The Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas père (book series for 12 year olds .TXT) 📖

second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it created a prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the Palais Royal, and the king had ordered its removal to a less central spot. The place chosen was La Porte St. Martin.

The king, vexed to see Paris deprived for so long of its Opera, became as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread had risen to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. It was melancholy to see the nobility, the army, and the citizens without their after-dinner amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with the unemployed divinities, from the chorus-singers to the prima donnas.

An architect was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who promised so perfect a ventilation, that even in case of fire no one could be smothered. He would make eight doors for exit, besides five large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. In the place of the beautiful hall of Moreau he was to erect a building with ninety-six feet of frontage towards the boulevard, ornamented with eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance-doors, a bas-relief above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. The stage was to be thirty-six feet wide, the theater seventy-two feet deep and eighty across, from one wall to the other. He asked only seventy-five days and nights before he opened it to the public.

This appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. The king, however, concluded the agreement with him. Lenoir set to work, and kept his word. But the public feared that a building so quickly erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go.

Even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation of "Adele de Ponthieu" made their wills first. The architect was in despair. He came to the king to consult him as to what was to be done.

It was just after the birth of the dauphin; all Paris was full of joy. The king advised him to announce a gratuitous performance in honor of the event, and give a ball after. Doubtless plenty would come, and if the theater stood, its safety was established.

"Thanks, sire," said the architect.

"But reflect, first," said the king, "if there be a crowd, are you sure of your building?"

"Sire, I am sure, and shall go there myself."

"I will go to the second representation," said the king.

The architect followed this advice. They played "Adele de Ponthieu" to three thousand spectators, who afterwards danced. After this there could be no more fear. It was three years afterwards that Madame de la Motte and the cardinal went to the ball.


CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BALL AT THE OPERA.

The ball was at its height when they glided in quietly, and were soon lost in the crowd. A couple had taken refuge from the pressure under the queen's box; one of them wore a white domino and the other a black one. They were talking with great animation. "I tell you, Oliva," said the black domino, "that I am sure you are expecting some one. Your head is no longer a head, but a weather cock, and turns round to look after every newcomer."

"Well, is it astonishing that I should look at the people, when that is what I came here for?"

"Oh, that is what you came for!"

"Well, sir, and for what do people generally come?"

"A thousand things."

"Men perhaps, but women only for one--to see and be seen by as many people as possible."

"Mademoiselle Oliva!"

"Oh, do not speak in that big voice, it does so frighten me; and above all, do not call me by name; it is bad taste to let every one here know who you are."

The black domino made an angry gesture; it was interrupted by a blue domino who approached them.

"Come, monsieur," said he, "let madame amuse herself; it is not every night one comes to a ball at the Opera."

"Meddle with your own affairs," replied Beausire, rudely.

"Monsieur, learn once for all that a little courtesy is never out of place."

"I do not know you," he replied, "and do not want to have anything to do with you."

"No, you do not know me; but I know you, M. Beausire."

At hearing his name thus pronounced, Beausire visibly trembled.

"Oh, do not be afraid, M. Beausire; I am not what you take me for."

"Pardieu! sir, do you guess thoughts, as well as names?"

"Why not?"

"Then tell me what I thought. I have never seen a sorcerer, and should find it amusing."

"Oh, what you ask is not difficult enough to entitle me to that name."

"Never mind--tell."

"Well, then! you took me for an agent of M. de Crosne."

"M. de Crosne!" he repeated.

"Yes; the lieutenant of police."

"Sir!"

"Softly, M. de Beausire, you really look as if you were feeling for your sword."

"And so I was, sir."

"Good heavens! what a warlike disposition; but I think, dear M. Beausire, you left your sword at home, and you did well. But to speak of something else, will you relinquish to me madame for a time?"

"Give you up madame?"

"Yes, sir; that is not uncommon, I believe, at a ball at the Opera."

"Certainly not, when it suits the gentleman."

"It suffices sometimes that it should please the lady."

"Do you ask it for a long time?"

"Really, M. Beausire, you are too curious. Perhaps for ten minutes--perhaps for an hour--perhaps for all the evening."

