The Countess De Charny - Volume II (19 page)

“I desire of you, madame, what God desired of Cain when he said to him, ‘ Cain, where is thy brother? ‘ “

“Only with this difference,” said the queen: “Cain had slain his brother; while I — oh, I would have given not only my life, but ten lives, if I had them, to save his.”

Andrée tottered as if she were about to fall. A cold sweat broke out upon her forehead, and her teeth chattered violently.

“Then he is dead?” she managed to falter, though not without a terrible effort.

The queen looked wonderingly at Andrée. “Do you suppose it is for my crown that I am mourning?” she asked.

Then, pointing to her bloodstained feet, she added, “If this blood were mine, do you not suppose I would have washed it off?”

Andrée’s pallor was so great that she was fairly livid.

“Do you know where his body is?” she asked, after a little.

“If they will allow me to go out, I will show you,” replied the queen.

“I will wait for you on the stairs,” said Andrée.

Pitou was waiting for her at the door.

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“Monsieur Pitou,” said Andrée, “one of my friends is going to take me to a place where I can find Monsieur de Charny’s body. She is one of the queen’s attendants. Can she accompany me?”

” If she goes with us, madame, it must be on condition that I bring her back to this same place.”

“You can do so.”

“Very well, then,” responded Pitou; and turning to the sentinel, he added, “Comrade, one of the king’s household wishes to go out to help us in searching for the body of a brave officer, — the husband of the lady who is with me. I will be responsible for the woman’s return; of course you understand that.”

“That ‘s all right, captain,” replied the sentinel.

At that same instant the door of the antechamber opened, and the queen appeared, her face covered with a thick veil. They descended the stairs, the queen walking ahead, Andrée and Pitou following.

The Assembly had just adjourned, after a session of twenty-seven consecutive hours, and the immense hall looked as desolate and gloomy as a sepulchre.

“A light ! ” ordered the queen.

Pitou picked up an extinguished torch, relighted it, and handed it to the queen. As they passed the main entrance, she pointed to it with her torch, and said, “There is the door where he was killed.”

Andrée did not utter a word, but moved on like a spectre obeying the will of some dread enchantress.

la the corridor the queen lowered her torch nearly to the floor. “That is his blood! ” she whispered.

Still Andrée uttered never a sound.

The queen walked straight to a sort of closet opposite the box reserved for the Logographe, and threw open the door. “Here is his body,” she said.

Still silent, Andrée entered the closet, and seating herself on the floor, lifted Oliver’s head and laid it tenderly on her lap.

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“I thank you, madame,” she said. “That is all I ask of you. “

“But I have something to ask of you,” said the queen.

“Speak.”

“Will you forgive me?”

There was a moment of silence. Andrée seemed to be hesitating; but at last she replied, “Yes, for to-morrow I shall be with him.”

The queen drew from her bosom a pair of gold scissors which she kept concealed as one conceals a poniard in order to have some weapon at hand in a moment of extreme peril.

“Then — then — ” she faltered beseechingly, handing the scissors to Andrée.

Andrée took the scissors , cut a lock of hair from the head of the dead man, and handed it, with the scissors, to the queen. The queen seized Andrée’s hand and kissed it; but Andrée drew back with a faint cry, and snatched away her hand as if Marie Antoinette’s lips had seared it like red-hot iron.

“Ah!” murmured the queen, casting a last look at the body, ” who can say which of us two loved him best? “

“Oh, my darling, my dearly beloved Oliver,” murmured Andrée in her turn, “I hope thou, at least, knowest that loved thee best.”

Pitou conducted Marie Antoinette back to her room without suspecting in the least who she really was; and after he had relieved himself of this responsibility in the presence of the sentinel, he went out upon the terrace to see if Désiré Maniquet had sent the men according to promise. The four men were there.

“Step inside,” said Pitou, and they obeyed. Leading the way with the torch he had taken from the queen, they soon reached the little room, where Andrée was still crouch-ing, with her eyes riveted on the pale but beautiful face of her husband, upon which the soft moonlight seemed to linger lovingly.

