CHAPTER V.
ENEMIES AND FRIENDS.
All Paris was in an uproar and in motion in all the streets; the people assembled in immense masses at all the squares, and listened with abated breath to the speakers who had taken their stand amid the groups, and who were confirming the astonished hearers respecting the great news of the day.
"The Lord Cardinal de Rohan, the grand almoner of the king," cried a Franciscan monk, who had taken his station upon a curbstone, at the corner of the Tuileries and the great Place de Carrousel—"Cardinal de Rohan has in a despotic manner been deprived of his rights and his freedom. As a dignitary of the Church, he is not under the ordinary jurisdiction, and only the Pope is the rightful lord of a cardinal; only before the Holy Father can an accusation be brought against a servant of the Church. For it has been the law of the Church for centuries that it alone has the power to punish and accuse its servants, and no one has ever attempted to challenge that power. But do you know what has taken place? Cardinal de Rohan has been withdrawn from the jurisdiction of his rightful judges; he has been denied an ecclesiastical tribunal, and he is to be tried before Parliament as if he were an ordinary servant of the king; secular judges are going to sit in judgment upon this great church dignitary, and to charge him with a crime, when no crime has been committed! For what has he done, the grand almoner of France, cardinal, and cousin of the king? A lady, whom he believed to be in the queen's confidence, had told him that the queen wanted to procure a set of jewels, which she was unfortunately not able to buy, because her coffers, as a natural result of her well-known extravagance, were empty. The lady indicated to the lord cardinal that the queen would be delighted if he would advance a sum sufficient to buy the jewels with, and in his name she would cause the costly fabric to be purchased. The cardinal, all the while a devoted and true servant of the king, hastened to gratify the desire of the queen. He took this course with wise precaution, in order that the queen, whose violence is well known, should not apply to any other member of the court, and still further compromise the royal honor. And say yourselves, my noble friends, was it not much better that it should be the lord cardinal who should lend money to the queen, than Lord Lauzun, Count Coigny, or the musical Count Vaudreuil, the special favorite of the queen? Was it not better for him to make this sacrifice and do the queen this great favor?"
"Certainly it was better," cried the mob. "The lord cardinal is a noble man. Long live Cardinal de Rohan!"
"Perish the Austrian, perish the jewelled queen!" cried the cobbler Simon, who was standing amid the crowd, and a hundred voices muttered after him, "Perish the Austrian!"
"Listen, my dear people of Paris, you good natured lambs, whose wool is plucked off that the Austrian woman may have a softer bed," cried a shrieking voice; "hear what has occurred to-day. I can tell you accurately, for I have just come from Parliament, and a good friend of mine has copied for me the address with which the king is going to open the session today."
"Read it to us," cried the crowd. "Keep quiet there! keep still there! We want to hear the address. Read it to us."
"I will do it gladly, but you will not be able to understand me," shrieked the voice. "I am only little in comparison with you, as every one is little who opposes himself to the highest majesty of the earth, the people."
"Hear that," cried one of those who stood nearest to those a little farther away " hear that, he calls us majesties! He seems to be an excellent gentleman, and he does not look down upon us."
"Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the prince royal, who is young, fair, and strong?" asked the barking voice.
"He is right, we cannot understand him," cried those who stood farthest away, pressing forward. "What did he say? He must repeat his words. Lift him up so that we all may hear him."
A broad shouldered, gigantic citizen, in good clothing, and with an open, spirited countenance, and a bold, defiant bearing, pressed through the crowd to the neighborhood of the speaker.
"Come, little man," cried he, "I will raise you up on my shoulder, and, but see, it is our friend Marat, the little man, but the great doctor!"
"And you truly, you are my friend Santerre, the great man and the greatest of doctors. For the beer which you get from his brewery is a better medicine for the people than all my electuaries can be. And you, my worthy friend of the hop-pole, will you condescend to take the ugly monkey Marat on your shoulders, that he may tell the people the great news of the day?"
Instead of answering, the brewer Santerre seized the little crooked man by both arms, swung him up with giant strength, and set him on his shoulders.
The people, delighted with the dexterity and strength of the herculean man, broke into a loud cheer, and applauded the brewer, whom all knew, and who was a popular personage in the city. But Marat, too, the horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois, as he called himself derisively, the doctor of poverty and misfortune, as his flatterers termed him—Marat, too, was known to many in the throng, and after Santerre had been applauded, they saluted Marat with a loud vivat, and with boisterous clapping of hands.
He turned his distorted, ugly visage toward the Tuileries, whose massive proportions towered up above the lofty trees of the gardens, and with a threatening gesture shook his fist at the royal palace.
"Have you heard it, you proud gods of the earth? Have you heard the sacred thunder mutterings of majesty? Are you not startled from the sleep of your vice, and compelled to fall upon your knees and pray, as poor sinners do before their judgment? But no. You do not see and you do not hear. Your ears are deaf and your hearts are sealed! Behind the lofty walls of Versailles, which a most vicious king erected for his menus plaisirs, there you indulge in your lusts, and shut out the voice of truth, which would speak to you here in Paris from the hallowed lips of the people."
"Long live Marat!" cried the cobbler Simon, who, drawn by the shouting, had left the Franciscan, and joined the throng in whose midst stood Santerre, with Marat on his shoulders. "Long live the great friend of the people! Long live Marat!"
"Long live Marat!" cried and muttered the people. "Marat heals the people when the gentry have made them sick, and taken the very marrow from their bones. Marat is no 'gentleman.' Marat does not look down upon the people!"
"My friends, I repeat to you what I said before," shrieked Marat. "Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the crown prince, and thinking more of the king, who is old, unnerved by his vices, and blase! You, the people, you are the crown prince of France, and if you, at last, in your righteous and noble indignation, tread the tyrant under your feet, then the young prince, the people, will rule over France, and the beautiful words of the Bible will be fulfilled: 'There shall be one fold and one shepherd.' I have taken this improvised throne on the shoulders of a noble citizen only to tell you of an impropriety which the Queen of France has committed, and of the new usurpation with which she treads our laws under her feet, not tired out with opera-house balls and promenades by night. I will read you the address which the king sent to Parliament to-day, and with which the hearing of Cardinal de Rohan's case is to begin. Will the people hear it?"
"Yes, we will hear it," was the cry from all sides. "Read us the address."
Marat drew a dirty piece of paper from his pocket, and began to read with a loud, barking voice:
"Louis, by the grace of God, King of France and Navarre, to our dear and faithful counsellors, members of the court of our Parliament, greeting:
"It has come to our knowledge that parties named Bohmer and Bassenge have, without the knowledge of the queen, our much-loved consort and spouse, sold a diamond necklace, valued at one million six hundred thousand francs, to Cardinal de Rohan, who stated to them that he was acting in the matter under the queen's instructions. Papers were laid before them which they considered as approved and subscribed by the queen. After the said Bohmer and Bassenge had delivered the said necklace to the said cardinal, and had not received the first payment, they applied to the queen herself. We have beheld, not without righteous indignation, the eminent name, which in many ways is so dear to us, lightly spoken of, and denied the respect which is due to the royal majesty. We have thought that it pertains to the jurisdiction of our court to give a hearing to the said cardinal, and in view of the declaration which he has made before us, that he was deceived by a woman named Lamotte-Valois, we have held it necessary to secure his person, as well as that of Madame Valois, in order to bring all the parties to light who have been the instigators or abettors of such a plot. It is our will, therefore, that that matter come before the high court of Parliament, and that it be duly tried and judgment given."
