"Revenge is for those whom you have insulted and attacked," replied the prince, deliberately. "You have made a cowardly assault upon a noble lady, and not one of you shall leave this place alive!—Make ready! Take aim!" continued he to his men.
The click of the locks was distinctly heard, and in the crowd each man fancied that one of those carbines was aimed at his own head. The mob was losing heart; not even their leader was to be seen or heard. He had taken refuge in a sheltered corner of the court, where his wounds were being bound up by his lieutenants. Inconspicuous as he was, however, the sharp eyes of Olympia had followed him to his retreat. Not for one moment did she lose sight of him; she was determined to solve the enigma of his identity. As the last bellicose words of Prince Eugene rang through the ears of his dismayed followers, the wounded ringleader flung back his head with such sudden haste, that its masses of dark, tangled hair were entirely thrown aside, and the face that was revealed by their removal, caused the countess to start and utter an exclamation of surprise. As Eugene was about to give the command to fire, his mother caught his arm, and whispered in his ear:
"My son, I now think that I can tell you the name of yonder caitiff there, and, if I have guessed rightly, it were better for us to cease hostile demonstrations, and capitulate."
"Capitulate!" cried the prince, indignantly. "Capitulate with the rabble! Who can be this man that has so suddenly cowered the heart of my noble mother?"
"I think that he is the son of Louvois," whispered she.
"Ah, the presuming Barbesieur, who would have given his name to a
Princess de Carignan?"
"Yes—the same. His beard is dyed, and he wears false locks, but, spite of his disguise, I feel sure that it is Barbesieur. And I warn you, Eugene! harm not a hair on his head, for he is the favorite son of the mightiest man in France—mighty and vindictive. Kill as many of the rabble as you will; but give positive orders to your men not to touch Barbesieur Louvois."
"I ought to command them to fire on no other man, for he is responsible for the acts of every rioter here."
"That would be to cast your entire family into the very jaws of destruction. These men who call me murderess, could not be made to believe that I have the tenderness of a mother for my children; but you, Eugene, who know how dearly I love you all, you can understand that no revenge would be sweet that was purchased at the expense of my children's welfare. Spare, then, I implore you, the man who holds your destinies in his unfriendly hand."
"So be it," sighed Eugene, and he went from man to man, saying in a low voice, "Direct your fire toward the left." He then took his station at the central window, and, raising his arm, called out a second time: "Make ready! Take aim!"
The multitude heard, and their exceeding consternation found utterance in one prolonged shriek of horror.
"Do not fire!" screamed a hundred voices. "Do not fire! We are defenceless!"
The order was countermanded, and the self-possessed defender of the beleaguered palace advanced his head and contemplated the ignoble faces of his enemies.
"You acknowledge yourself baffled, then? You are willing to retreat?"
"Ay!" was the ready response of every rioter there.
"You swear to desist now and forever from your infamous attack upon this palace? You swear never more to make use of vituperative epithets toward the family of the deceased Count de Soissons?"
"We swear, we swear! Open the gates! Let us out! Let us out!" was now the universal cry.
"Not so fast. Before you have my permission to retire, I must have unequivocal, outspoken evidence of your repentance and conversion. You have presumed to asperse the good name of the Countess de Soissons. Take back your injurious words, and cheer her now, right lustily. Cry out three times, 'Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!' and, if your acclamations are to my mind, I will open the gates."
The reply to these conditions was a greeting so enthusiastic and so unanimous, that you would have sworn the mob had assembled before the hotel to tender to its inmates a popular ovation.
"Miserable canaille!" muttered their chief; "they are base enough to hurl their stones at ME, if that beardless manikin up there should require it of them, as a peace-offering to his immaculate mother!"
"I told your excellency that you could not trust them," replied the companion on whose arm he was leaning. "It is a dangerous thing to be identified with any action of theirs."
"You were right, Francois. Give me your arm, and let us try to reach the gates, so as to be the first to escape from this accursed man- trap."
"You have cheered the countess but once," cried Eugene to the multitude. "Do you wish me to renew our strife?"
"Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!" was the prompt reply. And, without waiting for a third suggestion, they shouted again and again, "Long live the Countess de Soissons!"
Olympia's flashing eyes rested proudly on her son. "I thank you, Eugene: you have avenged me effectually. All Paris will be filled with lampoons on the ridiculous repulse of the valiant Barbesieur and his followers."
Eugene made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the personage whom they supposed to be the son of Louvois, and the prince knew perfectly well wherefore he seemed in such nervous haste to reach the gates.
"He hopes to escape without recognition," muttered Eugene, "but I must have a word with him before we part."
"Open the gates!" clamored the populace anew; then suddenly there was a cry of alarm which was echoed from man to man, from group to group, until it shaped itself into these words: "The guards! The guards!"
CHAPTER V.
BARBESIEUR LOUVOIS.
Thundering down the street came a troop of horsemen who halted directly in front of the palace-gates.
"Louvois' spies have been reporting the failure of his son's warlike expedition," remarked Olympia, "and the guards whom WE had vainly called to our help, have come in hot haste to protect our assailants."
By this time the officer in command was at the gates making vain efforts to open them.
"What does this signify?" asked he. "And what is this multitude about in the court of the Hotel de Soissons?"
"Look at the palace-windows and the palace-doors, and you will read your answer there," replied Eugene. "I closed the gates against a furious and misguided mob; but we have come to terms, and I am about to liberate them. I crave your indulgence for these poor fellows: they have been deceived, and knew not what they did, and I hope that you will make good the forgiveness I have extended to their fault, by allowing them to go hence without molestation."
"If so," replied the officer, "I shall be happy to confirm you highness's clemency by carrying out your order for their release."
"Is it possible," asked the countess of her son, "that you are in earnest? You intend to suffer those wretches to go away unharmed! Because I asked your forbearance for one man, shall this vile horde be snatched from the hands of justice!"
"Do you suppose that justice has any intention of overtaking them?" asked Eugene, with a significant smile. "Believe me, dear mother, I do but anticipate the object for which the guards were sent, and spare myself and you the humiliation of publishing to the world that neither law nor justice takes cognizance of the wrongs of the Countess de Soissons. These men have come hither to succor our enemies, not us."
