BALSAMO BOWED humbly; but no sooner had he raised his head than he fixed his bright, expressive eyes firmly but respectfully on the face of the dauphiness, and waited calmly until she should interrogate him.
“If it is you of whom the Baron de Taverney has been speaking to us, draw near, sir, that we may better see what a magician is.”
Balsamo advanced another step and bowed.
“Your profession is to foretell events, sir?” said the dauphiness, regarding him with more curiosity than she would herself have been willing to acknowledge, and sipping some milk which had been handed her.
“It is not my profession, but I do foretell events.”
“We have been brought up in an enlightened creed,” said the dauphiness, “and the only mysteries in which we believe are those of the Catholic faith.”
“They are to be venerated,” replied Balsamo, reverently; “but here is Monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan, who will tell your royal highness, though he be a prince of the Church, that they are not the only mysteries which deserve to be regarded with respect.”
The cardinal started; he had not told his name, it had not been pronounced, yet this stranger knew it. Marie Antoinette did not appear to remark this circumstance, but continued:
“You will confess, sir, that at least they are the only mysteries which cannot be controverted?”
“Madame,” answered Balsamo, with the same respect, “as well as faith there is certainty.”
“You speak rather obscurely, sir. Although thoroughly French in heart, I am but indifferently acquainted with the niceties of the language, and must beg you to be less enigmatic if I am to comprehend you.”
“And I, madame, would entreat that all may remain unexplained. I should deeply regret to unveil to so illustrious a princess a future which might not correspond to her hopes.”
“This becomes serious,” said Marie Antoinette; “the gentleman wishes to excite my curiosity, that I may command him to tell my fortune.”
“God forbid that your royal highness should force me to do it!”
“Yes,” replied the dauphiness; “for you would be rather puzzled to do it!” and she laughed.
But the dauphiness's laugh died away without meeting an echo from any of the attendants. Every one present seemed to submit tacitly to the influence of the singular man, who was, for the moment, the center of general attraction.
“Come, confess it frankly,” said the dauphiness.
“Yet it was you who predicted my arrival to the Baron de Taverney,” resumed Marie Antoinette, with a slight movement of impatience.
“And how did he do it?” she added, turning to the baron, as if she felt the necessity of a third party taking share in this strange dialogue.
“Very simply, madame—merely by looking in a glass of water.”
“Was it so?” she asked of Balsamo.
“Then, having read the future for the Baron de Taverney in a glass of water, surely you can read it for me in a decanter.”
“Because the future is uncertain; and if I saw a cloud on it—He stopped.
“It would give me pain to sadden your royal highness.”
“Have you known me before, or do you now see me for the first time? ”
“I have had the honor of seeing your royal highness when a child, in your native country, with your august mother.”
“You have seen my mother, then?”
“I have had that honor. She is a great and powerful queen.”
“I used the word queen in reference to the heart and mind; and yet—
“Reservations concerning my mother?” said the dauphiness haughtily.
“The greatest hearts have weaknesses, madame, particularly where they think the happiness of their children is concerned.”
“History, I trust, sir, will not discover one single weakness in Maria Theresa.”
“Because history will not know what is known only to the Empress Maria Theresa, to your royal highness, and to myself.”
“We have a secret, sir! we three!” said the dauphiness, smiling disdainfully.
“We three, madame!” replied Balsamo solemnly.
“Come, then, tell this secret, sir!”
“It will then be no longer one.”
“Is it your royal highness's will?”
Balsamo bowed. “There is in the Palace of Schoenbrunn,” said he, “a cabinet, called the Dresden cabinet, on account of the splendid vases of porcelain which it contains—”
“Yes,” said the dauphiness; “go on.”
“This cabinet forms a part of the private suite of rooms of the Empress Maria Theresa; in it she writes her letters.”
“On a certain day, about seven in the morning, when the empress had not yet risen, your royal highness entered this cabinet by a door through which you alone were permitted to pass; for your royal highness is the favorite daughter of her imperial majesty.”
