CHAPTER VIII.
THE BETROTHAL.
The Duchess of Orleans sat weeping in her cabinet, and yet she had been several times reminded by her tire-women that monsieur awaited her in the drawing-room. She held in her hand a letter—the apparent cause of her unwillingness to move.
"It has terminated as I feared," thought she; "her short-lived happiness has been purchased with her life. To think that her relentless foe should have had no mercy upon her youth and beauty! And so it is—to the good are apportioned tribulation and trials—to the wicked, prosperity and long life! God is merciful, and allows to those who are destined to burn in hell their short season of triumph on earth. But I, who am no saint, will avenge my dear child's murder, by exposing its instigators to public scorn. My poor, darling Laura! God only knows how I am to bring it about, but He will surely prompt the right words at the right moment. And now to discharge the tiresome duties of the sacrifice I made to the shameless exaction of Louis XIV.! Now for the act that befouls the escutcheon of France with the blood of De Montespan's bastard!"
She folded her letter, and, putting it in her bosom, called with her stentorian lungs, for Katharina.
The tire-woman, who had been anxiously awaiting the summons, appeared immediately, and approached her mistress, in great haste to commence.
"Katharina," began the duchess, "do not be provoked if I reject the magnificent attire you have prepared for me to-night. I cannot wear it."
Katharina drew back in terror. "So your royal highness does not intend to appear at court to-night?"
"I intend to appear there, because I am compelled to do so," returned the duchess; "but I do not know that it is incumbent upon me to be as gay as a peacock, on the occasion of my poor Philip's betrothal to that girl of De Montespan's. To me it is more like a funeral than a festival, so you may get out my suit of court mourning. The skirt of black velvet, the train and head-dress of purple."
"Is the Empress of Austria dead, that your royal highness should wear purple?" asked Katharina. [Footnote: At the court of Louis XIV., purple velvet was worn in the deepest mourning only.]
"A personage of more consequence to me than the Empress of Austria is dead—an angel has taken her flight to heaven, and no royal princess can replace her here below. Hush, Kathi—you need not open your mouth to remonstrate, for my purple mourning I will wear, and nobody in France shall hinder me."
Katharina knew this so well, that she inclined her head, and went off in search of the costume, which, as Elizabeth-Charlotte never lingered before her looking-glass, was donned in less than a quarter of an hour. She returned to her cabinet, and gave a quick glance at her image, as she passed before a large Venetian mirror, that reached from floor to ceiling. She smiled, and began an apostrophe to herself, after the following manner:
"You are unquestionably a homely woman; and, in the finery that decks royalty, you look somewhat like the scarecrows I have seen in gardens at home. But, soberly clad as you are at this moment, you are not an unsightly or undignified woman, nor would my poor murdered darling despise me, were she to see me now. Ah, Laura! would that the battle of life were over for me, as it is for thee! For the world has apportioned to me much vexation, but little happiness."
She turned away from the mirror, with a sigh. "Well, I may not mourn any longer. I must put on my court-face, and sing with old Luther:"
"It must be so,
That pain and woe
Will ever follow sin;
Then go your ways—"
The duchess was singing out this doggerel in a rough, loud contralto, when her chamberlain appeared at the door, and announced that his royal highness was waiting for her to descend.
"Tell monsieur not to let me detain him," replied she. "I will be escorted to the Louvre by the Duke de Chartres. Hey, Kathi! come with my wrappings!"
Kathi had just enveloped her highness's stout, robust form in a cloak of purple velvet, when the little duke came skipping into the room.
"Here I am, chere maman," cried he; "here is Cupid, ready to attend on Venus."
The duchess replied with a glance of displeasure, and took his arm. As they were crossing the corridor, she said: "Cupid was a fractious and rebellious boy, and I remember that Venus had many a time to box his ears for his misbehavior. You are quite right to liken yourself to Cupid, for you are just as contrary as he—"
"And just as handsome?" asked the duke, coaxingly.