"Ah, my son, I begin to appreciate you. You have inherited the sagacity of your great uncle," returned Olympia.
"Open the gates! open the gates!" cried the rioters.
"Will your highness be pleased to send some one to release your prisoners?" asked the captain of the guardsmen.
"I shall be there myself, in a moment," was the reply.
"You!" exclaimed the countess. "Would you expose yourself to the vengeance of the populace, Eugene?"
"They will not molest me. Barbesieur Louvois has reached the gates, and I must greet him ere he goes.—Come, Latour and Darmont, and show me the way by the private staircase. The rest of you keep your posts and be watchful, for the struggle may be renewed, and it is just possible that I may have to order you to fire.—And now shall I conduct my mother to her boudoir?"
"No, my son, I remain here to observe what passes below, nor will I retire until I shall have seen the ending of this curious spectacle."
Eugene bowed and withdrew. "Go before, Latour," said he. "I am unacquainted with the private inlets and outlets of the palace."
Latour obeyed, saying to himself: "They may well make a priest of this virtuous youth, who knows nothing of the secret windings of his own hotel. His father and his brother were wiser than he; and many a night have they gone in and out on visits of gallantry, when they were young enough to be as squeamish as he, or old enough to have reformed their ways."
"Give me the keys," said Eugene, as they emerged from the side- entrance. "I will unlock the gates, and when I cry 'Halt!' do you seize upon a man whom I shall point out to you as he attempts to force the passage in advance of his confederates."
"Let us alone for holding him fast, your highness."
Eugene went a few steps farther; then, turning round, he said: "Yes- -grasp him well, hut be careful not to take him by the right arm, for I believe that it is wounded."
As he spoke these merciful words, Eugene blushed, for he saw a derisive smile on Latour's face.
"I was in error," thought the steward. "Such a soft heart ought to have been lodged in the body of a woman."
They had now reached the palace-front, where, in return for the obsequious salutation of the captain of the guard, Eugene slightly inclined his head.
"You came late to the rescue," said the prince. "Had you answered the requisition of my steward, you would have spared me the painful necessity of wounding a dozen of those poor devils."
"Was there bloodshed?" returned the officer.
"Of course there was. You can hardly imagine that I quieted these
turbulent rioters with a lullaby. Yes, there has been bloodshed, and
I have had satisfaction for the affront offered to my house to-day.
I hope you hold me justified in my method of procedure."
"Perfectly justified, your highness."
"Then the matter rests here, and peace is proclaimed. From my amnesty, however, I except one man, him who is responsible for all the evil that has been done by his followers."
"Your highness has only to point him out, and I will have him arrested forthwith."
"You give me your word of honor that he shall not escape punishment?"
"My word of honor, your highness."
"Latour and Darmont, station yourselves one on either side of me, while I unlock the gates."
They took their positions, and Eugene slowly drew out his ponderous keys. They were heard to click in the locks, and at the welcome sound, there was a shout of joy from the imprisoned rioters. They pressed eagerly forward—the gates parted—and the crowd began to pour out into the streets. Eugene soon perceived the tall form of the ringleader, although he had borrowed the hat of his companion, and wore it slouched far down over his face.
As he approached the entrance, Eugene gave the signal agreed upon, and he was seized by Latour and Darmont. But they had forgotten the precaution given them as regarded his wounded arm, for as they touched him he had been unable to suppress a cry of pain.
"Hold him, Latour," said the prince, "and you, Darmont, close the gates so that only one man may pass at a time. Some of those guards might be of service to us. Have I your permission to employ them, captain?"
Eight men were ordered to dismount and to station themselves at the gates, which, spite of the tremendous pressure from within, they managed to secure, so that each man as he passed could be scanned by him, who, notwithstanding his delicate build and diminutive stature, was unquestionably the hero of the day.
"Now that the court is empty, you can see what devastation has been committed," said he to the captain of the guard.
"Yes, indeed," replied the latter, raising himself in his stirrups to overlook the railing, "they have uprooted the whole pavement."
"And have seriously damaged the windows," added Eugene. "For all this destruction we have to thank yonder churl," continued he, pointing to a man of almost gigantic stature, who was struggling to free himself from the hands of Latour and Darmont. "Not content with the laurels he has won as the ringleader of a mob, he has aspired to achieve renown by defaming women. He has incited the populace to asperse the good name of my honored mother, and by Heaven, he shall suffer for every opprobrious word that has fallen from the tongue of every base-born villain that followed him hither!"
"Your highness shall yourself dictate his punishment," replied the officer, courteously.
"Then order your men to capture the twelve last rioters that leave the enclosure, and let their leader, who is a thousand times more guilty than they, oversee the restoration of the pavement, and himself remove yonder Druid's temple, that lies before the central window there."
"Never!" exclaimed the giant, redoubling his efforts to escape, and writhing so vigorously that Latour and Darmont had to strain every sinew to retain their hold of his huge body.
Eugene eyed his prisoner with withering scorn. "You hear him, captain! He says 'Never!' as though it were for him to decide whether or not my judgment is a righteous one. And yet I think it most moderate amends to make for such immeasurable wrong."
"Indeed, your highness, it is most disproportionate to the enormity of the offence. It is only too merciful!—Here! Eight men to carry out the orders of the noble Prince of Savoy!" shouted he, peremptorily.
The crowd, meanwhile, by this time convinced that submission was their only alternative, were passing slowly and silently through the gates. They were so completely subdued, that not one ventured a remonstrance. They were intent each man upon his own retreat, and nobody was troubled about the fate of the chief.
"There are just twelve men within the enclosure," said the officer. "Instead of capturing them singly, close the gates, and secure them all at once."
"But first let us admit my distinguished prisoner.—Thrust him in, Latour, and conduct him to his task. He must expiate his offence against the Countess de Soissons, by removing that heap of stones, which were cast by his command against my palace-doors. If he prove intractable, bring him to his senses by administering a blow or two with a stout cudgel."
The chief, who for a few moments had been hoping by affected submission to withdraw the attention of Eugene from himself to his followers, gave a howl of rage, and looked around for his companion. The latter, instead of passing out with the crowd, had remained voluntarily in the enclosure with the twelve who were to suffer for all.
