Part 31 (1/2)
”The d.u.c.h.esse de la Valliere wept for lost happiness and vanished power; but the d.u.c.h.esse de Langeais will be happy that she may weep and be a power for you still. Yes, you will regret me. I see clearly that I was not of this world, and I thank you for making it clear to me.
”Farewell; you will never touch _my_ axe. Yours was the executioner's axe, mine is G.o.d's; yours kills, mine saves. Your love was but mortal, it could not endure disdain or ridicule; mine can endure all things without growing weaker, it will last eternally. Ah! I feel a sombre joy in crus.h.i.+ng you that believe yourself so great; in humbling you with the calm, indulgent smile of one of the least among the angels that lie at the feet of G.o.d, for to them is given the right and the power to protect and watch over men in His name. You have but felt fleeting desires, while the poor nun will shed the light of her ceaseless and ardent prayer about you, she will shelter you all your life long beneath the wings of a love that has nothing of earth in it.
”I have a presentiment of your answer; our trysting place shall be--in heaven. Strength and weakness can both enter there, dear Armand; the strong and the weak are bound to suffer. This thought soothes the anguish of my final ordeal. So calm am I that I should fear that I had ceased to love you if I were not about to leave the world for your sake.
”ANTOINETTE.”
”Dear Vidame,” said the d.u.c.h.ess as they reached Montriveau's house, ”do me the kindness to ask at the door whether he is at home.” The Vidame, obedient after the manner of the eighteenth century to a woman's wish, got out, and came back to bring his cousin an affirmative answer that sent a shudder through her. She grasped his hand tightly in hers, suffered him to kiss her on either cheek, and begged him to go at once.
He must not watch her movements nor try to protect her. ”But the people pa.s.sing in the street,” he objected.
”No one can fail in respect to me,” she said. It was the last word spoken by the d.u.c.h.ess and the woman of fas.h.i.+on.
The Vidame went. Mme de Langeais wrapped herself about in her cloak, and stood on the doorstep until the clocks struck eight. The last stroke died away. The unhappy woman waited ten, fifteen minutes; to the last she tried to see a fresh humiliation in the delay, then her faith ebbed.
She turned to leave the fatal threshold.
”Oh, G.o.d!” the cry broke from her in spite of herself; it was the first word spoken by the Carmelite.
Montriveau and some of his friends were talking together. He tried to hasten them to a conclusion, but his clock was slow, and by the time he started out for the Hotel de Langeais the d.u.c.h.ess was hurrying on foot through the streets of Paris, goaded by the dull rage in her heart. She reached the Boulevard d'Enfer, and looked out for the last time through falling tears on the noisy, smoky city that lay below in a red mist, lighted up by its own lamps. Then she hailed a cab, and drove away, never to return. When the Marquis de Montriveau reached the Hotel de Langeais, and found no trace of his mistress, he thought that he had been duped. He hurried away at once to the Vidame, and found that worthy gentleman in the act of slipping on his flowered dressing-gown, thinking the while of his fair cousin's happiness.
Montriveau gave him one of the terrific glances that produced the effect of an electric shock on men and women alike.
”Is it possible that you have lent yourself to some cruel hoax, monsieur?” Montriveau exclaimed. ”I have just come from Mme de Langeais'
house; the servants say that she is out.”
”Then a great misfortune has happened, no doubt,” returned the Vidame, ”and through your fault. I left the d.u.c.h.ess at your door----”
”When?”
”At a quarter to eight.”
”Good evening,” returned Montriveau, and he hurried home to ask the porter whether he had seen a lady standing on the doorstep that evening.
”Yes, my Lord Marquis, a handsome woman, who seemed very much put out.
She was crying like a Magdalen, but she never made a sound, and stood as upright as a post. Then at last she went, and my wife and I that were watching her while she could not see us, heard her say, 'Oh, G.o.d!' so that it went to our hearts, asking your pardon, to hear her say it.”
Montriveau, in spite of all his firmness, turned pale at those few words. He wrote a few lines to Ronquerolles, sent off the message at once, and went up to his rooms. Ronquerolles came just about midnight.
Armand gave him the d.u.c.h.ess's letter to read.
”Well?” asked Ronquerolles.
”She was here at my door at eight o'clock; at a quarter-past eight she had gone. I have lost her, and I love her. Oh! if my life were my own, I could blow my brains out.”
”Pooh, pooh! Keep cool,” said Ronquerolles. ”d.u.c.h.esses do not fly off like wagtails. She cannot travel faster than three leagues an hour, and tomorrow we will ride six.--Confound it! Mme de Langeais is no ordinary woman,” he continued. ”Tomorrow we will all of us mount and ride.
The police will put us on her track during the day. She must have a carriage; angels of that sort have no wings. We shall find her whether she is on the road or hidden in Paris. There is the semaph.o.r.e. We can stop her. You shall be happy. But, my dear fellow, you have made a blunder, of which men of your energy are very often guilty. They judge others by themselves, and do not know the point when human nature gives way if you strain the cords too tightly. Why did you not say a word to me sooner? I would have told you to be punctual. Good-bye till tomorrow,” he added, as Montriveau said nothing. ”Sleep if you can,” he added, with a grasp of the hand.
But the greatest resources which society has ever placed at the disposal of statesmen, kings, ministers, bankers, or any human power, in fact, were all exhausted in vain. Neither Montriveau nor his friends could find any trace of the d.u.c.h.ess. It was clear that she had entered a convent. Montriveau determined to search, or to inst.i.tute a search, for her through every convent in the world. He must have her, even at the cost of all the lives in a town. And in justice to this extraordinary man, it must be said that his frenzied pa.s.sion awoke to the same ardour daily and lasted through five years. Only in 1829 did the Duc de Navarreins hear by chance that his daughter had travelled to Spain as Lady Julia Hopwood's maid, that she had left her service at Cadiz, and that Lady Julia never discovered that Mlle Caroline was the ill.u.s.trious d.u.c.h.ess whose sudden disappearance filled the minds of the highest society of Paris.