Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke, and her rapidity of utterance became mingled with her hurried but irregular respiration. An expression passed across her face of mingled triumph and satisfaction, whilst the fingers of her hand were quickly working one over the other.
‘And who is that, Marie?’ asked Gaudin, his curiosity aroused by the manner of the Marchioness.
‘The pale-faced girl, whose acquaintance with yourself I became so unluckily acquainted with in the Grotto of Thetis—your Languedocian leman—Louise Gauthier.’
‘She must not be injured!’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix hurriedly.
‘She must die!’ replied the Marchioness, with cold but determined meaning. ‘She loves you, and you may still care for her. You must be mine, and mine alone, Gaudin; your affections may not be participated in by another.’
‘All has finished between us, Marie! You are wrong—utterly wrong in your suspicions. You surely will not harm a poor girl like Louise?’
‘Gaudin!’ exclaimed his companion, fixing her glance on him with that intense expression, against the influence of which Sainte-Croix’s determination could not prevail, ‘when we have fallen—step by step, hour by hour—and each time irrevocably, to all appearance, until a fresh abyss, yawning beneath our presence, disclosed a still lower hell open to receive us—when the sympathies of the world have turned away from us to cling to fresh objects, in their parasitical attachment to the freshest and most plausible support, and our hopes and fears are merged into one blank feeling of careless determination by utter despair—when all is given up here and hereafter—in such positions it is not likely that we should pause in the career marked out to be pursued for any sentiment of justice or consideration. I am determined.’
There was the silence of some minutes after she had spoken, broken only by the laboured breathing of either party, or the drip of water, as, stealing through the walls from the river, it fell upon the noisome floor. Each, was waiting for the other to speak. Sainte-Croix was the first to break the pause. He knew that further allusion to Louise Gauthier would induce fresh recrimination—that Marie would believe no protestation on his part that the attachment was over—and that by boldly bearding her, in her present access of jealousy, the utter destruction of the poor girl would be hastened. He therefore endeavoured to turn the subject of their conversation into another channel.
‘Where is your brother?’ he asked. ‘You can act as you please towards the other person, as you appear to be beyond conviction from anything I can urge. François is at present the most important object for our vigilance. Is he in Paris?’
‘He is not,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘Both my brothers are at Offemont, arranging the distribution of the effects about the estate. They will remain there for some days, and then depart to Villequoy. Fortunately François has discharged one of his servants, and is compelled to look after many of his affairs himself, the superintendence of which would otherwise fall to his valet.’
‘Is he anxious to supply the place of the domestic?’ inquired Gaudin eagerly.
‘He is now looking out for some one. But why are you thus curious?’
‘Because I have a creature in my employ—one who dares scarcely call his life his own, unless by my permission, who might fill the post with advantage.’
‘I do not see what we could gain by that,’ observed the Marchioness.
‘He might wait upon his master at table,’ said Gaudin, ‘and pour out his drink.’
He regarded his companion with fixed intensity as he threw out the dark hint contained in his last words.
‘But would there be no suspicion?’ asked Marie.
‘None,’ replied her lover. ‘For his own sake, he would keep the secret close as the grave. He has a ready wit too, and an unabashed presence, that would carry him through any dilemma. I ought to know it.’
‘Hist!’ cried Marie; ‘there is a noise in the passage. We are overheard.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘The night-wind rushing along the passages has blown-to some of the doors.’
The Marchioness had gone to the entrance of the salle, and looked along the vaulted way that led to it. A door at the upper end was distinctly heard to close.
‘I heard retreating footsteps!’ she exclaimed rapidly, as she returned. ‘There have been some eavesdroppers, I tell you.’
‘Pshaw!’ replied Gaudin; ‘who would come down here? It might be Philippe Glazer, who brought me into the hospital, and is anxious to know how much longer our interview is to last.’
‘He does not know me?’ inquired the Marchioness, in a tone that led up to the answer she desired.
‘He knows nothing, beyond that I have some idle affair with a religieuse. Pardieu! if every similar gallantry was taken notice of in Paris, the newsmongers would have enough to do.’
‘However,’ said Marie, ‘it is time that we departed. I must go back to my dreary home.’
And she uttered the last words in a tone of well-acted despondency, as she prepared to depart.
‘Stay, Marie!’ cried Gaudin. ‘You have said that your brothers are at Offemont; who else have you to dread? There is a réunion of all the best that Paris contains of life and revelry in the Rue des Mathurins this evening. You will go with me?’
‘It would be madness, Gaudin. The city would ring with the scandal to-morrow morning.’
‘You can mask,’ returned Sainte-Croix, ‘and so will I. I shall be known to all I care about, and those I can rely on. Marie! you will come?’
He drew a visor from his cloak as he spoke, and held it towards the Marchioness. The necessity for sudden concealment in the affairs of gallantry of the time made such an article part of the appointments of both sexes.
Marie appeared to waver for an instant; but Gaudin seized her hands and whispered a few low, but intense and impassioned words closely in her ear, as though he now mistrusted the very air that, damp and thickened, clung around them. She pulled the white hood over her face, and taking his arm, they quitted the dismal chamber in which this strange interview had taken place.
No notice was taken of them as they left the hospital. The porter was half-asleep in his huge covered settle, still holding the cord of the door in his hand, and he pulled it open mechanically as they passed. On reaching the open space of the Parvis Notre Dame, Sainte-Croix hailed a voiture de remise—a clumsy, ill-fashioned thing, but still answering the purpose of those who patronised it, more especially as there was but a small window on either side, and that of such inferior glass that the parties within were doubly private.
They crossed the river by the Petit Pont, and proceeded first to the Rue des Bernardins, where Sainte-Croix’s apartments were situated. Here the Marchioness left the dress of the sisterhood, in which she had visited the hospital, and appeared in her own rich garments; the other having been merely a species of domino with which she had veiled her usual attire. The coach then went on by the Rue des Noyers towards the hôtel indicated by Gaudin.
‘This is a wild mad action, Gaudin,’ said the Marchioness. ‘If it should be discovered, I shall be indeed lost.’
‘There is no chance of recognition,’ replied Sainte-Croix, as he assisted his companion to fasten on her mask. ‘No one has tracked us.’
‘I am not so certain of that,’ said Marie. ‘My eyes have deceived me, or else I have seen, each time we passed a lamp, a figure following the coach, and crouching against the walls and houses. See! there it is again!’
As she spoke, she wiped away the condensed breath upon the windows with her mantle, and called Gaudin’s attention to the street.
‘There!’ she cried; ‘I still see the same figure—tall and dark—moving after us. I cannot discern the features.’
‘It is but some late passenger,’ said Gaudin, ‘who is keeping near our carriage for the safety of an escort. You must recollect we are in the centre of the cut-purse students.’
The coach turned round the corner of the Rue des Mathurins as he spoke, crossing the Rue St. Jacques, and halfway along the street stopped at a porte-cochère, which was lighted up with unusual brightness. The door was opened, and as Gaudin assisted the Marchioness to alight, both cast a searching glance along the narrow street in either direction; but excepting a lackey attached to the Hôtel de Cluny, where they now got down, not a person was visible.
