The Queen’s Hair.
THE KING STILL held Mademoiselle de Taverney by the hand when they reached the landing-place, and it was only on arriving there that he bowed to her, so courteously and so low, that Richelieu had time to see the bow, to admire its grace, and to ask himself to what lucky mortal it was addressed.
His ignorance did not last long. Louis XV. took the arm of the dauphiness, who had seen all that passed, and had already perfectly recognized Andree.
“My daughter,” said he, “I come without ceremony to ask you for my supper. I crossed the entire park in my way hither, and happening to meet Mademoiselle de Taverney, requested her to accompany me.”
“Mademoiselle de Taverney!” murmured Richelieu, almost, dizzy at this unexpected stroke. “On my faith, I am almost too fortunate!”
“I shall not only be not angry with mademoiselle, who is late,” replied the dauphiness graciously, “but I have to thank her for bringing your majesty to us.”
Andree, whose cheeks were dyed with as deep a red as the ripe and tempting cherries which graced the epergne in the center of the table, bowed without replying.
“Diable! diable! she is indeed beautiful,” thought Richelieu; “and that old scoundrel Taverney said no more for her than she deserves.”
The king had already taken his seat at the table after having saluted the dauphin. Gifted like his grandfather with an obliging appetite, the monarch did justice to the improvised supper which the maitre d’hotel placed before him as if by magic. But while eating, the king, whose back was turned toward the door, seemed to seek something, or rather some one.
In fact, Mademoiselle de Taverney had enjoyed no privilege, as her position in the dauphiness’s household was not yet fixed, had not entered the dining-room, and after her profound reverence in reply to the king’s salutation, had returned to the dauphiness’s apartment, lest her services might be required, as they had been once or twice already, to read to her highness after she had retired to bed.
The dauphiness saw that the king was looking for the beautiful companion of his walk.
“M. de Coigny,” said she to a young officer of the guards who was standing behind the king, “pray request Mademoiselle de Taverney to come up; with Madame de Noailles’ permission, we will discard etiquette for this evening!”
M. de Coigny left the room, and almost immediately afterward returned, introducing Andree, who, totally at a loss to comprehend the reason for such a succession of unusual favors, entered trembling.
“Seat yourself there, mademoiselle,” said the dauphiness, “beside Madame de Noailles.”
Andree mounted timidly on the raised seat, but she was so confused that she had the audacity to seat herself only about a foot distant from the lady of honor. She received, in consequence, such a terrific look that the poor child started back at least four feet, as if she had come in contact with a Leyden jar highly charged.
The king looked at her and smiled.
“Ah! ca,” said the duke to himself, “it is scarcely worth my while to meddle with the affair; everything is progressing of itself.” The king turned and perceived the marshal, who was quite prepared to meet his look.
“Good-day, duke,” said Louis; “do you agree well with the Duchesse de Noailles?”
“Sire,” replied the marshal, “the duchesse always does me the honor to treat me as a madcap.”
“Oh! Were you also on the road to Chanteloup, duke?”
“I, sire! Faith no; I am too grateful for the favors your majesty has showered on my family.”
The king did not expect this blow; he was prepared to rally, but he found himself anticipated.
“What favors have I showered, duke?”
“Sire, your majesty has given the command of your light horse to the Duke d’Aiguillon.”
“Yes; it is true, duke.”
“And that is a step which must have put all the energy, all the skill of your majesty to the task. It is almost a coup d’etat.”
The meal was now over; the king waited for a moment, and then rose from table.
The conversation was taking an embarrassing turn, but Richelieu was determined not to let go his prey. Therefor?, when the king began to chat with Madame de Noailles, the dauphiness, and Mademoiselle de Taverney. Richelieu maneuvered so skillfully that he soon found himself in the full fire of a conversation which he directed according to his pleasure.
“Sire,” said he, “your majesty knows that success emboldens.”
“Do you say so for the purpose of informing us that you are bold, duke?”
“Sire, it is for the purpose of requesting a new favor from your majesty, after the one the king has already deigned to grant. One of my best friends, an old servant of your majesty, has a son in the gendarmes; the young man is highly deserving, but poor. He has received from an august princess the brevet title of captain, but he has not yet got the company.”