“Your highness approached a writing desk, on which lay open a letter which her imperial majesty had written the night before. Your royal highness read that letter; and doubtless some expressions in it must have been displeasing to you, for you took a pen, and with your own hand erased three words.”
The dauphiness blushed slightly.
“What were the words erased?” she asked anxiously.
“They were too condescending, doubtless, and showed too great affection for the person to whom they were addressed. This was a weakness, and to this it was I alluded in speaking of your august mother.”
“Then you remember the words?”
“They were; 'My dear friend.'”
Marie Antoinette bit her lip and turned pale.
“Shall I tell your royal highness to whom the letter was addressed?”
“No; but you may write the name.”
Balsamo drew out a pocket-book with gold clasps, and, having written some words on one of the leaves, he tore it out, and, bowing, presented it to the dauphiness. Marie Antoinette unfolded the leaf, read it, and looked with astonishment at the man, who, though he bowed low before her, seemed to have it in his power to direct her fate.
The letter was addressed to the mistress of King Louis XV.—“To the Marchioness de Pompadour.”
“All this is true, sir,” said Marie Antoinette, after a pause; “and although I am ignorant by what means you have become acquainted with these circumstances, I cannot speak falsely, and I must declare that what you have said is true.”
“Then,” said Balsamo, “will your royal highness permit me to retire, satisfied with this harmless proof of my art?”
“No, sir,” replied the dauphiness; “the more I know of your powers, the more desirous I become to have my fate foretold. You have spoken only of the past; let me learn what the future will be.”
The princess spoke these words with a feverish impatience, which she in vain endeavored to conceal from her auditors.
“I am ready, if your royal highness commands me, to declare it; yet let me supplicate you not to do so.”
“I have never expressed a command twice; and you will recollect, sir, that I have already commanded once.”
“Let me at least consult the oracle whether it may be revealed to your royal highness or not,” he said entreatingly.
“Good or bad, sir,” replied Marie Antoinette, “I will know it. If good, I shall take it for flattery; if bad, I shall hold it as a warning, and shall be obliged to you for it. Begin!”
Balsamo took the round carafe with the narrow neck, and placed it on a golden saucer; the rays of the sun, striking on this, shone dimly yellow in the water, and seemed to offer something worthy of deep consideration to the attentive soothsayer. Every one was silent. At length he placed the carafe again on the table, and shook his head.
“Well, sir?” said the dauphiness.
“I cannot speak it,” replied Balsamo.
“You cannot, because you have nothing to tell me,” replied Marie Antoinette, a little contemptuously.
“There are things which must never be said to princes, madame,” replied Balsamo, in a tone which seemed to express his determination to oppose her wishes.
“Yes, when those things, I repeat, may be expressed by the word nothing.”
“It is not that which prevents me, madame; on the contrary, it is the very reverse.”
The dauphiness smiled disdainfully, Balsamo appeared embarrassed, the cardinal began to laugh outright, and the baron drew near, grumbling:
“So, my magician has exhausted himself! His powers have not lasted very long! It only remains for us to see all these fine things turned into vine-leaves, as we have read in Eastern tales.”
“I should rather have had the simple vine leaves,” said Marie Antoinette, “than these fine things displayed by the gentleman for the purpose of getting himself presented to me.”
“Deign to remember, madame,” replied Balsamo, who was deadly pale, “that I did not solicit this honor.”
“It was not difficult for you to guess, sir, that, I should ask to see you.”
“Pardon him, madame,” said Andree, in a low voice; “he thought he was doing right.”
“And I tell you he was doing wrong,” replied the princess, so as only to be heard by Andree and Balsamo. “No one can elevate himself by humiliating an old man; and when we can have the pewter goblet of a gentleman to drink in, we need not the golden one of a mountebank!”
Balsamo started, as if a viper had bitten him. “Madame,” said he, greatly agitated, “I am ready to let you know your destiny, since your blindness impels you to desire such knowledge.”
He pronounced these words in a tone so firm and so threatening, that all present felt the blood chilled in their veins.
