at what might take place between her and the sorcerer. Hearing her cry of terror, and seeing Balsamo spring out of the grotto, he ran to the spot.
The dauphiness’s first request was to see the carafe; her second, that no injury should be done the magician; and it was well she made this request, for no sooner had Philip heard her cry than he bounded after him like an angry lion.
When her lady of honor came near, and ventured to question her in German, she only drew from her that Balsamo had in no way been wanting in respect to her — that she thought the storm of the preceding night, and her long journey, had fatigued her and brought on a nervous attack. Her replies were translated to the Cardinal de Rohan, who stood by, but dared not himself ask for information. In courts, people are obliged to be satisfied with half answers, so what the dauphiness said satisfied nobody, but every one appeared perfectly satisfied. Philip then drew near and said:
“I am obliged to obey your royal highness’s orders, yet it is with regret that I do so — the half-hour during which you intended to stay is past, and the horses are ready.”
“Thanks, sir,” said she, with a smile full of fascinating languor, “but I must alter my determination — I do not feel able to set out just now — if I could sleep for a few hours, I should be quite restored.”
“Your royal highness knows what a poor abode ours is,” the baron stammered out.
“Oh, sir, any place will do — a little rest is all I want!” She said this as if again fainting, and her head sank again on her bosom.
Andree disappeared to prepare her room for her, and having in a few minutes returned, she stood beside the dauphiness, not daring to speak until some indication was given that she might do so. At length Marie Antoinette raised her head, smiled to Andree, and, with her hand, made a sign to her to draw nearer.
“ The room is ready for your royal highness — we entreat only —
But she was not permitted to finish her apology — the dauphiness interrupted her.
“Thank you! — thank you! May I ask you to summon the Countess of Langershausen, and to lead us to the apartment?”
Andree obeyed — the old lady of honor advanced. “Give me your arm, my dear friend,” said the dauphiness to her in German, “for indeed I have scarcely strength enough to walk without support.”
The baroness obeyed; Andree approached to assist her. Turning soon after to Andree, the dauphiness asked —
“Do you understand German, then, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, madame, I even speak it a little,” replied Andree, in German.
“That is delightful!” exclaimed the dauphiness, “that makes my plan still more agreeable.”
Andree dared not ask her august guest what her plan was, although she longed to know it. The dauphiness leaned on the arm of the Countess de Langershausen, and advanced slowly, her limbs trembling under her. As she issued from the trees in front of the grotto, she heard the cardinal’s voice.
“What!” said he, “Count de Stainville, do you mean to insist on speaking to her royal highness, notwithstanding her orders to the contrary?”
“I must insist on doing so.” replied the governor of Strasbourg, in a firm voice, “her royal highness will pardon me, I am certain.”
“And I, sir, on the contrary, insist—”
“Let the governor come forward,” said the dauphiness appearing at the opening of the trees, which formed a verdant arch above her head. “Come forward, Count de Stainville.”
Every one bowed at her command, and drew back to allow free passage to the brother-in-law of the then all-powerful minister who governed France. The count looked around, as if to request a private audience. Marie Antoinette understood that he had something important to say to her, but before she could express a wish to be left alone, all had withdrawn.
“A dispatch from Versailles, madame,” said the count in a low voice, and presenting a letter which he had kept concealed under his plumed hat.
The dauphiness took it, and read the address. “It is for you, sir, not for me,” she said; “open it and read it, if it contain anything that concerns me.”
“The letter is addressed to me,” he replied, “but in the corner is a mark agreed on between my brother, Madame Choiseul, and myself, indicating that the letter is for your royal highness.”
“True; I did not observe it.”
She opened the letter, and read the following lines:
“The presentation of Madame Dubarry is decided on, if she can only procure some noble lady to present her. We still hope she may not find one; but the only sure means to prevent the presentation will be for her royal highness the dauphiness to make all speed. Her royal highness once at Versailles, no one will dare to offer such an insult to the court.”
“Very well,” said the dauphiness, folding up the letter, without the slightest symptom of emotion, or even of interest.
“Will your royal highness now retire to repose a little?” asked Andree, timidly.
