"Thine for life and death," was her reply, "and from this hour I know no will of mine."
"Then, ere thy father suspects our love, it must be sanctified before the altar of God. Our faith once plighted there, no hand of mortal can wrest thee from my side. Art ready to speak the irrevocable words that bind us together as man and wife?"
"I am ready," replied she, clasping her hands, and looking solemnly up to heaven. "If, in my eager acquiescence, I seem unmaidenly, forgive me; but I dare not be coy, Eugene; we have no time for conventional reserve, and I must act as becomes a brave and trusting woman, for every moment is fraught with danger. I am surrounded by spies, even of my own household, and, until I hear the blessing of the priest, I shall disbelieve my own happiness."
"Then hear me, dearest. I know how crafty are the spies of Louvois, and I tremble lest the whispering breeze betray our secret. Yes, we must be diligent, so diligent that Fate shall stand between our love and all contingency. For two days I shall part from thee—long days that will steep my soul in darkness! But day after to-morrow, at this same hour of the evening, I shall be here with the chaplain of the Princess de Carignan, an old and dear friend, who will bless our bridal. As witnesses, I will be accompanied by my kinsmen, the Princes de Conti, two of the worthiest nobles of France. Be in readiness, my best beloved, that not a word need be spoken until we are married. Then away with me to the Hotel de Soissons, where those who love, may seek thee in thy husband's home."
"So soon?" murmured Laura, blushing. "Shall I leave my dear mistress without a word? Is she not to share our secret?"
"Assuredly not; for it would burden her with a painful responsibility. It would be her duty to betray you, artless child."
"Oh, I will not speak!" exclaimed Laura, eagerly. "I will be silent; and when—when we are married, we will beg so humbly for forgiveness that she will have to grant it."
"You must leave a note declaring everything; for with our marriage ends all secrecy. I will neither see you nor write until the appointed time. Dismiss your household as early as possible, and, if all is propitious, place a light in yonder window. If I see it, I will enter with the priest, and, lest there should be interruption, he will begin the ceremony at once."
"Alas, Eugene!" said Laura, looking anxiously around, "some evil spirit is about. It whispers me that this shall never be! Speak to me—in mercy speak! Let me hear thy voice, for even now its sinister threatenings are freezing the blood in my veins!"
"Nay, sweet one, fear nothing! My love shall compass thee with a charm that shall keep away all evil spirits, and make thy life a waking dream of bliss."
"How can I ever prove to thee how much I love thee?"
"Thou wilt prove it to me when, day after to-morrow, thou forsakest father and brother, to cleave to me alone; for never will my mother's son take the hand of Barbesieur Louvois."
"Nor my mother's daughter," cried Laura, vehemently,
"for she, too, has a debt of hatred to pay to the man who broke that mother's heart. And believe me, our marriage will avenge us both; for it will end his contemptible intrigues to sell my hand to whomsoever chinks most gold in his. And now, dear Eugene, good- night!"
"Must I be exiled so soon, Laura? What have I done to be thus driven from paradise?"
"Nothing—nothing," stammered she. "But my mother's name has made me fear that—that I am wrong to hold such long parley with you in secret and at night. Methinks I see that mother's pleading eyes before me, and oh, Eugene! whenever they rest upon me thus, 'tis because danger threatens! Go, beloved, and God be with you!"
"I go," sighed he. "I would not stay one moment to wound your sweet scruples, my madonna. One more kiss, and then—good-night!"
They walked side by side until they stood upon the threshold. Eugene put his arm around her waist, and kissed her fair brow.
"Look," said she, "at yonder star that is just emerging from a fleecy cloud. It soars joyously upward now, and shall be to us an omen of hope and happiness. Farewell."
"Farewell!" was the sad response, and Eugene went slowly down the dark avenue, until he was lost in the gloom of night. Laura lingered for a while, listening to his footsteps, then resumed her seat at the table.
A half hour went by, and Laura sought her chamber. To her surprise she found her waiting-woman stretched at full length on the carpet, in a deep sleep, so deep that her mistress had much trouble to waken her. When, at last, she had been made to rise, she seemed scarcely to know where she was, or to whom she was speaking.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said she drowsily, "I was dreaming. I thought I heard robbers in the house, and when your ladyship spoke, I was struggling."
"God be thanked, there are no robbers here!" returned Laura, kindly. "Perhaps you heard the sentry's step in the park, and you ought to know that the Palais Royal is strictly guarded. But why are you not in bed with the rest? I dismissed you all."
"I have no right to retire before my mistress," returned the girl, obsequiously. "Therefore, I sat in your ladyship's room. to await you, but sleep overcame me, and I humbly crave your pardon. Shall I close the door that leads to the garden?"
"What! still afraid of robbers, Louise?" laughed Laura. "Well—close the door, if you will—good-night."
"Can I do nothing for your ladyship?"
"Thank you—yes. Open the door of Madame Dupont's room, and let me feel that I am within hearing of my dear old Cerberus. That is all."
The waiting-woman did as she was bidden, and then retired to her room, but not to sleep. She seated herself before a table, drew out her portfolio, and began to write. Now and then she paused and looked up, when the sinister light that shone in her eyes streamed through the room like the phosphorescent glow of the lichen that moulds in the churchyard.
She wrote the whole night long, and day dawned before she rose from her task.
"Ah," sighed she, "for such a service surely he will return to me! I have repeated their conversation, word for word, not a sigh or a kiss have I forgotten. Who but his poor Louise would have served him so faithfully! 'Tis a vile trade, that of a spy; nor would I have accepted such a mission for all the gold in the king's treasury; but, for love of Barbesieur Louvois, I would sell my own sister to infamy—why not his?"
While thus soliloquizing, she had left her own room and crossed the corridor that led to the men's apartments. She opened the door of one of the rooms without knocking, and going directly up to a bed she touched the sleeper, and having wakened him, whispered:
"George, awake—awake!—rouse up quickly!"
"What is it?" mumbled George, stretching himself.
"Hist!—It is I, Louise. Dress yourself as speedily as you can, and away with this packet to your master. Give it to no messenger, but place it in his own hands, and he will reward you magnificently, for you will have done him a great service."
She glided away and returned to her own room, leaving the door open. In less than fifteen minutes George stood before her, equipped for secret service. "Mademoiselle Louise," whispered he, "I shall be with Monsieur de Louvois in ten minutes; for I have the key of the postern, and can slip out and back again without anybody being the wiser for my little excursion."
"So much the better. Away with you, and the sooner the better!"
George went on his way, and Louise stood in her doorway until she heard him softly open and close the outer door below; then she threw herself upon her bed to sleep. Her last words were these:
"Oh, faithless but loved—now can I dream that thine arms are around me once more!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE BETRAYAL.