The Hôtel de Cluny, into the court-yard of which Gaudin led the Marchioness on alighting from the carriage, is not only a building of great interest at the present day, but was equally celebrated in the Middle Ages, and so intimately connected with ancient Paris, even in the time of the Romans, that a very brief description of it may not be altogether out of place.
Any one who cares to visit it may arrive at its gates by proceeding up the Rue de la Harpe from the river, at the Pont St. Michel, and turning to the left in the Rue des Mathurins. But just before this point the Palais des Thermes will be passed—the remains of a vast Roman edifice which once occupied a large area of ground in the Quartier Latin. Of this building the hall is still in tolerable preservation; and two stages of subterraneous passages may be traced to the length of about one hundred feet, where they are choked up with ruins. There is, however, existing proof that they formed a perfect communication between the Palais des Thermes and the Convent des Mathurins, at the other extremity of the street.
Upon the foundations of the Roman building, towards the close of the fifteenth century, Jacques d’Amboise, one of the nine brothers of Louis XII.’s minister who bore that name, built the present edifice. The ground had been purchased more than a century previous by Pierre de Chaslus, an abbe of the celebrated order of Cluny, a portion of the Roman palace then being sufficiently perfect to reside in; and that became the residence of the abbes of Cluny when their affairs called them to Paris.
The new building was raised upon this site, and with the materials of the ancient structure, so that at many parts of the hôtel the graceful architecture of the moyen âge may be seen rising from the foundation-walls of Roman masonry. This is not, however, the only part to interest the artist or the antiquary. The entire edifice, built at an epoch of architectural revolution, is a mixture of the last inspirations of the Gothic style with the first dawn of the renaissance.
At the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Hôtel de Cluny was for some time the abode of Mary, the Queen of Louis XII. and sister of our own Henry VIII. She had been married only three months when she was left a widow, being then little more than sixteen.16 Afterwards it was inhabited by a troop of comedians, although by what means the players were enabled to establish themselves in a house avowedly the dwelling of the abbes of Cluny, and of which, whoever lived in it, they never ceased to be the landlords, is not explained. Subsequently it was made a species of temporary convent for the reception of Maire Angélique Arnaud, the abbess of Port-Royal, and a large number of her nuns, whilst a religious establishment was built for them in the Rue de la Bourbe, which at the present day forms the Hospice de l’Accouchement of the same name.
It is now some six or seven years since we went over the Hôtel de Cluny. The then proprietor, M. du Sommerard, has since died, and we know not how his decease has affected the admission of strangers. Certainly it was at that time the most interesting object of curiosity that Paris afforded. You turned from the narrow, busy Rue de la Harpe into its quiet court, and modern Paris was for the moment forgotten in the contemplation of the old and graceful building, with its picturesque tourelle—its beautifully-ornamented attic windows, each surrounded by a different pattern of florid Gothic sculpture—its antique spouts, and chiseled gallery running in front of the eaves, still showing its exquisite workmanship, in spite of the clumsy manner in which its trellised length had been patched up with mortar, and in many places totally concealed—its vanes and gables. Within, it was rich, indeed, in venerable associations; there were collected all those articles of rare worth and vertu that made the hôtel so famous; but these were not to us the principal attractions, for much was the result of comparatively modern labour. An atmosphere of antiquity pervaded the interior; you were sensible at once of that peculiar odour which clings to relics of former times—that mixture of cathedral interiors, old burly red-edged books, worm-eaten wainscoting, and damp closets, which is almost grateful, despite its elements. The sunbeam came through the patched coloured glass of the old windows, and fell in subdued and varied tints upon the relics which the rooms enshrined—relics of everyday life in days long passed away, which it would not mock with the garish light of present noon, except in the open gallery, and there the motes appeared to wake into existence in its rays, and dance about, until with its decline they fell back once more upon the old carvings and mouldings of the woodwork. In the disposition of the rooms, with their numberless articles of simple domestic use and homely furniture, the past was once more recalled; the visitor lived, for the time, in the bosom of a family long since forgotten, even to its very name; the solitude was dispelled, and the antique chambers were once more peopled with their former occupants, gliding noiselessly about the polished floors, circling round the table, still laid out for their meal, or kneeling at the chapel altar, as the quivering light fell on them, piercing the leaves that clustered from the trees of the adjoining garden about the windows. The day-dream was impressive and all-absorbing. The feeling, upon once more turning into the busy hum of the city, was that of dissatisfaction and confusion, like the first waking from a morning slumber, in which we have been again communing with those whom we once loved.
Sainte-Croix and Marie entered the principal door of the corps de logis of the hôtel, and passed up the staircase. He was recognised and saluted respectfully by the domestics, as one on terms of great intimacy with the master. The interior of the hôtel was brilliantly illuminated; and every now and then sounds of the wildest revelry burst along the corridors, as the heavy rustling curtains that hung over the doors were thrust on one side. As they neared the principal room, a man stepped out and met them. His symmetrical figure was well set off by a magnificent dress; his physiognomy was spirituelle, without being handsome; his presence was commanding and prepossessing.
‘My dear Sainte-Croix,’ he exclaimed as he saw Gaudin, ‘you are welcome. The hours were flying by so rapidly, that I began to think we should not see you.’
‘Time generally runs away with bright grains, Marquis, whenever you direct his flight. He must fill his glass from the sands of Pactolus when he measures your enjoyments.’
‘Will you present me to your fair companion?’ said the host, as he glanced towards the Marchioness.
‘Henriette,’ said Gaudin, giving a false name to his partner, ‘this is the Marquis de Lauzun. His mere name conveys with it all those good qualities which, in one less known, we should mention distinctly.’
The Marquis bowed, and Marie inclined in return to his salute, trembling at the same time; for she knew him well, and was fearful of being discovered. And indeed Lauzun perceived in an instant, by her deportment, that her manners had more of the court than the coulisses about them.
‘You have a charming residence, Marquis,’ she observed, endeavouring to disguise her voice.
‘Say, rather, the abbes of Cluny have,’ replied De Lauzun; ‘for I am here only as an intruder. But they are too liberal to me. In return for some poor advantages I persuaded his Majesty to bestow upon their order, they give up their house to me whenever I require it. Let us join the company who honour me this evening.’
He threw aside the heavy tapestry as he spoke, and ushered Sainte-Croix and Marie into the salon. The scene that presented itself was most exciting—almost bewildering from its gorgeous revelry. The whole suite of rooms had been thrown open, and was one blaze of light; the innumerable wax candles, shedding their brilliancy upon the throng from every available position, clustered in galaxies of bright twinkling stars round the elaborately-framed and quaintly-shaped looking-glasses that characterised the domestic architecture of the time, even in our own days always associated with splendid elegance and refinement, or diminished in long perspectives of light along the corridors, and through the other apartments branching off from the principal room, the comparatively low ceiling giving them a look of much greater extent than they in reality possessed.
