The Queen's Necklace
"But you forget that the house was half burned down."
And they would pursue their way.
Opposite this ruin was a high narrow house inclosed within a garden wall. From the upper windows, a light was to be seen; the rest was shrouded in darkness. Either all the inhabitants were already asleep, or they were very economical of wood and candles, which certainly were frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only that we have any business.
We must, in the first place, take a survey of the house, and, ascending the staircase, open the first door. This room is empty and dark, however, but it opens into another of which the furniture deserves our attention.
The doors were gaudily painted, and it contained easy chairs covered in white, with yellow velvet trimming, and a sofa to match; the cushions of which, however, were so full of the wrinkles of old age as scarcely to be cushions any longer. Two portraits hanging on the walls next attracted attention. A candle and a lamp – one placed on a stand, about three feet high, and the other on the chimney-piece – threw a constant light on them.
The first was a well-known portrait of Henry III., King of France and Poland; a cap on his head, surmounting his long pale face and heavy eyes; a pointed beard, and a ruff round his neck.
Under it was the inscription, traced in black letters, on a badly-gilded frame, "Henri de Valois."
The other portrait, of which the gilding was newer, and the painting more fresh and recent, represented a young lady with black eyes, a straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a tower of hair and ribbons, to which the cap of Henry III. was in the proportion of a mole-hill to a pyramid.
Under this portrait was inscribed, "Jeanne de Valois."
Glance at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains, and then turn towards a little oak table in the corner; for there, leaning on her elbow, and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of this portrait.
A few steps off, in an attitude half curious, half respectful, stands a little old woman, apparently about sixty.
"Jeanne de Valois," says the inscription; but if this lady be indeed a Valois, one wonders however the portrait of Henry III., the sybarite king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name.
In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did no discredit to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to time she rubbed together, as if to endeavor to put some warmth into them; her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet slipper, was small and pretty.
The wind whistled through all the old doors, and penetrated the crevices of the shaking windows; and the old servant kept glancing sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation, talking aloud as she did so.
"Madame de Misery," she murmured; "first lady of the bedchamber to her majesty – I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has already given to me once." And she sighed. "Madame Patrick, lady's-maid to her majesty, two louis; M. d'Ormesson, an audience; M. de Calonne, some good advice, M. de Rohan, a visit; at least, we will try to induce him," said she, smiling at the thought. "Well, then, I think I may hope for eight louis within a week." Then, looking up, "Dame Clotilde," she said, "snuff this candle."
The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place. This kind of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, "Pray go and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me; this tallow is odious."
"There is none," replied the old woman.
"But just look."
"Where?"
"In the ante-chamber."
"It is so cold there."
"There is some one ringing," said the young lady.
"Madame is mistaken," replied the obstinate old woman.
"I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde;" then, abandoning the attempt, she turned again to her calculations. "Eight louis! Three I owe for the rent, and five I have promised to M. de la Motte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched him as yet – but patience;" and she smiled again, and looked at herself in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. "Well, then," she continued, "I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but," said she, starting up, "some one is ringing!"
"No, madame," replied the old woman. "It is below, on the next floor."
"But I tell you it is not," said she angrily, as the bell rang yet louder.
Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and seated herself on the sofa, assuming the air of a person humble and resigned, although suffering.
It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door.
At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, "Is it here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives?"
"Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois," replied Clotilde.
"It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home?"
"Yes, madame; she is too ill to go out."
During this colloquy, the pretended invalid saw reflected in the glass the figure of a lady talking to Clotilde, unquestionably belonging to the higher ranks. She then saw her turn round, and say to some one behind, "We can go in – it is here."
And the two ladies we have before seen asking the way prepared to enter the room.
"Whom shall I announce to the countess?" said Clotilde.
"Announce a Sister of Charity," said the elder lady.
"From Paris?"
"No; from Versailles."
Clotilde entered the room, and the strangers followed her.
Jeanne de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to receive her visitors.
Clotilde placed chairs for them, and then unwillingly withdrew.
CHAPTER III.
JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS
The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte was to examine the faces of her visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder lady, who might have been, as we have said, about thirty-two years of age, was remarkably beautiful, although, at first sight, a great air of hauteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingué that Jeanne could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory glance.
She, however, seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from the light, so as to be little seen.
Her companion appeared four or five years younger, and was not less beautiful. Her complexion was charming; her hair, drawn back from her temples, showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face; two large blue eyes, calm and serene; a well-formed mouth, indicating great frankness of disposition; a nose that rivaled the Venus de Medicis; such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne de Valois.
She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honor of their visit.
The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, "Madame, for I believe you are married – "
"I have the honor to be the wife of M. le Comte de la Motte, an excellent gentleman."
"Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on the subject."