“What do you desire?” she asked, as if fearing that

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these unknown men had come to take her dearly beloved dead from her.

“Madame, we have come to carry Monsieur de Charny’s body to the Eue Coq-Héron,” answered Pitou.

“Will you swear to me that that is your intention?”

Pitou extended his hand over the body, and with a dignity of which one would hardly have supposed him capable, responded, “I swear it, madame.”

” Then I thank you with all my heart, and I will pray God with my latest breath to spare you and yours such sorrow as is now overwhelming me.”

The four men took up the body and placed it upon their muskets; Pitou, with sword drawn, took his place at the head of the cortege; Andrée walked beside the body, holding the count’s cold hand.

When they reached the Rue Coq-Héron they laid the body carefully on the bed.

“Accept the blessing of a woman who, ere to-morrow’s sun has set, will be on high, there to renew her entreaties to God in your behalf,” Andrée said solemnly. Then, turning to Pitou, she added: —

“Monsieur, I owe you more than I can ever repay; but may I ask one more favour of you? “

“Speak, madame.”

“Will you see to it that Dr. Gilbert comes here to-morrow morning at eight o’clock? “

Pitou bowed and withdrew.

As he reached the door, he turned, and saw that Andrée was kneeling before the bed as before an altar.

As he passed through the gateway into the street, the clock in the tower of the church of Saint Eustache struck three.

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CHAPTER XXI.

andrée’s request.

The following morning, at eight o’clock precisely, Gilbert rapped at the door of the house on the Rue Coq-Héron.

The old porter must have been notified, for as soon as he heard the visitor’s name he ushered him into Andrée’s presence.

She was dressed from head to foot in black, and it was evident that she had neither eaten nor slept since the day before. Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes dry.

Never before had the lines in her face been so firmly set, — lines which indicated an obduracy of purpose amounting almost to insanity. Gilbert, being something of a philosopher, as well as a keen observer, noted all this at a glance, so he merely bowed in silence, and waited.

“I sent for you. Monsieur Gilbert,” Andrée began, “because I desired that the person of whom I asked a certain favour should be one who could hardly refuse any request I chose to make.”

” You are justified, madame, not in what you are going to ask, perhaps, but in what you say. You have an undoubted right to demand anything of me, even my life.”

Andrée smiled bitterly.

“Your life, monsieur,” she replied, “is one of the few which are so valuable to humanity that I should pray God to make it long and happy instead of seeking to shorten it; but you must agree with me in thinking that though your existence may be blessed with propitious influences, there are other persons who seem to be born under an unlucky star.”

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As Gilbert made no reply, Andrée resumed, after a moment’s silence, ” Mine, for example. What do you think of my existence, monsieur? Let me briefly revdew my life history. Have no fears, I shall utter no reproaches.”

Gilbert, with a gesture, bade her continue.

“I was born poor. My father was bankrupt before I was born, and my childhood was sad and unspeakably lonely. Two men, — one of whom it would have been better for me if I had never known, the other a stranger — exerted a fatal and mysterious influence over my life, entirely independent of my own will. One of these men made use of my soul; the other forcibly appropriated my body. Without even suspecting that I had ceased to be a maiden, I became a mother. Under these terrible circumstances, I feared to lose the affection of the only human being who had ever really loved me, — my brother. I hoped to find some consolation for this loss in my child’s love; but my child was stolen from me an hour after its birth, and I found myself a wife without a husband, a mother without a child.

“The queen’s friendship partially consoled me; but one day chance placed a brave and handsome young man in the same carriage with me, and fate decreed that I , who had never before known love, should love him. He loved the queen. The secret of their mutual passion was confided to me. I believe you, too, have known the pangs of unre-quited love, Monsieur Gilbert, so you can realise what I suffered. But even this was not enough. A day came when the queen implored me to save her, and what was far more precious to her than life, — her honour. It seemed to be my duty to become his wife — the wife of a man I had loved for three years — and yet, to live apart from him. We were united in wedlock. For five years I lived near him, on fire within, though outwardly ice, — a statue with a burning heart. Tell me, do you realise what one must needs suffer under such conditions?”