A joyous crowd had assembled together; all that Paris then knew of reckless enjoyment and debauchery had collected that evening in the Hôtel de Cluny. The cavaliers and dames were in equal numbers; some of the latter were as closely masked as Marie, as were a few—very few—of the gentleman. Others of the fair visitors displayed their charms, both of face and bust, to the full, in the same loose fashion that they would have patronised in the warm season upon the Pont Neuf and carrefours. And the attractions of these beauties were of no ordinary character. Handsome beyond expression the majority indeed were, under the most ordinary circumstances; but now their full swimming eyes were sparkling with excitement—a glow of warmth and vivid life flushed their damask cheeks—the long clusters of perfumed and glossy hair showered tremblingly upon their rounded shoulders—and, as the light badinage or wicked repartee fell from their rosy lips, followed by the joyous peals of their silvery laughter, their mouths displayed pearly rows of teeth, which fairly dazzled by their brilliancy, and alone outshone the whiteness of their skin.
The various alcoves, containing beds, fitted up with magnificent hangings and curtains of rich brocade, shot with gold or embroidered with the most elaborate devices, were all thrown open, according to custom, separated only from the rooms by light gilt railings; and within these various young seigneurs were lounging, playing at dice or tables, surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on; and the profusion of broad pieces scattered carelessly about showed that the play was high and reckless. The extremity of the gallery was veiled by some fine fabric, and behind this, concealed from the view, a band of musicians, of a number then seldom collected, was performing the latest compositions of the court. In the centre a table glittering with plate and glass was loaded with the choicest refreshments, and the most ingenious devices in confectionery, surrounding a fountain of marvellous workmanship, modelled, after the Bassin de Neptune at Versailles, in dead silver and crystal, playing various kinds of wine, which fell into separate compartments, whence it was drawn by the guests into chased silver flagons and goblets of variegated Bohemian glass. The air was heavy with costly perfumes, whose vapours wreathed out from antique tripods; and every flower that art could force into bloom, for the time of year, assisted to form the rich bouquets that were placed about in all directions.
‘Place, messieurs,’ cried Lauzun gaily, affecting the manners of a chamberlain, ‘for the Captain Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, who will throw down his dice as a gage to any adversary who chooses to meet him!’
A number of young men welcomed Gaudin as the others spoke. He was evidently popular amongst them, possessing in a high degree that fatal versatility of pleasing which can mask the most heartless and unprincipled disposition with a semblance of the most ingenuous gaiety and franchise.
‘I pledge you, Monsieur de Sainte-Croix,’ cried a cavalier, whose dress was a strange mixture of extreme elegance and the roughest texture, ‘and will place a hundred louis d’ors against your own.’
‘A match!’ cried Gaudin, throwing his purse on the bed, round which the party gathered, including Marie, who still kept close to his side.
‘There are my pieces,’ replied the other; ‘they need no counting.’
And he placed a rude leathern bag by Sainte-Croix’s sparkling purse.
‘I shall beat you, Chavagnac,’ said Gaudin.
‘You will be clever to do it,’ observed a bystander. ‘The Count de Chavagnac has ruined us this night.’
‘A new gown of ruby velvet à longues manches, at the next Foire Sainte Germain, for me, if you win, Chavagnac,’ said one of the handsomest of the women.
‘You shall have it, Marotte,’ replied the Count.
‘What do you promise me, M. de Sainte-Croix, for old friendship?’ continued Marotte Dupré—for it was she—turning to Gaudin. ‘Let it be a kiss, if it be nothing else.’
Gaudin looked towards her, and pressed her arm, as he contracted his forehead, and made a sign of silence. He felt a sudden shudder pass over the frame of the Marchioness; and when he turned round, her eyes glared like a fury’s through her mask. She withdrew her arm and coldly fell back as she whispered—
‘My eyes are being opened anew. Beware!’
Gaudin was for the instant annoyed and returned no answer. Marotte Dupré had not taken the hint, and continued—
‘You owe me something on the score of your conduct when Antoine Brinvilliers carried me to the Rue d’Enfer against my will. By the way, where is his wife, Dubois? You know the secrets of every woman in our good city.’
This was addressed to the Abbe Dubois, whose name as a gallant, either on his own part or that of the King, was pretty well established.
‘Where she should be—quietly at home,’ replied the abbe. ‘Brinvilliers is on his travels. He is another man since she left him, or he left her, or they left one another. How is it, M. de Sainte-Croix?—you ought to know.’
‘By the mass!’ cried Gaudin angrily, ‘my sword can answer the curiosity of any one better than my tongue.’
‘It is the more innocent weapon of the two in Paris just at present,’ said Marotte. ‘O my reputation!’
Gaudin looked towards Marie. By the quivering of a jewelled aigrette that formed a portion of her head-dress, he could see that she was trembling, and her hand tightly clutched part of the rich curtain that hung beside her.
‘Chut!’ cried Lauzun, observing Sainte-Croix’s kindling temper; ‘to your play.’
‘Nine!’ said Guadin, throwing his dice, as he caught at the opportunity of turning the subject.
‘Nine also,’ observed Chavagnac, throwing.
‘Ten!’ exclaimed Guadin. ‘Will you pay me half, or run the chance?’
‘I will play,’ replied Chavagnac, gently shaking the dice-box. ‘Twelve.’
‘Peste!’ cried Gaudin, ‘you have gained them. I thought my dice knew better than that.’
‘You forgot whose they were to play against,’ said Chavagnac with a grim smile, taking up the money. ‘Come, I shall be in funds again. Lauzun’s hospitality has kept me from the high-road. The twelve hundred pistoles I appropriated from the good people of the Garonne were nearly gone.’
‘You can still give me the kiss, Gaudin, without being entirely ruined,’ said Marotte Dupré, as she pouted her red lips towards him.
Sainte-Croix inclined his head towards her. As he did so, Marie darted forward, and violently drew him back. The action was seen by all the bystanders. They said nothing, but shrugged their shoulders; whilst Marotte Dupré looked as if she felt perfectly ready for another duel with her new and unknown rival.
‘Messieurs,’ cried Lauzun, ‘I have a novelty in store for you. I have picked up a fellow on the Pont Neuf who will sing you couplets about yourselves by the mile. He is there every afternoon that it is warm enough for folks to stand and listen.’
‘Let us see him,’ said Dubois, anxious with the rest to turn the attention of the company. ‘A diable les femmes! There is not a misery in the world but is connected with them, if you search its source.’
‘Nor a pleasure,’ replied Lauzun. ‘You ought to know, abbe, if experience teaches anything.’
‘And monsieur does know,’ said a person who entered just at the moment. A glance sufficed to show Sainte-Croix that it was Benoit, who appeared to have reassumed, in part, his ancient mountebank costume.
‘This is the fellow,’ said Lauzun. ‘Come, friend,’ he continued, addressing the other, ‘do you see any one here you can sing about?’
‘That do I,’ said Benoit, looking over the crowd; ‘there is the Abbe Dubois.’
‘Respect the church,’ cried Lauzun laughing. ‘The abbe is beyond your couplets.’
‘Not at all,’ said Benoit. ‘Mère Ledru left the Quartier Saint-Honoré but yesterday, entirely to save her daughter from his addresses. Oh! the abbe is a bon diable, but sly in his pursuits. Hem!’