“No, I thank you, mademoiselle; the air has revived me; I have quite recovered,” and abandoning the arm of her lady-of-honor, she walked forward firmly and rapidly. “My horses immediately!” said she.
The cardinal looked with inquisitive surprise at the count.
“The dauphin is becoming impatient,” whispered the latter, and this falsehood appearing a secret confided to him alone, his eminence was satisfied. As to Andree, her father had taught her to respect the whims of crowned heads, and she was not at all surprised at the change in Marie Antoinette’s intentions. The latter, therefore, turning, and seeing no alteration in the sweet expression of her countenance, said:
“Thanks, mademoiselle; your hospitable reception has made a deep impression on me.”
Then, turning to the baron, she continued:
“Sir, you must know, that on leaving Vienna, I made a vow to advance the fortune of the first Frenchman whom I should meet on the frontiers of France. That Frenchman was your son. But I do not intend to stop there — your daughter shall not be forgotten either.”
“Oh, your highness!” murmured Andree.
“Yes, I mean to make you one of my maids of honor. You are noble, are you nut?” she added, again addressing the baron.
“Oh, your highness!” cried the baron with delight, for all his dreams seemed realized by what he heard; “although poor, our descent is unblemished; yet so high an honor—”
“It is only due to you. Your son will defend the king as you have done; your daughter will serve the dauphiness — the one you will inspire with every loyal sentiment, the other with every virtuous one. Shall I not be faithfully served, sir?” she said, turning to Philip, who knelt in gratitude at her feet, without words to express his emotion.
“But—” murmured the baron — for his feelings did not prevent him from reflecting.
“Yes, I understand,” said the dauphiness, “you have preparations to make, yet they cannot take long.”
A sad smile passed over the lips of Andree and Philip, a bitter one over those of the baron, and Marie Antoinette stopped, for she felt that she might unintentionally have wounded their pride.
“At least,” she resumed, “if I may judge by your daughter’s desire to please me. Besides, I shall leave you one of my carriages; it will bring you after us. I must call the Count de Stainville to my aid.”
The count approached.
“I shall leave one of my carriages for the Baron de Taverney, whom I wish to accompany me to Paris with his daughter. Appoint some one to accompany their carriage, and to cause it to be recognized as belonging to my suite.”
“Come forward, Monsieur de Beausire!”
“This very moment, madame,” answered the count.
A young man, of about five-and-twenty years of age, with an easy and graceful carriage, and a lively and intelligent eye, advanced, hat in hand, from the ranks of the escort of the dauphiness.
“Let one of the carriages remain behind,” said the count, “for the Baron de Taverney; you will accompany the carriage yourself.”
“And, sir,” said the dauphiness, “join us again as soon as possible. I authorize you to have double relays of horses, if necessary.”
The baron and his children were profuse in their acknowledgments.
“This sudden departure will not put you to much inconvenience, I hope, sir,” said the dauphiness.
“We are too happy to obey your royal highness’s orders,” replied the baron.
“Adieu! adieu!” said she, with a smile. “Gentlemen, conduct me to my carriage. Chevalier de Taverney, to horse!”
Philip kissed his father’s hand, embraced his sister, and leaped lightly into his saddle.
The glittering train swept on, and in a quarter of an hour had disappeared like an evening vapor; there remained no human being in the avenue of Taverney but a young man, who, sitting on one of the low pillars of the gate, pale and sorrowful, followed with a longing eye the last cloud of dust which was raised by the horses’ feet, and which served to show the road they had taken. The young man was Gilbert.
Meantime, the salon of Taverney presented a singular scene. Andree, with clasped hands, reflected on the unexpected and extraordinary event which had so suddenly interrupted the course of her calm life, and she believed herself in a dream. The baron was pulling some hairs, which were rather too long, out of his gray eyebrows, and settling the bosom of his shirt. Nicole, leaning against the door, looked at her master and mistress, and La Brie, with his arms hanging down and his mouth open, looked at Nicole.
The baron was the first to rouse himself from his reverie.
“Scoundrel!” cried he to La Brie, “are you standing there like a statue, and that gentleman, one of the king’s body-guard, waiting without?”
La Brie made a bound toward the door, got one leg hooked in the other, staggered to his feet and disappeared. In a short time he returned.