The sun was high in the heavens when Laura awoke, and rang for her waiting-woman. Mademoiselle Louise, fresh, smiling, and officious, came at once from the anteroom, and began the toilet of her mistress. She seemed to take more pleasure than usual in gathering her magnificent dark coils into a net of gold and pearls, and to linger more admiringly than ever over the last little touches given to the lace that bordered Laura's neglige of spotless white mull.
She certainly was one of the loveliest of created beings, and so thought good Madame Dupont, as her ex-pupil came into the dining- room, and imprinted two hearty kisses on her withered old cheeks. They sat down together to breakfast, and George, looking as innocent as if he had just awaked from the sleep of the righteous, came in with their morning chocolate. All went on as usual, except with the young marchioness, who, instead of laughing and chatting of Italy, and Bonaletta, as she was accustomed to do with her "dear Dupont," sipped her chocolate in silent abstraction. Breakfast had long been over, and still she sat in her arm-chair, looking dreamily into the garden, her head leaning on her hand, her lips sometimes rippling with a smile, sometimes opening with a gentle sigh.
She had been plunged in her blissful reverie for almost an hour, when the door was opened, and George appeared before her.
"Your ladyship," said he, "a man without desires speech with you."
"Who is he, George?" asked Laura, reluctantly returning to the world and its exigencies.
"He will not say, my lady. He wears no livery, but says that your ladyship knows whence he comes and why. He has a bouquet which was forgotten yesterday evening."
Laura darted from her chair; then, blushing deeply, she stopped, and recalled her wandering senses.
"Admit him," said she, trying to speak carelessly. "I will inquire what this means."
"Oh, 'tis a greeting from him," thought she; but before she had time to surmise any further, the door reopened, and a young man entered the room, holding in his hand a superb bouquet of rare and exquisite flowers.
"Who sent you hither?" asked Laura, with wildly-beating heart.
"A cavalier whose name I do not know," replied the young man, looking timidly up at the dazzling vision of beauty that stood before him. "I am first clerk in the largest establishment of the Marche aux Fleurs, and the gentleman who bespoke the bouquet ordered the handsomest flowers in our collection. Your ladyship sees that we have filled the order with the greatest care; for this bouquet contains specimens of our rarest and most expensive flowers. To be sure, the gentleman paid an enormous price for it, saying that nothing we could furnish was too costly for the occasion."
Laura had listened with wonderful patience to all this idle babble. "Give me the flowers," she said. "They are indeed most beautiful, and I am grateful for them, both to you and the amiable unknown who sends them."
"He is very small; of sallow complexion, but with large black eyes," replied the clerk, while, with an awkward scrape and bow, he presented the bouquet to Laura. "He was so pleased with our selection, that he kissed one of the flowers."
Before she had time to control her tongue, Laura had exclaimed,
"Which one?"
"The blue one, your ladyship, called Comelina coelestis."
Laura looked down at the Comelina coelestis, and fain would she have robbed it of its kiss, but she consoled herself with the thought that she would rifle it of its sweets as soon as the messenger left.
He came closer. "Your ladyship," said he, in a very low voice, "I bear a message, as well as a nosegay. Is there any one about, to overhear me?"
"No one," replied Laura, breathless and eager.
"Search the bouquet, and under the Comelina your ladyship will find something."
Laura's rosy fingers were buried in the flowers, and she drew from its fragrant hiding-place a small slip of paper.
"Your ladyship is requested, if you consent, to return, as an answer, the four first words of the note."
Laura unrolled the paper, and read: "NOT TO-MORROW, BUT TO-DAY.
Danger threatens, and we must anticipate.—E."
Her face flushed, and her eager eyes were fixed upon that little scroll which, to her and her lover, was of such great import. What could it mean? She read it again and again, until the words danced before her reeling senses.
The clerk came closer yet. "Your ladyship," whispered he, "I must take back my answer. Somebody might come in."
"The answer?" gasped she, scarcely knowing what he said. "True, true, there must be an answer." She stood for a moment irresolute, then a shudder thrilled through her frame, and she felt as if some evil spirit had again come nigh. She raised her eyes to the face of the messenger, as though she would have looked into the penetralia of his thoughts.
"I am to write four words?" asked she, plaintively. "You know, then, where he lives?"
The clerk replied without the least embarrassment: "Pardon me, I told your ladyship that I was unacquainted with the cavalier. He awaits my return in the flower-market, and lest I should be too long absent, he hired a fiacre to bring me forth and back."
"He awaits my answer," thought Laura. "Oh, it must be so! He shall not be left in suspense!"
She went hurriedly to a table, and wrote, "Not to-morrow, but to- day."
"Here," said she, "is my answer, and before you go, I beg you to accept this for your trouble."
She was about to hand him a purse of gold, when he retreated, and raised his hand in token of refusal.
"I thank your ladyship, I have already been paid, and have no right to a reward from you. May I be permitted to take my leave?"
"Yes; hasten, I implore you," returned Laura, wondering at his disinterestedness.
Scarcely had the commissionnaire taken his leave, when the door of the antechamber was opened, and a lackey announced:
"Madame, her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans!"
Laura hastily thrust the paper in her bosom, and, coming forward, kissed the hand of her friend. But as she did so, she felt the blood rush to her temples, and bent low her head to hide her confusion.
"I could not stay away any longer," began the unsuspecting duchess. "For three days monsieur has been confined to his room with some trifling ailment, for which peevishness seems to be his only palliative. He is one of those who, when, he sneezes, imagines that the earth is shaken, to her foundations; and when he snuffles, that all the angels in heaven drop on their knees to pray for him. With some trouble, I prevailed upon him to give me one hour wherein to make some change in my dress. I have accomplished the change in fifteen minutes, and the remainder of the hour I come to spend with you."
"Thank you, dear friend," replied Laura, who had now recovered her self-possession, and was sincerely glad to see the duchess. Then leading her to a divan, the graceful young hostess dropped down on a cushion at the feet of her royal guest, and continued: "I have been wondering why I did not see my gracious mistress; I thought she had forgotten me."
"How could you do her such injustice?" replied Elizabeth-Charlotte, affectionately. "I have been longing for the sound of your carolling voice, and the sight of your beaming face. Let me look at you," continued she, taking Laura's head between her two hands, and gazing upon her with fondest admiration.
Poor Laura could ill bear the test of such loving scrutiny. She blushed scarlet, and her long black eyelashes fell at once under the searching look of the duchess's round blue eyes.
"Laura!" exclaimed she, anxiously, "something ails you, my darling; what have you on your heart that you are hiding from me?"