And clearing his voice he sang these lines, the others repeating the last lines in chorus—
‘Monsieur l’Abbé, ou allez-vous?
Vous allez vous casser le cou,
Vous allez sans chandelles,
Eh bien!
Pour voir les demoiselles!
Vous m’entendez bien!
C’est bien!
Pour voir les demoiselles!’
‘Silence, rascal!’ cried Dubois, hurling some pieces at Benoit’s head, who picked them up, put them in his pocket, and was quieted directly—sooner, indeed, than the laugh against the gallant abbe which he had raised.
‘Let M. de Sainte-Croix have his turn,’ said Chavagnac. ‘Do you know him, fool?’
Benoit glanced expressively at Gaudin as he commenced—
‘Monsieur Gaudin de Sainte-Croix,
Whence do you your treasures draw?
Not from dice, nor cards alone,
Nor philosophy’s rare stone,
Biribi!
Why affect such scenes as these,
And neglect your belle Marquise?
Where is she?
Left lamenting, like Louise.
Sacristie!’
Gaudin’s cheek flamed with anger. The company observed that he was stung deeper than mere badinage could have done; and this time the laugh was less general than the one which had been raised against the abbe. He drew Marie’s arm closer within his own, and with a look of vengeance at Benoit, left the circle; whilst the other proceeded to launch a couplet against Chavagnac, filled with no very complimentary allusions to his wild spirit of appropriation.
They were each in ill-humour with one another. The apparent intimacy of Marotte Dupré had aroused all Marie’s jealousy, so terrible in its very calm; and Gaudin had been annoyed by Benoit’s allusions. They passed along the room without speaking, nor was it until they gained an apartment at the end of the suite that a word was spoken.
It was a small room they entered, with two deeply-stained windows, and lighted by lamps placed on the outer side of the glass, producing almost the same effect as though it had been day.
‘I think you must repent having brought me here,’ said the Marchioness coldly. ‘It was badly contrived on your part not to forewarn your other favourites, that they might have been more cautious.’
‘Your suspicions are so utterly without foundation,’ replied Sainte-Croix, ‘that I shall not take the pains to refute them. At present there are other matters of deeper import that demand my attention. I expect, when you learn all, you will give yourself little care about the continuance of our liaison. We may then know some respite from the fevered restlessness and uncertainty of our connection. We have experienced but little peace since we have been acquainted.’
There was a bitterness of tone in his manner of pronouncing the last sentences that attracted the attention of the Marchioness.
‘What are you alluding to?’ she asked.
‘In a word, Marie, I am ruined. The sum of money I brought here with me to-night, in the hope of doubling it, is gone. I am deeply involved: my creditors are pressing me on every side, and I know not which way to turn to extricate myself.’
‘You judge me too harshly, Sainte-Croix,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘My sweetest revenge would be to assist you when you were utterly destitute. What must be done? The money left me by my father is in my brothers’ keeping. Not a sol is spent but I must render them an account.’
‘But one step is left to be taken,’ said Gaudin. ‘The time has arrived; they must be removed.’
Marie remained for a time silent, as if waiting for Sainte-Croix more fully to develop his meaning. At length she spoke—
‘I know not how we can proceed. I cannot tell whether it be my own fancy or there is in reality ground for suspicion, but my brothers appear to watch me in every action—every step. I see so little of them too. They are seldom in the Rue Saint Paul.’
‘We must set other agencies to work,’ said Gaudin. ‘An apparent stranger would never be suspected.’
‘It is dangerous,’ replied the Marchioness.
‘It is necessary,’ added Sainte-Croix. And after a moment’s pause he continued: ‘The man Lachaussée, whom you have seen with me, is mine, body and soul. I can in an instant cause to fall the sword which hangs over his head. Your brothers’ occupation of Offemont will require an increase of their establishment: can we not get Lachaussée into their service? They will then be comparatively in our hands.’
‘Is he to be trusted?’
‘He is wily as an adder, and as fatal in his attack, to those who have not charmed him. I will put this scheme in train to-morrow. He only awaits my word to proceed.’
‘It must be done,’ replied the Marchioness.
And then she uttered a long deep sigh, the relief to her overcharged heart being accompanied by a low moan of intense mental pain—not from remorse, but utter despondency, in the reaction of her spirits, and the apparent blackness of the prospect before her. The next moment, as if ashamed of the demonstration of her feelings, she started up from the couch on which they had been sitting, and prepared to return to the principal room. As she advanced towards the door, she took a brilliant jewelled chain from her neck, and placed it in Gaudin’s hands.
‘Whilst we have an opportunity,’ she said, ‘let me give you this carcanet. It is of some value, and by selling it at the Quai des Orfevres you can provide for your present superficial expenses.’
Gaudin did not hesitate to take the costly ornament. He knew the necessities of his position; besides, all finer feelings of delicacy had long been merged in the gulf of his darker passions. He placed the chain in the pocket of his cloak, and went towards the corridor. But as they were about to pass out, a portion of a large book-case, masking a door with imitations of the backs of volumes, was thrown open, and Exili stood before them.
Marie uttered a slight cry of alarm, as she started at the sudden apparition. Sainte-Croix seized the handle of his sword, and partly drew it from its scabbard; but the moment he recognised the physician he returned it.
‘Exili!’ he exclaimed.
‘You may well be surprised,’ replied the intruder. ‘I can excuse your alarm, especially when you had such interesting schemes to settle.’
‘He has heard everything!’ said the Marchioness to Sainte-Croix.
She spoke in a low, hurried tone, scarcely above a whisper; but the quick ears of Exili caught the import.
‘Ay, everything,’ he replied, with emphasis upon the last word; ‘both here, and when you thought there were no others near you but the silent inmates of the salle des cadavres at the Hôtel Dieu.’
Marie instantly recollected the alarm which the noise of footsteps had caused at the hospital, and the figure which she said had followed them in the Rue des Mathurins.
‘Every day—every hour,’ continued Exili, as his eyes blazed upon them like those of a famished animal in sight of food, ‘brings you closer and closer to my toils.’
‘I presume I may be spared from this threatened revenge,’ said Marie, ‘whatever it be. There has been nothing in common between us. I know you not.’
‘But I know you, Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ returned Exili. ‘I ought to. The mention of your name, one fine spring evening, on the Carrefour du Châtelet, caused me to be hunted like a beast from my habitation, and confined for many lingering months in the noisome cells of the Bastille. You caused the punishment: you shall assist in its reparation, or, failing therein, be ruined with your paramour.’
‘Miscreant!’ cried Sainte-Croix, as he seized an antique axe from a stand of ancient arms that surmounted the mantelpiece; ‘silence! unless you would have your miserable life ended at this instant.’
‘Strike, monsieur,’ replied Exili calmly. ‘Kill me here, if you please; and to-morrow morning you will be summoned by the Procureur du Roi to attend the exhumation of the body of M.
Dreux d’Aubray, and witness the result of certain chemical tests which I have written down, and which will be delivered to the police by a trusty acquaintance when he hears of my death.’