"There you have this fine message," cried Marat; "there you have the web of his, which this Austrian woman has woven around us. For it is she who has sent this message to Parliament. You know well that we have no longer a King of France, but that all France is only the Trianon of the Austrian. It stands on all our houses, written over all the doors of government buildings, 'De par la reine!' The Austrian woman is the Queen of France, and the good-natured king only writes what she dictates to him. She says in this paper that these precautions have been taken in order that she may learn who are the persons who have joined in the attack upon her distinguished and much-loved person. Who, then, is the abettor of Madame Valois? Who has received the diamonds from the cardinal, through the instrumentality of Madame Valois? I assert, it is the queen who has done it. She received the jewels, and now she denies the whole story. And now this woman Lamotte-Valois must draw the hot chestnuts out from the ashes. You know this; so it always is! Kings may go unpunished, they always have a bete de souffrance, which has to bear their burdens. But now that a cardinal, the grand almoner of France, is compelled to become the bete de souffrance for this Austrian woman, must show you, my friends, that her arrogance has reached its highest point. She has trodden modesty and morals under foot, and now she will tread the Church under foot also."
"Be still!" was the cry on all sides. "The carbineers and gendarmes are coming. Be still, Marat, be still! You must not be arrested. We do not want all our friends to be taken to the Bastile."
And really just at that instant, at the entrance of the street that led to the square on the side of the Tuileries, appeared a division of carbineers, advancing at great speed.
Marat jumped with the speed of a cat down from the huge form of the brewer. The crowd opened and made way for him, and before the carbineers had approached, Marat had disappeared.
With this day began the investigations respecting the necklace which Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge had wanted to sell the queen through the agency of Cardinal Bohan. The latter was still a prisoner in the Bastile. He was treated with all the respect due to his rank. He had a whole suite of apartments assigned to him; he was allowed to retain the service of both his chamberlains, and at times was permitted to see and converse with his relatives, although, it is true, in the presence of the governor of the Bastile. But Foulon was a very pious Catholic, and kept a respectful distance from the lord cardinal, who never failed on such occasions to give him his blessing. In the many hearings which the cardinal had to undergo, the president of the committee of investigation treated him with extreme consideration, and if the cardinal felt himself wearied, the sitting was postponed till another day. Moreover, at these hearings the defender of the cardinal could take part, in order to summon those witnesses or accused persons who could contribute to the release of the cardinal, and show that he had been the victim of a deeply-laid plot, and had committed no other wrong than that of being too zealous in the service of the queen.
News spread abroad of numerous arrests occurring in Paris. It had been known from the royal decree that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had likewise been arrested and imprisoned in the Bastile; but people were anxious to learn decisively whether Count Cagliostro, the wonder-doctor, had been seized. The story ran that a young woman in Brussels, who had been involved in the affair, and who had an extraordinary resemblance to the Queen Marie Antoinette, had been arrested, and brought to Paris for confinement in the Bastile.
All Paris, all France watched this contest with eager interest, which, after many months, was still far from a conclusion, and respecting which so much could be said.
The friends of the queen asserted that her majesty was completely innocent; that she had never spoken to the Countess Lamotte-Valois, and only once through her chamberlain. Weber had never sent her any assistance. But these friends of the queen were not numerous, and their number diminished every day.
The king had seen the necessity of making great reductions in the cost of maintaining his establishment, and in the government of the realm. France had had during the last years poor harvests. The people were suffering from a want of the bare necessities of life. The taxes could not be collected. A reform must be introduced, and those who before had rejoiced in a superfluity of royal gifts had to be contented with a diminution of them.
It had been the queen who allowed the tokens of royal favor to pour upon her friends, her companions in Trianon, like a golden rain. She had at the outset done this out of a hearty love for them. It was so sweet to cause those to rejoice whom she loved; so pleasant to see that charming smile upon the countenance of the Duchess de Polignac- -that smile which only appeared when she had succeeded in making others happy. For herself the duchess never asked a favor; her royal friend could only, after a long struggle and threatening her with her displeasure, induce her to take the gifts which were offered out of a really loving heart.
But behind the Duchess Diana stood her brother and sister-in-law, the Duke and Duchess de Polignac, who were ambitious, proud, and avaricious; behind the Duchess Diana stood the three favorites of the royal society in Trianon —Lords Vaudreuil, Besenval, D'Adhemar- -who desired embassies, ministerial posts, orders, and other tokens of honor.
Diana de Polignac was the channel through whom all these addressed themselves to the queen; she was the loved friend who asked whether the queen could not grant their demands. Louis granted all the requests to the queen, and Marie Antoinette then went to her loved friend Diana, in order to gratify her wishes, to receive a kiss, and to be rewarded with a smile.
The great noble families saw with envy and displeasure this supremacy of the Polignacs and the favorites of Trianon. They withdrew from the court; gave the "Queen of Trianon" over to her special friends and their citizen pleasures and sports, which, as they asserted, were not becoming to the great nobility. They gave the king over to his wife who ruled through him, and who, in turn, was governed by the Polignacs and the other favorites. To them and to their friends belonged all places, all honors; to them all applied who wanted to gain any thing for the court, and even they who wanted to get justice done them. Around the royal pair there was nothing but intrigues, cabals, envy, and hostility. Every one wanted to be first in the favor of the queen, in order to gain influence and consideration; every one wanted to cast suspicion on the one who was next to him, in order to supplant him in the favor of Marie Antoinette.
The fair days of fortune and peace, of which the queen dreamed in her charming country home, thinking that her realizations were met when the sun had scarcely risen upon them, were gone. Trianon was still there, and the happy peasant-girl of Trianon had been unchanged in heart; but those to whom she had given her heart, those who had joined in her harmless amusement in her village there, were changed! They had cast aside the idyllic masks with which the good- natured and confiding queen had deceived herself. They were no longer friends, no longer devoted servants; they were mere place- hunters, intriguers, flatterers, not acting out of love, but out of selfishness.
Yet the queen would not believe this; she continued to be the tender friend of her friends, trusted them, depended upon their love, was happy in their neighborhood, and let herself be led by them just as the king let himself be led by her.
They set ministers aside, appointed new ones, placed their favorites in places of power, and drove their opponents into obscurity.
But there came a day when the queen began to see that she was not the ruler but the ruled,—when she saw that she was not acting out her own will, but was tyrannized over by those who had been made powerful through her favor.
"I have been compelled to take part in political affairs," said she, "because the king, in his noble, good-humored way, has too little confidence in himself, and, out of his self-distrust, lets himself be controlled by the opinions of others. And so it is best that I should be his first confidante, and that he should take me to be his chief adviser, for his interests are mine, and these children are mine, and surely no one can speak more truly and honestly to the King of France than his queen, his wife, the mother of his children! And so if the king is not perfectly independent, and feels himself too weak to stand alone, and independently to exert power, he ought to rest on me; I will bear a part in his government, his business, that at any rate they who control be not my opponents, my enemies!"
For a while she yielded to her friends and favorites who wanted to stand in the same relation to the queen that she did to the king— she yielded, not like Louis, from weakness, but from the very power of her love for them.
She yielded at the time when Diana de Polignac, urged by her brother-in-law, Polignac, and by Lord Besenval, conjured the queen to nominate Lord Calonne to be general comptroller of the finances. She yielded, and Calonne, the flatterer, the courtier of Polignac, received the important appointment, although Marie Antoinette experienced twinges of conscience for it, and did not trust the man whom she herself advanced to this high place. Public opinion, meanwhile, gave out that Lord Calonne was a favorite of the queen; and, while she bore him no special favor, and considered his appointment as a misfortune to France, she who herself promoted him became the object of public indignation.
Meanwhile the nomination of Lord Calonne was to be productive of real good. It gave rise to the publication of a host of libels and pamphlets which discussed the financial condition of France, and, in biting and scornful words, in the language of sadness and despair, developed the need and the misfortune of the land. The king gave the chief minister of police strict injunctions to send him all these ephemeral publications. He wanted to read them all, wanted to find the kernel of wheat which each contained, and, from his enemies, who assuredly would not flatter, he wanted to learn how to be a good king. And the first of his cares he saw to be a frugal king, and to limit his household expenses.