"Dear, dear duchess," stammered Laura, "I have nothing to—"
"Nay, child, do not stoop to untruth—"
"I cannot—I will not," cried Laura, bursting into tears. "I have a- -secret—but you shall know it—soon."
"Gracious Heaven!" cried the duchess, turning very pale, "what has happened? What evil tidings am I to hear?"
"No evil tidings, my dearest mistress, no evil tidings! Nothing but joy—joy unspeakable. Do you remember what I told you on that happy morning of the ball, that if I ever loved I would leave even your dear self to follow the man of my choice? Well!" cried she, her face breaking out into bright smiles, while glistening tears lay like dew-drops upon her rose-tinted cheeks, "he is here! He came down from the moon on yesternight, and brought two great stars in his head instead of eyes; stars that I had no sooner looked upon, than I fell madly in love. Oh! he was sent hither by the good God, and it is His will that I love him, and forsake all others, to follow whithersoever he leads!"
"Is she mad?" cried the duchess, in alarm. "Yesternight?—came from the moon?—WHO came, Laura?"
"God and my mother know his name, and both have blessed us; but I dare not tell it yet—not even to you. Pray ask me no more—for I may not say another word."
"Not say another word?" said the duchess, shaking her head, and looking reproachfully at her favorite. "Then there is something wrong in this headlong love, and it is no message to your heart from above. Afraid to say more to your best friend—to her who replaces your mother?—When saw you this preterhuman being? Who?—Great God!" cried she, suddenly, putting her hands to her heart, "can it be! Yes—it must be Prince Eugene!"
Laura clapped her hands, and then threw herself in the duchess's arms. "Yes—you have guessed—it is he whom I shall love to-day, to- morrow, and forever. But not another word, my own dear mistress. To- morrow you shall know all, and be assured that there is no wrong either done or to be done—I can say but this to-day, that he certainly came down from the moon, and is the only luminary whose rays shall ever shine upon my heart!"
While Laura was pouring out her childish half-confidences, her disinterested friend, the commissionnaire, was similarly engaged in the anteroom with Master George.
This latter worthy, after a few whispered words from the former, excused himself to the lackeys of her royal highness, who were in waiting there, and retreated to the corridor with the clerk.
"Now, George," whispered he, "mark what I tell you. Your master says that the coachman must be ready with the travelling-carriage of the marchioness at ten o'clock to-night; that Mademoiselle Louise must secretly pack up some of her lady's effects and her own, and have them conveyed to the chariot throughout the day; and that all must be done so that her ladyship shall suspect nothing."
"It shall be done. And so her ladyship is to go on a journey at ten o'clock to-night? What an hour to set out!"
"Yes, at ten o'clock precisely, and the blessing of God go with her!"
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
THE DISAPPOINTMENT.
All was bustle and confusion in the Hotel de Soissons. A crowd of workmen filled its halls; some on ladders, regilding walls and ceilings; some on their knees waxing the inlaid floors: and others occupied in removing the coverings, and dusting the satin cushions of the rich furniture of the state apartments. The first upholsterers in Paris had been summoned to the work of preparation, and the general-in-chief of the gilders stood in their midst, giving orders to his staff, and sending off detachments for special service. He held in his hand a roll of paper resembling a marshal's baton, with which he assigned their posts to his men. Some of his subalterns approached, to ask in what style the walls of the reception-rooms were to be decorated.
"I must see the Prince of Savoy about that," said he, with a flourish. And he took his way for the prince's cabinet. "Announce me to his highness," said he as he entered the antechamber.
"His highness is at home to nobody to-day, sir," replied Conrad.
"He will be at home for me," said the decorator, complacently. "Say to the prince that I desire an interview on business of great moment, connected with the embellishment of the hotel; and without a conference with himself we cannot proceed. I am Monsieur Louis, the master of the masters of decoration."
Conrad, quite awed by the stateliness of Monsieur Louis, went at once to announce him, and returned with a summons for him to enter the cabinet.
Eugene met him with a bright smile of welcome, and asked what he could do to assist Monsieur Louis.
"Your highness," replied monsieur, "my workmen have gilded, waxed, and dusted the apartments, and the important task of decorating them is about to commence. I am here to inquire of your highness what is to be the character of the decorations. Are they to have a significance that betokens Honor, Friendship, Art, or Love?"
Eugene could not repress a smile as he asked whether, for the expression of these various sentiments, there were different styles of decoration.
"Most assuredly," was the pompous reply. "It depends entirely upon the nature of the guest or guests to be entertained. If your highness is to receive a personage of distinction (a king, for example), your decorations must be emblematic of respect. They must consist of laurels, lilies, and banners. If a friend or one of your own noble kinsmen, the decorations have no special significance; we mingle flowers, festoons, and pictures that are not allegorical. If you invite a company of artists, poets, musicians, and the like, the principal decorations surmount the seat of the Maecenas who entertains, and the rest of the apartment is left in simplicity."
"But you spoke of a fourth style," said Eugene, blushing.
"Indeed I did, your highness; and on that style we lavish our best efforts. If the guest is to be a bride, then our walls and ceilings must be ornamented with rich designs emblematic of love. We must have cupids, billing doves, and wreaths of roses, mingled with orange-flowers. Added to this, the decorations must begin in the vestibule, and be carried out in character, through the entire palace."
"Well," said Eugene, his large eyes glowing with delight, "let your decorations be appropriate to a bridal."
"Impossible, your highness! This style requires great originality of conception, and time to carry out the designs. It would require a hundred workmen, and then I doubt—"
"Employ more than a hundred," returned Eugene, "and it can be done in a day. Indeed it must be done, and—I ask of you as a favor not to mention to any one in what style you are decorating the Hotel de Soissons."
"Your highness, I will answer for myself, but I cannot answer for the discretion of a hundred workmen, who, precisely because they are asked to be silent, would prefer to be communicative."
"Well—do your best, but remember that your work must be done to- day."
"It shall be done, your highness, and when you see it, you will confess that I am the first decorateur of the age."
So saying, Monsieur Louis made his bow and strutted off.
Eugene looked after him with a smile. "He is proud and happy," said the prince, "and yet he merely embellishes the palace wherein love's festival is to be held. But for me—oh, happiest of mortals! is the festival prepared. Laura, adored Laura. I must speak thy name to the walls, or my heart will burst with the fullness of its joy! How shall I kill the weary hours of this day of expectation? How cool the hot blood that rushes wildly through my veins, and threatens me with loss of reason from excess of bliss! I am no longer a solitary, slighted abbe; I am a hero, a giant, for I AM BELOVED!"