They whispered together, after which the subordinate, approaching the captain of the guard, said: "Captain, I come to offer myself in the place of my poor brother, who, having been wounded in the arm, is helpless, and incapable of removing the smallest of those stones."
"What says your highness?" asked the officer of the prince.
"I grant the petition, for it is reasonable. Let him confine himself, then, to the superintendence of the work."
"Captain, I crave permission to conduct my brother to a surgeon, where his wound may be dressed. It is impossible that any man can be so brutal as to require him to stay here with a bullet in his arm," said the subordinate.
"The bullet was no impediment while outrage was to be committed on the properly of the Countess de Soissons," thundered Eugene, "and I exact that he remain."
"Your highness's commands shall be obeyed," replied the officer.
"Captain," said the ringleader, dragging himself forward, while in his tremendous strength he forced his captors along with him, "captain, I must have a word in private with you. I have something of importance to communicate, and you must come nearer that I may whisper in your ear."
So imperious was the sound of his voice that the captain involuntarily obeyed, and bent down his ear to listen. Although the latter was on horseback and the former on fact, his tall figure was almost on a level with the officer's head.
He spoke a few low words, the captain started, and, quickly raising his head, he surveyed the gigantic chief from head to foot. He then conferred with him a few moments, after which he addressed himself in a very embarrassed manner to Eugene.
"Your highness, this poor man complains so piteously of the agony he endures, that it would be cruel to detain him any longer. If you have no objection, I will send him to the surgeon, accompanied by four of my men, who, when his wound shall have been dressed, can reconduct him hither."
"He will not return," replied Eugene, with a shrug. "He will find means to escape the vigilance of the police. So be it. Let his wounds be dressed, and let him depart whither he lists. But I have a few words of adieu to speak ere he goes." So saying, he approached his tall adversary, and so commanding was his presence, so fiery his eye, and so proud his demeanor, that Eugene of Savoy looked mightier than the wide-shouldered giant before him.
"I wish merely to say to this fellow that he is a knave," said the prince. "Yes, captain, a knave, although you start to hear me call him thus. I neither know his name, nor wish to know it; hut I shall recognize him among a thousand, and, if ever I meet him again, I will give him a knave's portion—a sound horsewhipping. And now away with him! His presence is intolerable!"
"I go," replied the other, pale and trembling with rage. "But beware, little priestling, how you cross MY path! If ever you dare intrude yourself upon my sight, I will crush your diminutive carcass as an elephant does a crawling worm!" He went, followed by him who had claimed him as a brother, and accompanied by four guardsmen, who rode at some distance behind their prisoners.
"And now, captain," said Eugene, "since your sympathizing heart has made it impossible for you to allow justice its way, you will, I presume, see fit to appoint another man to supervise the repairing of my court-yard."
"I myself will attend to it, your highness," said the officer, bowing to his saddle-bow. "Not only that; I will send workmen to replace the broken panes and restore the window-frames, so that by to-morrow no trace of the damage done shall remain."
Eugene laughed. "You are certainly most accommodating! As much so as if the city guard had participated in the riot! Adieu, sir! And may this be our last meeting of the sort!"
Accompanied by his two domestics, he re-entered the palace. His twelve men were at their posts, and the countess was still standing at the window whence she had witnessed the scene below. Eugene dismissed his household, gave orders to have his weapons carefully replaced in his armory, and then, with a deep inclination to his mother, he asked if he might now conduct her to her boudoir.
She gave a smiling assent, took his proffered arm, and returned to her cabinet. Once there, she turned toward her son, and, contemplating him for the first time in her life with pride and admiration, she thanked him warmly for what he had done.
"My dear son," said she, "I must congratulate you upon your strength of character. Believe me, you looked mightier far than Louvois' overgrown Titan. If he surpassed you in stature, your great soul towered far above his lofty person. I could not hear what you were saying to those two men, Eugene, but I read in the glance of your fearless eye that your words were such as would have rejoiced my heart to overhear. In that moment my soul went far out into the future, and there I saw you great, glorious, renowned. You know, Eugene, that I have sometimes strange revelations of things hidden from ordinary mortals: I have visions that are prophetic, and I tell you that you are destined to earn imperishable fame. Go, my son, and fulfil your destiny!"
Eugene, his features illumined by enthusiasm and radiant with hope, covered his mother's hand with kisses, and again besought her forgiveness for his unfilial behavior in the gallery. "Dear mother," said he, tearfully. "are you indeed reconciled to your unworthy child?"
"Yes, Eugene, yes. When you compelled that unwilling multitude to do me homage, I forgave you from my heart. I have always loved you as my child, but from this day forward I honor you as my deliverer. Come to my arms and take the mother's kiss that shall consecrate you to glory."
Eugene, intoxicated with happiness, threw himself upon her bosom, and was clasped to her heart. "With this kiss I greet the hero whose exploits shall shed new lustre upon his princely house. God bless thee, my son! Sweeter lips may meet thine in the glow of a love more passionate, but never will they kiss thee with a tenderness more true than does thy proud mother this day!"
"And never will I love woman more tenderly than I do my precious mother. You were my ideal of womanly perfection as a child, and your adored image will be my soul's divinity to the latest hour of my life! Never again will I doubt you; were the whole world to scorn you, I at least will believe in you, and honor you with a faith as implicit as that which leads man to martyrdom for his Redeemer's sake."
"Believe in me, and trust me," returned the countess, again impressing a kiss on her son's forehead. "And when you are great and powerful, think of this hour, my child. 'Tis one of the brightest of my life; one of the few wherein I have unveiled my heart to mortal man. Think of it, then, Eugene, when you wear the hat of a cardinal, and—"
"What, mother! You would devote me to the priesthood, after all that has passed between us to-day!"
"'Tis your only path to renown; 'tis the only ladder by which ambition can climb to power. With Louis' favor, you may become a cardinal and a statesman; without it you will never become a field- marshal. We must take fate as we find it, Eugene; not whine because we may not fashion it to our own liking."
"Then be it so: I submit. But I tell you, for the last time, that under my priestly gown there will be heard the wild and unseemly throbbings of a heart that not only pants for glory, but yearns for love."