The duchess tried to suppress a smile. "You are a little puppy," said she; "and if I resemble Venus in no other way, I shall imitate her maternal corrections, and let you feel the weight of my hand, if you provoke me, sir." And so saying, she tumbled herself into the coach.
"I have already felt its weight," sighed the young duke, "and a right heavy hand it is, when it is lifted to chastise."
"Then take care not to deserve its chastisements. But now, Philip, listen to me, and be serious. It is understood between us, that you refuse to sign the contract—that you avow loudly your aversion to marriage in general, and to Mademoiselle de Blois in particular; and that you throw yourself at the feet of the king, and ask for two years' delay."
"Oh, yes, maman, yes, of course," replied Philip, hurriedly. "I understand it all perfectly. Ah, here we are at the Louvre! Allow me to assist you to alight."
And the duke, vastly pleased that the maternal lecture was at an end, leaped from the coach, and escorted his mother to the palace.
The royal family, with the nobles and dignitaries that were to witness the signing of the contract, were in the king's cabinet. The court awaited them in one of the magnificent rooms of state.
On a marble slab, supported by three gilded dolphins, lay a long roll of parchment, and close by was an inkstand of gold, set with sapphires and diamonds. The king was in an adjoining apartment, anxiously waiting the arrival of the Duchess of Orleans and the bridegroom-elect.
"Methinks," said Louis to monsieur, "that madame makes me wait."
As these words were uttered with great severity, the duke was abashed, and scarcely knew what he way saying. "Your majesty," stammered he, "you know how—may I entreat of you—"
"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans, and the Duke de
Chartres," cried the gentleman usher.
Louis rose from his arm-chair, and advanced to greet his eccentric sister-in-law. Suddenly he drew back, and looked like a Jupiter Tonans.
"Madame," said he, eying the duchess from head to foot—from her purple feathers to the very edge of her long purple-velvet train— "madame, what means this extraordinary attire? Have you forgotten, in one of your fits of absence, that you were invited, not to a funeral, but to a betrothal?"
"Sire," replied the undismayed duchess, "I am not subject to fits of absence; but I beg to apologize for my dress. It is appropriate to my feelings, for I have just experienced a most painful loss."
"What member of your family is dead?" asked his majesty.
"Not a member of my family, but a beloved friend, has been foully murdered."
"Murdered!" echoed Louis. "Who has been murdered!"
"Sire, I will tell you, but Monsieur Louvois must be by to hear the recital."
Monsieur Louvois was summoned, and while awaiting his arrival, Louis expressed a wish that the duchess would make her story as short as possible; he was anxious to have this ceremony over.
"Sire, I shall do my best," was the reply.—"Ah," continued Elizabeth-Charlotte, "here is Monsieur Louvois—Perhaps he can tell your majesty why I am in mourning."
"I—I" said Louvois, with a defiant stare at his enemy. "I have not the honor of being in the secrets of madame."
"But she has the misfortune to be in yours," cried the duchess.
"Sire, a few years ago, there appeared at your majesty's court a young girl of extraordinary beauty and worth. She was one of my maids of honor, and was as dear to me as my own child. Lovely, innocent, and virtuous, as she was, she was an object of aversion to her own kindred. She became ardently attached to a youth of rank equal—I mean to say, superior to hers, against whom her relatives entertained a prejudice that manifested itself by every species of persecution. There could be no reasonable objection to the alliance, but the lovers knowing that, for very hatred of them both, the maiden's father would oppose their union, agreed to be married in secret. They were betrayed, and you will scarcely believe me, your majesty, when I tell you that the poor girl's own father and brother deceived her by forged letters, and so arranged matters that they came by night, and, substituting a man whom she detested, for her lover, they obtained her signature to a fraudulent marriage."
"Her father did his duty," interrupted Louvois. "He had a right to select her husband, and exercised his right. I hope that his majesty is of the same opinion."
"Madame," said the king, taking no notice of Louvois' remark, "pray continue your narrative."
"Your majesty, the miserable girl refused ever to acknowledge the marriage. The man they had forced upon her imprisoned her for years, giving out to the world that she was insane, but holding out to her a promise of release, whenever she would recognize him as her husband. She never would—she never did."