At that moment the door was hastily opened, and Conrad made his appearance.
"Your highness," said he, "a messenger is here from her royal highness, madame, and begs for an audience."
Eugene started, and his brow clouded with anxiety. "A messenger from madame," murmured he. "What can—how should the duchess?—But— Conrad, admit him."
"Speak," cried Eugene, as soon as the messenger entered the room.
"What are her royal highness's commands?"
"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans requests his highness Prince Eugene of Savoy to visit her immediately. And that no delay may occur, her royal highness's equipage is at the door, waiting for his excellency."
Eugene answered not a word. With an imperious wave of the hand, which was justly interpreted into a command to clear the passage, he strode on and on through the corridors of the Hotel de Soissons, crushing with his foot Monsieur Louis's choicest garlands, that lay on the floor ready to wreathe the walls and mirrors of the rooms of state.
Monsieur Louis was shocked at such desecration; but still more shocked was he to observe what a change had come over the face of the prince since their interview scarce half an hour ago. Reckless of the ruined garlands that followed his track, pale and silent, he went on and on, down the marble staircase, and through the vestibule, until he flung himself into the coach, and cried:
"On, for your life! urge your horses to their topmost speed!"
The coachman obeyed, and went thundering down the streets, little heeding whether the equipage that bore the royal arms trod down half a dozen boors on its way or not.
It drew up with a sudden jerk before the Palais Royal; and the messenger, who had followed on horseback, asked if his highness would follow him. He had madame's orders to introduce her visitor without further ceremony, by a private staircase, leading to her own apartments.
Doubtless the duchess had heard the carriage as it stopped, for, when Eugene entered the anteroom, she was standing in the door of her cabinet, visibly impatient for his arrival. She beckoned him to approach, and closed the door with her own hand.
She gave him no time for ceremonious greeting. "God be thanked, you are here!" exclaimed she. "Put down the portiere, that no one may hear what I have to say." Eugene obeyed mechanically, and loosening its heavy tassels, the crimson satin curtain fell heavily to the floor.
"And now," cried the duchess, indignantly, "now, Prince Eugene of Savoy, I command you to tell me the truth, and the whole truth! What have you done with her? How could you be so unknightly as to take advantage of her innocent and affectionate nature, to wrong one of the purest and most perfect of God's creatures! My heart is like to break with its weight of sorrow and disgrace; and, had it not been for Laura's sake, I would have laid my complaint before his majesty. But I must not expose her to the world's contumely, and therefore I endure your presence here. Tell me at once what have you done with my darling?"
Eugene could scarcely reply to this passionate appeal. His senses reeled—his heart seemed to freeze within him. He thought he comprehended; and yet—
"Who? Who is gone? Oh, duchess, be merciful; what mean these words of mystery?"
The duchess eyed him scornfully. "Base seducer, dare you question me? Do you strive to delude me into believing that you do not know of whom I speak? I demand of you at once the person of the Marchioness de Bonaletta!"
"Laura!" cried Eugene, in a tone of deepest despair. "Laura gone!
And you say that I enticed her away!"
"Tell me the truth, tell me the truth," cried madame.
"The truth!" groaned Eugene, while the duchess started from her seat, and grasped both his hands in hers.
"Have mercy," stammered he, trembling as if an ague had suddenly seized him. "Is she no longer—here?"
"She is no longer here," echoed the duchess, staring in astonishment at the writhing features of the unhappy prince.
"You know not where she is?" gasped he, faintly.
"No," cried she, "no! You look as though you were yourself astounded, Prince Eugene; but you will no longer deny your guilt when I tell you that my poor innocent child has told me all."
"What—all?" asked Eugene.
"She told me that you were lovers. And now, prevaricate no longer; it is useless and renders you still more infamous."
"What more did she say?" asked Eugene, unconscious that his tone was as imperative as that of an emperor.
"Nothing more. She merely told me that in two days I should learn all. Alas! I have learned it to my cost, and to her ruin!"
"And you accuse me of enticing her! Great God! if my heart were not breaking with anguish, it would break that such baseness could be attributed to me. Would that I could answer you, duchess, but God in heaven knows that I was ignorant of her departure, until I learned it from yourself!"
"Was ever a man so bold in falsehood!" cried the duchess, losing all command of her temper. "I have in your own handwriting the proof of your wickedness. Now mark me! This morning, the second woman in waiting of the marchioness came frightened to my apartments to tell me that her mistress, her woman Louise, and George, had disappeared from the pavilion, no one could surmise when. I was so overcome with terror that I hurried to the pavilion, and alas! found that it was indeed so. Neither her own bed, nor that of the servant who accompanied her, had been occupied. I looked everywhere for some clew to the mystery, when, on the floor near her morning-dress, which hung on a chair, I found this scrap of paper, which, as it is signed with your initials, you will not deny, I presume."
With eyes that flashed fire, she almost dashed the paper in his face. Eugene took it, and, having given it one glance, he turned pale as death, and it fluttered from his palsied hands to the floor.
"Heavens, what can ail him!" cried the duchess, sympathizing, in spite of herself, with his sudden sorrow. He was ghastly as a spectre, and his whole frame shook like the leaf of an aspen.
"I did not write it," gasped he, but almost inaudibly; for his teeth chattered so that he could scarcely articulate a sound.
"What!" exclaimed the duchess, now thoroughly convinced of his innocence, and feeling her terror increase with the conviction, "what! you did not write these words?"
He shook his head, but no sound came from his blanched lips. He laid his hands upon his heart as if to stifle its anguish; then, raising them to his head, he pressed them to his temples, and so paced the room for a while. Then he came and stood before the duchess, whose compassionate eyes filled with tears as they met his look of anguish. Finally, he heaved a long sigh, and spoke.
"My name has been used to deceive her," said he. "She has never seen my writing, and thus she fell into the snare."
"But I cannot comprehend who it is that possessed such influence over her as to frighten her into silent acquiescence of the fraud. Laura is young, but she is prudent and resolute, These words had some meaning which could be referred to you, or she would not have understood them."
"Ay," returned Eugene, solemnly, "they were chosen with satanic shrewdness. They referred to our plans of to-day, and signified that I had anticipated the time for our marriage. Ah! well I know what happened; and well I know why Laura made no resistance! At ten o'clock she extinguished all the lights in her parlor save one; and as soon as this signal had been given, four men, whose faces were concealed, entered the house. One of them was a priest, two were witnesses, and the fourth—O God! that fourth one! Who was he I know not; but I shall learn—alas! too soon. Without a word (for such had been our agreement) he took her hand, and the priest read the marriage ceremony. When the names had been signed, he raised my Laura in his arms, bore her through the postern to a carriage, and, O God! O God! tore her from me forever!"