This time he acted independently; he asked no one's counsel, not even the queen's. As his own unconstrained act, he ordered a diminution of the court luxury, and a limitation of the great pensions which were paid to favorites. The great stable of the king must be reduced, the chief directorship of the post bureau must be abolished, the high salary of the governess of the royal children as well as that of the maid of honor of Madame Elizabeth, sister of the king, must be reduced.
And who were the ones affected by this? Chiefly the Polignac family. The Duke de Polignac was director of the royal mews, and next to him the Duke de Coigny. The Duke de Polignac was also chief director of the post department. His wife, Diana de Polignac, was also maid of honor to Madame Elizabeth, and Julia de Polignac was governess of the children of Prance.
They would not believe it; they held it impossible that so unheard- of a thing should happen, that their income should be reduced. The whole circle of intimate friends resorted to Trianon, to have an interview with the queen, to receive from her the assurance that she would not tolerate such a robbing of her friends, and that she would induce the king to take back his commands.
The queen, however, for the first time, made a stand against her friends.
"It is the will of the king," said she, "and I am too happy that the king has a will, to dare opposing it. May the king reign! It is his duty and his right, as it is the duty and right of all his subjects to conform to his wish and be subject to his will."
"But," cried Lord Besenval, "it is horrible to live in a country where one is not sure but he may lose tomorrow what he holds to-day; down to this time that has always been the Turkish fashion." [Footnote: His very words. See Goncourt's "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 181.]
The queen trembled and raised her great eyes with a look full of astonishment and pain to Besenval, then to the other friends; she read upon all faces alienation and unkindly feeling. The mask of devoted courtiers and true servants had for the first time fallen from their faces, and Marie Antoinette discovered these all at once wholly estranged and unknown countenances; eyes without the beam of friendship, lips without the smile of devotion.
The queen sought to put her hand to her heart. It seemed to her as if she had been wounded with a dagger. She felt as if she must cry aloud with pain and grief. But she commanded herself and only gave utterance to a faint sigh.
"You are not the only ones who will lose, my friends," said she, gently. "The king is a loser, too; for if he gives up the great stables, he sacrifices to the common good his horses, his equipages, and, above all, his true servants. We must all learn to put up with limitations and a reduction of outlay. But we can still remain good friends, and here in Trianon pass many pleasant days with one another in harmless gayety and happy contentment. Come, my friends, let us forget these cares and these constraints; let us, despite all these things, be merry and glad. Duke de Coigny, you have been for a week my debtor in billiards, to-day you must make it up. Come, my friends, let us go into the billiard-room."
And the queen, who had found her gayety again, went laughing in advance of her friends into the next apartment, where the billiard- table stood. She took up her cue, and, brandishing it like a sceptre, cried, "Now, my friends, away with care—"
She ceased, for as she looked around her she saw that her friends had not obeyed her call. Only the Duke de Coigny, whom she had specially summoned, had followed the queen into the billiard-room.
A flash of anger shot from the eyes of the queen.
"How!" cried she, aloud, "did my companions not hear that I commanded them to follow me hither?"
"Your majesty," answered the Duke de Coigny, peevishly, "the ladies and gentlemen have probably recalled the fact that your majesty once made it a rule here in Trianon that every one should do as he pleases, and your majesty sees that they hold more strictly to the laws than others do."
"My lord," sighed the queen, "do you bring reproaches against me too? Are you also discontented?"
"And why should I be contented, your majesty?" asked the duke, with choler. "I am deprived of a post which hitherto has been held for life, and does your majesty desire that I should be contented? No, I am not contented. No, I do as the others do. I am full of anger and pain to see that nothing is secure more, that nothing is stable more, that one can rely upon nothing more—not even upon the word of kings."
"My lord duke," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing anger, "you go too far, you forget that you are speaking to your queen."
"Madame," cried he, still louder, "here in Trianon there is no queen, there are no subjects! You yourself have said it, and I at least will hold to your words, even if you yourself do not. Let us play billiards, madame. I am at your service."
And while the Duke de Coigny said this, he seized with an angry movement the billiard-cue of the queen. It was a present which Marie Antoinette had received from her brother, the Emperor Joseph. It was made of a single rhinoceros skin, and was adorned with golden knobs. The king had a great regard for it, and no one before had ever ventured to use it excepting her alone.
"Give it to me, Coigny," said she, earnestly. "You deceive yourself, that is not your billiard-cue, that is mine."
"Madame," cried he, angrily, "what is mine is taken from me, and why should I not take what is not mine? It seems as if this were the latest fashion, to do what one pleases with the property of others; I shall hasten to have a share in this fashion, even were it only to show that I have learned something from your majesty. Let us begin."
Trembling with anger and excitement, he took two balls, laid them in the middle of the table, and gave the stroke. But it was so passionately given, and in such rage, that the cue glided by the balls and struck so strongly against the raised rim of the table that it broke.
The queen uttered an exclamation of indignation, and, raising the hand, pointed with a commanding gesture to the door.
"My Lord Duke de Coigny," said she, proudly, "I release you from the duty of ever coming again to Trianon. You are dismissed."
The duke, trembling with anger, muttering a few unintelligible words, made a slight, careless obeisance to the queen, and left the billiard-hall with a quick step.[Footnote: This scene is historical. See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii.]
Marie Antoinette looked after him with a long and pained look. Then, with a deep sigh, she took up the bits of the broken cue and went into her little porcelain cabinet, in order to gain rest and self- command in solitude and stillness.
Reaching that place, and now sure that no one could observe her, Marie Antoinette sank with a deep sigh into an arm-chair, and the long-restrained tears started from her eyes.
"Oh," sighed she, sadly, "they will destroy every thing I have, every thing—my confidence, my spirit, my heart itself. They will leave me nothing but pain and misfortune, and not one of them whom I till now have held to be my friends, will share it with me."
CHAPTER VI.
THE TRIAL.
For a whole year the preparation for the trial had lasted, and to- day, the 31st of August, 1786, the matter would be decided. The friends and relatives of the cardinal had had time to manipulate not only public opinion, but also to win over the judges, the members of Parliament, to the cause of the cardinal, and to prejudice them against the queen. All the enemies of Marie Antoinette, the legitimists even, who saw their old rights of nobility encroached upon by the preference given to the Polignacs and other families which had sprung from obscurity; the party of the royal princes and princesses, whom Marie Antoinette had always offended, first because she was an Austrian, and later because she had allowed herself to win the love of the king; the men of the agitation and freedom party, who thundered in their clubs against the realm, and held it to be their sacred duty to destroy the nimbus which, had hitherto enveloped the throne, and to show to the hungering people that the queen who lived in luxury was nothing more than a light-minded, voluptuous woman,—all these enemies of the queen had had time to gain over public opinion and the judges. The trial had been a welcome opportunity to all to give free play to their revenge, their indignation, and their hate. The family of the cardinal, sorely touched by the degradation which had come upon them all in their head, would, at the least, see the queen compromised with the cardinal, and if the latter should really come out from the trial as the deceived and duped one, Marie Antoinette should, nevertheless, share in the stain.
The Rohan family and their friends set therefore all means in motion, in order to win over public opinion and the judges. To this end they visited the members of Parliament, brought presents to those of them who were willing to receive them, made use of mercenary authors to hurl libellous pamphlets at the queen, published brochures which, in dignified language, defended the cardinal in advance, and exhibited him as the victim of his devotion and love to the royal family. Everybody read these pamphlets; and when at last the day of decision came, public opinion had already declared itself in favor of the cardinal and against the queen.