"But her lover—what was he about all this time?" asked Louis.
"He believed himself forgotten, nor could he discover whither his betrothed had been conveyed by her tyrant. Finally by means that seem almost miraculous, she effected her escape, and joined him; and, believing herself to be his spouse before God, they lived together as husband and wife."
"I should have regarded them as such," was the remark of the king. "I hope that her unprincipled relatives did not seek to repeat their sacrilege by any attempt to part her from him to whom she had veritably plighted her faith."
Louvois could not contain himself. "Your majesty," cried he, "the sacrilege was hers and not her father's. She was legally married, and the tie that bound her to her lover was a crime!"
Louis contemplated his own illegitimate children, there present, and Louvois' words roused his ire. "Sir," said he, "you mistake human prejudices for principles. How can you presume to contend for the sanctity of an infamous falsehood like that of a marriage ceremony fraudulently performed?"
"Thanks, your majesty, thanks for those generous words," exclaimed the duchess, joyfully. "They rehabilitate the memory of my darling, who was as pure and chaste as she was constant and loving. In her case, endurance of the world's contumely was heroism. She felt it to be unjust, but bore it for the sake of her lover, and was happy. Her relatives, however, urged, by their hatred of the poor child, made use of her demented husband to avenge what they pleased to term their outraged honor. They armed him with dagger and poison, and her own brother brought him to the town where she was living, and led him to her villa."
"What an unnatural and wicked brother," exclaimed the young Duke of
Maine, who had edged himself in to listen.
The duchess gave him a grateful smile, and continued her story:
"The murderer made an attempt to poison his rival. He was recognized under his disguise by his wife, who darted forward to save her lover's life. As she did so, the assassin drew from his bosom a poniard and stabbed her to the heart,"
"Horrible!" was the exclamation of all the bystanders.
"Sire." resumed the duchess, "the woman so foully murdered by the tool of her father and her brother,—she, whom I loved so dearly, and whom your majesty's self honored by your attention, was Laura Bonaletta—the daughter of Monsieur Louvois, and the sister of his depraved son—Barbesieur."
"The Marchioness Strozzi!" cried the king, turning his indignant eyes upon Louvois, who was vainly trying to effect a retreat.
"Sir," said Louis, "I hope you will be able to disprove this dreadful charge, and convince her royal highness that she has been misinformed."
"Sire, I am not aware that any guilt attaches to my actions as a father. I married my daughter to the man whom I chose should be her husband, and I hastened the marriage that I might save her from the artful snare which Prince Eugene was laying for her large fortune."
"Sire," cried the duchess, "the whole world knows Prince Eugene to be above mercenary considerations, and it also knows that had Monsieur Louvois not driven him away from France, he would not now be the most distinguished officer in the army of a foreign prince."
"Very true," returned the king.—"Louvois never showed himself to have less penetration than when he undervalued the genius of Prince Eugene. But this blunder we can pardon, so he but clear himself of participation in the assassination of his daughter."
"That I can easily do, your majesty," replied Louvois. "I knew nothing whatever of the attempt on Prince Eugene's life."
"Then how comes it that this intercepted letter from your own hand speaks so knowingly of it to your son?—Sire," continued the duchess, "this letter was sent to me by Victor Amadeus. The courier to whom it had been confided was arrested by a vidette of the duke's, and the letter forwarded to his highness. From my step- daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, I hold my information; and it was imparted to me at her husband's desire, that I might transmit it to your majesty, and Louis XIV. might hear how Louvois vanquishes the heroes that are opposed to him in war. Sire, not only your friends, but your enemies, know that you hold such warfare in abhorrence."
"I do, indeed," cried Louis, "and I thank not only Victor Amadeus, madame, but yourself, who have not shrunk from the ungrateful duty of accusing a man whom many another would have feared, because he was high in my estimation. I thank you that you have given me occasion to vindicate my honor from the foul blot which this man would have cast upon it. I say nothing of his cruelty to his unhappy daughter, for that I leave to his Maker. But, as regards the attempt on the life of Prince Eugene, it shall be investigated;—and woe to him, should he be inculpated by the examination of these papers!— Go, sir, and until your fame is cleared, consider yourself a prisoner in your own house."