Still Gilbert uttered never a word.

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“Finally, on one supremely happy, blissful day, my silent devotion and self-abnegation touched his heart,” continued Andrée. ” For seven long years I had loved him without allowing him to suspect it, even by a look. Now he came to throw himself at my feet, and to tell me he knew all, and yet loved me. As if to reward my patience, at the very time I won my husband, God ordained that I should regain my child, also. A year flew by like a single day, — a single hour, a single moment. But four days ago the thunderbolt fell. My husband felt that his honour demanded he should come to Paris to die. I made no attempt to dissuade him. I did not even shed a tear, but I came with him. As soon as we reached the city he left me. Last night I found him again — dead ! He is lying there in yonder room. Do you think it strange that, after such a life, I long to rest beside him? Is the favour I am about to ask one that you have any right to refuse? Monsieur Gilbert, you are a skilful physician and chemist. You have done me a great wrong, and have much to atone for; so give me a quick and deadly poison, and I will not only forgive you, but die with a heart overfioAving with gratitude.”

“Madame,” replied Gilbert, “I admit that your life has been one long trial which you have endured most nobly. You have borne your sorrows like a true martyr, heroically and uncomplainingly. Now you say to the man who caused you all this suffering: “You gave me a cruel life; now give me an easy death. You have the right to ask this. You have the right, too, to add: ‘You will grant my request because you have no right to refuse me anything.’ “

“Then—?”

“Do you still ask for poison?”

“I beseech you to give it to me.”

“Life, then, is so intolerable that you find it utterly impossible to endure it any longer? “

” I feel that death is the greatest boon God or man can vouchsafe me.”

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*‘In ten minutes you shall have what you desire, madame.”

He bowed, and stepped back, but Andrée offered him her hand.

” Ah, in a single instant you have more than atoned for all the evil you have done me during your whole life ! ” she exclaimed. ” God bless you ! “

Gilbert left the house. At the gate he found Sebastian and Pitou waiting for him, in a cab.

“Sebastian,” he said, drawing from his bosom a tiny flask suspended around his neck by a gold chain, and containing an opal-hued liquid, — ” Sebastian, you must take this vial to the countess, from me.”

“How long am I to remain with her, father?”

“As long as you please; I will wait for you here.”

The lad took the vial and went into the house.

About a quarter of an hour elapsed before he came back, and Gilbert saw that Andrée had returned the vial unopened.

“What did the countess say?” he asked.

She cried out, ” Not by thy hand, my child ! not by thy hand ! “

“What did she do then?”

“She burst into tears.”

“Then she is saved,” said Gilbert. “Come, my child!” and he kissed Sebastian more tenderly than he had ever kissed him before.

But Gilbert did not take Marat into consideration when he made this assertion.

One week afterwards he learned that the countess had been arrested and taken to the Abbaye prison.

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CHAPTER XXII.

THE TEMPLE.

We have already alluded to the antagonism existing between the Assembly and the Commune. The Assembly, like most legislative bodies, had not kept pace with the people of the nation.

The sections had improvised the famous Council of the Commune, and it was this Council that had really brought about the tenth of August; for, though the Assembly had given the first impetus in that direction, it soon afterwards began to lag behind.

Sufficient proof of this may be found in the fact that the king sought a refuge from the Commune in the Assembly; and as the Assembly protected the king and queen, and even the court itself, the Commune and the people began to call the deputies Royalists ; so as the Assembly decreed that the king and his family should reside in the Luxembourg, that is to say, in a palace, the Assembly was accused of being in sympathy with the aristocrats, and malignetl accordingly.

There are degrees in royalism, as in everything else; and what was royalistic in the eyes of the Commune, or even the Assembly, seemed revolutionary to many persons.

Lafayette, though proscribed as a Royalist in France, was in great danger of being imprisoned as a Revolutionist in Austria.