On the 31st of August, 1786, as already said, the trial so long in preparation was to be decided. The night before, the cardinal had been transferred from the Bastile to the prison, as had also the other prisoners who were involved in the case.
At early dawn the whole square before the prison was full of men, and the dependants of Rohan and the Agitators of Freedom, as Marat and his companions called themselves, were active here as ever to turn the feeling of the people against the queen.
In the court-house, on the other side of the great square, meanwhile, the great drama of the trial had begun. The members of Parliament, the judges in the case, sat in their flowing black garments, in long rows before the green table, and their serious, sad faces and sympathetic looks were all directed toward the cardinal, Louis de Rohan. But in spite of the danger of the situation, the noble face of the cardinal was completely undisturbed, and his bearing princely. He appeared in his full priestly array, substituting in place of the purple-red under- garment one of violet, as cardinals do when they appear in mourning. Over this he wore the short red cloak, and displayed all his orders; the red stockings, the silk shoes with jewelled buckles, completed his array. While entering, he raised his hands and gave his priestly blessing to those who should judge him, and perhaps condemn him. He then, in simple and dignified words, spoke as follows:
A relative of his, Madame de Boulainvillier, had, three years before, brought a young woman to him, and requested him to maintain her. She was of the most exalted lineage, the last in descent from the earlier kings of France, of the family of Valois. She called herself the Countess of Lamotte-Valois; her husband, the Count Lamotte, was the royal sub-lieutenant in some little garrison city, and his salary was not able to support them except meagrely. The young lady was beautiful, intellectual, of noble manners, and it was natural that the cardinal should interest himself in behalf of the unfortunate daughter of the kings of France. He supported her for a while, and after many exertions succeeded in obtaining a pension of fifteen hundred francs from King Louis XVI., in behalf of the last descendant of the Valois family. Upon this the countess went herself to Versailles, in order to render thanks in person for this favor. She returned the next day to Paris, beaming with joy, and told the cardinal that she had not only been received by the queen, but that Marie Antoinette had been exceedingly gracious to her, and had requested her to visit her often. From this day on, the countess had naturally gained new favor in the eyes of the cardinal, for she often went to Versailles; and from the accounts of her visits there, when she returned, it was clear that she stood in high favor with the queen. But now, unfortunately, the cardinal found himself in precisely the opposite situation. He stood in extreme disfavor with the queen. She never condescended to bestow a glance upon him, nor a word. The cardinal was for a long time inconsolable on account of this, and sought in vain to regain the favor of the queen. This he intrusted with the deepest confidence to the Countess Lamotte- Valois, and she, full of friendly zeal, had undertaken to speak to the queen in his behalf. Some days later she told the cardinal that she had fulfilled her promise; she had painted his sadness in such moving words that the queen appeared to be very much affected, and had told the countess that she would pardon all, if the cardinal would send her in writing an apology for the mortifications which he had inflicted upon herself and her mother Maria Theresa. The cardinal, of course, joyfully consented to this. He sent to the countess a document in which he humbly begged pardon for asking the Empress Maria Theresa, years before, when Marie Antoinette was yet Dauphiness of France, and he, the cardinal, was French ambassador in Vienna, to chide her daughter on account of her light and haughty behavior, and to charge herself with seeing it bettered. This was the only offence against the queen of which he felt himself guilty, and for this he humbly implored forgiveness. He had, at the same time, begged the queen for an audience, that he might pay his respects to her, and on bended knee ask her pardon. Some days after, the Countess Lamotte-Valois had handed him a paper, written with the queen's hand, as an answer to his letter.
The president here interrupted the cardinal: "Are you still in possession of this document, your eminence?"
The cardinal bowed. "I have always, since I had the fortune to receive them, carried with me the dear, and to me invaluable, letters of the queen. On the day when I was arrested in Versailles, they lay in my breast coat-pocket. It was my fortune, and the misfortune of those who, after I had been carried to the Bastile, burst into my palace, sealed my papers, and at once burned what displeased them. In this way these letters escaped the auto-da-fe. Here is the first letter of the queen."
He drew a pocket-book from his robe, took from it a small folded paper, and laid it upon the table before the president.
The president opened it and read: "I have received your brief, and am delighted to find you no longer culpable; in the mean while, I am sorry not to be able to give you the audience which you ask. As soon, however, as circumstances allow me, I shall inform you; till then, silence. Marie Antoinette of France." [Footnote: Goncourt.— "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 143.]
A murmur of astonishment arose among the judges after this reading, and all looks were directed with deep sympathy to the cardinal, who, with a quiet, modest bearing, stood over against them. The glances of the president of the high court, directed themselves, after he had read the letter and laid it upon the green table, to the great dignitary of the Church, and then he seemed to notice for the first time that the cardinal, a prince and grand almoner of the King of Prance, was standing like a common criminal.
"Give the lord cardinal an arm-chair," he ordered, with a loud voice, and one of the guards ran to bring one of the broad, comfortable chairs of the judges, which was just then unoccupied, and carried it to the cardinal.
Prince Rohan thanked the judges with a slight inclination of his proud head, and sank into the arm-chair. The accused and the judges now sat on the same seats, and one would almost have suspected that the cardinal, in his magnificent costume, with his noble, lofty bearing, his peaceful, passionless face, and sitting in his arm- chair, alone and separated from all others, was himself the judge of those who, in their dark garments and troubled and oppressed spirits, and restless mien, were sitting opposite him.
"Will your eminence have the goodness to proceed?" humbly asked the president of the court, after a pause. The cardinal nodded as the sign of assent, and continued his narrative.
This letter of the queen naturally filled him with great delight, particularly as he had a personal interview with her majesty in prospect, and he had implored the Countess Valois all the more to procure this meeting, because, in spite of the forgiveness which the queen had given to the cardinal, she continued on all occasions, where he had the happiness to be in her presence, to treat him with extreme disdain. On one Sunday, when he was reading mass before their majesties, he took the liberty to enter the audience-room and to address the queen. Marie Antoinette bestowed upon him only an annihilating look of anger and scorn, and turned her back upon him, saying, at the same time, with a loud voice, to the Duchess of Polignac: "What a shameless act! These people believe they may do any thing if they wear the purple. They believe they may rank with kings, and even address them."
These proud and cutting words had naturally deeply wounded the cardinal, and, for the first time, the doubt was suggested to him whether, in the end, all the communications of the Countess Valois, even the letter of the queen, might not prove to be false, for it appeared to him impossible that the queen could be secretly, favorably inclined to a man whom she openly scorned. In his anger he said so to the Countess Lamotte, and told her that he should hold all that she had brought him from the queen to be false, unless, within a very short time, she could procure what he had so long and so urgently besought, namely, an audience with the queen. He desired this audience as a proof that Marie Antoinette was really changed, and, at the same time, as a proof that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had told him the truth. The countess laughed at his distrust, and promised to try all the arts of address with the queen, in order to gain for the cardinal the desired audience. The latter, who thought he recognized in the beautiful and expressive countenance of the lady innocence and honorableness, now regretted his hasty words, and said to Madame Lamotte, that in case the queen would really grant him a private audience, he would give her (the countess) fifty thousand francs as a sign of his gratitude.
A murmur of applause and of astonishment rose at these words from the spectators, comprising some of the greatest noble families of France, the Rohans, the Guemenes, the Count de Vergennes, and all the most powerful enemies of the queen, who had taken advantage of this occasion in order to avenge themselves on the Austrian, who had dared to choose her friends and select her society, not in accordance with lineage, but as her own pleasure dictated.
The president of the court did not consider this murmur of applause marked enough to be reprimanded, and let it be continued.