"You are laughing at me, sir."

"Come, reply; will you or not?"

"No, sir."

"Come, come, do not be ill-tempered, you who were so gentle just now."

"Just now?"

"Yes; at the Rue Dauphine."

Oliva laughed.

"Hold your tongue, madame," said Beausire.

"Yes," continued the blue domino, "where you were on the point of killing this poor lady, but stopped at the sight of some louis."

"Oh, I see; you and she have an understanding together."

"How can you say such a thing?" cried Oliva.

"And if it were so," said the stranger, "it is all for your benefit."

"For my benefit! that would be curious."

"I will prove to you that your presence here is as hurtful as your absence would be profitable. You are a member of a certain academy, not the Academie Francaise, but in the Rue du Pot au Fer, in the second story, is it not, my dear M. Beausire?"

"Hush!" said Beausire.

The blue domino drew out his watch, which was studded with diamonds that made Beausire's eyes water to look at them. "Well!" continued he, "in a quarter of an hour they are going to discuss there a little project, by which, they hope to secure 2,000,000 francs among the twelve members, of whom you are one, M. Beausire."

"And you must be another; if you are not----"

"Pray go on."

"A member of the police."

"Oh, M. Beausire, I thought you had more sense. If I were of the police, I should have taken you long ago, for some little affairs less honorable than this speculation."

"So, sir, you wish to send me to the Rue du Pot au Fer: but I know why--that I may be arrested there: I am not such a fool."

"Now, you are one. If I wanted to arrest you, I had only to do it, and I am rid of you at once; but gentleness and persuasion are my maxims."

"Oh, I know now," said Beausire, "you are the man that was on the sofa two hours ago."

"What sofa?"

"Never mind; you have induced me to go, and if you are sending a gallant man into harm, you will pay for it some day."

"Be tranquil," said the blue domino, laughing; "by sending you there, I give you 100,000 francs at least, for you know the rule of this society is, that whoever is absent loses his share."

"Well, then, good-by!" said Beausire, and vanished.

The blue domino took possession of Oliva's arm, left at liberty by Beausire.

"Now!" said she, "I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find something pretty to say to me, or----"

"I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle Nicole," said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman, who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering herself with marvelous quickness, said:

"Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole? If so, you are wrong, for that is not my name."

"At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you forgotten the time when you bore that name? I do not believe it, my dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!"

"Why do you say 'Poor Oliva'? do you not think me happy?"

"It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire."

Oliva sighed and said, "Indeed I am not."

"You love him, however."

"A little."

"If you do not love him much, leave him."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I should no sooner have done so than I should regret it."

"Do you think so?"

"I am afraid I should."

"What could you have to regret in a drunkard; a gambler, a man who beats you, and a black-leg, who will one day come to the gallows?"

"You would not understand me if I told you."

"Try."

"I should regret the excitement he keeps me in."

"I ought to have guessed it; that comes of passing your youth with such silent people."

"You know about my youth?"

"Perfectly."

Oliva laughed and shook her head.

"You doubt it?"

"Really I do."

"Then we will talk a little about it, Mademoiselle Nicole."

"Very well; but I warn you, I will tell nothing."

"I do not wish it. I do not mean your childhood. I begin from the time when you first perceived that you had a heart capable of love."

"Love for whom?"

"For Gilbert."

At this name Oliva trembled.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" she cried. "How do you know?" Then with, a sigh said, "Oh, sir! you have pronounced a name indeed fertile in remembrances. You knew Gilbert?"

"Yes; since I speak to you of him."

"Alas!"

"A charming lad, upon my word. You loved him?"

"He was handsome. No, perhaps not; but I thought him so; he was full of mind, my equal in birth, but Gilbert thought no woman his equal."

"Not even Mademoiselle de Ta----"

"Oh, I know whom you mean, sir. You are well instructed. Yes, Gilbert loved higher than the poor Nicole: you are possessed of terrible secrets, sir; tell me, if you can," she continued, looking earnestly at him, "what has become of him?"

"You should know best."

"Why, in heaven's name?"

"Because if