"Cardinals may hope for both," returned Olympia, with a strange, unpleasant smile. "Ask the widowed Queen Anne, whether Richelieu knew how to love. And ask her whether Mazarin was not as fond as he was sagacious. But enough of day-dreams: we must return to the affairs of real life. There has been a demonstration of serious import against me to-day. I must oppose it by another. Louvois and his minions must learn that I am not to be intimidated by their menaces, nor to be browbeaten by their contumely."
Near her hand, on a porphyry table, lay a golden bell—a marvel of
Benvenuto Cellini's workmanship. The countess took it up and rang.
The steward answered the summons, and begged to know what her highness was pleased to command.
"Let the palace-doors be thrown open, that the people may know how little I fear their dislike. Send all the lackeys out, and let them announce to the court that to-day I hold a special levee, and that my rooms will be opened to visitors at nine this evening. Let the equerry be informed that in half an hour I shall take a drive in my open caleche, with six horses and two outriders, all in livery of state."
The steward bowed and left the room. When he had gone, the countess again addressed her son: "In half an hour the court will be assembled at the Pre aux Clercs; no doubt it would gratify more than one of those envious Parisians were I absent to-day. But they shall not enjoy any such satisfaction. They shall greet me as usual, and I—I—I intend to approach the king!"
"And I, dearest mother," said Eugene, "beg to be allowed to accompany you in your ride."
"You shall do so, son of my heart," exclaimed Olympia, giving him her hand. "I see that you are not only the child of my love, but bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Yes, Eugene, you shall be my knight, and no loving maiden was ever prouder of her cavalier than I shall be of mine!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE STATE RECEPTION.
The commands of the countess were promptly obeyed. All Paris (that is, the Paris of the aristocracy) were informed that a special reception would be held at the Hotel de Soissons, and messengers were dispatched with official announcement of the same to the royal household. The ponderous gates were flung wide open to admit the carriage of state. Eugene's superb gelding was led out by his jockey; while near the open portiere stood the equerry whose office it was to hand the countess to her carriage.
Her turnout was magnificent. The frame of the carriage was of dead gilt, while above the burnished wheels rose its body, in shape and color like the wonderful lily of the Amazon. Its exterior of snowy whiteness was relieved by the rich coloring of the arms of Carignan and Soissons emblazoned on the panels; the interior was cushioned with purple velvet embroidered in gold. To this sumptuous vehicle were harnessed six white horses, whose head-gear of velvet was adorned with ostrich-plumes so delicate, that, as the air breathed upon them, they looked like wreaths of snowy vapor. Perched high above the hammer-cloth, which in color and material corresponded with the inner decorations of the carriage, sat the chub-faced coachman, his head buried in the vast expanse of a flowing wig, and surmounted by a gold-and-purple cocked hat. The handle of his coach- whip was of steel inlaid with gold, and he flourished it with as much ostentation as if it had been the baton of a field-marshal. Behind this princely equipage were two footmen in state livery; on either side were two outriders.
The countess emerged from her palace-doors, clad in mantle of sky- blue velvet bordered with gold. She was followed by the prince, who, as the equerry advanced to assist his mistress, gently waved him away, and took his place. Olympia smiled fondly upon her son, and with graceful negligence sank back among her luxurious cushions.
The equerry approached for orders. "Let the coachman drive leisurely through the streets, and still more slowly when we enter the Pre aux Clercs."
Eugene mounted his impatient gelding, and his mother, inclining her head to the equerry, gave the signal for their departure.
Slowly went the cortege, through the Eue des Deux Ecus and along the Quartier St. Honore, while from every house, as they passed, the windows were cautiously opened, and sneering faces looked down upon the vain pomp with which Olympia de Soissons would have sustained the falling ruins of her good name.
But things grew worse, when the outriders would have opened a passage for the carriage through the crowded streets. As soon as the people recognized the liveries, all the conventional homage with which they were accustomed to greet such splendor, was transformed into scorn.
"The poisoner! the poisoner!" they cried. "She braves us in the open streets! Away with her! Away with the accomplice of La Voisin!"
The object of all this contumely preserved an appearance of consummate indifference to it all; but her son! her unhappy son blushed with shame and anger. He turned his sympathizing eyes upon her, whom he believed to be an impersonation of every feminine virtue, and she replied to his glance by an unconscious smile.
At last they reached the Pre aux Clercs, the fashionable promenade of the day. Here the aristocracy were accustomed to drive, the king and queen invariably appearing there to receive, sometimes, in the case of the former, to pay homage. How often had he leaned upon the carriage of Olympia, while princes and princesses of the blood had been obliged to wait behind, until the Countess de Soissons was ready to move on, and allow them to proceed! And how they had flattered and praised, and curried favor with the divinity of the hour!
"It must all be enacted anew," thought the ex-favorite, as she slightly raised her head to see if the king was in sight. "The philter will work: from the moment I catch his eye, he is mine! This was La Voisin's promise."
Yes—the royal equipages were there, at the other end of the shaded avenue, and, following in their wake, were those of the court. Olympia cast aside her nonchalance, and raised her head that she might be seen. The crisis had come! She was now to quaff the intoxicating drink of success, or drain the poisoned chalice of defeat!
She could see the very smile on his face as he whispered flattering words in the ear of some beauty who was in advance, and whom Olympia could not recognize. One moment more, and her equipage would pass! He would meet her eye, and the passion of his youth would be rekindled in his heart, never more to die out!
But what commotion was this among the lords and ladies that surrounded the king? His majesty spoke with his chief equerry; the equerry sprang forward, and presently the royal equipages came rushing by, close, close to the caleche of the countess, who vainly sought to meet the eye of Louis, for he was conversing with the queen, and his head was turned away.
Scarcely had the royal carriages been put in motion, before the entire cortege followed at the same rapid pace. Princes and princesses of the blood,—dukes, counts, and marquises,—duchesses and marchionesses, rushed by so swiftly that not one of her court friends had time to give so much as a passing nod to her who nevertheless was allied by marriage to the reigning Duke of Savoy.
The last equipage had just gone by. "Is it the will of your highness that we follow?" asked the equerry.