"And did the Countess Lamotte-Valois procure for you this audience?" he then asked.
Prince Rohan was silent a moment, his face grew pale, his features assumed for the first time a troubled expression, and the painful struggles which disturbed his soul could be seen working within him.
"May it please this noble court," he replied, after a pause, with feeling, trembling voice, "I feel at this moment that, beneath the robe of the priest, the heart of the man beats yet. It is, however, for every man a wrong, an unpardonable wrong, to disclose the confidence of a lady, and to reveal to the open light of day the favors which have been granted by her. But I must take this crime upon myself, because I have to defend the honor of a priest, even of a dignitary in the Church, and also because I do not dare to suffer my purple to be soiled with even the suspicion of a lie, or an act of falsehood. It may be—and I fear it even myself—it may be, that in this matter, I myself was the deceived one, but I dare not bring suspicion upon my tiara that I was the deceiver, and, therefore, I have to meet the stern necessity of disclosing the secret of a lady and a queen."
"Besides this," said the president, solemnly—"besides this, your eminence may graciously consider, in presence of the authority given you by God, all the tender thoughts of the cardinal must be silent. The duty of a dignitary of the Church commands you to go before all other men in setting them a noble example, and one worthy of imitation. It is your sacred duty, in accordance with the demands of truth, to give the most detailed information regarding every thing that concerns this affair, and your eminence will have the goodness to remember that we are the secular priests of God, before whom every accused person must confess the whole truth with a perfect conscience."
"I thank you, Mr. President," said the cardinal, with so gentle and tremulous a voice, that you might hear after it a faint sob from some deeply-veiled ladies who sat on the spectators' seats, and so that even the eyes of President de l'Aigro filled with tears—" I thank you, Mr. President," repeated the cardinal, breathing more freely. "You take a heavy burden from my heart, and your wisdom instructs me as to my own duty."
The president blushed with pleasure at the high praises of the cardinal.
"And now," he said, "I take the liberty of repeating my question, did the Countess Lamotte-Valois succeed in procuring for your eminence a secret audience with the queen?"
"She did," replied the cardinal, "she did procure an interview for me."
And compelling himself to a quiet manner, he went on with his story: The Countess de Valois came to him after two days with a joyful countenance, and brought to him the request to accompany the Countess Valois two days after to Versailles, where, in the garden, in a place indicated by the countess, the meeting of the queen and the cardinal should take place. The cardinal was to put on the simple, unpretending dress of a citizen of Paris, a blue cloth coat, a round hat, and high leather boots. The cardinal, full of inexpressible delight at this, could, notwithstanding, scarcely believe that the queen would show him this intoxicating mark of her favor; upon which the Countess Valois, laughing, showed him a letter of the queen, directed to her, on gold-bordered paper, and signed like the note which he had received before—" Marie Antoinette of France." In this note the queen requested her dear friend to go carefully to work to warn the cardinal to speak softly during the interview, because there were ears lurking in the neighborhood, and not to come out from the thicket till the queen should give a sign.
After reading this letter, the cardinal had no more doubts, but surrendered himself completely to his joy, his impatience, and longed for the appointed hour to arrive. At last this hour came, and, in company with the countess, the cardinal, arrayed in the appointed dress, repaired in a simple hired carriage to Versailles. The countess led him to the terrace of the palace, where she directed the cardinal to hide behind a clump of laurel-trees, and then left him, in order to inform the queen, who walked every evening in the park, in company with the Count and Countess d'Artois, of the presence of the cardinal, and to conduct her to him. The latter now remained alone, and, with loud-beating heart, listened to every sound, and, moving gently around, looked down the long alley which ran between the two fountains, in order to catch sight of the approach of the queen. It was a delightful evening; the full moon shone in golden clearness from the deep-blue sky, and illuminated all the objects in the neighborhood with a light like that of day. It now disclosed a tall, noble figure, clad in a dark- red robe, and with large blue pins in her hair, hurrying to the terrace, and followed by the Countess Valois.
To the present moment the cardinal had slightly doubted as to his unmeasurable good fortune—now he doubted no more. It was the queen, Marie Antoinette, who was approaching. She wore the same dress, the same coiffure which she had worn the last Sunday, when after the mass he had gone to Versailles to drive.
Yes, it was the queen, who was hurrying across the terrace, and approaching the thicket behind which the cardinal was standing.
"Come," whispered she, softly, and the cardinal quickly emerged from the shade, sank upon his knee before the queen, and eagerly pressed the fair hand which she extended to him to his lips. "Your eminence," whispered the queen to him, "I can unfortunately spend only a moment here. I cherish nothing against you, and shall soon show you marks of my highest favor. Meantime, accept this token of my grace." And Marie Antoinette took a rose from her bosom and gave it to the cardinal. "Accept, also, this remembrancer," whispered the queen, again placing a little case in his hand. "It is my portrait. Look often at it, and never doubt me, I—"
At this moment the Countess Valois, who had been waiting at some distance, hastily came up.
"Some one is coming," whispered she; "for God's sake, your majesty, fly!"
Voices were audible in the distance, and soon they approached. The queen grasped the hand of the Countess Lamotte.
"Come, my friend," said she. "Farewell, cardinal, au revoir!"
Full of joy at the high good fortune which had fallen to him, and at the same time saddened at the abrupt departure of the queen, the cardinal turned back to Paris. On the next day the Countess Valois brought a billet from the queen, in which she deeply regretted that their interview yesterday had been so brief, and promising a speedy appointment again. Some days after this occurrence, which constantly occupied the mind of the cardinal, he was obliged to go to Alsace, to celebrate a church festival. On the very next day, however, came the husband of the countess, Count Lamotte, sent as a courier by the countess. He handed the cardinal a letter from the queen, short and full of secrecy, like the earlier ones.
"The moment," wrote the queen—" the moment which I desired is not yet come. But I beg you to return at once to Paris, because I am in a secret affair, which concerns me personally, and which I shall intrust to you alone, and in which I need your assistance. The Countess Lamotte-Valois will give you the key to this riddle."
As if on the wings of birds, the cardinal returned to Paris, and at once repaired to the little palace which the countess had purchased with the fruits of his liberality. Here he learned of her the reason of his being sent for. The matter in question was the purchasing of a set of jewels, which the royal jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge, had often offered to the queen. Marie Antoinette had seen the necklace, and had been enraptured with the size and beauty of the diamonds. But she had had the spirit to refuse to purchase the collar, in consequence of the enormous price which the jewellers demanded. She had, however, subsequently regretted her refusal, and the princely set of gems, the like of which did not exist in Europe, had awakened the most intense desire on the part of the queen to possess it. She wanted to purchase it secretly, without the knowledge of the king, and to pay for it gradually out of the savings of her own purse. But just then the jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge had it in view to send the necklace to Constantinople for the Sultan, who wanted to present it to the best-loved of his wives.
But before completing the sale, the crown jewellers made one more application to the queen, declaring that if she would consent to take the necklace, they would be content with any conditions of payment. In the mean time, the private treasury of the queen was empty. The severe winter had induced much suffering and misfortune, and the queen had given all her funds to the poor. But as she earnestly desired to purchase the necklace, she would give her grand almoner a special mark of her favor in granting to him the commission of purchasing it in her name. He should receive a paper from the queen's own hand authorizing the purchase, yet he should keep this to himself, and show it only to the court jewellers at the time of the purchase. The first payment of six hundred thousand francs the cardinal was to pay from his own purse, the remaining million the queen would pay in instalments of one hundred thousand francs each, at the expiration of every three months. In the next three months, the six hundred thousand francs advanced by the cardinal should be refunded.