Pale and trembling, Louvois retreated from the royal presence. Around the door of the cabinet were groups of high-born dames and titled lords, who all drew back to let him pass. No one wished to breathe the atmosphere that was tainted by the presence of a suspected murderer; and the rumor of his disgrace spread so rapidly through the palace, that it reached the room where the court was assembled, and every man there turned his back upon the favorite who, an hour before, had been greeted with courtesy and respect by the proudest nobles in the land.
The king's eyes followed the bowed figure of his fallen minister until it passed out of sight; then, as if nothing had happened, he smilingly addressed the Duchess of Orleans:
"Madame, will you take the bride by the hand? I, myself, will escort the bridegroom."
Elizabeth-Charlotte, who, in her sorrow for the tragical death of Laura, had forgotten the occasion of her coming, gave a sudden start, and her heart died within her. She turned her sharp eyes with a searching look upon the Duke de Chartres, hoping for some significant glance that would reassure her as to his intentions. But the young duke's eyes were turned another way: he was following the master of ceremonies, and making a profound inclination before the king.
Madame dared no longer hesitate: she gave her hand to Mademoiselle de Blois, and led her forward to the table where lay the dreaded document.
At a signal from the king, the keeper of the seal advanced, and, taking up the parchment, read the marriage contract of his royal highness the Duke de Chartres with Mademoiselle de Blois. The duke's marriage with the king's daughter entitled him to the grandes entries du cabinet, and the entrees de derriere,—privileges highly prized by the members of the royal family. The contract also recognized Mademoiselle de Blois as a daughter of France, and gave her a dowry of two millions of livres, several large estates, and a complete parure of costly diamonds.
With the exception of madame, everybody was enraptured with the royal munificence. Again she tried to meet her son's eyes, but they were steadfastly fixed upon the hand of the king who had signed the contract, and was in the act of placing it before his daughter.
Mademoiselle de Blois scribbled her name under that of her father, and passed the pen over to the bridegroom. The decisive moment was at hand. With fast-throbbing heart, the duchess bent forward to hear her son's rejection of this insulting mesalliance, when lo! that son, with a placid smile, accepted the pen, and signed!
A cry had well-nigh burst from his mother's lips, as, with every show of respect, he presented her the pen. Speechless with anger, she advanced her hand, but it was not to take the instrument of her humiliation: it was to administer to her rebellious son a box on the ear which resounded like a pistol-shot through the apartment, and created considerable astonishment among the aristocratic guests therein assembled. [Footnote: Historical.—See "Letters of the Duchess of Orleans to the Princess of Wales."]
The young duke uttered a howl, and, rubbing his cheek, jumped behind the hooped dress of his bride-elect.
"Madame!" exclaimed the king, "what means this violence?"
"Your majesty, I was killing a fly that had lit upon Philip's cheek."
"It must be a robust fly, if it is not crushed to atoms," replied the king, much amused.
The court, unable to withstand their merriment, burst into out— simultaneous shout of laughter, under cover—of which Elizabeth- Charlotte, with tearful eyes, signed the fatal document which mingled the noble blood of Orleans with the muddy stream of illegitimacy.
CHAPTER IX.
VENGEANCE.
So great had been the haste of the courtiers to spread the news of Louvois' disgrace, that the very usher who opened the door that led into the vestibule, performed his office with a superciliousness which proved him to have heard it as well as his betters.
Louvois felt as if his grave were yawning before him. He had forgotten that his carriage could not possibly have returned so soon; and now he stood alone on the perron of the palace, staring up and down the street in the vain hope of concealing himself in a fiacre from the gaze of the curious. No sentinel saluted him, no soldier presented arms, as, ashamed of his rich dress and sparkling orders, which rendered him conspicuous, he walked on and on, an object of curiosity to every passer-by. At length, on the Pont Neuf, he met a dilapidated old hackney-coach, amid whose threadbare cushions he was glad to retreat from observation.
