The Queen's Necklace - Alexandre Dumas père (electric book reader TXT) 📗

the queen would speak her anger out, and all would come to light. She must compromise her, and endeavor so to close her lips. But if they met by chance, what remained for her but flight? That was easy; a few hours would suffice. Then, again, she thought of the name she would leave behind her, and bear with her; no longer a woman of rank, but a thief, whom justice only does not reach, because she is too far off. No, she would not fly, if she could help it. She would try what audacity and skill could do, remain here and act between them. "To prevent them from meeting--that is the difficulty, as he is in love, and a prince, who has a right to see the queen; and she is now grateful and will no longer fly from him; but if I excite him to too open an admiration and disgust her, I alienate them more than ever. She will take fire easily, but what I want is something to make the queen tremble as well as him; something which would give me power to say, 'If you accuse me, I will accuse you and ruin you--leave me my wealth, and I will you your honor.' This is what I must seek for, and what I must find."


CHAPTER LXI

THE PRISONER.

Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue St. Claude, where M. de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house, to keep her from the pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy: Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return. Only what did he want? she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air in which we must confess poor Beausire now very rarely had a place. Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her dreams, and playing the great lady. However, her books were soon read through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the attention of the passers-by; and her delightful promenades in the Quartier St. Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after her. True, the police-agents were formidable people, but what availed safety if she was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and then regretted Beausire.

Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had been used to walk every day.

One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice, "Monsieur, I am ennuyee here."

"This is unlucky, my dear child."

"I shall die here."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well," said he, soothingly, "do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of police, who persecutes you."

"You exasperate me with your sang froid, monsieur; I would rather you flew in a passion."

"Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable," said he, seating himself.

"It is all very well for you to talk," replied she; "you come and go as you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I vegetate in the space to which you have limited me, and your assistance, is useless to me if I am to die here."

"Die!" said the count, smiling.

"You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately."

"M. Beausire?"

"Yes, Beausire, I love him. I always told you so. Did you think I had forgotten him?"

"So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him."

"Ah!"

"He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not?"

"Full of imagination and fire, rather rough toward me, but that is his way of showing his love."

"Therefore I wished to take you back to him."

"You did not wish that a month ago."

"No, but when I see how you love him."

"Ah! you are laughing at me."

"Oh, no, you have resisted all my advances so well."

"Yes, have I not?"

"It was your love for him."

"But yours, then, was not very tenacious."

"No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would always have preferred Beausire."

"Oh, but," cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle so long, "this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked; did that give you no hope?"

Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her glances.

"Let us return to Beausire," she said, piqued at his indifference; "why have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is free----"

"Because," replied Cagliostro, "Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police."

"What has he done?"

"Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people--and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can be--call it a theft."

"A theft!" cried Oliva, frightened. "Is he arrested?"

"No, but he is pursued."

"And is he in danger?"

"That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled."

"Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here, I shall end by committing some imprudence."

"What do you call imprudence?"

"Oh, just getting some fresh air."

"I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your beauty, and M. Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as much as you like."

"Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me."

"Offended me--how?"

"Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, sir, I entreat;" and she put her arms round his neck.

"Poor little thing," said he, kissing her forehead; "do not be afraid; I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments. Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you."

Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended generosity of Cagliostro. "Oh, I shall say henceforth," she cried, "that there are men superior to what I ever thought."

"All women are good," thought Cagliostro, "if you only touch the right chord.--From this evening," he said aloud, "you shall move to other rooms, where the windows look on Menilmontant and the Bellevue. You need not fear to show yourself to the neighbors; they are all honest, simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At least you will have air and sunshine."

Oliva looked pleased.

"Shall I conduct you there now?"

"Oh, yes."

He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third story, and entered a room, completely furnished, and ready for occupation.

"One would think it was prepared for me," she said.

"Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your femme-de-chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour." And he left the room.

The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, "I understand nothing of all this."


CHAPTER LXII.

THE LOOK OUT.

Oliva went to bed, and slept better. She admired the count, whom she did not in the least understand. She could no longer think him timid; she did not suspect that he was only cold and insensible. She felt pleased at the perfect safety in which he assured her she was; and in the morning she examined her new rooms, and found them nobly and luxuriously furnished, and enjoyed immensely her privilege of going out into the balcony, filled with flowers, and where she got sunshine and fresh air, although she drew back whenever she saw any one approaching, or heard a carriage coming. There were not many, however, in the Rue St. Claude. She could see the chateau of Menilmontant, the great trees in the cemetery, myriads of houses of all colors; and she could see the fields beyond, full of children at play, and the peasants trotting along the roads on their donkeys. All this charmed Oliva, who had always a heart of love for the country, since she had left Taverney Maison-Rouge. At last, getting tired of this distant view, she began to examine the houses opposite to her. In some, she saw birds in cages; and in one, hung with yellow silk curtains, and ornamented with flowers, she thought she could distinguish a figure moving about. She called her femme-de-chambre to make inquiries about them; but the woman could only show her mistress all the churches, and tell her the names of the streets; she knew nothing of the neighbors. Oliva therefore sent her away again, and determined to watch for herself.

She saw some open their doors, and come out for a walk, and others variously occupied. At last she saw the figure of a woman seat herself in an armchair, in the room with the yellow curtains, and abandon her head for an hour and a half to a hair-dresser, while he built up one of those immense edifices worn at that time, in which minerals, vegetables, and even animals, were introduced. At last, it was complete: Oliva thought she looked pretty, and admired her little foot, encased in a rose-colored slipper, which rested on another chair. She began to construct all sorts of romances about this lady, and made various movements to attract her attention, but she never turned her eyes that way, as that room had never before been occupied, and she began to despair. The lady was, of course, Jeanne de Valois, who was deeply absorbed in devising some scheme for preventing the queen and the cardinal from meeting. At last, Oliva, turning suddenly round, knocked over a flower-pot which fell from the balcony with a crash: at the sound the lady turned and saw her, and clasping her hands she called out, "The Queen;" but looking again, she murmured, "Oh! I sought for a means to gain my end, and I have found one." Then, hearing a sound behind her, Oliva turned and saw Cagliostro, and came in directly.


CHAPTER LXIII.

THE TWO NEIGHBORS.

Cagliostro recommended her using the greatest circumspection, and, above all, not to make friends