The cardinal felt himself highly flattered by this token of the queen's confidence, and desired nothing more than the written authorization of the queen, empowering him to make the purchase at once. This document was not waited for long. Two days only passed before the Countess Lamotte-Valois brought it, dated at Trianon, and subscribed Marie Antoinette of France. Meanwhile some doubts arose in the mind of the cardinal. He turned to his friend and adviser, Count Cagliostro, for counsel. The latter had cured him years before while very sick, and since that time had always been his disinterested friend, and the prophet, so to speak, who always indicated the cardinal's future to him. This man, so clear in his foresight, so skilful in medicine, was now taken into confidence, and his advice asked. Count Cagliostro summoned the spirits that waited upon him, before the cardinal, one solitary night. He asked these invisible presences what their counsel was, and the oracle answered, that the affair was one worthy of the station of the cardinal; that it would have a fortunate issue; that it put the seal upon the favors of the queen, and would usher in the fortunate day which would bring the great talents of the cardinal into employment for the benefit of France and the world. The cardinal doubted and hesitated no longer. He went at once to the court jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge: he did not conceal from them that he was going to buy the necklace in the name of the queen, and showed them the written authorization. The jewellers entered readily into the transaction. The cardinal made a deposit of six hundred thousand francs, and Bohmer and Bassenge gave him the necklace. It was the day before a great festival, and at the festival the queen wanted to wear the necklace. In the evening a trusted servant of the queen was to take the necklace from the dwelling of the Countess Lamotte-Valois. The countess herself requested the cardinal to be present, though unseen, when the delivery should take place.
In accordance with this agreement, the cardinal repaired to the palace of the countess on the evening of February 1st, 1784, accompanied by a trusted valet, who carried the casket with the necklace. At the doorway he himself took the collar and gave it to the countess. She conducted the cardinal to an alcove adjoining her sitting-room. Through the door provided with glass windows he could dimly see the sitting-room.
After some minutes the main entrance opened, and a voice cried: "In the service of the queen!" A man in the livery of the queen, whom the cardinal had often seen at the countess's, and whom she had told was a confidential servant of the queen, entered and demanded the casket in the name of the queen. The Countess Valois took it and gave it to the servant, who bowed and took his leave. At the moment when the man departed, bearing this costly set of jewels, the cardinal experienced an inexpressible sense of satisfaction at having had the happiness of conferring a service upon the Queen of France, the wife of the king, the mother of the future king,—not merely in the purchase of the diamonds which she desired, but still more in preventing the young and impulsive woman from taking the unbecoming step of applying to any other gentleman of the court for this assistance.
At these words the spectators broke into loud exclamations, and one of the veiled ladies cried: "Lords Vaudreuil and Coigny would not have paid so much, but they would have demanded more." And this expression, too, was greeted with loud acclaims.
The first president of the court, Baron de L'Aigre, here cast a grave look toward the tribune where the spectators sat, but his reproach died away upon lips which disclosed a faint inclination to smile.
"I now beg your eminence," he said, "to answer the following question: " Did Queen Marie Antoinette personally thank you for the great service which, according to your showing, you did her? How is it with the payments which the queen pledged herself to make?"
The cardinal was silent for a short time, and looked sadly before him. "Since the day when I closed this unfortunate purchase, I have experienced only disquietudes, griefs, and humiliations. This is the only return which I have received for my devotion. The queen has never bestowed a word upon me. At the great festival she did not even wear the necklace which she had sent for on the evening before. I complained of this to the countess, and the queen had the goodness to write me a note, saying that she had found the necklace too valuable to wear on that day, because it would have attracted the attention of the king and the court. I confided in the words of the queen, and experienced no doubts about the matter till the unhappy day when the queen was to make the first payment to the jewellers, and when she sent neither to me nor to the jewellers a word. Upon this a fearful suspicion began to trouble me,—that my devotion to the queen might have been taken advantage of, in order to deceive and mislead me. When this dreadful thought seized me, I shuddered, and had not power to look down into the abyss which suddenly yawned beneath me. I at once summoned the Countess Lamotte, and desired her solution of this inexplicable conduct of the queen. She told me that she had been on the point of coming to me and informing me, at the request of the queen, that other necessary outlays had prevented the queen's paying me the six hundred thousand francs that I had disbursed to Bohmer at the purchase of the necklace, and that she must be content with paying the interest of this sum, thirty thousand francs. The queen requested me to be satisfied for the present with this arrangement, and to be sure of her favor. I trusted the words of the countess once more, took fresh courage, and sent word to the queen that I should always count myself happy to conform to her arrangements, and be her devoted servant. The countess dismissed me, saying that she would bring the money on the morrow. In the mean time, something occurred that awakened all my doubts and all my anxieties afresh. I visited the Duchess de Polignac, and while I was with her, there was handed her a note from the queen. I requested the duchess, in case the billet contained no secret, to show it to me, that I might see the handwriting of the queen. The duchess complied with my request, and—"
The cardinal was silent, and deep inward excitement made his face pale. He bowed his head, folded his hands, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.
The judges, as well as the spectators, remained silent. No one was able to break the solemn stillness by an audible breath-by a single movement.
At length, after a long pause, when the cardinal had raised his head again, the president asked gently: "And so your eminence saw the note of the queen, and was it not the same writing as the letters which you had received?"
"No, it was not the same!" cried the cardinal, with pain. "No, it was an entirely different hand. Only the signature had any resemblance, although the letter to the duchess was simply subscribed 'Marie Antoinette.' I hastened home, and awaited the coming of the countess with feverish impatience. She came, smiling as ever, and brought me the thirty thousand francs. With glowing, passionate words, I threw my suspicions in her face. She appeared a moment alarmed, confused, and then granted that it was possible that the letters were not from the hand of the queen, but that she had dictated them. But the signatures were the queen's, she could take her oath of it. I again took a little courage; but soon after the countess had left me, the jewellers came in the highest excitement to me, to tell me that, receiving no payments from the queen, they had applied in writing to her several times, without receiving any answer; their efforts to obtain an audience were also all in vain, and so they had at last applied to the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, Madame de Campan, with whom they had just had an interview. Madame de Campan had told them that the queen did not possess the necklace; that no Countess Lamotte-Valois had ever had an interview with the queen; that she had told the jewellers with extreme indignation that some one had been deceiving them; that they were the victims of a fraud, and that she would at once go to Trianon to inform the queen of this fearful intrigue. This happened on a Thursday; on the following Sunday I repaired to Versailles to celebrate high mass, and the rest you know. I have nothing further to add."
"In the name of the court I thank your eminence for your open and clear exposition of this sad history," said the president, solemnly. "Your eminence needs refreshment, you are free to withdraw and to return to the Bastile."
The cardinal rose and bowed to the court. All the judges stood, and respectfully returned the salutation. [Footnote: 'Historical.—See "Memoires de l'Abbe Georgel," vol. i.]
One of the veiled ladies, sitting on the spectators' seats, cried with trembling voice: "God bless the cardinal, the noble martyr of the realm!"
All the spectators repeated the cry; and, while the words yet rang, the cardinal, followed by the officers who were to take him to the Bastile, had left the hall.
"Guards!" cried President de L'Aigre, with a loud voice, "bring in the accused, the Countess de Lamotte-Valois!"
All eyes directed themselves to the door which the guards now opened, and through which the accused was to enter.
Upon the threshold of this door appeared now a lady of slim, graceful form, in a toilet of the greatest elegance, her head decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace, her cheeks highly painted, and her fine ruby lips encircled by a pert, and at the same time a mocking smile, which displayed two rows of the finest teeth. With this smile upon her lips she moved forward with a light and spirited step, turning her great blazing black eyes with proud, inquisitive looks now to the stern semicircle of judges and now to the tribune, whose occupants had not been able to suppress a movement of indignation and a subdued hiss.