“The princess? my daughter?” asked the king, turning toward the dauphiness.
“Yes, sire,” said Richelieu, “and the father of this young man is called the Baron de Taverney.”
“My father!” involuntarily exclaimed Andree. “Philip! Is it for Philip, my lord duke, that you are asking for a company ‘!”
Then, ashamed of this breach of etiquette, Andree made a step backward, blushing, and clasping her hands with emotion.
The king turned to admire the blush which mantled on the cheek of the lovely girl, and then glanced at Richelieu-with a pleased look, which informed the courtier how agreeable his request had been.
“In truth,” said the dauphiness, “he is a charming young man, and I had promised to make his fortune. How unfortunate princes are! When God gives them the best intentions, he deprives them of the memory and reasoning powers necessary to carry their intentions into effect. Ought I not to have known that this young man was poor, and that it was not sufficient to give him the epaulet without at the same time giving him the company?”
“Oh, madame! how could your royal highness have known that ‘!”
“Oh, I knew it!” replied the dauphiness quickly, with a gesture which recalled to Andree’s memory the modest but yet happy home of her childhood; “yes, I knew it, but I thought I had done everything necessary in giving a step to M. Philip de Taverney. He is called Philip, is he not, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, madame.”
The king looked round on these noble and ingenuous faces, and then rested his graze on Richelieu, whose face was also brightened by a ray of generosity, borrowed doubtless from his august neighbor.
“Duke,” said he, in a low voice, “I shall embroil myself with Luciennes.”
Then, addressing Andree, he added quickly; “Say that it will give you pleasure, mademoiselle.”
“Ah! sire,” said Andree, clasping her hands, “I request it as a boon from your majesty.”
“In that case, it is granted,” said Louis. “You will choose a good company for this young man, duke; I will furnish the necessary funds, if the charges are not already paid and the post vacant.”
This good action gladdened all who were present. It procured the king a heavenly smile from Andree, and Richelieu a warm expression of thanks from those beautiful lips, from which, ii. Ins youth, he would have asked for even more.
Several visitors arrived in succession, among whom was the Cardinal de Rohan, who since the installation of the dauphiness at Trianon had paid his court assiduously to her.
But during the whole evening the king had kind looks and pleasant words only for Richelieu. He even commanded the marshal’s attendance, when, after bidding farewell to the dauphiness, he set out to return to his own Trianon. The old marshal followed the king with a heart bounding with joy.
While the king, accompanied by the duke and his two officers, gained the dark alleys which lead from the palace, the dauphiness had dismissed Andree.
“You will be anxious to write this good news to Paris, mademoiselle,” said the princess, “you may retire.”
And preceded by a footman carrying a lantern, the young girl traversed the walk of about a hundred paces in length which separates Trianon from the offices.
Also, in advance of her, concealed by the thick foliage of the shrubbery, bounded a shadowy figure which followed all her movements with, sparkling eyes. It was Gilbert.
When Andree had arrived at the entrance, and began to ascend the stone staircase, tin; valet left her and returned to the antechambers of Trianon.
Then Gilbert, gliding into the vestibule, reached the courtyard, and climbed by a small staircase as steep as a ladder into his attic, which was opposite Andree’s windows and was situated in a corner of the building.
From this position he could see Andree call a femme-de-chambre of Madame de Noailles to assist her, as that lady had her apartments in the same corridor. But when the girl had entered the room, the window curtains fell like an impenetrable veil between the ardent eyes of the young man and the object of his wishes.
At the palace there now only remained M. de Rohan, redoubling his gallant attentions to the dauphiness, who received them but coldly.
The prelate, fearing at last to be indiscreet, inasmuch as the dauphin had already retired, took leave of her royal highness with the expression of the deepest and most tender respect. As he was entering his carriage, a waiting-woman of the dauphiness approached, and almost leaned inside the door.
“Here,” said she.
And she put into his hand a small paper parcel, carefully folded, the touch of which made the cardinal start.