On his arrival home, nobody came out to assist him to alight; for how could the lackeys who were idling around the porte-cochere surmise that the occupant of that shabby vehicle was their haughty master?
He entered the hotel, and, without vouchsafing a word to the astounded valets, ascended the staircase that led to his own private apartments. But they came after him to ask whether he was indisposed, and whether they could be of service.
Their offers were rejected with scorn; but Louvois thought it politic to inform his own valet that, having been attacked with sudden indisposition, he had been forced to leave the court-ball, and return in a fiacre. While he was being divested of his rich dress and long curled wig, the valet went on to announce that Count Barbesieur had arrived from Italy, and was desirous of seeing his father as soon as possible. A lady also had called to see his excellency; and, having been told that he was at the great court- festival, she had replied that he would be apt to return home early, and she would await his arrival, for she had important business to transact with him.
"Where is the lady?" asked Louvois.
"She is in her carriage at the side door of the hotel. Shall I ask her in the drawing-room, your excellency?"
"Later," said Louvois. "I must first speak with my son."
"I am here," cried Barbesieur, who had silently entered the room.
"Leave us," said Louvois to the valet, "and when Count Barbesieur has retired, admit the lady. I—"
He paused, and caught at the arm-chair for support. He had become suddenly dizzy, his face grew scarlet, his eyes blood-shot, and his breathing oppressed.
The valet hastened to his assistance, and offered him a glass of water. He emptied it at a draught, but his hands shook so, that he could scarcely hold the goblet, Barbesieur had thrown himself full length on a sofa, whence he contemplated his father with the most consummate indifference.
"You ought to be bled," said he, carelessly.
"I will do so. It may relieve me," replied he, panting. "Go," added he to the valet, "go for Fagot."
The valet hurried off, and the father and son were left alone together. The former lay gasping with his head flung back on a cushion; the latter watched him closely, but without the merest appearance of sympathy or interest.
After a pause, he spoke: "Father, have you forgotten my presence?"
Louvois opened his eyes wearily. "No; I have not forgotten it."
"You do not ask me about the result of my expedition," said
Barbesieur.
"Nor do you seem to think it incumbent upon you to ask wherefore I suffer, or why I am here instead of being where I ought to be, at the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois," replied Louvois, whom his son's indifference had stung to returning energy.
"What care I for the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois?" answered Barbesieur. "And as regards your indisposition, it is not the first time that I have seen you similarly affected. These congestions invariably leave you stronger than they find you; so let us pass on to affairs more momentous. I have to inform you that my expedition to Italy has resulted in a disastrous failure. Have you seen my courier?"
"No, I have not seen him, but I know that you were guilty of sending me written dispatches on a subject which pen should never have recorded."
"Oh!" sneered the dutiful son, "you are better, I see, for you grow abusive. Then I suppose my courier has been arrested?"
"Ay, and your letters are in the hands of Louis XIV."
"Can it be possible?" cried Barbesieur, anxiously. "How came he in possession of them?"
"They were given him by the Duchess of Orleans."
"But she—"
"She received them from her step-daughter, the Duchess of Savoy. Not only them, but your imbecile-written promise to Strozzi that his wife would return to him as soon as Prince Eugene was dead."
"It was a blunder, I admit," returned Barbesieur. "But the idiot had so set his heart upon it that I was forced to yield to his whims; there was no other way of controlling him. I had no sooner given him this paper, than he became as plastic as clay."
"Nevertheless, Laura is dead, and Eugene of Savoy lives."
"Oh, yes—the thing miscarried, but how, I cannot conceive. I was close at hand, waiting with horses for Strozzi, who was to seize Laura, and make all speed for Italy. I waited so long, that at last I ventured to creep up to the house, and there I learned how Strozzi had stabbed Laura, and Eugene had shot Strozzi. As soon as I found out that all had gone awry, I galloped off to Bonaletta, to get my share of Strozzi's and Laura's property. But the covetous relations would not let me lay a finger on Laura's estates, without your written authorization. That brought me hurriedly to Paris. I want it at once, that I may return to Bonaletta to-day."