"Mesdames," replied Jeanne, "you see there the portrait of Henry III., that is to say, of the brother of my grandfather, for I am truly of the race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told." And she waited for the next question, looking at her visitors with a sort of proud humility.
"Madame," said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, "is it true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a place called Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?"
Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, "It is true, madame; and," she went on, "as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of rare beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by my father that I am nobly descended; he was a St. Rémy de Valois, direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne."
"But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame?"
"Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the accession of Henry IV., by which the crown passed from the house of Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably."
The two ladies made a sign of assent.
"Then," continued Jeanne, "these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious to the reigning family, changed their name of Valois into that of St. Rémy, which they took from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their ancient kings."
Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity and mildness which created a favorable impression.
"You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame," said the elder lady, with kindness.
"Oh, madame," she replied, with a bitter smile, "proofs are not wanting – my father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole legacy; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will recognize?"
"Your father is then dead?" asked the younger lady.
"Alas! yes."
"Did he die in the provinces?"
"No, madame."
"At Paris, then?"
"Yes."
"In this room?"
"No, madame; my father, Baron de Valois, great-nephew of the King Henry III., died of misery and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with the suffering wretches in the Hôtel Dieu!"
The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.
"From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident, great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father."
"Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that my father's death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes."
"How, madame! You regard as a minor evil the death of your father?" said the elder lady, with a frown.
"Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in this life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his bread."
"To beg his bread?"
"Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself."
"But you do not speak of your mother?"
"Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my mother."
The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange words.
"Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account of your misfortunes?"
"The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such a long catalogue of woes."
"Speak, madame," said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and stared at her with some astonishment.
"I listen, madame," she then said, in a more gentle tone; "if you will be good enough to inform us what we ask."
Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and fearing she felt cold, pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had discovered under one of the chairs.
"Keep it yourself, my sister," said she, pushing it back again. "You are more delicate than I."
"Indeed, madame," said Jeanne, "it grieves me much to see you suffer from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted a week ago."
"You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother," said the elder lady, returning to the subject.
"Yes, madame. Doubtless, such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it not?" said Jeanne; "but hear my explanation. I have already had the honor to tell you that my father made a mésalliance, and married his housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and proud of the honor he had done her, began by ruining my father, which certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.
"His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates in the lowest ranks of the army; the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our departure, before the house of a neighboring farmer.
"The journey exhausted our little resources – my father wore himself out in fruitless appeals – we scarcely ever saw him – our house was wretched – and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her discontent and ill-humor upon me: she even reproached me with what I ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The neighbors, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I experienced. He endeavored to protect me, but his interference only served to embitter her still more against me.
"At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not wish to be beaten to death."
"And what was this sentence?" asked the elder lady.
"It was this, madame: 'Have pity on a little orphan, who descends in a direct line from Henri de Valois.'"
"What a shame!" cried the ladies.
"But what effect did this produce on the people?" inquired Andrée.
"Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped: I generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious to me, that at last, one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a doorstep all the time, and returned in the evening empty-handed. My mother beat me so that the next day I fell ill; then my poor father, deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the Hôtel Dieu, where he died."
"Oh! what a horrible history," cried the ladies.
"What became of you after your father's death?" asked the elder lady.
"God took pity upon me a month after my father's death, my mother ran away with a soldier, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity, although we never begged for more than enough to eat. One day, I saw a carriage going slowly along the Faubourg Saint Marcel. There were four footmen behind, and a beautiful lady inside; I held out my hand to her for charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike her with surprise. She asked for my address, and the next day made inquiries, and finding that I had told her the truth, she took charge of my brother and myself; she placed my brother in the army, and me with a dressmaker."
"Was not this lady Madame de Boulainvilliers?"
"It was."
"She is dead, I believe?"
"Yes; and her death deprived me of my only protector."
"Her husband still lives, and is rich."
"Ah, madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown tall, and, as he thought, pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile, Madame de Boulainvilliers died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, M. de la Motte, but, separated from him, I seemed more abandoned after her death than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, madame, which I have shortened as much as possible, in order not to weary you."
"Where, then, is your husband?" asked the elder lady.
"He is in garrison at Bar-sur-Aube; he serves in the gendarmerie, and is waiting, like myself, in hopes of better times."
"But you have laid your case before the court?"
"Undoubtedly."
"The name of Valois must have awakened some sympathy."
"I know not, madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have received no answer to any of my petitions."
"You have seen neither the ministers, the king, nor the queen?"
"No one. Everywhere I have failed."
"You cannot now beg, however."
"No, madame; I have lost the habit; but I can die of hunger, like my poor father."
"You have no child?"
"No, madame; and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his king, will find for himself a glorious end to all our miseries."
"Can you, madame – I beg pardon if I seem intrusive – but can you bring forward the proofs of your genealogy?"
