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

shame and despair of being accused of such
crimes, begin to exhaust my courage, and I tremble lest my
constancy should at last give way. Your majesty might end all this
by a few words to M. de Breteuil, who could give the affair in the
king's eyes any color your majesty likes without compromising you.
It is the fear of being compelled to reveal all which makes me beg
your majesty to take steps to relieve me from my painful position.
I am, with profound respect,

"Your humble servant,

"JEANNE DE LA MOTTE."


Jeanne calculated either that this letter would frighten the queen, or, what was more probable, would never reach her hands, but be carried by the messenger to the governor of the Bastile, where it could hardly fail to tell against the queen. She then wrote to the cardinal:


"I cannot conceive, monseigneur, why you persist in not speaking
plainly. It seems to me that your best plan would be to confide
fully in our judges. As for me, I am resolved to be silent if you
will not second me; but why do you not speak? Explain all the
circumstances of this mysterious affair, for if I were to speak
first, and you not support me, I should be sacrificed to the
vengeance of her who wishes to ruin us. But I have written her a
letter which will perhaps induce her to spare us, who have nothing
to reproach ourselves with."


This letter she gave to the cardinal at their last confrontation. He grew pale with anger at her audacity, and left the room. Then Jeanne produced her letter to the queen, and begged the Abbe Lekel, chaplain of the Bastile, who had accompanied the cardinal, and was devoted to him, to take charge of it and convey it to the queen. He refused to take it. She declared that if he did not she would produce M. de Rohan's letters to the queen. "And take care, sir," added she, "for they will cause his head to fall on the scaffold."

At this moment the cardinal reappeared.

"Madame," said he, "let my head fall, so that I have the satisfaction of seeing also the scaffold which you shall mount as a thief and a forger. Come, Abbe." He went away, leaving Jeanne devoured with rage and disappointment at her failures at every turn.


CHAPTER LXXXIX.

THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE.

Madame de la Motte had deceived herself on all points, Cagliostro upon none. Once in the Bastile, he saw a good opportunity for working at the ruin of the monarchy, which he had been trying to undermine for so many years. He prepared the famous letter, dated from London, which appeared a month after. In this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal, and even M. de Breteuil, he said, "Yes, I repeat, now free after my imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six months in the Bastile. They ask me if I shall ever return to France? Yes, I reply, when the Bastile becomes a public promenade. You have all that is necessary to happiness, you Frenchmen; a fertile soil and genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. You only want, my friends, one little thing--to feel sure of sleeping quietly in your beds when you are innocent."

Oliva kept her word faithfully to Cagliostro, and uttered no word that could compromise him. She threw all the blame on Madame de la Motte, and asserted vehemently her own innocent participation in what she believed to be a joke, played on a gentleman unknown to her. All this time she did not see Beausire, but she had a souvenir of him; for in the month of May she gave birth to a son. Beausire was allowed to attend the baptism, which took place in the prison, which he did with much pleasure, swearing that if Oliva ever recovered her liberty he would make her his wife.


CHAPTER XC.

THE TRIAL.

The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to the Conciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent; Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent, menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.

The first who took his place on the wooden stool, which was appropriated for the accused, was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois, threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was best able to answer this question himself. "Ask him to produce them," said she; "I wish to say nothing about them." She inspired in nearly all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her; and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an armchair brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four attendants, and the governor of the Bastile walked by his side. At his entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it was echoed by loud shouts from without--it was the people who cheered him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him, and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not pronounced till the following day. Jeanne seated herself early at the window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she distinctly heard a passer-by say, "A grand day for the cardinal!" "For the cardinal," thought Jeanne; "then he is acquitted;" and she ran to M. Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. "He must be acquitted!" she said; "they said it was a grand day for him. But I----"

"Well, madame," said he, "if he is acquitted, why should you not be acquitted also?"

Jeanne returned to the window. "You are wrong, madame," said Madame Hubert to her; "you only become agitated, without perfectly understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel comes to communicate your fate."

"I cannot," said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the street.

A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. "He shall have my bouquet, the dear man!" said she. "Oh, I would embrace him if I could!"

"And I also," said another.

"He is so handsome!" said a third.

"It must be the cardinal," said Jeanne; "he is acquitted."

And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, "But, madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released?"

Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, "Oh, you misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish ill to my companions in misfortune? Oh no; I trust he is free. It is only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing."

"We do not know," replied they.

Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of "Vive Cagliostro!" were mingled with the shouts for M. de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the queen's victims; but suddenly the thought flashed on her, "They are already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!" and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach, which was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognized Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her, holding her child in her arms. Then Jeanne, seeing all these people free, happy, and feted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not also liberated, or at least told her fate.

"Calm yourself, madame," said Madame Hubert.

"But tell me, for you must know."

"Madame."

"I implore you! You see how I suffer."

"We are forbidden, madame."

"Is it so frightful that you dare not?"

"Oh no; calm yourself."

"Then speak."

"Will you be patient, and not betray us?"

"I swear."

"Well, the cardinal is acquitted."

"I know it."

"M. de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are also acquitted, M. Reteau condemned to the galleys----"

"And I?" cried Jeanne, furiously.

"Madame, you promised to be patient."

"See--speak--I am calm."

"Banished," said the woman, feebly.

A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame Hubert. "What would it have been," thought she, "if I had told her the truth!"

"Banishment!" thought Jeanne; "that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it is what I hoped for. I have won!"


CHAPTER XCI.

THE EXECUTION.

Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being now at ease, said to herself, "What do I care that I am thought more guilty than M. de Rohan? I am banished--that is to say, I can carry away my million and a half with me, and live under the orange trees of Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer. Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as I please among my friends."

Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her future plans, the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in London. This brought to her mind M. Reteau. "Poor fellow!" thought she, "it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes,