JEANNE HAD REMARKED THE TROUBLE OF CHARNY, the solicitude of the queen, and the eagerness of both for a conversation.
After what we have already told of the meetings between Jeanne and Oliva, our readers will have been at no loss to understand the scenes in the park. Jeanne, when she came in to the queen, watched her closely, hoping to gather something from her; but Marie Antoinette was beginning to learn caution, and she guarded herself carefully. Jeanne was, therefore, reduced to conjectures. She had already ordered one of her footmen to follow M. de Charny; the man reported that he had gone into a house at the end of the park.
“There is, then, no more doubt,” thought Jeanne; “it is a lover who has seen everything, it is clear. I should be a fool not to understand. I must undo what I have done.”
On leaving Versailles, she drove to the Rue St. Claude; there she found a superb present of plate, sent to her by the cardinal. She then drove to his house, and found him radiant with joy and pride. On her entrance he ran to meet her, calling her “Dear countess,” and full of protestations and gratitude.
“Thank you, also, for your charming present. You are more than a happy man; you are a triumphant victor.”
“Countess, it frightens me; it is too much.” Jeanne smiled.
“You come from Versailles?” continued he.
“What do you expect that she said?”
“Well, you had better not ask.”
“You frighten me, Is any thing wrong? Have I come to the height of my happiness, and is the descent to begin?”
“You are very fortunate not to have been discovered.”
“Oh! with precautions, and the intelligence of two hearts and one mind—”
“That will not prevent eyes seeing through the trees.”
“I fear so.”—“ And recognized? ”
“Oh, monseigneur, if you had been—if this secret had been known to any one, Jeanne de Valois would be out of the kingdom, and you would be dead.”
“True; but tell me quickly. They have seen people walking in the park; is there any harm in that?”
“I repeat to you, if the king knew, you would be in the Bastille. But I advise you not to tempt Providence again.”
“What do you mean, dear countess?”
“I fear to understand,” he replied.
“I shall fear, if you do not promise to go no more to Versailles.”
“Because I have in my heart a love which will end only with my life.”
“So I perceive,” replied she, ironically, “and it is to arrive more quickly at this result that you persist in returning to the park; for most assuredly, if you do, your love and your life will end together.”
“Oh, countess, how fearful you are—you who were so brave yesterday!”
“I am always brave when there is no danger.”
“But I have the bravery of my race, and am happier in the presence of danger.”
“No, countess, the die is cast. Death, if it comes: but first, love. I shall return to Versailles.”
“You deceive yourself; she will not come.”
“Is that what you were sent to tell me?”
“It is what I have been preparing you for.”
“Never; and it is I who have counseled it.”
“Madame, do not plunge the knife into my heart!” cried he, in a doleful voice.
“It would be much more cruel, monseigneur, to let two foolish people destroy themselves for want of a little good advice.”
“Countess, I would rather die.”
“As regards yourself, that is easy; but, subject, you dare not dethrone your queen; man, you will not destroy a woman.”
“But confess that you do not come in her name, that she does not throw me off.”
“It is only a delay she asks?”
“Take it as you wish; but obey her orders.”
“The park is not the only place of meeting. There are a hundred safer spots—the queen can come to you, for instance.”
“Monseigneur, not a word more. The weight of your secret is too much for me, and I believe her capable, in a fit of remorse, of confessing all to the king.”
“If you saw her, you would pity her.”
“Insure your safety by your silence.”
“But she will think I have forgotten her, and accuse me of being a coward.”
“Can a woman forgive him who abandons her?”
“Do not judge her like others.”
“I believe her great and strong. I love her for her courage and her noble heart. She may count on me, as I do on her. Once more I will see her, lay bare my heart to her; and whatever she then commands, I will sacredly obey.”
Jeanne rose. “Go, then,” said she, “but go alone. I have thrown the key of the park into the river. You can go to Versailles—I shall go to Switzerland or Holland. The further off I am when the shell bursts the better.”
“Countess, you abandon me. With whom shall I talk of her?”
“Oh! you have the park and the echoes. You can teach them her name!”
“Countess, pity me; I am in despair.”
“Well, but do not act in so childish and dangerous a manner. If you love her so much, guard her name, and if you are not totally without gratitude, do not involve in your own ruin those who have served you through friendship. Swear to me not to attempt to see or speak to her for a fortnight, and I will remain, and may yet be of service to you. But if you decide to brave all, I shall leave at once, and you must extricate yourself as you can.”
“It is dreadful,” murmured the cardinal; “the fall from so much happiness is overwhelming. I shall die of it.”
“Suffering is always the consequence of love. Come, monseigneur, decide. Am I to remain here or start for Lausanne?”
“Good. Well, then, I forbid interviews, but not letters.”
The cardinal kissed Jeanne's hand again, and called her his guardian angel. The demon within her must have laughed.