"But how come you to know these particulars, who knew not even of her flight?"
"Duchess, it was to have taken place to-night, and I was to have been that bridegroom. We were overheard, and those accursed words, 'not to-morrow, but to-night,' were sent in my name. She thought to give me her dear hand, while I—I—"
He could not proceed. He gave one loud sob, and burst into tears.
Those tears, bitter though they were, saved his reason.
The duchess, too, wept profusely. "Poor prince!" said she, "well may you mourn, for you have lost an angel of goodness and—"
"No!" interrupted Eugene, fiercely. "Say not that she is lost to me!
I must find her, for she is mine,—and I must find her ravisher.
Great God of heaven!" cried he, raising his clasped hands, "where
shall I find the robber that has so cruelly despoiled us both?"
"Stay!" cried the duchess. "I know of a man that was her suitor, and whose suit was countenanced by her father and her brother. She told me of it herself, and to avoid their persecutions, took refuge with me."
"His name, his name, I implore you, his name!"
"The Venetian ambassador, the Marquis de Strozzi."
"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, approaching the door.
"Whither do you go?"
"To seek the Venetian ambassador."
"And compromise Laura? You do not know that things transpired as you imagine. She may merely have been removed by her father, to part her from yourself. And suppose the marquis was no party to her flight? You would make her ridiculous—nay, more; you would sully her name, so that every gossip in Paris would fall upon your Laura's reputation, and leave not a shred of it wherewith to protect her from the world's contempt."
Eugene wiped off the great drops of sweat that beaded his pallid brow. "You are right," said he. "She must not be compromised—no, not even if I died of grief for her loss: there are other means—I will go to her father."
Elizabeth nodded her head approvingly. "Yes—that you can do. You may confide her secret to her father. Take the same carriage that brought you hither, and, to make sure of obtaining speedy admission to Louvois' presence, announce yourself as my envoy."
"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, and, inclining his head, he moved toward the door. The duchess followed him, and, taking his hand affectionately, pressed it within her own.
"I see that you love my darling as she deserves to be loved, and you would have made her happy. Forgive my injustice and my hard words. I was so wretched that I knew not the import of my accusations."
"I do not remember them," returned Eugene, sadly. "But one thing fills my heart—the thought of my Laura's loss. Farewell, dear lady. Now, to question Louvois!"
CHAPTER II.
THE FOES.
Great was the astonishment of the household of Louvois, when, hastening to do honor to the liveries of the royal house of Orleans, they saw emerging from the coach Prince Eugene of Savoy.
"Announce me to Monsieur Louvois," said he.
The message passed from vestibule to corridor, from corridor to staircase, and finally reached the antechamber of the minister's private cabinet. In a short while, the answer was forthcoming.
"His excellency begged to decline the visit of his highness the
Prince of Savoy. He was particularly engaged."
"He is at home," replied the prince; "then I shall certainly alight, for I must and will see him."
So he entered the house, and traversed the vestibule. The lackeys made no effort to stop him, for he looked dangerous; but they were certainly astounded at his boldness, who forced himself into the presence of the minister, when he had declined the proffered visit.
Eugene, disregarding their amazed looks, asked the way to the cabinet, and no one ventured to refuse. So he was passed from lackey to lackey, until he reached the antechamber. "Here," said the servant that had accompanied him, "here your highness will find a person to announce you."
Eugene bowed his head, and entered. The "person" was certainly within; but in lieu of announcing the prince, he stared at him in speechless astonishment.
Eugene paid no attention to him, but moved toward the door leading to the prime minister's cabinet. When the valet saw this, he flew across the room to stop the intruder, and, placing himself directly in his way, he bowed and said, "Pardon me, your highness. You must have been misinformed. His excellency regrets that he cannot receive your highness's visit to-day. He is particularly engaged."
"I have no visit to make to his excellency," replied the prince without embarrassment. "I am the envoy of her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans. Announce me as such."
The valet soon returned, and, holding up the portiere so as to admit Eugene, he said, "His excellency will receive the envoy of her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans."
Louvois was standing near a writing-table, from which he appeared at that moment to have risen. His right hand rested on a book, and he stood stiff and erect, awaiting an inclination from Eugene, to bend his head in return. But the prince advanced so proudly that Louvois involuntarily made a step toward him, and then recollecting himself, stood still and frowned visibly.
"You came under false colors to claim an audience from me, prince," said he. "As you found (indeed, you should have known) that I would not receive you in your own name, you borrowed that of her royal highness; taking advantage of the respect due madame, to force yourself into my presence. What is your business?"
"In supposing that I have used her royal highness's name to force myself upon you, you are mistaken," replied Eugene, calmly. "If you will take the trouble to look out of yonder window, you will see that I came hither in her highness's own coach."
Louvois stepped to the window, looked out, and, affecting astonishment, exclaimed, "True enough; there are the royal liveries, and you have told the truth. You really must excuse me."
"I do excuse you; for I do not consider that one bearing the name of
Louvois is in a position to affront me by doubting my word."
"Lucky for you," returned Louvois, with his sinister laugh; "for there is not likely to be much harmony between the two families. And now to business. What message do you bear from madame?"
"Her royal highness informs Monsieur de Louvois that on yesterday night, the Marchioness de Bonaletta disappeared from her pavilion in the Palais Royal. As Monsieur de Louvois is well posted in all that takes place in or about Paris, her royal highness is convinced that he is no stranger to this occurrence, and she requires that her lady of the bedchamber be returned to her, or she be directed where to find her."
"Is that all?" asked Louvois, after a pause.
"That is all that I have to say for the Duchess of Orleans."
"You are so very emphatic that I infer you have something else to say, after all. Am I right?"
"You are."
"Well, you may speak. But first, allow me to ask how you happen to be her highness's messenger? Was it by way of sympathizing with the Marchioness de Bonaletta, that you took service with her mistress?"
"My lord prime minister," returned Eugene, proudly, "I serve myself and the requirements of my honor only."
"Ah, indeed! And does this respectable lady pay you well?"
"She bestows upon me wherewith to pay those who venture to attack her name."
"Ha! ha! Then you must have heavy payments to make, not for yourself only, but for your mother."
Eugene clinched his fist, and made a motion toward his cruel enemy, but Louvois calmly raised his hand.
"Peace, young man," said he; "the hour for reckoning has not arrived. I respect, in you, the representative of madame, and you shall depart from my house uninjured, today. Take advantage, then, of your opportunity; say all that you have to say, and spare yourself the trouble of sending me your petitions by writing."
"I have no petitions to make to you, oral or written. I came hither to claim for her royal mistress the Marchioness de Bonaletta, your daughter."
"And I repeat my question. How came you to be the chosen ambassador of her royal highness, on this strictly private affair between herself and me?"
"I was chosen," replied Eugene, breathing hard and growing pale, "because I love the marchioness."
Louvois laughed aloud. "You love my daughter, do you? I admire the sagacity which directs your love toward the daughter of the prime minister of France, and the richest heiress within its boundaries. I congratulate you upon your choice."
"Yes," repeated Eugene, "I love her, although she is your daughter. And so dearly do I love her that, for her dear sake, I submit to be affronted by my mother's traducer, because that traducer is the father of my Laura. As regards your absurd insinuations respecting her wealth, they pass by me as the 'idle wind which I respect not.' And now, that I have satisfied your curiosity, be so good as to answer me. The Duchess of Orleans wishes to know where is her lady of the bedchamber: Eugene of Savoy demands his bride."
"Demands his bride? This is too presuming! But I must be patient with the representative of madame. Know, then, ambitious manikin, that, with a father's right to save his misguided child from your artifices and from the ridicule of the world, I rescued her from ruin last night, and, to secure her honor, gave her in marriage to an honorable man."
Eugene was as overwhelmed with this intelligence as though he had not foreseen it from the first. His wail was so piteous that Louvois himself felt its terrible significance, and started.
"You forced—forced her to give her hand to another?" gasped he.
"Forced! I perceived no reluctance on my daughter's side, to her marriage. She spoke a willing and distinct assent to the priest's interrogatory. I ought to know, who myself was one of her witnesses."
"That merely proves that she was deceived by the lying note that you forged in my name. How, in the sight of God, can a father so betray his own child!"
"It was sent with my approbation, but written by Barbesieur, as a slight token of acknowledgment for your cowardly attack on him at the Pre aux Clercs. Your mother was right, it appears, when a few weeks ago she told me that no sympathy could exist between her race and mine; and that every attempt at love between us was sure to end in hate. Quite right she was, quite right. And now, Prince of Savoy, your mission is fulfilled. Tell the Duchess of Orleans that her lady of the bedchamber is secure, but cannot return to her service: she is under the protection of her husband."
"I will tell her," replied Eugene. "I will tell her that all honor, all humanity, all justice, forgetting, a father has cruelly betrayed his own daughter, and has cursed her life forever. Your wicked action has broken the hearts of two of God's creatures, and has consigned them to a misery that can only end with death. I say not, 'May God forgive you.' No! may God avenge my Laura's wrongs, and may he choose Eugene of Savoy as the instrument of His wrath! for every pang that rends the heart of my beloved, and for every throe that racks my own, you shall answer to me, proud minister of France: and, as there lives a God in heaven, you shall regret one day that you rejected me for your son-in-law."
Without another word or look toward Louvois, he left the room, and returned to his carriage. When he re-entered the cabinet of madame, his ghastly face, the very incarnation of woe, told its own story.
"You bring me evil tidings," said she, mournfully. "My darling is lost to us both!"
"Alas, my prophetic heart! She is married!" was his cry of despair.
"Poor Laura! poor Eugene!" sobbed the duchess, unable to restrain her tears.
"If you weep, what shall I do?" asked Eugene. "Why do you take it so much to heart?"
"Why?" exclaimed she. "Because I am no longer young, and I have lost my last hope of happiness. You, at least, have life and the world before you."
"And I," said he, languidly—"I am young, and have a lifetime wherein to suffer. The world is before me! Yes; but it is a waste, without tree or flower. With scorched eyes and blistered feet, I must tread its burning sands alone. Forgive me, dear lady, if I ask permission to go. If I stay much longer, my aching head will burst."
"You are wan as a spectre, my poor Eugene," returned the duchess, laying her hand upon his arm. and looking him compassionately in the face.
"And, in truth, I am but the corpse of the living man of yesterday," sighed he. "Let me go home, that I may bury myself and my dead hopes together."
The duchess rang for her gentleman in waiting, and requested him to accompany the prince to his carriage, and thence to the Hotel de Soissons; but Eugene gently refused the proffered escort, and begged to be allowed to depart alone. He turned away, and as the duchess watched his receding figure, she saw him reel from side to side, like a man intoxicated.
At last he was at home. He had strength left to alight, to ascend the long marble staircase, whose balustrade was now hidden by a thicket of climbing jessamines, and to enter the antechamber leading to the apartments of state.
Monsieur Louis, with the elite of his workmen, was decorating its walls with hangings of white satin, looped with garlands suspended from the bills of cooing doves. When he beheld the prince, he came triumphantly forward.
"See. your highness, this is but the vestibule of the temple! When you will have seen its interior, you will confess that it is worthy the abode of the loveliest bride that ever graced its princely halls."
Eugene neither interrupted nor answered him. He raised his large, mournful eyes to the festooned roses, the gilded doves, the snowy, shimmering satin, and to his fading senses they seemed gradually to darken into cypress-wreaths and funereal palls. He pressed his hand upon his bursting heart, and fell insensible to the floor.
CHAPTER III.
THE REPULSE.
Eight weeks had passed away since the disappearance of the Marchioness de Bonaletta—eight weeks of suffering and delirium for Eugene of Savoy. A nervous fever had ensued, which, if it had well- nigh proved mortal, had proved, in one sense, beneficent; for it had stricken him with unconsciousness of woe. Blissful dreams of love hovered about his couch, and lit up with feverish brilliancy his pallid countenance. At such times SHE seemed to sit beside him; for he smiled, held out his hand, and addressed her in words of burning love and ecstasy. Perhaps these joyful phantasms gave him strength to recuperate from his terrible prostration, for he recovered; and, after four weeks of struggle between life and death, was declared convalescent. His grandmother and his sisters had nursed him tenderly throughout, and they had the satisfaction of hearing from his physician, that to their loving care he owed his restoration to health. The poor sufferer himself could not find it in his heart to be grateful for the boon. With returning reason came awakening anguish, sharp as the first keen stroke that had laid low the beautiful fabric of his ephemeral happiness.
But he was resolved to face his sorrow—not to fly from it. "It shall kill me or make a man of me, whom no shaft of adversity can ever wound again," thought he. He confided his troubles to no one, little dreaming that his secret was known not only to his grandmother and his sisters, but to the Princes de Conti, who, throughout their long watches by his bedside, had heard the history of his love, its return by the beloved one, and its disastrous end. But each and all respected the secret, and tacitly agreed to cover it with a veil of profound silence.
