Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 82

"I am ready for any thing--that you know well. Tell me what I shall do."

"You must yourself direct a few lines to the young man, conjuring him in the name of his mother to fly, to save himself from the anger of the First Consul--to leave Europe."

"Oh! Fouche, how sly you are!" said Josephine, sadly.

"You want my handwriting, in order to justify yourself to the First Consul in case of emergency, very good. I will write the billet."

She hastened to her table, dashed a few words upon paper, and then pa.s.sed the note to Fouche. "Read it," she said; "it contains all that is necessary, does it not?"

"Yes, madame; and you have written in such beautiful and moving words, that the young man will be melted, and will obey you. Will you now have the goodness to put the note in an envelope and to address it?"

She folded it, and put it into an envelope. "To whom shall I address it?" she then asked.

"Address it to King Louis XVII."

She did so with a quick stroke of the pen and handed the letter to Fouche. "Take it," she said, "it is your justification. And in order that you may be entirely secure," she continued, with a slight smile, "retain this letter yourself. What I would say to this young man I would rather communicate by word of mouth."

"How," cried Fouche, " you want--"

"To see and speak with the king," she said, sorrowfully, "to beg his forgiveness for myself and Bonaparte. Hush! do not oppose me, I am resolved upon it. I want to see the young man."

"But he cannot come here, madame--here, into the very den of the lion."

"No, not here, into the desecrated palace of the kings," she answered, bitterly. "No, he cannot come here--I shall go to him."

"You are jesting, madame, it is impossible. You, the wife of the First Consul, you will--"

"I want to fulfil a duty of grat.i.tude and of loyalty, Fouche. In my heart I still feel myself the subject of the queen. Let me follow the call of my heart! Listen! My carriage stands ready. I was intending to drive to my friend Madame Tallien. I will take a pleasure-drive instead. In the Bois de Boulogne I will cause the carriage to stop, send it away, and return on foot. You will await in there with a fiacre and take me to the king."

"It shall be so," said Fouche. "Your will shall be my law. I only ask that you hasten, for you know well that I have much to do to- day. I shall take advantage of the time to procure for the young man the necessary pa.s.sports for travel. But, madame, you must help him leave the city. For you know that the gates are all closed."

"I will tell Bonaparte that I am troubled to be in the city, now that it is so shut in. I will drive out to St. Cloud. His carriage can follow mine, and if the gate-keeper puts hinderances in the way, I will command him to let Louis pa.s.s. Now let us hasten!"

An hour later Josephine, after dismissing her equipage with the servants, entered the fiacre which was waiting for her near the fountain. Fouche received her there, and was unwearied in his complaints of the poor carriage which the wife of the First Consul must use.

Josephine smiled, "My dear sir," she said, "there have been times when I should have been very proud and very happy to have had such a fiacre as this, and not to have been compelled to walk through the muddy streets of Paris. Let it be as it is! The present days of superfluity have not made me proud, and I have a vivid recollection of the past. But tell me, Fouche, whither are we driving, and where does the young king live?"

"We are driving, if you graciously approve of it, to my house, and I have brought the young man there, for in his own house he is no longer safe. I have had it surrounded by agents of the secret police, with orders to arrest him on his return. He will, of course, not return, and it will be easier to a.s.sume the appearance that he received an intimation of his peril and escaped in season. But here we are before my door, and if you will draw the thick veil which happily you have fastened to your bonnet, carefully before your face, I hope that no one will see that the most beautiful lady in Paris honors my house with her distinguished presence."

Josephine made no reply to this flattery, but drew the black lace veil closely over her face, and hastened to leave the fiacre, and entered the house.

"Fouche," she whispered, as she ascended the staircase, "my heart beats as violently as it did when I drove to the Tuileries to be presented to Marie Antoinette. It was the first time that I spoke with the Queen of France."

"And now, madame," said Fouche, with a smile, "you will speak with the last King of France."

"Does he know who I am?"

"No, madame; I have left it to you to inform him. Here we are at the saloon--he is within!"

"Wait only a moment, Fouche. I must collect myself. My heart beats dreadfully. Now, now you may open the door!"

They entered the little saloon. Josephine stood still near the door, and while she hastily removed her bonnet and the thick veil and handed them to Fouche, her large, brilliant, brown eyes were turned to the young man who stood in the window-niche, his hands calmly folded over his breast. In this att.i.tude, with the calm look of his face, the gentle glance of his blue eyes, he bore so close a resemblance to the pictures which represented Louis XVI. in his youth, that Josephine could not repress a cry of surprise, and hastened forward to the young man, who now advanced out of the window recess. "Madame," he said, bowing low before this beautiful and dignified lady whom he did not know, but whose sympathizing face made his heart tremble--"madame, doubtless you are the lady whom M.