“Here,” he replied hastily, thrusting into the girl’s hand a heavy purse, the contents of which would have been a handsome salary. Then, without losing time, the cardinal ordered the coachman to drive to Paris, and to ask for fresh orders at the barrier. During the whole way, in the darkness of the carriage, he felt the paper, and kissed the contents like some intoxicated lover. At the barrier he cried, “Rue St. Claude.” A short time afterward he crossed the mysterious courtyard, and once more found himself in the little salon occupied by Fritz, the silent usher.
Balsamo kept him waiting about a quarter of an hour. At last he appeared, and gave as a reason for his delay the lateness of the hour, which had prevented him from expecting the arrival of visitors.
In fact, it was now nearly eleven o’clock at night.
“That is true, baron,” said the cardinal; “and I must request you to excuse my unseasonable visit. But you may remember you told me one day, that to be assured of certain secrets —
“I must have a portion of the person’s hair of whom we were speaking on that day,” interrupted Balsamo, who had already spied the little paper which the unsuspecting prelate held carelessly in his hand.
“Precisely, baron.”
“And you have brought me this hair, sir; very well.”
“Here it is. Do you think it would be possible to return it to me again after the trial?”
“Unless fire should be necessary; in which case—”
“Of course, of course,” said the cardinal. “However, I can procure some more. Can I have a reply?”
“To-day?”
“You know I am impatient.”
“I must first ascertain, my lord.”
And Balsamo took the packet of hair, and hastily mounted to Lorenza’s apartment.
“I shall now know,” said he, on the way, “the secret of this monarchy; the mysterious fate which destiny has in store for it!”
And from the other side of the wall, even before opening the secret door, he plunged Lorenza into the magnetic sleep. The young girl received him therefore with an affectionate embrace. Balsamo could scarcely extricate himself from her arms. It would be difficult to say which was the most grievous for the poor baron, the reproaches of the beautiful Italian when she was awake, or her caresses when she slept. When he had succeeded in loosening the chain which her snowy arms formed around his neck:
“My beloved Lorenza,” said he, putting the paper in her hand, “can you tell me to whom this hair belongs?”
Lorenza took it and pressed it against her breast, and then to her forehead. Though her eyes were open, it was only by means of her head and breast that she could see in her sleep.
“Oh!” said she, “it is an illustrious head from which this hair has been taken.”
“Is it not? — and a happy head too? Speak.”
“She may be happy.”
“Look well, Lorenza.”
“Yes, she may be happy; there is no shadow as yet upon her life.”
“Yet she is married.”
“Oh!” said Lorenza, with a sigh.
“Well! — what? What means my Lorenza?”
“Strange!” said she, “strange indeed! She is married like myself, pure and spotless as I am; but unlike me, dear Balsamo, she does not love her husband.”
“Oh, fate!” said Balsamo. “Thanks, Lorenza, I know all I wished to know.”
He embraced her, put the hair carefully into his pocket, and then, cutting a lock off the Italian’s black tresses, he burned it at the wax-light and inclosed the ashes in the paper which had been wrapped round the hair of the dauphiness.
Then he left the room, and while descending the stairs he awoke the young woman.
The prelate, agitated and impatient, was waiting and doubting.
“Well, count?” said he.
“Well, my lord, the oracle has said you may hope.”
“It said so!” exclaimed the prince, transported with joy.
“Draw what conclusion you please, my lord; the oracle said that this woman, did not love her husband.”
“Oh!” said M. de Rohan, with a thrill of joy.
“I was obliged to burn the hair to obtain the revelation by its essence. Here are the ashes, which I restore to you most scrupulously, after having; gathered them up as if each atom were worth a million.”
“Thanks, sir, a thousand thanks; I can never repay you.”
“Do not speak of that, my lord. I must recommend you, however, not to swallow these ashes in wine, as lovers sometimes do; it causes such a dangerous sympathy that your love would become incurable, while the lady’s heart would cool toward you.”
“Oh! I shall take care,” said the prelate, almost terrified. “Adieu, count, adieu.”
Twenty minutes afterward his eminence’s carriage crossed M. de Richelieu’s at the corner of the Rue des Petits Champs so suddenly that it was nearly upset in a deep trench which had been dug for the foundation of a new building.
The two noblemen recognized each other.
“Ha! prince,” said Richelieu with a smile.
“Ha! duke,” replied Louis de Rohan, with his finger upon his lips.
And they disappeared in opposite directions.