“What is the gentleman doing?” asked the baron.
“Making his horse eat the pimpernels.”
“Leave him alone, then. And the carriage?”
“It is in the avenue.”
“The horses harnessed?”
“Yes, sir — four horses — such beautiful animals! — they are eating the pomegranates.”
“The king’s horses have a right to eat whatever they like. By-the-by, the sorcerer?”
“He is gone, sir.”
“And has left all the plate on the table! It is not possible. He will return, or will send some one for it.”
“I don’t think he will, sir. Gilbert saw him set out with his wagon.”
“Gilbert saw him set out with his wagon!” the baron repeated, in a thoughtful tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“That wretch, Gilbert, sees everything. Go and pack my trunk.”
“It is packed, sir.”
“What! — it is packed?”
“Yes, as soon as I heard what her royal highness the dauphiness said, I went into your room, and packed your clothes and linen.”
“ Who told you to do so, you officious rascal?” “Dame, sir! I thought I was only anticipating your orders.”
“Fool! Go, then, and help my daughter.”
“Thank you, father; but I have Nicole.”
The baron began to reflect again.
“But, zounds, scoundrel! it is impossible.”
“What is impossible, sir?”
“What you have not thought of, for you think of nothing.”
“But what is it, sir?”
“That her royal highness would go without leaving something with Monsieur de Beausire, or the sorcerer without leaving a message with Gilbert.”
At this moment a low whistle was heard from the courtyard.
“What is that?”
“It is a call for me, sir,” replied La Brie.
“And who calls, pray?”
“The gentleman, sir.”
“The gentleman left by the dauphiness?”
“Yes, sir. And here is Gilbert coming as if he had got something to say to you.”
“Go, then, stupid animal!”
La Brie obeyed with his usual alacrity.
“Father,” said Andree, approaching him, “I know what troubles you. Recollect, I have thirty louis-d’ors, and that beautiful watch set with diamonds, which Queen Marie Lezinska gave my mother.”
“Yes, my dear, yes!” replied the baron; “but keep them, keep them. You must have a handsome dress for your presentation. I may discover some means — hush! here is La Brie.”
“Sir,” cried La Brie as he came in, holding in one hand a letter, and in the other some money, “see what the dauphiness left for me — ten louis-d’ors, sir! — ten louis-d’ors!”
“And that letter, rascal?”
“Oh, the letter is for you, sir — from the sorcerer.”
“From the sorcerer? Who gave it you?”
“Gilbert, sir.”
“I told you so, stupid animal! Give it me — give it me!”
He snatched the letter, tore it open, and read these words:
“SIR — Since a hand so august has touched the plate I left with you, it belongs to you; keep it as a relic, and remember sometimes your grateful guest.
JOSEPH BALSAMO.”
“La Brie!” cried the baron, after a moment’s reflection, “is there not a good goldsmith at Bar-le-Duc?”
“Oh, yes, sir, the one who soldered Mademoiselle Andree’s silver brooch!”
“Very well! Andree, lay aside the goblet out of which her royal highness drank, and let the rest of the service be put up in the carriage with us. And you, beast that you are, help the gentleman outside to a glass of what remains of our good wine.”
“One bottle, sir,” said La Brie, with deep melancholy.
“That is enough.”
“Now, Andree,” said the baron, taking both his daughter’s hands, “courage, my child. We are going to court; there are plenty of titles to be given away there; rich abbeys — regiments without colonels — pensions going to waste. It is a fine country, the court! The sun shines brightly there; put yourself always in its rays, my child; for you are worthy to be seen. Go, my love go!”
Andree went out, followed by Nicole.
“Hallo! La Brie, you monster!” cried the baron; “attend to the gentleman, I tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” answered La Brie from a distant part of the cellar.
“I,” continued the baron, going toward his room, “must go and arrange my papers. We must be out of this hole in an hour. Do you hear, Andree? And we are leaving it in good style, too. What a capital fellow that sorcerer is! I am becoming as superstitious as the devil. But make haste. La Brie, you wretch!” “I was obliged to go feeling about, sir, in the cellar; there is not a candle in the house.”
“It was time to leave it, it appears,” said the baron.