So Eugene suffered and struggled alone, until the tempest of his grief had passed, and light once more dawned upon his soul. His dreamy eyes, in whose depths one visionary object had been mirrored, now rested upon things with quick and apprehensive intelligence; his ears, that had been pained with one monotonous dirge of woe, now opened to the sounds of the outer world around; and his thoughts, which hitherto had kept unceasing plaint for their buried love, now shook off repining, and hearkened to the trumpet-call of ambition.
One morning he called Conrad, who (accustomed of late to see his master reclining languidly on a sofa, seemingly interested in nothing) was quite surprised to find him in the arsenal, busily engaged in examining and cleaning his arms.
Conrad could not repress a smile, and a glance of mingled astonishment and delight. Eugene saw it, and replied at once.
"You see," said he, gently, "that I am better, Conrad. I was very slow to recover from my severe illness, but I believe that I am quite sound again. I thank you for all your self-sacrificing devotion to me, during that season of suffering; and never while my heart beats will I forget it. Let me press your friendly hand within my own, for well I know that your highest reward is to be found in my esteem and affection."
Conrad grasped the hand that was so kindly proffered, and tears of joy fell upon its pale, attenuated fingers.
"My dear lord," sobbed he, "how you have suffered! and oh, how gladly I would have suffered for you!"
"I believe it, good, true heart; but let us try to forget the past, and make ready for the future. First—tell me whether the letter you took for me yesterday is likely to reach the cabinet of his majesty."
"Yes, your highness," replied Conrad, with a happy smile. "My cousin Lolo washes the plate at the Louvre, and is engaged to be married to the king's second valet. I gave it to her, and charged her, as she valued her salvation, to see that Leblond remitted it."
"So far, so well, then. Order my state-carriage, livery, and outriders; and then return to assist me in dressing. I must go to court in half an hour."
While Eugene was preparing to visit the king, his majesty with his prime minister was in his cabinet, writing; while, not too far to be out of reach of his majesty's admiring eyes, sat the demure De Maintenon, profoundly engaged in tapestry-work. The conference over, Louis signed to Louvois to gather up the papers to which the royal signature had been attached, and to take his leave. Louvois hastened to obey; put his portfolio under his arm, and was about to retire, when the king bade him remain.
"Apropos," said he, "I was about to forget a trifle that may as well be attended to. I have received a letter from Prince Eugene of Savoy. There is a vacancy in the dragoons, and the little prince asks for it. Methinks it can be granted."
Louvois smiled. "What, your majesty! Give a captaincy of dragoons to that poor little weakling? Why, he would not survive one single campaign." As he uttered these careless words, he glanced at the marquise, who understood him at once.
"In truth," observed she, in her soft, musical voice, whose melody was as bewitching as that of the sea-maids of Sicily "in truth, poor Prince Eugene seems as unsuited to the career of a soldier as to that of an ecclesiastic. The dissipated and debauched life which, in imitation of his mother, he has led since his boyhood, has exhausted his energies. He is prematurely old—older far than your majesty."
A complacent smile flitted over the features of the vain monarch. "He certainly looked more dead than alive the last time we saw him, and since then he has been very ill, has he not?"
"Yes," replied Louvois, carelessly, "and for a long time his recovery was considered doubtful."
"Madame told me of it," resumed the king. "She seems very much interested in the little prince."
"Madame is the impersonation of goodness," observed De Maintenon, "and by her very innocence is unfitted to judge of character. The old Princess de Carignan imposed upon her credulity with some story of an unhappy attachment, while veritably his illness is nothing more than the natural consequence of his excesses."
Louvois thanked his coadjutor with a second glance, and the marquise acknowledged the compliment by a slight inclination of her head, imperceptible to the king.
"Be all this as it may," replied the latter, "I cannot refuse so paltry a favor to the nephew of Cardinal Mazarin. If we do no more, we ought at least to throw him a bone to gnaw." [Footnote: Louis' own words.—"Memoires do Jeanne d'Albret de Luynes," vol. i., p. 85.]
"Sire," said Louvois, hastily, "you do not know Prince Eugene. He is a dangerous man, though a weakly one, for he is possessed of insatiable ambition. He desires renown at any price."
"At any price!" repeated Louis, with a shrug. "Such a poor devil as that covet renown at any price!"
"Sire!" exclaimed Louvois, earnestly, "he is an offshoot of the ambitious house of Savoy, and a stranger besides. Strangers always bring us ill-luck."
"You are right," interposed the marquise, with a sigh. "Strangers never bring us any but ill-luck."
Louis turned and fixed his eyes upon her. Their glances met, and there was such unequivocal love expressed in that of the pious marquise, that her royal disciple blushed with gratification. He went up to her and extended both his hands.
She took them passionately within her own, and covered them with kisses. Then raising her eyes pleadingly to his, she whispered, "Sire, he is the son of his mother; and if your majesty show him favor, I shall think that you have not ceased to love the Countess de Soissons, and my heart will break."
Louis was so touched by the charming jealousy unconsciously betrayed by these words, that he whispered in return:
"I will prove, then, that I love nobody but yourself."
"Be so good," added he aloud to Louvois, "as to say to the usher that the Prince of Savoy will have an audience."
This being equivalent to a dismission, Louvois backed out of his master's presence, and retired. As he was passing through the antechamber, congratulating himself upon having effectually muzzled his adversary, the minister saw his pale, serious face at the door. Eugene was in the act of desiring the usher to announce him.
"His majesty awaits the Prince of Savoy," said Louvois, and he stepped aside to allow him entrance.
Eugene came in, and the door was closed. The two enemies were alone, face to face; and they surveyed each other as two lions might do on the eve of a deathly contest.
"It has pleased you to make an attempt to beg a commission in the army, and to address yourself directly to the king," said Louvois, after a pause. "And you presumed to do so without the intervention of his majesty's minister of war."
"I have no business with the servants of his majesty," replied Eugene, tranquilly. "If I have a request to make, I address it to the king my kinsman, and require no influence of his subordinates."
"Sir!" exclaimed Louvois, angrily, "I counsel you—"
"I desire no counsel from a man whom I despise," interrupted Eugene.
"You shall give me satisfaction for this word," returned Louvois, laying his hand on his sword. "You are a nobleman, and therefore—"
"And therefore," interrupted Eugene again, "you shall have no satisfaction from me, for you are not a nobleman, and I shall not measure swords with you. Peace, monsieur," continued he, as Louvois was about to insult him, "we are in the antechamber of the king, and a servant may not resent his grievances within earshot of his master. Take care that you become not too obstreperous, lest I publish to the world the story of your crimes toward your unhappy daughter. And now let me pass: the king awaits me."