Sainte-Croix’s arm fell, with the weapon by his side. He gazed at Exili, with his brows knit in corrugations of painful intensity.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, in a thick, quivering voice.
‘The trade of sorcerer is failing,’ continued Exili; ‘we are compelled to burrow like animals underground, and dare not face the day. That of poisoner is in a yet worse position, thanks to the lieutenant of police, M. de la Reynie. I must have money to enable me to retire, and die elsewhere than on the Grêve.’
‘I am ruined,’ replied Gaudin. ‘This evening’s play has robbed me of the last sum I possessed.’
‘But you expect more,’ he replied, ‘when madame’s brothers are removed. M. d’Aubray was rich, and, in fault of other children, she will be sole heiress, beyond a trifling annuity to her sister, who has for some years retired from the world. You know this, and have calculated on it.’
They returned no reply. Exili took a small roll of parchment from his vest—the portion of some old deed—and continued—
‘What is easier than for you to give me your promise that I shall share this wealth with you? I have drawn up the conditions.’
He read them over to Gaudin slowly and distinctly; and, as he concluded, laid them upon a marble table close at hand.
‘We have here neither pen nor ink,’ said Gaudin.
‘Pshaw! this evasion is contemptible,’ replied Exili, as he threw up his loose black sleeve. ‘See here—the yellow shrivelled skin will barely cover these blue veins. They are full of blood, and easily opened.’
He took a lancet from his pouch and pierced one of the vessels; then, as the blood sluggishly trickled forth, he twisted a slip of parchment to a point spirally, and loading it with the red fluid, gave it to Gaudin.
‘You might write fairer characters with a better pen,’ he said; ‘but this will answer every purpose. I use it from necessity, not to make the document more impressive; for blood is to me no more than ink.’
Sainte-Croix hastily signed the paper; and then Exili took it up, and, having looked to see that all was fairly done, replaced it in his vest.
‘You can continue your enjoyments,’ he said; ‘but do not seek to follow me. Hereafter I will receive you. I make no mystery to you of the way by which I came here. The passage below this door has a communication with the Palais des Thermes, and I occupy the vault for my laboratory. You will find me there, if you enter from the Rue de la Harpe, and show the man at the gate this talisman. The place is, to all appearance, a cooper’s workshop.’
He placed a small triangular piece of parchment, covered with fantastic figures, which might have been an amulet for any dupe that had consulted him, in Gaudin’s hand. He then entered a species of closet, the back panel of which revolved on a pivot, allowing him to pass out, after he had reclosed the masked door of the book-case.
The same company filled the apartments as Gaudin and Marie returned. But the mirth was wilder, and the laugh louder; the equivocal jest was hazarded with greater freedom and the repartee was bolder. Several of the company still preserved their masks; but many of the females had discarded theirs, who hitherto had kept their faces closely veiled, and now demonstrated the singular grades of female society, from the highest to the very lowest, that had collected together. A branch-room had been fitted up as a temporary stage, and on this a number of dancers from Versailles were performing a ballet lately produced at court, La Naissance de Venus, in such costumes as were especially appropriate to the subject. It concluded as the Marchioness arrived in the salon.
‘Lauzun seems inclined to make a reputation,’ said Sainte-Croix to Dubois. ‘Fouquet himself would have felt his eyes blink at such magnificence.’
‘I question whether he enjoys it, though,’ was the reply. ‘But it suits his policy. What piece of diplomacy is he bringing to bear with those two actresses?’
‘Let us assist him,’ said Gaudin, advancing towards a recess in which the host was talking with great volubility to two of his fair guests, one of whom was Marotte Dupré. The other Sainte-Croix directly recognised as her rival, Estelle des Urlis.
‘I am suffocating with thirst,’ said the Marchioness, drawing Gaudin in another direction. ‘Give me some wine.’
They turned towards the fountain, when her companion filled one of the glass cups and gave it to her. Marie drank off the contents with fevered eagerness, and then again took Sainte-Croix’s arm.
‘There,’ cried Lauzun, ‘I have brought together two most bitter enemies, and I now engage that they shall be as warm friends. Come—we will pledge this reconciliation generally. Dubois, Chavagnac, Gaudin,—you must join us.’
‘Marotte, will you be our Hebe?’ asked Chavagnac.
‘She shall not be mine,’ exclaimed Estelle. ‘Though we are now friends I would prefer filling for myself. I shall then be sure of what I drink.’
‘Are you afraid of the poisoners, Estelle?’ said Marotte. ‘I should have thought you had been too well acquainted with them.’
‘A truce to this,’ said Lauzun, who perceived the tempers of the fair ones were again rising. ‘The poisoners have all passed away.’
‘I know M. de la Reynie, the magistrate,’ said Marotte, ‘and he tells a different story. He says he has a clue to some of them, and will have them before long. Then there will be bonfires on the Grêve, and I shall go and see them.’
She clapped her hands with delight at the anticipated spectacle.
‘You went with me to see the last, M. de Sainte-Croix,’ continued Marotte; ‘you are too proud now.’
And she eyed the Marchioness as she spoke with no very kind expression.
‘It was the Veuve Maupas who was burned,’ she went on. ‘She petitioned to wear a mask at her execution, and they allowed her. Catherine Deshayes—La Voisin, as they call her—is suspected; but at present they can only prove that she showed M. de Beauvais the devil. She wears a mask. I would never wear one, for fear I should be taken for an empoisonneuse.’
The Marchioness almost fainted at these words of Marotte, intended to be nothing more than spiteful. She clutched closer hold to Sainte-Croix’s arm to keep from falling.
‘Pshaw! let this pass,’ said Lauzun. ‘Ha! Desgrais! Will you join this party?’
‘Hush!’ replied the person addressed; ‘not a syllable of my name, Marquis, or you will defeat my plans.’
He was a handsome man, in the dress of an abbe, and was not above thirty years old. His stature was above the middle height, and his frame muscular and well-proportioned, whilst in his eyes there was a peculiar expression of energy and sagacity. It was Desgrais, the most active exempt of the Marechaussée, in one of the disguises he was accustomed to assume with such success.
‘Have you been on any track to-night?’ asked Lauzun in a low voice.
‘No, monsieur,’ replied the exempt; ‘but I am upon one now. Who is that with Sainte-Croix?’
‘I do not know. She has been closely masked all the evening. Is she suspected of anything?’
‘No,’ replied Desgrais, with apparent unconcern, ‘no—nothing. I have something to say to her companion, though.’
As he spoke, he went to the side of Sainte-Croix and whispered—
‘Can you spare me a minute or two, monsieur, in private? I have some business concerning you which requires immediate adjustment.’
Sainte-Croix trembled for the instant as he recognised Desgrais; but his presence of mind immediately returned, and he said gaily to Lauzun—
‘Marquis, I may leave this lady in your charge for two minutes. Be courteous to her as you are a gentleman and a friend of mine.’
Marie started back as Gaudin withdrew his arm, and vainly endeavoured to make him seek some other cavalier; for she feared a recognition. But, anxious to know what was the motive of the exempt’s appointment, he took no notice of her, and handing her over to Lauzun, followed him to the landing at the top of the grand staircase, where they were alone.