"You must remain for a while longer," said Louvois.
"And why, pray?"
"Because you must at least wait until my funeral is over," replied the unhappy father.
Barbesieur began to laugh. "Oh, papa! pray don't get sentimental. People are not apt to die of these little vexations. I suppose the king was rude, as he has been many a day before this—was he?"
"He was more than rude; in presence of all his nobles he accused me of participation in Laura's murder, and banished me from court until I returned with proofs of my innocence."
"H'm—" muttered Barbesieur. "The affair looks ugly."
"Insulted before the whole court," murmured Louvois.
"Pshaw! Don't take it so much to heart. It is not your first affront. You know full well that if old women get the better of you to-day, you will outwit them to-morrow. Witness your feud of years with De Maintenon."
"I shall not outwit them this time, Barbesieur. The duchess has played her cards too dexterously for me to escape. Nor would the king befriend me; he is under too many obligations to me not to desire my humiliation and my ruin. Moreover, he is anxious to propitiate the Duke of Savoy, and will give him full satisfaction for the attempt on the life of his kinsman. I am lost—irretrievably lost!"
"Then so much the more imperative is it for us to lay the foundation of some new structure of fortune elsewhere.—Luckily, Laura's large estates in Italy are all-sufficient to make you a very rich man yet. So give me authority to act for you; I will go at once and take possession, while you arrange your affairs at home, and then follow me to Italy."
"He thinks of nothing but wealth," murmured Louvois; "he has no shame for loss of reputation or good name."
"Nonsense!" said Barbesieur, with a coarse laugh; "no man that has money loses reputation. Poverty is the only crime that the world cannot pardon, and you, thanks to the Marchioness Bonaletta, have just inherited a fortune."
Louvois shuddered. "A fortune through the murder of my child!"
"For which we are not accountable," said Barbesieur, carelessly. "We owe that obligation to Strozzi. and I must say it Was the only sensible thing I ever knew him to do."
"Silence!" cried Louvois, incensed. "If you have no respect for the living, have some reverence for the dead!"
Barbesieur rose with a yawn. "I see that my honored father is not in a mood for reasonable conversation. Here comes the surgeon with his lancet. Perhaps, when you have lost a few quarts of your bad blood, you may see things in a better light." So saying, he sauntered out of the room. With scorn and hatred in his eye, Louvois watched him until he disappeared from sight; then turning to the surgeon, who had entered by another door—
"Be quick, and take some blood from my veins, or I shall suffocate!"
A half an hour later, the operation was over, and Louvois felt much relieved. His face was pale, his eyes no longer bloodshot, and the surgeon having prescribed rest, the disgraced favorite was left alone.
He sat propped up in his arm-chair, staring at vacancy—his solitude embittered by the recollection of what he was, and what he had been. The stately edifice of greatness, which he had spent a lifetime in erecting, had fallen like a chateau de cartes, leaving nothing behind but the stinging recollection of a glorious past. He could not outlive it—he could not retire to obscurity—he—
Suddenly he shivered, and gazed with eyes distended at the figure of a woman that now stood against the portiere opposite. Great God! had delirium seized upon his senses? Were the memories of his youth about to take shape and form, and mingle their shadowy images with the tangible realities of life! He knew her—tall, beautiful, pale as she was—and the recognition filled him with terror indefinable.
He knew her well! In her youth he had loved her, but she had scorned his love, because she was cherishing the hope of becoming Queen of France! This triumph had been denied her, and she had hidden her disappointment by a marriage with another. And fearfully had Louvois avenged her rejection of his love! He had cited her as a criminal, before the highest tribunal in France, and had driven her into exile. Destiny had also given him power to crush her son—to blast his life as a lover, and his good name as a man. But ah! that daughter whom Eugene had loved! He had blasted her life also, and had given her over to a monster that had murdered her! So young, so lovely, so attractive! She had died to gratify the malice of her own father!