The countess inclined her head, and the equerry passed the word to the coachman: "Follow the cortege." But the horses stirred not a foot.
Eugene repeated the order, when the coachman slowly shook his head. "Impossible, gracious prince, impossible!—The countess would never forgive me, and I should be despised by every coachman of distinction, were I so far to forget my duty as to suffer that an equipage bearing the ducal arms of Savoy should follow the carriage of a nobleman so insignificant as the Vicomte de Charlieu. Why, he goes back but ten generations!"
Eugene smiled and delivered the portentous message to his mother.
"He is right," replied she; "and were he wrong, it would avail me nothing to contend with him on a point of etiquette. The coachmen of people of quality are more tenacious of their rights than the noble families they serve. Not long ago, the Duchesses of Chartres and of Luynes waited four hours in the rain, because, having met in a very narrow street, neither one of their coachmen would back out, to give the other an opportunity of passing. I must imitate their patience, and wait for the return of the cortege, to take my proper place."
The decision of the countess being transmitted to the coachman, he nodded approvingly. "I thought her highness would understand," replied he. "Our place is after the Duchess de Bourbon, the sixth carriage from that of his majesty. The coachman of the Duke de Cheneuse knows it as well as I do, and he will yield us precedence as soon as he sees me ready to fall in."
They waited—the countess in perfect composure, her large black eyes cast upward in complete forgetfulness of the actual state of things around her; Eugene, with visible annoyance on his face, darting anxious and uneasy glances down the avenue through which the king was expected to return. And so passed an hour, at the end of which the avenue was still and empty as a desert. It now became apparent that his majesty had selected some other route by which to reach the Louvre, and Olympia, awaking from her golden day-dreams, began to realize the exceeding awkwardness of her position. For the first time her heart faltered, and a cloud passed over her face.
Eugene rode up to the portiere, and addressing the countess in Italian: "Mother," said he, "if we remain here any longer, I shall choke with rage."
"Home," said Olympia to the equerry. "Home! Quick! Urge your horses to their fullest speed!"
On the evening of that eventful day, every reception-room in the Hotel Soissons was thrown open, and the palace front was one blaze of light. But the steward had been obliged to close the gates, and station four armed men within them, to protect the entrance from the rabble who had again begun to assemble, again begun to threaten.
The countess was either ignorant of this unpleasant circumstance, or she considered it beneath her notice. From her carriage she had passed to her cabinet, whence she had never emerged until compelled to make her toilet for the evening. Her temporary discouragement overcome, she entered the throne-room magnificently attired, sparkling with jewels, and radiant with feverish expectation. She was still upheld by the confidence she reposed in La Voisin's predictions, and the firm faith with which she clung to the virtues of her philter.
She could not, however, repress the scowl that darkened her brow, as, glancing around her vast suite of empty rooms, she beheld not one visitor!—no living being besides her own three daughters, the young Princesses de Carignan, who came forward to kiss her hand, and pay her their tribute of affectionate admiration.
She paid very little attention to their sweet flattery; her restless eyes wandered from door to door, where not a form was seen but those of the four lackeys, who were in waiting to announce the distinguished guests as they arrived.
The mocking echo of her tread, as she traversed the void which should have been filled with a courtly throng, sounded ominous in her ear, and the haughty woman began to quail. She had heard it said that when a ship was doomed to destruction, no rats were ever known to leave port in its hold. Was she a sinking ship? Was her doom sealed? Once more her longing eyes sought the lofty, open doors, through which so often the court had passed to do her homage on her throne, and she shivered almost perceptibly. But she forced a smile, and observed to her eldest daughter: "Our guests are unusually late to-night. Even the Duchess de Bouillon, generally so punctual, has not yet made her appearance."
"Even your adorer, Marshal de Luxemburg, mamma, is not vet here." returned the princess, with a smile.
The countess looked sharply at her daughter. Why had she mentioned the name of De Luxemburg? Why named him in conjunction with the Duchess de Bouillon? Did Johanna know that these two were her confidants, and that they were accustomed to visit La Voisin together? That only five days before, they had met in the den of the soothsayer, to have their horoscope drawn for the last time? Did Johanna know that through De Luxemburg's efforts Louis's valet had been bribed to rob him of a lock of his hair, without which the precious philter could never have been distilled? Oh, no! She was silly—nervous—the events of the day had disheartened her, and she was growing to be a craven. How should Johanna know her secrets? The allusion to the marshal was accidental.
The wax-lights were growing fearfully short, and still the invited guests tarried. Never in her life before had Olympia condescended to rest her gaze upon the faces of those who served her; to-night she could not resist an inclination to glance for one moment at their countenances. As she looked athwart those features, erst so submissive and so reverent, she saw significant smirks, and an expression of disdain for which she could have felled them to the earth.
Meanwhile the three princesses, their lips distorted with forced smiles, stood around their mother, sometimes raising their anxious eyes to her stormy face, sometimes exchanging uneasy glances one with another; but not one of them daring to break the oppressive silence by a single word.
At last the painful lull was broken by a slight rustling. The door of the anteroom was opened, and a solitary figure was seen traversing the long suite of apartments.
"Eugene," exclaimed Johanna. "Our little abbe!" And, delighted to put an end to their embarrassment, the sisters went forward with outstretched hands to meet him.
But Eugene could not respond to their greeting. His eyes were fixed upon the chandelier, under whose blaze he beheld a pale, sinister face, and a tall, haughty figure; his mother, attired with regal splendor, looking every inch a queen; but ah! a dethroned queen, for her subjects had deserted her and among them "there was none so poor to do her reverence."
He approached her, and, as she silently extended her icy hand, he covered it with loving kisses. "I had hardly expected to find my dear mother here before me," said he, with a smile.
"Why so, Eugene?" asked Olympia.
"Because the hour for your reception was fixed for nine o'clock, and it has not yet struck nine."
The countess glanced quickly at the clock on the sculptured mantel- piece. "It is almost ten," said she.
"Your clock is nearly an hour too fast," said Eugene, who had followed the direction of his mother's eyes. And he drew out his own watch.
She looked at it a moment. "True—your watch is slow. Eugene. You knew, then, before you came hither, that no one had yet arrived?"
