Part 82 (2/2)
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 blus.h.i.+ng, 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--”
”Hus.h.!.+ 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.”
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