The Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas père (best e books to read .TXT) 📕

know her; it is Andree de Taverney."

Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her heart, and could hardly support herself.

"Mademoiselle de Taverney? but she has gone to St. Denis."

"Yes, sire," replied the queen.

"But she has taken no vows."

"No, but she is about to do so."

"We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows?"

"She is poor," said the queen.

"That I can soon alter, madame, if M. de Charny loves her."

The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging him to deny it. He did not speak.

"And I dare say," continued the king, taking his silence for consent, "that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves M. de Charny. I will give her as dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank the queen, M. de Charny, for telling me of this, and ensuring your happiness."

Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received an instant's life.

"Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!" said the king.

The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who left on it a burning kiss.

"Now," said the king, "come with me."

M. de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen.


CHAPTER LXXXI.

ST. DENIS.

The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andree even the chance of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she refused, would not the king's suspicions reawaken, and everything seem only the worse for this falsehood? She dared not risk this--she must go to Andree and confess, and implore her to make this sacrifice; or if she would only temporize, the king's suspicions might pass away, and he might cease to interest himself about it. Thus the liberty of Mlle. de Taverney would not be sacrificed, neither would that of M. de Charny; and she would be spared the remorse of having sacrificed the happiness of two people to her honor. She longed to speak again to Charny, but feared discovery; and she knew she might rely upon him to ratify anything she chose to say. Three o'clock arrived--the state dinner and the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her carriage, and, without any guards, and only one companion, drove to St. Denis, and asked to see Andree. Andree was at that moment kneeling, dressed in her white peignoir; and praying with fervor. She had quitted the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen occupied all his thoughts? Yet, when she heard that the queen was asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavoring to think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.

"Come here, Andree," said the queen, with a smile, as she entered.


CHAPTER LXXXII.

A DEAD HEART.

"Andree," continued the queen, "it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb."

"Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty."

"That was never my wish," said the queen; "tell me truly, Andree, had you to complain of me when you were at court?"

"Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame."

"But often," said the queen, "a grief hurts us which is not personal; have I injured any one belonging to you? Andree, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such."

Andree felt touched. "Your majesty knows," said she, "that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies."

"I understand," replied the queen; "you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of caprice."

"My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen," said Andree, coldly.

The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andree on this subject; so she said only, "Well, at least, I am ever your friend."

"Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness."

"Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?"

"I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world." She colored as she spoke.

"You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed place."

"Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead."

"Your heart dead, Andree? you, so young and beautiful."

"I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day."

"Then you like the convent?"

"I embrace with pleasure a solitary life."

"Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?"

"Nothing!"

"Mon dieu!" thought the queen; "shall I fail? If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de Charny--heavens, how unhappy I am!--Andree," she said, "what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived."

"What hope, madame?"

"Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak."

"If your majesty would explain----"

"You never regret what you have done?"

"Never, madame."

"Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations."

"Still, if your majesty would tell me----"

"Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court."

"Never!"

"You refuse me?"

"Oh, madame, why should you wish me?--sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present."

"But," said the queen, "what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies."

"A marriage?" stammered Andree.

"Yes."

"Oh, I refuse, I refuse!"

"Andree!" cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.

"Ah, no, I refuse!"

Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andree said, "But, madame, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life."

"M. de Charny," said the queen, with an effort.

"M. de Charny?"----

"Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren."

"It is he!" cried Andree, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; "he consents----"

"He asks you in marriage."

"Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him."

The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andree kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. "Oh, I am ready," murmured she.

"Come, then!" cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.

Andree left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, "Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering? and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame?"


CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT.

Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure. He did not wish to witness the dishonor of the queen, his first and only passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father. For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to feed on the scandals circulating at the court--they were meat and drink to him. When he received his son's message, instead of sending for him, he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andree had already left him, and it was one less to torment, and he must feel a blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear his father call out, with a burst of laughter, "Oh, mon Dieu! he is going away, I was sure of it, I would have bet upon it. Well played, Philippe, well played."

"What is well played, sir?"

"Admirable!" repeated the old man.

"You give me praises, sir, which I neither understand nor merit, unless you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me."

"Oh! oh!" laughed the old man again, "I am not your dupe. Do you think I believe in your departure?"

"You do not believe? really, sir, you surprise me."

"Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right to pretend to leave; without this ruse all, probably, would have been discovered."

"Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to me."

"Where do you say you go to?"

"I go first to Taverney Maison Rouge."

"Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she is so fiery and incautious, that you must be prudent for both. What is your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news?"

"Taverney, monsieur."

"Taverney, nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have managed so well for your love, can easily manage this."

"Sir, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution."

"Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets, tell me nothing of the huntsman's house, nor the nightly walks with two dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses."

"Monsieur!" cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, "will you hold your tongue?"

"Well, I know it all--your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in the baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever."

"Monsieur, you cause me horror!" cried poor Philippe, hiding his face in his hands. And, indeed, he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself all the happiness of another. All the rumors that the father had heard, he had assigned to his son, and believed that it was he that the queen loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.

"Yes," he went on, "some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny; not one