"Dear mother," responded Eugene, "you think—"
"I think that you are a tender, loving son," said she, interrupting him. "But it is not necessary to deceive me, dear boy. I know that it is almost an hour past the time I had appointed; but that signifies nothing. It was not known until late that I would receive to-night, and this is the reception-day of the Duchess de Luynes. My guests will naturally have gone thither first, and they will come later to us."
"You are quite right," replied Eugene. "But would it not be better for you to retire to your cabinet and rest until the company arrive? I will call you as soon as the rooms begin to fill."
She shook her head slowly. "No—I remain here. It would be cowardly to retire now. Let us calmly await our distinguished guests. They will be coming very soon."
Eugene bowed his head in obedience to her commands, and stationed himself by the side of his sisters. There was another long silence, interrupted by the slow, inflexible strokes of the clock, which announced the hour of "ten."
Great drops of anguish stood out upon the pale, high forehead of the prince, and his sisters could no longer restrain their tears. The countess alone looked resolute: her features betrayed no emotion whatever; but about her mouth there hovered a vindictive smile, and in her eyes there was a light like that which glitters in the serpent's head that looks out from the deadly jungles of India.
"Would that I could breathe poison into the veins of yonder staring menials at the door!" said she to herself. "Would that I could blind their staring eyes with lightning! But for them I might leave this fiery furnace of shame, and hide my face within the privacy of my own room!"
A sound was heard without, and the Princess Joanna unconsciously clasped her hands with delight, exclaiming, "There comes a carriage!"
The countess turned around, and glanced fiercely at her unsophisticated daughter. "Is there anything remarkable in the sound of a carriage, that it should occasion so much joy, mademoiselle? Are carriages so rare within the gates of the Hotel Soissons?"
The door opened, and the gentleman-usher, with his gilded staff, appeared on the threshold.
"Madame la Marquise Dupont de Lanin," cried he, and the lady followed the announcement at once.
Often had the poor old marquise attended the levees of the Countess de Soissons, but never before had she been accorded so distinguished a reception. She was tolerated in the salons of Paris on account of her high birth and connections; added to which she had a tongue in her mouth like a two-edged sword, which flew hither and thither about the reputations of those who slighted or forgot her claims to courtesy.
To-night she was most graciously, most cordially welcomed. Like the dove which brought the olive-branch to Noah, the marquise was a messenger from dry land. The waters had subsided—the deluge of their troubles was over.
With wreathed smiles and flattering words, Olympia came forward to greet her first guest. The old marquise received the unprecedented attention paid her without the least manifestation of surprise. With her sharp old eyes, she traversed the empty vastness of the gilded halls that were wont to swarm with the creme de la creme of Paris, and understood the matter at once. She had scarcely had time to reciprocate the politeness of her hostess before two other carriages rolled into the court-yard and two more distinguished names were announced by the usher.
This time an old duchess and an equally venerable viscount entered the room of state. Their social STATUS was similar to that of the marquise: they belonged to the species whom the world is compelled to invite, but whom it detests, because they never have been known to decline an invitation. But they, too, were heartily welcomed, and, by one not initiated in the mysteries of the hour, they would have been set down as the countess's dearest friends.
Eugene took no part in the conversation which ensued. He had again resumed his taciturn and unsocial demeanor, and now, with folded arms, he stood in the deep recess of a curtained window, sometimes looking gloomily out into the night, anon glancing at the little knot of adventurers, and personages of doubtful reputation, who occasionally added another to the meagre group that were around his mother. Olympia strove to converse gayly with her assemblage of insupportables, but she was chafing like an infuriated lioness.
"If Marianna and De Luxemburg would but come! I might, at least, learn how I stand at court, and find out why the king returned to the Louvre by an unusual route. Heavens! how long will I be able to smile upon these hateful bores? How long sustain the burden of this insufferable lie?"
The evening waned, and neither Marianna, De Luxemburg, nor any other member of the court circle appeared, to silence the apprehensions or soothe the wounded pride of the haughty Countess de Soissons. But late—very late—when she had relinquished all hopes of another arrival, the doors were flung open, and the usher, in a loud voice, announced: "His highness the Duke de Bouillon!"
CHAPTER VII.
HELP IN TIME OF NEED.
Olympia, who, with three or four wrinkled old fops, and as many withered dames, had just taken her seat at a card-table, kissed her hand, and received her brother-in-law, with a profusion of smiles such as never before had greeted his entrance into the salons of the Hotel Soissons.
He seemed to be totally unconscious of her blandishments, as, with a slight inclination to the company, he came very close to the hostess, and, regardless of etiquette, whispered something in her ear.
His communication must have been of a nature to excite mirth, for she threw back her head, and, laughing rather more boisterously than was her wont, rose quickly from her seat.
"Of course, my dear duke," said she, so as to be heard by all who were around; "of course you shall have the drops for my sister. I regret to hear that she needs them. Come with me to my cabinet, and you shall receive them from my hand. I will even taste them in your presence, that they may not be suspected of containing poison. Follow me, if my kind friends will excuse us for a few moments."
With a graceful bend of her head, the countess crossed the room, and disappeared with her brother-in-law. From the window to which he had retired, Eugene had seen and heard what was passing, and in the stern expression of the Duke de Bouillon's face he had read something of more significance than a whispered request for headache-drops. No sooner had his mother left the room than he followed her, and as she was about to enter her cabinet, he laid his hand upon her shoulder:
"Pardon, dear mother," said he, in fond and deprecating tones. "I merely wish to say, that during your interview with my uncle, I will remain in the little room adjoining. You may want me, perchance, to execute some commission—it may be to bear an apology to our guests."
"It will be better for Prince Eugene to take part in our conference," said the duke, with his usual moroseness. "He is the only son you have in Paris, and, as the representative of the family, it is proper for him to hear what I am about to communicate."
"I consent," replied Olympia, calmly. "I have no secrets from my son, and your highness may speak without reserve what you have come hither at this unusual hour to say."
With these words she entered her cabinet, the others following silently behind. The duke closed the door and looked around, to see that there were no other occupants of the room. He peered curiously at the heavy folds of the satin curtains which concealed the windows, and, having satisfied himself that no listeners lurked behind, he spoke.