Like a lightning-flash these thoughts glanced athwart his brain, while, breathless and terror-stricken, he gazed upon the spectre that stood against the portiere!
Was it a spectre, or some delusion of his disordered mind? She stood motionless as a marble statue of Nemesis; but those eyes—those glowing eyes—there was life and hate in their fiery depths!
Louvois had not the power to look away; he was as spellbound as a bird under the glance of the basilisk.
"Olympia!" cried he, at last, with a supreme effort to dissolve the spell.
She threw back her proud head, and came directly in front of his chair. "You recognise me," said she, in tones of icy hauteur. "I was waiting before I spoke, to see whether you had forgotten me."
"What brings you hither?" stammered he, confusedly.
"Destiny," replied she, sternly. "Louvois, God is just, for He has chosen me to be the instrument of your destruction. I was travelling through Turin to nurse my son, who was not expected to live. I learned that his illness was of the heart—not of the body. His Laura had been murdered before his eyes, and, for love of her, he was in danger of dying. Ah, Louvois! it was the second time you had almost robbed me of my child! But God is just! To my hands were confided the proofs of your participation in the crime of your daughter's assassination, and it was I that delivered them to the Duchess of Orleans. She had her Laura's death to avenge, I—great God! what had I not? The humiliation of my flight from France—my persecution by strangers in a foreign land—my son's lifelong sorrow!—But ah! you, that drove him from his native country, have fallen, to rise no more, while Eugene's name is but another word throughout the world for genius and valor."
Louvois' teeth chattered with fear. He raised his hand, as if to implore forbearance. She gave him, in return, a look of scorn.
"All Paris rings with your disgrace. The populace are before your windows, ready, at a signal, to assault your palace, as, at your son's instigation, they once assailed mine. Your servants are stealing away, and you are forsaken! Poor, fallen, powerless Louvois!"
"Not so," screamed Louvois, "not so! If I am powerless it is because I am dying!" And, with a passionate gesture, he tore the bandages from his arm.
The blood gushed out like water from a fountain, and Olympia looked on for a while in cruel enjoyment of her enemy's mortal agony. But her hatred was unclouded by passion.
"It were a kindness to suffer you to die now," said she; and her words fell like sharp icicles upon his poor, lacerated heart. "But you shall live to endure the contumely you forced upon me and mine! Farewell! I go to call for help."
She crossed the room, and, as she entered the antechamber, Louvois swooned, and fell upon the floor.
"Go to your lord," said Olympia to the valets who were waiting. "The bandage has become loosened, and he will bleed to death if you are not prompt."
Crossing the antechamber, she opened the door that led to a corridor where her own valet was awaiting her return.
"Can you tell me where I may find Count Barbesieur?" asked she.
"Yes, my lady. He is in his own room, to which I was directed by his valet."
"Show me the way," said the countess, following the man to the farther end of the long corridor.
"Here, my lady," said he, pausing, "is his anteroom."
"Go in and announce me."
The valet opened the door and crossed the antechamber. It was empty; for Barbesieur's valet was, with the other servants, in the vestibule, discussing the mysteries of the evening. Seeing that no one was there to announce the countess, the lackey knocked until he heard a voice from within. He then threw the door wide open, and cried out—
"The Countess de Soissons!"
Barbesieur, who was seated before a table, deep in the examination of the title-deeds of the Bonaletta estates, started up in amazement at the unceremonious interruption. As he turned around to chastise the insolence of the servant, he encountered the stately figure of the Countess de Soissons,
"It is long since we met," said she. "Do you remember the occasion of our meeting?"
"No, countess," replied he, awed by her queenly bearing into momentary courtesy.
"I will refresh your memory. When last I saw you, you were at the head of the rabble that mobbed the Palace de Soissons, and had just received a wound in your arm from the pistol of my son, Prince Eugene. I had not the satisfaction of being present at the horsewhipping he administered to you at Long Champs, for I was obliged to fly from your persecutions, and I have never set foot in France until now."
Barbesieur laughed. "I have had my revenge. I owe him nothing. The very grief that is sapping his life at this moment is the work of my hand."