‘You will excuse this interruption,’ said Desgrais. ‘I have been looking after you all day; for I thought a meeting might save you much unpleasantness. I believe you know M. François d’Aubray?’
‘What of him?’ asked Sainte-Croix quickly. ‘Is he not at Offemont?’
‘He was until this morning,’ replied Desgrais; ‘but has returned somewhat unexpectedly, with some provincial neighbours.’
Gaudin started as he thought of Marie.
‘We must be candid with one another, Monsieur de Sainte-Croix,’ continued the exempt. ‘I need scarcely tell you that, in my position with the police, there are few in Paris whose circumstances and connections are not well known to me—amongst them I may count your own debts and your affair with the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.’
‘Well, monsieur?’
‘Well, Monsieur de Sainte-Croix. Her brother has tried in every way to crush you, and has in every way failed, until he has now bought over the greater part of the debts owing by you in Paris. The task was not difficult; for your creditors—excuse me—had better faith in his ready gold than in your promises. In his name, and collectively for those accounts, I now arrest you.’
‘Monsieur!’ cried Gaudin, ‘it is impossible for me to go with you to-night. The arrest I care nothing for, for it can soon be settled; but there is a lady here whom I cannot leave. You must postpone this affair until to-morrow, when you will find me at home.’
‘It is as much as my position is worth,’ replied Desgrais. ‘Everything will give place to a lady but a court of justice. You must come with me.’
He spoke with such a tone of calm firmness, that Gaudin perceived at once he must comply.
‘You will let me speak to her?’ he asked.
‘I would not have you go back to the room; a scene would but be painful to all of us. Write what you like and send it to her. We will then go down to some of the money-lenders on the Quai des Orfevres. If you can raise a sop for this Cerberus of a lieutenant-civil, believe me I shall be too happy. It is far from my wish to put to inconvenience so gallant a gentleman as Captain de Sainte-Croix.’
The well-intended politeness with which this speech was made, somewhat reassured Gaudin. He was not without hope of raising sufficient money, at all events, to quiet his persecutor for a time. He therefore wrote a few hasty lines to Marie, and bidding a servant who passed give them to the masked lady with the Marquis of Lauzun, told Desgrais he was ready to accompany him and knock up some of the usurers in question.
‘I have a carriage waiting in the Rue de la Harpe,’ said Desgrais, ‘and we will proceed to the river immediately. Stop!—some one is coming up these stairs. Let us take the other flight.’
In effect a tumult was audible in the court, which neither had a desire to face. They therefore passed further along the gallery, and gained the porte-cochère by another and less distinguished staircase.
Whilst this hurried interview had been going on without, the same wild mirth and laughter resounded through the apartments. Lauzun had been vainly endeavouring to discover the name of the lady entrusted by Sainte-Croix to his protection; but Marie contrived to disguise her voice in such a manner that he had not the slightest suspicion. And to this end her mask somewhat contributed, which, made after the fashion of the time, had a small plate of silver arranged so as to go into the mouth and quite alter the tones of those speaking with it.
As Gaudin left, the valet brought the few lines he had hastily scribbled to the Marchioness, and then spoke in a low tone to Lauzun. She read with utter dismay the following hurried message:—
‘I am arrested by Desgrais. Your brother has returned from Offemont. Leave as speedily as you can, and get home unobserved. I may be detained all night.
‘Gaudin.’
She was on the point of withdrawing from Lauzun when he cried out—
‘Fair ladies and gallant gentlemen, my fellows have captured a queen for our Fête de Fortune, and she shall adjudge the prizes. Barnard!—Laurent!—bring in your prize.’
As he spoke, the curtains at the door were parted, and two of Lauzun’s valets half-dragged half-carried a young female into the room, who appeared to be making violent resistance. Her eyes were bandaged, not with a common handkerchief, but a sparkling fillet, evidently intended for the purpose, and to be worn in the part she was about to play against her will in one of the diversions of the evening. The company directly thronged round her, entirely stopping up the doorway, so that the egress of the Marchioness was rendered impossible, at least for the present.
The task about to be imposed upon the stranger was that of distributing various toys, trinkets, and bonbons, of comparatively small value, to the guests as they were led up to her, her eyes being blindfolded; and the game derived its excitement from the incongruity or appropriateness of the objects offered. A stranger was always selected for this office; and it was the custom, at orgies of this kind, to scour the streets in the vicinity and lay hands upon the first young and personable female that could be met with, the victim being generally of the class of grisettes. Enough could be seen of the features of the new-comer to prove that she was very handsome; but she was very thinly clad, her extreme undress being covered by a large cloak, which, as well as she was able, she kept tightly round her.
‘How did you catch this pretty bird?’ asked Lauzun of one of the valets.
‘Monsieur,’ replied the fellow, ‘we had scoured all the streets in the quartier without meeting one eligible grisette—for it is now late, when Laurent saw a light in a window of the Rue des Cordeliers. I climbed up——’
‘No—it was I that first climbed, monsieur,’ interrupted his fellow.
‘Silence! you knaves,’ cried Lauzun, ‘or we will prevent each of you from speaking, by splitting your tongues now and here. Go on, Laurent.’
‘I climbed up, and saw through the casement our captive retiring to bed—at least she was partly undressed; and I said to Barnard, “This is our prey.”’
‘And you nearly lost her, because you would keep looking,’ said his fellow.
‘Will you be quiet, sir?’ asked Lauzun with a threatening look. ‘Well, what did you do next?’
‘We set fire to the outer wood-work of the house, and then raised the cry Au feu! In half a minute our beauty rushed into the street, as you now see her. We heard the Garde Bourgeois approaching; we hurried her off to the chaise à porteurs we had at the corner—brought her to the porte-derobée—and here we are.’17
‘You may remove the bandage just at present,’ said Lauzun. ‘We should like to see what sort of eyes it veils.’
The valets took the fillet away from her face, and in a second the Marchioness recognised the features of Louise Gauthier, whom she had not seen since the evening of the stormy interview in the Grotto of Thetis during the fetes at Versailles. She did not, of course, make herself known; but at that instant, in the midst of all her anxiety to reach the Hôtel d’Aubray without the knowledge of her brother, a second thought for the time detained her. An opportunity appeared likely to occur of accomplishing the determination she had formed—of getting Louise Gauthier in her power and destroying her. She drew herself away from Lauzun’s side, and, retreating to one of the couches, awaited the proper time to carry her project into execution.
‘I beseech you, gentlemen, let me depart,’ exclaimed Louise, as the scene around presented itself to her bewildered eyes. ‘There is some mistake in this cruelty; you cannot want me here.’
‘Indeed, but we could not select a better goddess throughout Paris,’ said Lauzun. ‘It is not usual for the grisettes of our quartier to wish to leave the Hôtel de Cluny when they once find themselves within its walls. Let me salute you as a stranger.’