"You are quite sure that we cannot be overheard?" said he, addressing the countess.
"Perfectly sure," replied she. "Of these walls it may be said, that, unlike walls of ordinary construction, they have no ears. Speak without apprehension. But above all things let us be seated."
"No, madame, let us remain as we are, and hearken to my words. You know that La Voisin was arrested last night."
"I know it. Monsieur Louvois brought me the news this morning, and it was corroborated by the rabble that attacked us not long after his departure from the palace. It is said that La Voisin is a toxicologist, and that she has been in the habit of selling poison to her patrons. Was this what you came to say?"
"With this I intended to open my communication, madame. That La Voisin has trafficked in poisons is proved, and she will assuredly mount the scaffold for her crimes. But the next point is to inquire to whom her poudre de succession has been sold."
"Has the question been put to La Voisin?" asked the countess, carelessly. "They have only to inquire of her; doubtless she will reveal the names of her friends."
The duke came nearer, and looked sternly in her face. "The question has been asked, and it has been answered, madame."
The countess shuddered, but recovered herself instantaneously. Momentary as it was, however, Eugene had seen the motion, and now his large dark eyes were fixed upon his uncle with a look of steady defiance.
"The confessions of La Voisin can be of no significance to the Countess de Soissins," said he, haughtily. "She cannot have made any declaration that would compromise a noble lady!"
"Nevertheless she has compromised one of the noblest names in France," returned the duke. "She was forced to reveal the names of her confederates."
"Yes! they have been as cruel as they were to poor Brinvilliers; they have taken her to the chambre ardente." cried the countess, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, madame, she was taken to the chambre ardente, stretched upon the rack, and then she confessed." "Confessed what?" gasped Olympia.
"She confessed to have sold her poudre de succession; to have foretold the future, and to have prepared love-philters."
"I do not know that there is treason in drawing horoscopes and brewing love-philters," returned the countess, with a forced laugh.
"It is treason to brew love-philters, when they are designed to take effect upon the King of France," replied the duke. "It is also treason to steal a lock of his hair wherewith to prepare the philter."
"Did she say this?" screamed the countess, with the ferocity of a tigress at bay.
"She did. The lock of hair was obtained by Marshal Luxemburg, who bribed the valet of his majesty; the philter was prepared for the Countess de Soissons."
"Her tortures must then have unsettled her reason," cried Olympia. "To end her agony, the poor delirious wretch has confessed any thing that her executioners may have suggested."
"You are mistaken. When she had fully recovered her senses, she repeated her declaration word for word. She signalized three persons as her trustiest confidants. Two of the three were her accomplices; the third is merely accused of having made use of La Voisin to raise the devil. The two who are accused of murder are Monsieur de Luxemburg and Madame de Soissons."
"The third?" said Olympia, hoarsely.
"My own wife," returned the duke, mournfully. "Not having been accused of crime, she has not been sent to the Bastile; his majesty has graciously permitted her to be imprisoned in her own hotel."
"Not sent to the Bastile!" echoed the countess, with a shudder.
"Has—any one been—sent there?"
"Yes. Two hours ago Monsieur de Luxemburg was arrested, and he is now there in a criminal's cell."
The countess uttered a cry of anguish, and tottered to a seat, for her trembling limbs refused to support her. She put her hand to her head, and looked wildly around.
"And I?—am I to be arrested?"
"Yes, madame. The lettre de cachet has been sent by Louvois to the king, and—" "And the king!" said Olympia, almost inaudibly.
"His majesty has signed it."
The countess pressed her hands upon her heart, and then, suddenly springing to her feet, she burst into a loud, frenzied laugh. "He has signed! He has signed!—And you—you—" muttered she, with a scowl at the duke, "did you offer to act as bailiff for the king?"
As though he would have confronted a world to shield her from harm, Eugene threw his arm around his mother's waist, and stood between the two.
"If such be your errand, Duke de Bouillon, you must first be the assassin of her son. No blow shall reach her, until it shall have pierced the heart of her only protector!"
"Not so grandiloquent, my little abbe," replied De Bouillon, superciliously. "Methinks, were I so disposed, I might snap the feeble thread of your existence, without any extraordinary display of valor, but I have no desire to deprive the countess of so valiant a knight. I come, not to arrest, hut to deliver her. I come to save herself from the headsman, her family from the foul blot of her public execution."
"Avenging God!" murmured the miserable woman.
"You must fly, Olympia," continued the duke, compassionating her fearful condition, "you must fly, and without delay."
"Fly!" exclaimed Eugene, furiously. "Because a degraded wretch like that La Voisin, in her delirium of agony, has spoken the name of the Countess de Soissons, she shall become a fugitive from justice? No, mother, no! Remain to confound your calumniators, and, with the good sword of Right, and Truth, pierce the vile falsehood to its heart's core!"
The duke shook his head. "Let not ill-advised heroism tempt you to defy your legions of accusers. Be you innocent or guilty, you are prejudged, and will be condemned. Believe me, the danger is urgent, and it were sheer imbecility to confront it."
"You say the king has signed?" replied she, with a vacant stare. Then clasping her hands, she burst into a flood of tears, repeating o'er and o'er the piteous words, "Oh no! No! No! It cannot be! It cannot be!"
"Nevertheless, he has done it; done it at the instigation of Louvois and De Montespan. But mark me well, and you too, abbe—listen to what I am about to say. The king himself it was who sent me hither to warn you; it is he who urges you to flight. That you may have time to escape, the lettre de cachet is not to go into effect until to-morrow morning. But the morrow is close at hand: hark!—the clock strikes eleven, and you have but one hour. If after midnight you are found within the gates of Paris, your doom is certain. The spies of Louvois are close at hand; they watch before your palace-gates, and await the twelfth stroke of the iron tongue that speaks from the towers of Notre Dame, to force their way into the very room wherein we stand. If they pass the threshold of the palace you are irretrievably lost!"
The countess spoke not a word in reply. They scarcely knew whether she had understood the terrible import of the duke's appeal. She had remained motionless, almost breathless; her face white as death, her large orbs distended to their utmost, gazing, not upon the tangible objects that were before them, but upon some fearful pageant that was passing within the shadowy precincts of her soul.
