ON THE SAME DAY AT NOON THE king entered a drawing-room, where the queen was sitting in full dress, but pale through her rouge, and surrounded by a party of ladies and gentlemen. He glanced frequently toward the door. “Are not the young couple ready? I believe it is noon,” he said.
“Sire, M. de Charny is waiting in the gallery for your majesty's orders,” said the queen, with a violent effort.
“Oh! let him come in.” The queen turned from the door. “The bride ought to be here also,” continued the king, “it is time.”
“Your majesty must excuse Mademoiselle de Taverney, if she is late,” replied M. de Charny, advancing: “for since the death of her father she has not left her bed until to-day, and she fainted when she did so.”
“This dear child loved her father so much,” replied the king, “but we hope a good husband will console her. M. de Breteuil,” said he, turning to that gentleman, “have you made out the order of banishment for M. de Cagliostro?”
“And that De la Motte. Is it not today she is to be branded?”
At this moment, Andree appeared, dressed in white like a bride, and with cheeks nearly as white as her dress. She advanced leaning on her brother's arm. M. de Suffren, leading his nephew, came to meet her, and then drew back to allow her to approach the king.
“Mademoiselle,” said Louis, taking her hand, “I begged of you to hasten this marriage, instead of waiting until the time of your mourning had expired, that I might have the pleasure of assisting at the ceremony; for to-morrow I and the queen commence a tour through France.” And he led Andree up to the queen, who could hardly stand, and did not raise her eyes. The king then; putting Andree's hand into Philip's, said, “Gentlemen, to the chapel”—and they began to move. The queen knelt on her prie-Dieu, her face buried in her hands, praying for strength. Charny, though pale as death, feeling that all eyes were upon him, appeared calm and strong. Andree remained immovable as a statue: she did not pray—she had nothing to ask, to hope for, or to fear.
The ceremony over, the king kissed Andree on the forehead, saying, “Madame la Comtesse, go to the queen, she wishes to give you a wedding present.”
“Oh!” murmured Andree to Philip, “it is too much; I can bear no more; I cannot do that.”
“Courage, sister, one effort more.”
“I cannot, Philip; if she speaks to me, I shall die.”
“Then, sister, you will be happier than I, for I cannot die.”
Andree said no more, but went to the queen. She found her in her chair with closed eyes and clasped hands, seeming more dead than alive, except for the shudders which shook her from time to time. Andree waited tremblingly to hear her speak; taut, after a minute, she rose slowly, and took from the table a paper, which she put into Andree's hands. Andree opened it and read:
“Andree, you have saved me. My honor comes from you: my life belongs to you. In the name of this honor, which has cost you so dear, I swear to you that you may call me sister without blushing. This paper is the pledge of my gratitude, the dowry which I give you. Your heart is noble, and will thank me for this gift.
“MARIE ANTOINETTE DE LORRAINE D'AUTRICHE.”
Andree looked at the queen, and saw tears falling from her eyes; she seemed expecting an answer, but Andree, putting the letter in the fire, turned and left the room. Then, Charny, who was waiting for her, took her hand, and they, each pale and silent, left the room. Two traveling-carriages were in the courtyard; Andree got into one, and then said:
“Sir, I believe you go to Picardy.”
“And I to where my mother lies dead. Adieu, monsieur.” Charny bowed, but did not reply, and Andree drove off.
Charny himself, after giving his hand to Philip, got into the other, and also drove off.
Then Philip cried, in a tone of anguish, “My task is done!” and he too vanished.