Lauzun, with an assumption of idle gallantry, rather than the wish to insult the poor girl, advanced towards her, and was about to proffer his welcome, when he was somewhat rudely interrupted by the approach of Benoit, who had been amusing the guests at another part of the room with specimens of his new vocation.
‘Tiens!’ he exclaimed with surprise; ‘why, it is our little Louise, whom we have not seen for so long!’
The girl heard Benoit’s voice, and sprang towards him for protection.
‘Get back, fellow!’ said Lauzun, not relishing the interruption.
‘Excuse me, Marquis,’ replied the other; ‘but I consider myself responsible for our Louise’s welfare. It has been my lot to assist her before to-night.’
‘Put this man on one side,’ said Lauzun to his valets.
‘Keep off!’ said Benoit as they approached, ‘or I will send you on a flight without wings through the window.’
‘Turn him out of the house,’ said Lauzun; ‘or rather put him in the cellar: he won’t alarm any one there. Away with him, I say!’
The foremost of the servants advanced; but Benoit met him with a blow from his own sturdy arm, which sent him reeling against the wall of the apartment. The other servants immediately threw themselves upon him, and the honest Languedocian, whose good angel always appeared to desert him when his services were most required, was in an instant borne away, kicking and struggling, to one of the underground chambers of the hôtel.
Meantime the company disposed themselves for the games. Lauzun went up to Louise, and assuring her that no evil was intended if she complied with their regulations, fastened the bandage once more across her eyes; whilst Marotte Dupré, who had some recollection of having seen her with Madame Scarron at Versailles, took off a rich cloak of green satin, with large full sleeves, which she had been wearing, and made the poor stranger don it, in lieu of the mantle which at present scarcely enveloped her dishabille, at the same time telling her that no evil was really intended to herself. The greater part of the company then formed into a large circle, holding hands, and moving round to measure, the band being apparently well aware of what was going on, although, as we have stated, concealed from the sight. Louise was placed on an elevated seat; a large basket, containing the awards, was placed at her side, and the game commenced.
A variety of intricate figures were first danced, in which the partners were frequently changed, somewhat in the style of our cotillons at the present day. In this the actresses showed themselves most apt, and they were now joined by the girls who had figured in the ballet. To avoid being particularised, Marie stood up with the rest, and the exceeding grace with which she threaded the mazes of the figure, attracted general attention. Lauzun saw that she evidently belonged to a phase of society superior to the majority; but he was unable to gain the slightest clue to her real name.
At last, at a given signal, they all stopped with the partners they happened to have at that instant, and then advanced in pairs before Louise, who tremblingly distributed the different articles to them; and the gentleman and lady were expected in turn to make some speech appropriate to the gifts presented. In this the principal address was shown; for whilst some could but mumble out a few clumsy phrases or compliments, others convulsed the assembly with laughter at a smart repartee or jest. Truth to tell, the greater portion of them were all tolerably well up to their business; for habitude had rendered them tolerably au fait at uttering a jest on the spur of the moment; and, as a pretty wide license was allowed, when a laugh could not be raised by wit it was done by entendre.
Lauzun had a small trinket-key given to him, and Estelle recommended him to keep it against he got into the Bastille, which would be sure to occur, in the common course of things, before three weeks. Marotte Dupré had a heart of sweetmeat, and her partner an imitation-piece of money of the same material, about which appropriate distributions Dubois made great mirth, having a ready tact for impromptus. When the signal for the cessation of the dance was made (which the leader of it generally took care to do when he found himself with an agreeable partner), Chavagnac was next to the Marchioness of Brinvilliers. He led her forward, and the rest of the company looked on with more than usual interest to see what the incognita would gain. By an error of Louise, who was throughout the ceremony so flurried that she scarcely knew what she was doing, she presented the first gift to Chavagnac—a small flacon of scent, than which nothing could be more absurd, rough soldier, almost marauder, as he was. But to Marie, and to her alone, her own present had a terrible meaning. It was a small headsman’s axe, in sugar and silver foil!
She sickened as she gazed at the terrible omen,—so perfectly unimportant to the rest of the company,—and turned away from the circle, heedless of some unmeaning words that Chavagnac addressed to her. In a few minutes the ring broke up, and then she approached Louise Gauthier and said hurriedly through her mask—
‘You cannot tell to what lengths of debauchery this reckless party may proceed. If you value your happiness, follow me directly, without a word or sign to anybody.’
Louise fancied she recognised the voice; but the circumstance of one like the Marchioness being in such a company appeared utterly improbable. She was also too anxious to escape from the hôtel; and as Marie seized her arm, she implicitly followed her to the door.
‘Stop, mes belles!’ cried Lauzun; ‘we cannot part yet: you may not be spared so early.’
‘I am faint with the heat,’ replied the Marchioness, ‘and only wish to go into the cool air for a minute; it will revive me.’
They passed out upon the top of the staircase, and then as soon as the curtain had fallen back over the doorway, Marie told Louise to keep close to her, as she descended rapidly into the court-yard. They passed out at the porte-cochère unnoticed; and, finding a carriage at the corner of the Rue St. Jacques, the Marchioness made Louise enter, and, following herself, gave the word to the coachman to drive to her house in the Rue St. Paul.
Not a word was exchanged between Marie and Louise Gauthier during their journey from the Hôtel de Cluny to the Rue St. Paul. Once only was the silence broken, when the Marchioness desired the driver, with some impatience, to urge his horses onward with something more of speed than the leisure progression which then, as now, was the chief attribute of the voitures de remise of the good city of Paris. During this period she never removed the mask from her face, and Louise was not particularly anxious to know the station of her new acquaintance. It was sufficient cause for congratulating herself to find that she was away from the trysting-place of Lauzun’s debauched companions, and once more breathing the pure air of the streets, instead of the tainted atmosphere of the hôtel.
The Pont de la Tournelle was at that period the highest up the river, with respect to the stream, for crossing to the other side; now, the bridges of Austerlitz, Constantine, and Bercy span the Seine beyond this, which still exists. The carriage lumbered across the Ile St. Louis, and, traversing the other arm of the river by the Pont Marie, passed along the quay, until it stopped at the Hôtel d’Aubray in the Rue St. Paul.
As they stopped at the porte-cochère, the Marchioness looked out, and perceived to her dismay that it was open, and that the windows which opened into the court were lighted up, whilst forms could be seen passing and repassing, showing that there was a large company assembled within.
The vehicle had scarcely arrived at the foot of the staircase when Marie’s own maid, Françoise Roussel, appeared at the entrance. The light of the carriage-lamp fell upon her face, which was ghastly pale, and, to all appearance, distorted with pain. She was breathing in agony, and could not speak for some seconds after she had opened the door.
‘Heaven be praised that you are returned, madame!’ at length she said. ‘Your brothers have come back from Offemont this evening, with a party of gentlemen living near the chateau. Monsieur François inquired after you; but I told him you had retired.’
‘Something ails you, Françoise,’ observed the Marchioness. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I have been in agony, madame, the whole afternoon, as if I had swallowed some pins that were red-hot.’
‘You have taken something that has done you harm,’ continued Marie, as she descended from the carriage. ‘What have you eaten to-day?’
