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

pardon you."

"Madame, one last look."

"M. de Charny," said the queen, trembling, "if you are not the basest of men, to-morrow you will be dead, or have left this castle."

He threw himself at her feet; she opened the door, and rushed away.

Andree saw for an instant the young man on his knees before her, and felt struck with both hate and despair. She thought, as she saw the queen return, that God had given too much to this woman in adding to her throne and her beauty this half-hour with M. de Charny.

The doctor, occupied only with the success of the negotiation, said, "Well, madame, what will he do?"

"He will leave," replied the queen; and, passing them quickly, she returned to her apartment.

The doctor went to his patient, and Andree to her room.

Doctor Louis found Charny a changed man, declaring himself perfectly strong, asking the doctor how he should be moved, and when he should be quite well, with so much energy that the doctor feared it was too much, and that he must relapse after it. He was, however, so reasonable as to feel the necessity of explaining this sudden change. "The queen has done me more good by making me ashamed of myself," he said, "than you, dear doctor, with all your science. She has vanquished me by an appeal to my amour propre."

"So much the better," said the doctor.

"Yes. I remember that a Spaniard--they are all boasters--told me one day, to prove the force of his will, that it sufficed for him in a duel which he had fought, and in which he had been wounded, to will that the blood should not flow in the presence of his adversary in order to retain it. I laughed at him. However, I now feel something like it myself; I think that if my fever and delirium wished to return, I could chase them away, saying, Fever and delirium, I forbid you to appear!"

"We know such things are possible," replied the doctor. "Allow me to congratulate you, for you are cured morally."

"Oh yes."

"Well, the physical cure will soon follow. Once sound in mind, you will be sound in body within a week."

"Thanks, doctor."

"And, to begin, you must leave this place."

"I am ready immediately."

"Oh, we will not be rash; we will wait till this evening. Where will you go?"

"Anywhere--to the end of the world if you like."

"That is too far for a first journey; we will content ourselves with Versailles. I have a house there where you shall go to-night."

Accordingly, that evening the four valets, who had been so rudely repulsed before, carried him to his carriage. The king had been hunting all day; Charny felt somewhat uneasy at leaving without apprizing him; but the doctor promised to make his excuses.

Andree, concealed behind her curtains, saw the carriage drive off.

"If he resumes his desire to die," thought the doctor, "at least it will not be in my rooms, and under my care."

Charny arrived safely, however, and the next day the doctor found him so well, that he told him he thought he would require him no longer.

He received a visit from his uncle, and from an officer sent by the king to inquire after him. At the end of a week he could ride slowly on horseback: then the doctor advised him to go for a time to his estates in Picardy to regain strength. He accordingly took leave of the king, charged M. de Suffren with his adieus to the queen, who was ill that evening, and set off for his chateau at Boursonnes.


CHAPTER LIV.

TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.

On the day following the queen's visit to M. de Charny, Madlle. de Taverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petite toilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de la Motte. Andree, paler than usual, looked cold and grave: the queen, however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her head, said in her usual friendly tone, "Bon jour, petite." At last, however, Andree's silence struck her, and looking up she saw her sad expression and said, "Mon Dieu! Andree, what is the matter? Has any misfortune happened to you?"

"Yes, madame, a great one."

"What is it?"

"I am going to leave your majesty."

"Leave me!"

"Yes, madame."

"Where are you going? and what is the cause of this sudden departure?"

"Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, I mean," added Andree, blushing.

"I do not understand you--you seemed happy yesterday."

"No, madame," replied Andree, firmly. "Yesterday was one of the unhappy days of my life."

"Explain yourself."

"It would but fatigue your majesty, and the details are not worthy of your hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in my family--that I have no good to expect in this world. I come, therefore, to beg your majesty's permission to retire into a convent."

The queen rose, and although with some effort to her pride, took Andree's hand, and said: "What is the meaning of this foolish resolution? Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a brother? and were they different yesterday from to-day? Tell me your difficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother?"

Andree, trembling, and bowing low, said, "Madame, your kindness penetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolved to quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give up the vocation to which I feel called."

"Since yesterday?"

"I beg your majesty not to make me speak on this point."

"Be free, then," said the queen, rather bitterly; "only I have always shown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. But it is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets, and I trust you will be happier away than you have been here. Remember one thing, however, that my friendship does not expire with people's caprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go, Andree; you are at liberty. But where are you going to?"

"To the convent of St. Denis, madame."

"Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude and forgetfulness."

Andree, however, left the room and the castle without giving any of those explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, and without in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived at home, she found Philippe in the garden--the brother dreamed, while the sister acted. At the sight of Andree, whose duties always kept her with the queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened, which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.

He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave the service of the queen, and go into a convent.

He clasped his hands, and cried, "What! you also, sister?"

"I also! what do you mean?"

"'Tis a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to take religious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the least fitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queen with?"

"I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected, and had the right to expect, so much--why did not you remain at court? You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years."

"She is capricious, Andree."

"You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do not wish to do so."

"All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had with her."

"None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her? Oh, she is ungrateful!"

"We must pardon her, Andree; she is a little spoiled by flattery, but she has a good heart."

"Witness what she has done for you, Philippe."

"What has she done?"

"You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one stroke pay off your debts and my own."

"Very dear, it seems to me, Andree--to renounce the world at your age, and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister, if you renounce it young, you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will be passed, and you have outlived all your friends."

"You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little careful of your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have acquired titles and gold, you have only said--she is capricious, she is perfidious, and a coquette, and I prefer not to serve her. Therefore, you have renounced the world, though you have not entered into a monastery."

"You are right, sister; and were it not for our father----"

"Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him," replied Andree, bitterly. "A father should be a support to his children, or accept their support. But what does ours do? Could you confide a secret to M. de Taverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you? M. de Taverney is made to live alone in this world."

"True, Andree, but not to die alone."

"Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only to have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts respond; those whom we choose prefer others."

Philippe looked at her with astonishment. "What do you mean?" said he.

"Nothing," replied Andree, shrinking from a confidence. "I think my brain is wandering; do not attend to my words."

"But----"

Andree took his hand. "Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy, I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish. Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator. He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant to me."

"Still, Andree, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not confided to me the cause of your despair!"

"Despair!" said she, with a disdainful air. "No, thank God, I am not despairing; no, a thousand times, no."

"This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you reject the word 'despair,' I must use that of 'pique.'"

"Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the world through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your determination?"

"I should call it an incurable grief."

"Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me."

"Then," he replied, "brother and sister are alike in their lives: happy together, they have become unhappy at the same time." Then, thinking further remonstrance useless, he asked, "When do you want to go?"

"To-morrow, even to-day, if