"Gentlemen," said she, with a clear, distinct voice, in which not the faintest quiver, not the least excitement was apparent—" gentlemen, are we here in a theatre, where the players who tread the boards are received with audible signs of approval or of disfavor?"
The president, to whom her dark eyes were directed, deigned to give no answer, but turned with an expressive gesture to the officer who stood behind the accused.
He understood this sign, and brought from the corner of the hall a wooden seat of rough, clumsy form, to whose high back of unpolished dirty wood two short iron chains were attached.
This seat he placed near the handsome, gaudily-dressed countess with her air of assurance and self-confidence, and pointed to it with a commanding gesture.
"Be seated," he said, with a loud, lordly tore. She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at the offered seat with an expression of indignation. "How!" she cried, "who dares offer me the chair of criminals to sit in?"
"Be seated," replied the officer. "The seat of the accused is ready for you, and the chains upon it are for those who are not inclined to take it."
A cry of anger escaped from her lips, and her eyes flashed an annihilating glance upon the venturesome officer, but he did not appear to be in the least affected by the lightning from her eyes, but met it with perfect tranquillity.
"If you do not take it of yourself, madame," he said, "I shall be compelled to summon the police; we shall then compel you to take the seat, and in order to prevent your rising, the chains will be bound around your arms."
The countess answered only with an exclamation of anger, and fixed her inquiring looks upon the judges, the accusers, the defenders, and then again upon the spectators. Everywhere she encountered only a threatening mien and suspicious looks, nowhere an expression of sympathy. But it was just this which seemed to give her courage and to steel her strength. She raised her head proudly, forced the smile again upon her lips, and took her seat upon the chair with a grace and dignity as if she were in a brilliant saloon, and was taking her seat upon an elegant sofa. The president of the court now turned his grave, rigid face to the countess, and asked: "Who are you, madame? What is your name, and how old are you?"
The countess gave way to a loud, melodious laugh. "My lord president," answered she, "it is very clear that you are not much accustomed to deal with ladies, or else you would not take the liberty of asking a lady, like myself in her prime, after her age. I will pardon you this breach of etiquette, and I will magnanimously pretend not to have heard that question, in order to answer the others. You wish to know my name? I am the Countess Lamotte-Valois of France, the latest descendant of the former Kings of Prance; and if in this unhappy land, which is trodden to the dust by a stupid king and a dissolute queen, right and justice still prevailed, I should sit on the throne of France, and the coquette who now occupies it would be sitting here in this criminal's chair, to justify herself for the theft which she has committed, for it is Marie Antoinette who possesses the diamonds of the jeweller Bohmer, not I."
At the spectators' tribune a gentle bravo was heard at these words, and this daring calumny upon the queen found no reproval even from the judges' bench.
"Madame," said L'Aigre, after a short pause, "instead of simply answering my questions you reply with a high-sounding speech, which contains an untruth, for it is not true that you can lay any claim to the throne of France. The descendants of bastards have claims neither to the name nor the rank of their fathers. Since, in respect to your name and rank, you have answered with an untruth, I will tell you who and what you are. Your father was a poor peasant in the village of Auteuil. He called himself Valois, and the clergyman of the village one day told the wife of the proprietor of Auteuil, Madame de Boulainvillier, that the peasant of Valois was in possession of family papers, according to which it was unquestionable that he was an illegitimate descendant of the old royal family.
The good priest at the same time recommended the poor, hungry children of the day-laborer Valois to the kindness of Madame de Boulainvillier, and the old lady hastened to comply with this recommendation. She had the daughter of Valois called to her to ask her how she could assist her in her misery."
"Say rather to gain for herself the credit that she had shown kindnesses to the descendants of the Kings of France," interrupted the countess, quickly.
"This would have been a sorry credit," replied President L'Aigre. "The Valois family had for a long time been extinct, and the last man of that name who is known, was detected in counterfeiting, sentenced, and executed. Your grandfather was an illegitimate son of the counterfeiter Valois. That is the sum total of your relation to the royal family of France. It is possible that upon this very chair on which you now sit, accused of this act of deception, your natural great-grandfather once sat, accused like you of an act of deception, in order, after conviction of his crime, to be punished according to the laws of France."
The countess made a motion as if she wanted to rise from the unfortunate seat, but instantly the heavy hand of the officer was laid upon her shoulder, and his threatening voice said, "Sit still, or I put on the chains!"
The Countess Lamotte-Valois of France sank back with a loud sob upon the chair, and for the first time a death-like paleness diffused itself over her hitherto rosy cheeks.
"So Madame de Boulainvillier had the children of the day-laborer Valois called," continued the president, with his imperturbable self-possession. "The oldest daughter, a girl of twelve years, pleased her in consequence of her lively nature and her attractive exterior. She took her to herself, she gave her an excellent education, she was resolved to provide for her whole future; when one day the young Valois disappeared from the chateau of Madame de Boulainvillier. She had eloped with the sub-lieutenant, Count Lamotte, and announced to her benefactress, in a letter which she left behind, that she was escaping from the slavery in which she had hitherto lived, and that she left her curse to those who wanted to hinder her marrying the man of her choice. But in order to accomplish her marriage, she confessed that she had found it necessary to rob the casket of Madame de Boulainvillier, and that out of this money she should defray her expenses. It was a sum of twenty thousand francs which the fugitive had robbed from her benefactress."
"I take the liberty of remarking to you, Mr. President, that you are there making use of a totally false expression," interrupted the countess. "It cannot be said that I robbed this sum. It was the dowry which Madame de Boulainvillier had promised to give me in case of my marriage, and I only took what was my own, as I was upon the point of marrying. Madame de Boulainvillier herself justified me in taking this sum, for she never asked me to return it or filed an accusation against me."
"Because she wanted to prevent the matter becoming town-talk," remarked the president, quietly. "Madame de Boulainvillier held her peace, and relinquished punishment to the righteous Judge who lives above the stars."
"And who surely has not descended from the stars to assume the president's chair of this court," cried Lamotte, with a mocking laugh.
President L'Aigre, without heeding the interruption, continued:
"The daughter of the laborer Valois married the sub-lieutenant Lamotte, who lived in a little garrison city of the province, and sought to increase his meagre salary by many ingenious devices. He not merely gave instruction in fencing and riding, but he was also a very skilful card-player—so skilful, that fortune almost always accompanied him."
"My lord," cried the countess, springing up," you seem to want to hint that Count Lamotte played a false game. You surely would not venture to say this if the count were free, for he would challenge you for this insult, and it is well known that his stroke is fatal to those who stand in the way of his dagger."
"I hint at nothing, and I merely call things by their right names," replied the president, smiling. "In consequence of strong suspicions of false play, Count Lamotte was driven out of his regiment; and as the young pair had in the meantime consumed the stolen wedding- money, they must discover some new way of making a living. The young husband repaired to the south of France to continue his card- playing; the young wife, having for her fortune her youth and the splendor of her name, repaired to Paris, both resolved de corriger la fortune wherever and however they could. "This, madame," continued the president, after a pause, "this is the true answer to my question, how you are called, and who you are."
"The answer is, however, not yet quite satisfactory," replied Lamotte, in an impudent tone. "You have forgotten to add that I am the friend of the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, the confidante and friend of Queen Marie Antoinette, and that both now want to do me the honor to make me their bete de souffrance, and to let me suffer for what they have done and are guilty of. My whole crime lies in this, that I helped the Queen of France gain the jewels for which her idle and trivial soul longed; that I helped the amorous and light-minded cardinal approach the object of his love, and procured for him an interview with the queen. That is all that can be charged upon me; I procured for the queen the fine necklace of Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge; I gave the cardinal, as the price of a part of the necklace, a tender tete-a-tete with the queen. The cardinal will not deny that in the garden of Versailles he had a rendezvous with the queen, that he kissed her hand and received a rose from her; and the queen will be compelled to confess in the end that the necklace is in her possession. What blame can be laid on me for this?"