‘Nothing, madame,’ replied her domestic, ‘but the confiture you gave me for breakfast; and that could not have hurt me.’
‘Oh no,’ answered Marie, as if she thought the subject too insignificant for further notice. But, after a moment or two, she added, ‘Besides, I partook of that myself, you know.’
As she spoke, she turned a gaze of the most intense scrutiny upon Françoise’s face; but no trace of any emotion would have been visible upon her own features had she been unmasked. Then bidding Louise, who was reassured by the apparent respectability of the house, to follow her, they went upstairs, preceded by the panting girl, who could scarcely hold the light lamp she carried before them.
As she reached her chamber—the one in which her interview with Sainte-Croix took place, after the scene at Theria’s apartments, that in its sequel led to so much of crime and misery—she took a small cabinet down from the top of a bureau, and opening it, discovered a row of little bottles. From one of these she let fall a few drops of some colourless fluid into a glass of water, and told Françoise to drink it, when she would, without doubt, experience immediate relief. The girl took the draught and swallowed it—in the course of a minute or two declaring herself to be comparatively free from pain, as she poured forth expressions of gratitude to her mistress for this prompt remedy. She was then told that she might retire to bed, without any fear of a recurrence of her malady; and she accordingly withdrew.
No sooner had the door closed upon her than Marie took the mask from her face, and advancing towards Louise, who was standing close to the mantelpiece, where she had kept during the short conversation between Françoise and her mistress, seized her arm, and, looking full at her, exclaimed—
‘Do you recollect me? We met before at Versailles.’
‘You are the Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ replied the Languedocian, after a momentary start of surprise, in a tone the calmness of which astonished Marie. And she endeavoured to withdraw her arm.
‘Stop,’ replied the Marchioness; ‘we do not part yet.’ And she dragged her companion after her towards the door, turning the heavy lock and withdrawing the key. ‘There!’ she continued, ‘see how useless it is for you to attempt to leave me—how completely you are in my power. Now, listen to me, and attend as you would to the exhortations of a priest upon your dying bed.’
She threw the arm of Louise from her grasp, and regarded her for a few seconds with a look of the deadliest hate. The beauty of her features had disappeared in the contortions produced by the passions that were working within her; the terrible impassibility of her countenance gave way, and she gazed at Louise with an expression that was almost fiendish.
‘I have you, then, at last,’ she continued, in a low, deep voice, which, in spite of all her efforts, betrayed her emotion by its quivering. ‘The only amulet that could charm away Sainte-Croix’s affections is in my grasp. I can destroy it—with as little care as I would the paltry charm of a mountebank; and when it is once disposed of I can reign—alone—and queen of all his love. Do you understand me?’
‘How have I interfered with you?’ returned the Languedocian. ‘I never knew you until we met at Versailles, when I first learned by whom Gaudin’s love—or rather the feeling which I took for love—had been estranged from me. I did not wish to cross your path again. Heaven knows it was not my own doing that I met you this evening.’
She spoke these words in a tone that the Marchioness had hardly looked for. But Louise, gentle and retiring as was her nature, felt in whose presence she now stood, and her spirit rose with the circumstances, until her eye kindled and her cheek flushed with the emotion of the interview. She was no longer the pale and trembling girl; she felt that Marie had crushed her, by weaning away Gaudin’s affections, and she replied accordingly.
Marie was astonished at the manner in which she spoke. She went on—
‘You appear to forget in whose presence you now are, or you would not so address me.’
‘It is from feeling too keenly whom I thus address that I do so,’ replied Louise. ‘What would you have me say?’
‘I would have you recollect the wide difference that exists between our positions,’ answered Marie. ‘I am the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.’
‘We ought to know no difference of rank,’ returned Louise; ‘a hapless attachment has placed us all on the same level. Whatever Gaudin’s station is, or may have been, his love raised me to his own position—one which the Marchioness of Brinvilliers did not think beneath her. I thought she would have been above so petty a cause for quarrel.’
‘And from these set speeches,’ rejoined Marie, ‘which, doubtless, have been conned over until you got them by heart, to make an effect when they might be called for, you have lowered yourself. Sainte-Croix has long since forgotten you. Have you no spirit, thus to pursue a bygone lover who has discarded you?’
‘Alas, madame! I have loved,’ said Louise, with a tone so tearful, so hopeless, but so firm, that the Marchioness paused, baffled in her plan of attack, but not knowing what new ground to take up. Louise continued, after a short silence—‘And if love with a great lady be what it is to me, a poor country girl, you would not ask me why, despite Gaudin’s neglect, I still hang upon the memory, not of him, but of the love he first taught me to feel.’
As she spoke she sunk her face in her hands, and her tears flowed fast and freely.
The Marchioness paced impatiently up and down the room. At length, stopping before the seat on which Louise had fallen, she said abruptly—
‘Will you root out this passion?’
‘I cannot,’ replied the Languedocian through her tears.
‘Then life and it must end together,’ said the Marchioness half interrogatively.
‘It may be so,’ said Louise. But immediately, as if suddenly awakened to a new import in the words, shaking her long hair from her face, she exclaimed—
‘You would not kill me!’
A strange slow smile crept over Marie’s face, which had by this time recovered its usual stony impassiveness, as she said—
‘We are rivals!’
But as Louise’s eyes were fixed on her with a look of wonderment, at that moment a sudden burst of laughter from the room on the opposite side of the landing, in which François and Henri d’Aubray, with their companions, were carousing, arrested the attention of the Marchioness. She walked to the door, unclosed it, and listened. A voice was heard proposing the toast, ‘Success to your debut as a creditor, and a long incarceration to Sainte-Croix!’ Then followed the clink of glasses, and the vivas of the guests as they honoured the pledge.
The Marchioness turned pale, and clenched the handle of the door she held until the blood forsook her fingers; she appeared to forget the presence of Louise, and reclosing the door, when the noise had subsided, she walked to the bureau, and opening the box which we have before described, began, half-mechanically, to arrange the small phials with which it was filled. All was now silence in the chamber, broken only by the measured ticking of the pendule on the chimney-piece. It might have lasted some five minutes, when Françoise Roussel entering the room cautiously by the porte-derobée, whispered to her mistress, who flushed at the tidings and hastily closed the box. Then, opening the door which led to a small room contiguous to the apartment, she said to Louise—
‘In here: not a word—not a motion as you value life.’ Louise obeyed mechanically, and as the door closed upon her, Gaudin de Sainte-Croix entered.
Marie threw herself into his arms; all her jealousy for the moment vanished on finding herself once more at his side.
‘You are free then?’ she asked, after this passionate greeting.
‘For the time, Marie,’ replied Gaudin. ‘I have appeased Desgrais with part of the money I raised on your carcanet. I did not find the exempt so relentless as my new creditor, your brother François.’
‘François!’ exclaimed the Marchioness. ‘He is here—in the next room!’
‘I knew it,’ said Sainte-Croix, ‘or I should not have employed four thousand francs to grease the palm of the exempt. I came to speak with him—to tell him to his teeth that he had disgraced the name of gentleman by that attempt to crush me.’