With these words Eugene crossed the antechamber, and stood near the door that led to the king's cabinet. There he stopped, and, addressing the indignant minister—
"Now, sir," said he, imperatively, "you can go out to the vestibule and send the usher to announce me to his majesty."
Louvois made a rush at the prince, and almost shrieked with rage.
"Sir, this insolence—"
But at that moment the door of the king's cabinet opened, and the voice of Louis asked, "Who presumes to speak so loud?" His angry glances were launched first at one and then at the other offender, and, as neither made any reply, his majesty resumed:
"Ah, you are there, little abbe? You asked for an audience: it is granted."
He returned to his cabinet, Eugene following. The marquise was assiduously occupied with her tapestry, but her large eyes were raised for one glance; then, as quickly casting them down, she appeared to be absorbed in her embroidery.
The king threw himself carelessly back in an arm-chair, and signed to Eugene to advance.
"You would like to command a company of dragoons?" said Louis, shortly.
"Such is my desire, your majesty. I wish to become a soldier; I hope—a brave one."
Louis surveyed him with scorn. "I cannot grant your request," said he. "You are too sickly to enter my service."
He then rose from his chair and turned his back. This of course signified that the audience was at an end; but, to his unspeakable astonishment, he felt the touch of a hand upon his arm, and, turning round, beheld Eugene!
"Is that all your majesty has to say to me?" said the prince.
"That is all," cried Louis, imperiously. "The audience is at an end- -begone!"
"Not yet," replied Eugene, "not yet."
Madame de Maintenon uttered a cry of horror, and her tapestry fell from her hands.
"Do you know that you are a traitor?" exclaimed the king.
"No, sire. I am but a man who, driven to despair, can no longer withhold the cry of a heart wrung by every species of contumely and injustice. Were I tamely to submit to all that you have done to wound me, I were a hound unfit to bear the name of nobleman. By the memory of Cardinal Mazarin, your benefactor, nay, more, the spouse of your mother, I claim the right to remonstrate with your majesty, and to ask you to reverse your decision."
"You have summoned to your aid a name which I have ever cherished and honored," replied Louis. "For his sake I grant you fifteen minutes' audience. Be quick, then, and say what you will at once."
"Then, sire, may I ask if you remember the solemn promise you made to the cardinal on his death-bed?"
"I do."
"To the man who, during your minority, transformed a distracted country into a powerful and peaceful empire, you promised friendship and protection for his kindred. But how has this promise been fulfilled? The family of Mazarin have, one and all, been given over to persecution and injustice, and that by a sovereign who—"
"Prince," cried Louis, "you forget that you address your king!"
"My king! when has your conduct ever been to me that of a king, and therefore of a father? I know that my uncle was once king of the King of France; and by the God above us! he was a gracious monarch, for he left to his successor a prosperous kingdom and an overflowing treasury!"
"Which was not fuller than his own private purse," retorted Louis.
"The cardinal named you his heir, sire—why did you not accept the heritage?"
"Because I would not enrich myself at the expense of his family," replied Louis, haughtily.
"Because you knew very well that what you affected to relinquish, that the world might admire your magnanimity, you intended to take back by piecemeal. And to do this, you have persecuted the unhappy family of your best friend with au ingenuity of malice that is beneath the dignity not only of your station, but of your manhood!"
"Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, hastening to the king, "I beseech you, drive from your presence this insolent madman."
"Let him speak," said Louis, in a voice of suppressed rage. "I wish to see how far he will carry his presumption."
"Sire, it reaches past your crown, as far as the judgment-seat of God, where it stands as your accuser. Sire, what have we done to merit your aversion? My mother—that you allowed your minions to traduce and drive her into exile? My father—who fought and bled for you, that you offered him public insult, and so wounded his proud spirit, that he died from the effects of your cruelty? My sisters— that you have robbed them of their patrimony! And I!—what have I done that you should hold me up to the mockery of your court, and deny me the paltry boon of a petty commission in your army? I had forgiven your public affronts, so unworthy of a king and a gentleman; and I had offered my hand and sword to your majesty as proofs of my loyalty and superiority to resentment. As a kinsman and your subject you have repulsed me: for the future, know me as an alien and enemy."
The king laughed scornfully. "Puny braggart, what care I for your enmity?"
"Time will show, sire; and, as truly as a lion once owed his life to a mouse, your majesty will repent of your injustice to me."
"I never repent," returned the king, hastily.
"A day of repentance must come for all who have sinned, and it must dawn for you. Beware lest it come so late that the prayers of yonder sanctimonious marquise avail you nothing."
"By heavens!" cried the king, starting from his seat and clutching his bell, "my patience is exhausted. This arch-traitor shall—"
But Madame de Maintenon was at his side in a moment.
"Sire," said she, beseechingly, "in the name of the love and loyalty I bear my sovereign, pardon this misguided youth. Remember that the highest prerogative of power is the exercise of mercy. I, for my part, forgive him freely, and I thank God that I am here to mediate between him and your majesty's just anger."
"You are an angel," cried Louis, clasping her hand in his own, and covering them with kisses. "You are an angel whom God has sent for my happiness in this world and the next." And turning to Eugene with a lofty gesture, he said: "Go, young man. Madame de Maintenon's magnanimity has earned your pardon. Go—that I may forget you and your existence."
"Sire," replied Eugene with emphasis, "I do not intend that you shall forget me. In your pride of power, you have likened yourself to a god, but, great as you are, you shall rue the day on which Eugene of Savoy turned his back upon your kingdom!"
"So you persist in believing yourself to be a man, do you?"
"Yes, sire; such is my conviction. I aim at renown, and, in spite of my enemies, of my poverty, and of my friendless condition, I have strength and energy to attain it. I am no longer a subject of France. I bid farewell to my country forever."
With a slight inclination of his head, and without waiting for permission, he turned his back, and left the room.
Louis gazed upon his receding figure, with an expression so strange, that Madame de Maintenon in great alarm flew to his side. His eyes were fixed, and great drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead. The marquise wiped them away with her handkerchief, all the while whispering words of tender encouragement.
Louis shivered, and seemed like one awakening from a dream. His eyelids fell, the strained eyeballs moved, and he tried to smile.
"Dearest friend," said he, "I know not what has happened; but, as the Prince of Savoy disappeared from my sight, a voice seemed to speak to my soul, and say that his threats had been prophetic, and that I would dearly rue the day on which the nephew of Mazarin had left me in anger. Can such things be? or am I the sport of—"
"Sire, sovereign, beloved," cried the marquise, kneeling and clasping his knees in her arms, "give no heed to this mocking voice. 'Tis but a temptation of the Evil One. Let us pray together."
"Yes, let us pray. Send for Pere la Chaise, and let us away to the chapel."