"The blame of deception, of defalcation, of forgery, of calumny, of theft," replied the president, with solemn earnestness. "You deceived Cardinal de Rohan in saying that you knew the queen, that you were intimate with her, that she honored you with her confidence. You forged, or got some one to forge, the handwriting of the queen, and prepared letters which you gave to the cardinal, pretending that they came from the queen. You misused the devotion of the cardinal to the royal family, and caused his eminence to believe that the queen desired his services in the purchase of the necklace; and after the cardinal, full of pleasure, had been able to do a service to the queen, had treated with Bohmer and Bassenge, had paid a part of the purchase money, and gave you the necklace in charge to be put into the queen's hands, you were guilty of theft, for the queen knows nothing of the necklace; the queen never gave you the honor of an audience, the queen never spoke with you, and no one of the queen's companions ever saw the Countess Lamotte."
"That means they disown me; they all disown me!" cried the countess, with flaming rage, stamping upon the floor with her little satin- covered foot. "But the truth will one day come to the light. The cardinal will not deny that the queen gave him a rendezvous at Versailles; that she thanked him personally for the necklace which she had procured through his instrumentality."
"Yes, the truth will come to the light," answered the president. "I summon the crown attorney, M. de Borillon, to present the charge against the Countess Lamotte-Valois."
On this the attorney-general, Borillon, rose, and amid the breathless silence of the assembly began to speak. He painted the countess as a crafty, skilful adventuress, who had come to Paris with the determined purpose of making her fortune in whatever way it could be done. He then spoke of the destitution in which she had lived at first, of the begging letters which she addressed to all people of distinction, and especially to Cardinal de Rohan, in consequence of his well-known liberality. He painted in lively and touching colors the scene where the cardinal, struck by the name of the suppliant, went in person to the attic to convince himself whether it were really true that a descendant of the Kings of France had been driven to such poverty and humiliation, and to give her assistance for the sake of the royal house, to which he was devoted heart and soul. He painted further how the cardinal, attracted by the lively spirits, amiability, and intellectual character of Lamotte-Valois, had given her his confidence, and believed what she told him about her favor with the queen, and her intimate relations with her. "The cardinal," continued the attorney-general, "did not doubt for a moment the trustworthiness of the countess; he had not the least suspicion that he was appointed to become the victim of an intriguer, who would take advantage of his noble spirit, his magnanimity, to deceive him and to enrich herself. The countess knew the boundless devotion of the cardinal to the queen; she had heard his complaints of the proud coldness, the public slights which she offered to him. On the other hand, she had heard of the costly diamond necklace which Bohmer and Bassenge had repeatedly offered to the queen, and that she had refused to take it on account of the enormous price which they demanded for it. On this the countess formed her plan and it succeeded perfectly. She caused the cardinal to hope that he would soon have an audience of the queen, if he would give solid assurances of his devotion, and when he professed himself ready, she proposed to him, as acting under the queen's instructions, the purchase of the necklace. The cardinal declared himself ready to accede, and the affair took the course already indicated with such touching frankness and lofty truthfulness by his eminence. He brought the purchase to a conclusion; he paid the first instalment of six hundred thousand francs, and gave the necklace to the friend of the queen, the Countess Lamotte-Valois, after he had availed himself of her assistance in receiving from the lips and hand of the queen in the garden of Versailles the assurance of the royal favor. The countess at once brought the cardinal a paper from the queen, stating that she had received the necklace, and conveying to him the warm thanks of his queen. The cardinal felt himself richly rewarded by this for all his pains and outlays, and in the joy of his heart wanted to repay her who, in so prudent and wise a manner, had effected his reconciliation with the queen. He settled upon her a yearly pension of four thousand francs, payable her whole life, and the countess accepted it with tears of emotion, and swore eternal gratitude to the cardinal. But while uttering this very oath she was conspiring against her benefactor, and laughing in her sleeve at the credulous prince who had fallen into the very net which she had prepared for him. Her most active ally was her husband, whom she had long before summoned to Paris, and who was the abetter of her intrigue. The countess had now become a rich lady, and was able to indulge all her cravings for splendor and luxury. She who, down to that time, had stood as a supplicant before the doors of the rich, could herself have a princely dwelling, and could devote great sums to its adornment. The most celebrated makers were called on, to furnish the furniture and the decorations, and, as if by a touch of magic, she was surrounded by fabulous luxury; the fairest equipages stood ready for her, the finest horses in her stable, and a troop of lackeys waited upon the beck of the fair lady who displayed her princely splendor before them. A choice silver service glittered upon her table, and she possessed valuables worth more than a hundred thousand francs. More than this, she enjoyed the best of all, a tender and devoted husband, who overloaded her with presents; from London, whither he was called by pressing family affairs, he sent his wife a medallion of diamonds, which was subsequently estimated at two hundred and thirty louis-d'ors, and a pearl bracelet worth two hundred louis-d'ors. Returning from his journey, he surprised his wife with a new and splendid present. He had purchased a palace in Bar-sur-Aube, and thither the whole costly furniture of his hired house was carried. Would you know where all these rare gifts wore drawn? The Countess Lamotte had broken the necklace, and taken the stones from their setting. For the gold alone which was used in the setting she received forty thousand francs; for one of the diamonds, which she sold in Paris, she received fifty thousand francs; for another, thirty-six thousand. The diamonds of uncommon size and immense worth she did not dare to dispose of in Paris, and her husband was compelled to journey to London to sell a portion of them there. On his return thence he was able to buy for his wife the house in Bar-sur-Aube, for the sum received in London was four hundred thousand francs in gold, in addition to the pearls and the diamond medallion which he brought his wife from London. And of all this luxury, this extravagance, Cardinal de Rohan had naturally no suspicion. When he visited her, where did the countess receive him? In a poorly-furnished attic- chamber of the house hired by her. In simple, modest attire, She met him there and told him with trembling voice that the rich countess who lived in the two lower stories of the house had allowed her to have this suite next to the roof gratis. But when danger approached, and Lamotte began to fear that Bohmer and Bassenge, in claiming their pay from the queen, would bring the history of the necklace to the light, the countess came to the cardinal to pay her parting respects, as she was going into the country to a friend to live in the greatest privacy. She left Paris merely to repair to Bar-sur- Aube and live in her magnificent palace. She tarried there so long as to allow the police detectives to discover in the rich and elegant lady the intriguer Lamotte-Valois, and to effect the imprisonment of her husband and his friend, the so-called Count Cagliostro. Her other abetters had put themselves out of sight, and were not to be discovered. However, their arrest was not specially necessary, for the facts were already sufficiently strong and clear. Some of the diamonds which Lamotte had sold in London were brought back to Paris, and had been recognized by Bohmer and Bassenge as belonging to the necklace which they had sold to the queen. The goldsmith had been discovered to whom the countess had sold the golden setting of the necklace, and Bohmer and Bassenge had recognized in the fragments which remained their own work. It is unquestionable that the Countess Lamotte-Valois, through her intrigues and cunning, had been able to gain possession of the necklace, and that she had appropriated it to her own use. The countess is therefore guilty of theft and deception. She is, moreover, guilty of forgery, for she has imitated the handwriting of the queen, and subscribed it with the royal name. But the hand is neither that of the queen, nor does the queen ever subscribe herself 'Marie Antoinette of France.' This makes Lamotte open to the charge of both forgery and contempt of majesty, for she has even dared to drag the sacred person of the Queen of France into her mesh of lies, and to make her majesty the heroine of a dishonorable love- adventure."