Jeanne rose, opened a drawer, and drew out some papers, which she presented to the lady, who rose to come nearer the light, that she might examine them; but seeing that Jeanne eagerly seized this opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to do, she turned away as if the light hurt her eyes, turning her back to Madame de la Motte.
"But," said she, at last, "these are only copies."
"Oh! madame, I have the originals safe, and am ready to produce them."
"If any important occasion should present itself, I suppose?" said the lady, smiling.
"It is, doubtless, madame, an important occasion which procures me the honor of your visit, but these papers are so precious – "
"That you cannot show them to the first comer. I understand you."
"Oh, madame!" cried the countess; "you shall see them;" and opening a secret drawer above the other, she drew out the originals, which were carefully inclosed in an old portfolio, on which were the arms of the Valois.
The lady took them, and after examining them, said, "You are right; these are perfectly satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in readiness to produce them when called upon by proper authority."
"And what do you think I may expect, madame?" asked Jeanne.
"Doubtless a pension for yourself, and advancement for M. de la Motte, if he prove worthy of it."
"My husband is an honorable man, madame, and has never failed in his military duties."
"It is enough, madame," said the lady, drawing her hood still more over her face. She then put her hand in her pocket, and drew out first the same embroidered handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her face when in the sledge, then a small roll about an inch in diameter, and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonier, saying, "The treasurer of our charity authorizes me, madame, to offer you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better."
Madame de la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll. "Three-franc pieces," thought she, "and there must be nearly a hundred of them; what a boon from heaven."
While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the outer room, where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair.
The candle was burning out in the socket, and the smell which came from it made the ladies draw out their smelling-bottles. Jeanne woke Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end.
"Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse," said they.
"Where may I have the honor of coming to thank you?" asked Jeanne.
"We will let you know," replied the elder lady, going quickly down the stairs.
Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her rouleau, but her foot struck against something, and stooping to pick it up, she saw a small flat gold box.
She was some time before she could open it, but having at last found the spring, it flew open and disclosed the portrait of a lady possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a collar like an order. An M and a T encircled by a laurel wreath ornamented the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt, from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her, that it was that of her mother, or some near relation.
She ran to the stairs to give it back to them; but hearing the street-door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window, but arrived there only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away. She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present, and turned again to the little rouleau.
When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy, "Double louis, fifty double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs!" and transported at the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life, she remained with clasped hands and open lips. "A hundred louis," she repeated; "these ladies are then very rich. Oh! I will find them again."
CHAPTER IV.
BELUS
Madame de la Motte was not wrong in thinking that the cabriolet which she saw driving off contained the two ladies who had just left her.
They had, in fact, found it waiting for them on their exit. It was lightly built, open and fashionable, with high wheels, and a place behind for a servant to stand. It was drawn by a magnificent bay horse of Irish breed, short-tailed, and plump, which was driven by the same man whom we have already heard addressed by the name of Weber. The horse had become so impatient with waiting, that it was with some difficulty that Weber kept him stationary.
When he saw the ladies, he said, "Madame, I intended to bring Scipio, who is gentle and easy to manage, but unluckily he received an injury last evening, and I was forced to bring Bélus, and he is rather unmanageable."
"Oh, Weber, I do not mind in the least," said the lady; "I am well used to driving, and not at all timid."
"I know how well madame drives, but the roads are so bad. Where are we to go?"
"To Versailles."
"By the boulevards then, madame?"
"No, Weber; it freezes hard, and the boulevards will be dreadful; the streets will be better."
He held the horse for the ladies to get in, then jumped up behind, and they set off at a rapid pace.
"Well, Andrée, what do you think of the countess?" asked the elder lady.
"I think, madame," she replied, "that Madame de la Motte is poor and unfortunate."
"She has good manners, has she not?"
"Yes, doubtless."
"You are somewhat cold about her, Andrée."
"I must confess, there is a look of cunning in her face that does not please me."
"Oh, you are always difficult to please, Andrée; to please you, one must have every good quality. Now, I find the little countess interesting and simple, both in her pride and in her humility."
"It is fortunate for her, madame, that she has succeeded in pleasing you."
"Take care!" cried the lady, at the same time endeavoring to check her horse, which nearly ran over a street-porter at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine.
"Gare!" shouted Weber, in the voice of the Stentor.
They heard the man growling and swearing, in which he was joined by several people near, but Bélus soon carried them away from the sound, and they quickly reached the Place Baudoyer.
From thence the skilful conductress continued her rapid course down the Rue de la Tisseranderie, a narrow unaristocratic street, always crowded. Thus, in spite of the reiterated warnings of herself and Weber, the numbers began to increase around them, many of whom cried fiercely, "Oh! the cabriolet! down with the cabriolet!"