Fouche said I might expect to meet here."

"Yes, I am she," replied Josephine, with a voice trembling with emotion, her eyes, flooded with tears, all the while being fixed on the grave, youthful face which brought back so many memories of the past. "I have come to see you and to bring you the greetings of a man whom you loved, who revered you, and who died blessing you."

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Louis, turning pale.

"Men called him Toulan," whispered Josephine. "Queen Marie Antoinette termed him Fidele."

"Fidele!" cried Louis, in a tone of anguish. "Fidele is dead!--my deliverer, he whose fidelity and bravery released me from my dreadful prison. Oh, madame, what sad thoughts do you bring back with his name!"

Josephine turned with a triumphant look to Fouche, who was still standing behind her in the neighborhood of the door. Her look said, "You see he is no traitor, he has stood the proof."

Fouche understood the language of this look perfectly, and a smile played over his features. Then Josephine turned again to the young man.

"You did not know that Toulan was dead?" she asked, softly.

"How could I know it?" he cried, bitterly. "I was taken at that time to a solitary castle, where I remained several years, and then I went to Germany, and from that time I have always lived in foreign parts. Since I have been in Paris I have made the effort to learn something about him, but no one could inform me, and so I solaced myself with the hope that he had really gone to America, for that was his object, as the other gentleman who a.s.sisted me in my release informed me at that time."

"This other gentleman," said Josephine, softly, "was the Baron de Jarjayes, and the child who was carried into the Temple was the--"

"The son of the Count de Frotte," rejoined Louis.

"Fouche, it is he!" cried Josephine. "It is the son of my n.o.ble, unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette.--Oh, sire, let me testify my homage to you, as becomes a subject when she stands before her king.

Sire, I bow my knee before you, and I would gladly pour out my whole life in tears, and with each of these tears beg your forgiveness for France, for us all."

And the beautiful, pa.s.sionate creole sank upon her knee, and raised her tearful eyes to the young man who, perplexed and blushing, gazed at her, then hastily stooped to her and conjured her to rise.

"Not, sire," she cried, "until you tell me that you have forgiven me--that you have forgiven us all."

"I forgive you? What have I to forgive in you? Monsieur Fouche, who is this lady who knows me and my destinies, and who brings me greetings from Fidele? What have I to forgive in her? Who is she?

Tell me her name?"

"Monsieur," said Fouche, slowly approaching, "this lady is--"

"Hush! Fouche, I will tell him myself," interrupted Josephine.

"Sire, when your beautiful, exalted mother was still living in Versailles, I had the honor to be presented to her, both at the grand receptions and at the minor ones. One day--it was already in the unhappy Reign of Terror--when the queen had left Versailles and Trianon, and was already living in the Tuileries, I went thither to pay my respects."

"That is to say, madame," cried Louis, "you were a brave and loyal woman, for only the brave and the loyal ventured then to go to the Tuileries. Oh, speak on! speak on! You wanted to pay your respects to the queen, you were saying; she received you, did she not? You were taken into the little saffron saloon?"

"No, sire, the queen was not there, she was in the little music- hall; and, because at that time etiquette was no longer rigidly enforced, I was allowed to accompany the Marchioness de Tourzel into the music-room. The queen did not notice our entrance, for she was singing. I remained standing at the door, and contemplated the wondrous picture that I saw there. The queen, in a simple white dress, her light brown, slightly powdered hair concealed by a black lace head-dress, sat at the spinet on which her white hands rested.

Near her in the window-niche sat madame, engaged with her embroidery. Very near her sat, in a little arm-chair, a boy of five years, a lovely child, with long golden locks, with large blue eyes, and looking like an angel. The little hands, surrounded by lace wristbands, leaned on the support of the chair, while his looks rested incessantly upon the countenance of the queen, and his whole child's soul was absorbed in the gaze which he directed to his mother. The queen was singing, and the tones of her soulful voice resound still in my heart. The song was this:

'Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent le coeur: Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere A bien a.s.sez de sa douleur.'

And while she sang she turned her head toward her son, who listened to her motionless and as if enchanted. 'See,' cried madame, the sister of the pretty boy, 'I believe Louis Charles has fallen asleep.' The child started up, and a glowing redness suffused his cheeks. 'Oh! Theresa,' he cried, 'how could any one go to sleep when my mamma queen was singing'?' His mother stooped down to him, pressed a long kiss upon his brow, and a tear fell from her eyes upon his golden hair. I saw it, and involuntarily my eyes filled; I could not hold back my tears, aud went softly out to compose myself.

Sire, I see you still before me--this beautiful queen and her children--and it is with me to-day as then, I must weep."