“Gib im kein gehoer, meine Tochter,”* said the old lady to Marie Antoinette. “Lass sie hoeren, sie hat wissen wotten, und so sol sie wissen,”** replied Balsamo. *" Do not listen to him, my daughter.”
**"Let her—she wishes to know, and she shall know.”
These words spoken in German, a language which was understood by only a few present, seemed to render more mysterious what was going on.
“No,” said the dauphiness, resisting the entreaties of her venerable governess; “let him say what he desires to say; —were I now to permit him to be silent, he would believe me afraid.”
Balsamo heard these words, and a dark furtive smile played for a second on his lips. “It is as I said,” he muttered to himself; “the courage of bravado merely.”
“Speak!” said the dauphiness; “speak, sir.”
“Then your royal highness is decided?”
“I never go back from a decision once made.”
“In that case, madame, I would entreat that we may be alone.”
She made a sign which those around understood—all retired.
“This is not a bad plan for obtaining a private audience,” said the dauphiness, turning to Balsamo; “is it not, sir?”
“I would beg your royal highness not to irritate me!” replied Balsamo; “I am but an instrument of Providence to enlighten you on those sorrows which await you. Insult fortune, if you will—she can revenge herself; but for me, I am but the gloomy herald of the misfortunes she has in store for you.”
“Then it appears that misfortunes await me?” said the dauphiness, mildly, touched by Balsamo's respectful manner.
“First—will my family be happy?”
“That which you have left, or that to which you are going?”
“Oh, my own family—my mother, my brother Joseph, my sister Caroline?”
“Your misfortunes will not reach them.”
“They are yours, and those of your new family.”
“The royal family of France includes three princes, the Duke de Berry, the Count de Provence, and the Count D'Artois, what will be their fate?”
“Then I shall have no children?”
“My sorrows, then, will be caused by their death?”
“You will grieve that one is dead, but most will you grieve that the other lives.”
“Shall I not, then, be able to bear my grief, supported by my husband and my family?”
“The love of my people will still be mine?”
“The people!—the ocean in a calm!—have you seen the ocean in a storm, madame?”
“By doing good I shall prevent the storm; or, if it rise, shall rise above it!”
“The higher the wave, the deeper the abyss.”
“Alas! there are heads which he himself foredooms!”
“What mean you, sir; shall I not, then, be queen?”
“Yes, madame, but would to Heaven that you were not to be!”
“Did you remark,” he continued, “the tapestry of the first room in which you slept after having entered France?”
“The slaughter of the innocents.”
“Have not the grim faces of the murderers haunted your memory?”
“Had you not a storm on the way hither?”
“Yes; a thunderbolt fell, and nearly on my carriage.”
“It would be difficult to interpret them as happy ones!”
The dauphiness let her head fall on her bosom, and raising it after a minute's silence, “Speak!” said she; “in what manner shall I die?
“It is my will that you should,” she said, imperiously.
“Have mercy—have mercy on yourself!”
“Speak, sir, or I shall say that all this is but an absurd fable. Take care!—the daughter of Maria Theresa is not to be jested with!—the woman who holds in her hand the destiny of thirty millions of men is not to be trifled with!”
“You know no more,” she said, contemptuously; “your imagination is exhausted.”
“My knowledge of the future is not exhausted, madame; and if you will force me—”
He seized the carafe on the golden saucer, placed it in a dark hollow, where some rocks formed a sort of grotto; then he took the hand of the archduchess, and drew her under the vault.
“Are you ready?” he asked the princess, who was alarmed by his rapid movements.
“On your knees, then!—on your knees! —and pray to God to spare you the dreadful end of all your greatness, which you are now to witness!”
She obeyed mechanically, and fell on both knees.
He pointed with a wand to the glass globe, in the center of which must have appeared some dark and terrible form, for the dauphiness, in trying to rise, trembled and sank again to the ground with a shriek of horror—she had fainted.
The baron hastened to her assistance, and in a few minutes she came to herself. She put her hand to her forehead, as if to recall her thoughts, then suddenly exclaimed, “The carafe!—the carafe!”
The baron presented it to her. The water was perfectly limpid—not a stain mingled with it. Balsamo was gone.