"I know it, and I, in my turn, have avenged his woes."
"You must have done it secretly, then, for I have never felt any inconvenience from your vengeance."
"You will experience it before long. Did one of your servants bring you a fine peach on a salver, about half an hour ago?"
Barbesieur turned very pale, and stammered, "Yes."
"Did you eat it?"
"Yes," murmured he, "I did."
"Then, Barbesieur, that peach avenged Eugene and Laura both. I sent it to you."
"You!" cried Barbesieur, with a shudder.
"Yes," replied Olympia, her black eyes darting fire as she spoke. "I sent you the peach, and if you have eaten it (it will be very slow in its effects), you have just four years longer to live!"
As he heard these terrible words, Barbesieur dropped, like a felled ox, to the floor.
"Count Barbesieur," cried a voice in the antechamber, "your father is dying of apoplexy."
Barbesieur started up with an oath, and darted from the room. The Countess de Soissons followed him to the corridor. No one was there, for the servants had all congregated, as near as possible, to the chamber of the dying statesman. Olympia passed on, unchallenged, reached her carriage, and set off at full gallop for Nice.
She found Eugene improved, and sitting up. He was in his arm-chair, gazing with tearful eyes at a portrait opposite—a portrait of Laura, as Sister Angelica. His thoughts were so far, far away from the weary present, that the door had opened, and his mother had put her arms around his neck, before he became aware of her entrance.
"Eugene, my beloved son," said she, "I have avenged you."
"Avenged? Dear mother, what can you mean?"
"I mean that Louvois is dead—dead of humiliation. And that Barbesieur lives; but lives in the knowledge that, in four years, he must die. His life, then, unto the bitter end, will be one long agony. Eugene, you avenged my wrongs. I have now paid the debt."
Eugene sighed heavily. "You have erred, mother. You should have left further vengeance to God. What does it profit me that Barbesieur suffers—his sufferings cannot recall my Laura."
"Ah," said Olympia, disappointed, "if you were in health, you would not be so pusillanimous, my child. 'Tis easy to see that you are sick."
"No, mother, I am no longer sick. At Laura's command, I have wrestled with bodily weakness, and have overcome it."
"I do not understand you, my son."
Eugene pointed to the figure of Doctor Franzi, who just then entered the room. "Listen, mother, and you will understand."
The doctor advanced, and, taking Eugene's extended hand, repeated
Laura's dying words. Eugene looked at his mother, and smiled.
"This message has been the medicine that has restored me to health.
My Laura speaks from beyond the grave, and I must obey."
"Who but a hero could have obeyed a mandate at once so loving and so cruel!" exclaimed Doctor Franzi. "Countess, I am rejoiced to see you, but more especially rejoice that you should have arrived to- day."
"I travelled night and day to return in time," said Olympia, looking fondly at her son.
"Is it a festival?" asked he.
"Yes, dear child," replied his mother, kissing him, "It is your thirtieth birth-day."
"My thirtieth birth-day!" murmured Eugene. "My youth is no more; I enter upon the stern epoch of mature manhood."
"Youth, with its sweet visions of love, has passed away; but manhood will indemnify you, prince, for the sorrows of the past. Before you lies a future of usefulness and heroism.—Congratulate your son, countess, for he yesterday received from the Emperor Leopold the chief command of his armies in Italy. The troops are on their way now, to greet their general. Hark I Do you not hear the drums? Every brave heart in the army is beating with joy at the prospect of seeing him again."
"And I, too, am joyful at the anticipation," replied Eugene, rising from his chair. "You are right, Franzi. I have been sorely grieved, 'tis true; but I bear about my heart the knowledge of my Laura's love—as veritable now as when I saw and felt her mortal presence. This blessing shall make me a hero. So help me God! I will strive hereafter to do my duty as a man, a soldier, and a Christian."
The drums rolled, the trumpets sounded, and thousands of voices responded without:
"Long live our general! Long live Prince Eugene!"
THE END.
End Project Gutenberg Etext of Prince Eugene and His Times, by L. Muhlbach