Her lips began to move, and she muttered incoherent words. "Ah! is it so?" said she, almost inaudibly. "The end of that bright dream! The philter! What!" cried she with sudden energy, "he warns me? He grants me—one—one hour!" And then, overpowered by the reality of her supreme desolation, she opened her arms, and looked defiantly above, as if invoking the wrath of that Heaven which had forsaken her.
"Olympia," said the duke, touching her arm, "you have but three- quarters of an hour to quit Paris."
"Dear mother," implored Eugene, "decide quickly whether you go or remain."
She shuddered, and, with a deep sigh, suffered her arms to fall listlessly at her side.
"I must drink of this chalice of humiliation," said she, mournfully.
"I must fly."
A groan of anguish broke from the depths of Eugene's suffering heart, while a strange look shot athwart the countenance of the duke. The groan was that of faith that faltered; the glance was that of doubt made certainty.
"I must make my escape," iterated Olympia in a tone more resolute. "If Louvois has effected the arrest of a woman allied to the royal family, it is because he is secure of her conviction. Rather than become his victim, I will endure the shame of flight. Time enough remains to me for justification." [Footnote: The countess's own words.—See Amadee Renee, "The Nieces of Mazarin," p. 207.]
"Justification shall come through me!" cried Eugene, raising his right hand as though taking an oath.
"Countess, countess," urged De Bouillon, "you have but half an hour."
"You are right," returned Olympia, summoning all her resolution to her aid. "Time is flying, and I must be diligent."
"I promised his majesty not to leave you until you were on your way, Olympia," was the duke's reply, "and I shall remain to fulfil my promise."
"And I, mother," added Eugene, "will never leave you until you are in perfect safety."
"Then let us prepare," was Olympia's rejoinder. "You, duke, be so kind as to collect my papers and money. They are in that ebony secretary at your elbow. Here are the keys. You will find a casket therein, where all that you find may be deposited for the present. I myself will gather up my jewels and such clothing as cannot be dispensed with. Eugene, my son, go at once to the stables: order my travelling-chariot, and see that eight of my swiftest horses are attached to it. In Brussels I shall find a friend in the Spanish viceroy. Send forward relays to Rheims and Namur; and let the men be clad in liveries of dark gray. Hasten, my son; before half an hour, I must be hence!"
When Eugene returned, he found his mother waiting. The duke hastily threw over her shoulders a travelling-cloak bordered with fur, and Olympia, drawing the hood closely around her face, prepared to quit the room.
"Shall I not call my sisters to bid you adieu?" asked her son.
"No," said she, calmly. "Their absence would be remarked, and nothing must arouse the suspicion of my guests. I leave to you, Monsieur de Bouillon, the task of communicating my flight to my daughters. May I request you to bear a message to the king also? Tell him that whenever he will pass his royal word that I may return without danger of incarceration, I shall be ready to appear before my accusers, and defend my calumniated reputation. [Footnote: Her own words.—See the "Letters of Madame de Sevigne," vol. iii.] Give me your arm,—and yours, Eugene: we are late."
Silently, and without a single expression of regret, she went through the lofty corridors of the hotel, until she reached the private staircase by which Eugene had passed to the street that morning. The servants had assembled to bid her adieu, and, as they tendered their good wishes, she bent her lofty head with the condescension of a queen. Before descending, she addressed a few words to the steward:
"I am forced to leave Paris for a time, Latour. My enemies refuse me the poor privilege of remaining here to refute the absurd charges preferred against me by the senseless rabble that are in their pay. During my absence, I leave you in full command of my household. You shall receive your wages until you decide to seek employment elsewhere. Farewell all!"
The chariot with eight superb horses was at the postern, and around it stood the lackeys in their liveries of sombre gray. The countess took her seat in the carriage, and, bending forward to kiss her son, said, "Bear my greetings to your sisters, Eugene."
"Will my gracious uncle accept this commission?" asked he, turning to the duke.
"Why not you?" asked Olympia.
"Because my place is with you, dearest mother," was the simple reply of her devoted child, while he took his seat at her side.
"It is right," remarked the duke, "and I begin to feel considerable respect for our little abbe!"
"I shall compel respect from more than the Duke de Bouillon," thought his nephew.
"Farewell!" said Olympia, with as much self possession as if she had been starting for a tour of pleasure. "Tell the king that I forget to pity my own impotence in compassionating his."
The carriage rolled away, first under the illuminated windows of the rooms of state, where the unconscious Princesses de Carignan were doing their best to entertain the motley assemblage, that had been so suddenly deserted by their mother; then along the dimly-lighted streets where Eugene's heart beat with painful apprehension lest the crowd should recognize the fugitive; then they entered the avenue where the court had turned its back upon Olympia and her extravagant hopes, and at last—they reached the gates.
Meanwhile the Duke de Bouillon had returned to the salons, where he announced the departure of the countess to her guests; the servants had dispersed, and returned to their usual employments, all except one, who crept stealthily out, and, turning the corner, advanced a few paces into a dark and narrow alley. Two horsemen were waiting his appearance there.
"Has she gone?" asked one.
"Yes," replied the man; "and relays have been ordered to hasten her escape."
"What route did she take?"
"She goes to Brussels, by the way of Rheims, Rocroy, and Namur."
"Here are your four louis d'ors."
With these words, the two horsemen galloped away, turning their horses' heads toward the palace of the minister of war. In the porte-cochere stood Louvois himself, who, motioning them not to dismount, spoke a few low words, and then handed to each one a package of letters and a purse of gold.
"Fly with all speed," said he, in his parting injunctions. "Kill as many horses as you list—I pay for their carcasses; but see that at every station you arrive a full hour before the countess."
He then entered his carriage, and drove to the Louvre to inform the king that his royal commands had been obeyed, and that the Countess de Soissons had been suffered to escape.
As the chariot that was bearing away the disgraced Olympia drove through the barrier and entered upon the high-road, the two horsemen galloped past, and so completely did they distance the unhappy travellers, that in a few moments the echo of their horses' feet had died away into silence.