CONJUGAL LOVE
That evening at the customary hour for lighting the lamps in the various apartments of the royal palace, the ladies in waiting to Madame the Duchess were surprised to see her accompanied by her husband on leaving the table. As the august pair entered the Duchess's apartments, the attendants discreetly withdrew and the lady motioned the Duke to a seat; but he, with unaccustomed gallantry, hastened to place himself beside her on the sofa and with the precipitation characteristic of a limited experience in conjugal affectionate demonstration, seized both her hands and effusively began:
"Thérèse, do you remember what anniversary it is tomorrow? The tenth of June, our marriage day?"
"Indeed?" she replied. "How slowly time passes."
"To me it seems as tho we had been married yesterday. 'Twas in the little chapel of Mittau. Listen, Thérèse: I fear at times that I have not made you happy. Am I mistaken? You treat me so distantly."
"I have been—happy," she stammered. "You know that it is not in my nature to be violently so."
"The time of mourning has passed," he said, kissing her slender patrician hands. "Look back no longer. Those who have suffered as much as we have a right to happiness."
Her face flushed as his warmth increased.
"To live and rejoice!" she sighed. "That is not my destiny, nor yours, Louis. We have greater trials in store. I feel their approach. I told you this morning that we have not sufficiently expiated."
"My Thérèse, you who are so good a Christian should not impugn the justice of God. Have you not suffered sufficiently to appease Him? Have you not even the right to breathe? Do you experience no emotion now that your husband is at your side? Were the reasons of state which prescribed our marriage not in accord with your sentiment? Would you choose me again if you were free? Can you not love?"
She blushed to hear these extraordinary words. His transformation was wonderful and seemed to be changing her, the austere Duchess, into a girl of twenty.
"Louis," she answered with noble simplicity, "since the death of my parents, I have loved only you. I fear at times that God will punish this excessive devotion to a creature."
"Cousin, wife," he ardently exclaimed, "'tis God's will that we love each other. You know well that tho at times I seem absorbed and cold, I am never even in thought unfaithful. Have you any complaint, any accusation?"
"I have believed," she replied, "that you did not love me. But I have never doubted you. That would have been unendurable."
He clasped her to his breast.
"Since you are so well convinced of my love," he whispered, "you will grant a request, you will permit me to influence that upright conscience, that noble heart."
She drew herself away instinctively, but he clasped her more closely, and she remained a happy prisoner.
"My wife," he pursued, "you are under the domination of a great sorrow. This morning you were almost hysterical. I suffered in seeing you so troubled. Now, we must be absolutely frank with one another. I fear for your reason if you continue to torment yourself about an ambitious fool. Listen to me and listen tranquilly. Your clear intelligence has become temporarily clouded. Your mind will soon recover its lucidity. You are now of the opinion that the man is being victimized, whereas he is nothing more than a keen-witted impostor, bolder and armed with more formidable documents than his predecessors."
"Do you really believe that the writer of this letter is an impostor?"
"Well: not precisely an impostor, Thérèse,—a dupe, rather, believing himself to be the prince. 'Tis a frequent phenomenon. Our reason is subject to such fluctuations that one is capable of confusing even his own individuality with that of another. You doubtless remember the case of the Spanish pie-vender who believed himself King Sebastian; or Pougatchef of Russia who under the name of Demetrius claimed the throne."
"What of the documents mentioned in the letter which he maintains would confirm his claim before any French tribunal?"
"Little by little. To begin with, we are not certain that they exist. Have you seen them? Doubt, then, of their existence, until you have them in your hands for examination. Let us suppose that the documents are genuine, does it therefore follow that the possessor is the prince? So great has been the confusion caused by the Revolution, unscrupulous persons have acquired such unrestricted power, our family secrets have been so profanely exploited, that 'twould be no wonder indeed that the papers should be in the hands of the veriest adventurer."
She remained silent, but the voice she loved so well opened an ever widening breach in her faith.
"Reflect," he continued, "how the Revolution has scattered important papers. Great frauds have stood upon stolen or spurious documents. But in this instance 'tis evident that the entire plot has for its object the exploitation of your credulity and tender memories. In order to prove whether his claim be true or false, subject your correspondent to a test."
"Louis," she said, clasping her hands, "on listening to you, my reason vacillates. My God, what shall I do?"
"Bid the man come to you."
"Did you not this morning express disapproval of my receiving him?"
"I have changed my mind. You must grant him a secret interview. You must discover the nature of those documents. Require him to bring them to you. You surely do not intend to take his word for it that they exist. Get possession of his proofs and then we shall be able to judge.—Now, let me tell you something of this man's past life. You know nothing of his history, tho he is proposing to throw himself into your arms. He belongs to the lowest class of Prussian people. His father was a mechanic, son of a kettle-mender. Until very recently he has been a watch-maker. He has been convicted of two grave crimes,—counterfeiting and arson. He has served a sentence at hard labor in a Silesia prison. What say you, Thérèse, to the seating upon the throne of Saint Louis a felon whose wrists and ankles have borne infamous manacles?"
She looked affrightedly at her husband.
"You are horrified? Well, you have heard but the beginning. This man was the victim of misery owing, in all probability, to his vices. He was rescued by a woman. This woman, many years his senior, was for a long period his—Thérèse I dare not explain the relation to you. I respect you too highly to pronounce the revolting words. But what do you say to the artifice of calling this woman his sister? Can you longer believe it probable that his body holds the royal blood?"
The blow was well aimed. The color mounted to the Duchess's face and she assumed an indignant attitude. The Duke caressed her consolingly:
"After that unsavory episode, he contracted matrimony. His wife is a woman of the lowest origin, vulgar, insignificant. But, in compensation, he has an ambitious daughter, a veritable phenomenon indeed. 'Tis not an ordinary spectacle, that of a girl of eighteen or nineteen occupying herself with vaulting schemes—"
"Perhaps not with vaulting schemes," rejoined the Duchess meditatively. "Nevertheless at eighteen there exists a clear comprehension of duty and expediency—"
"O Thérèse, you, you were early matured through suffering."
"And perhaps this young girl also."
The Duke was silent. He regretted the turn their conversation had taken. He sought not to awaken pity, so he suddenly faced his battery in another direction.
"Your would-be brother, the Prussian mechanic, seeks to found a new religion. He is therefore a heretic, which is reason sufficient for excommunication and deprivation of the Church's sacraments."
These words produced an extraordinary effect upon the Duchess. She was a fervent Catholic devotee, intensified by the Revolution. Her cheeks burned and her eyes shot anger.
"Not only does he profess heresy," resumed the Duke, "but he proclaims and propagates his doctrines. He has written a book entitled 'The Heavenly Doctrine.' It contains an arraignment of the Church and interprets arbitrarily the Holy Scriptures. 'Tis clear that his motive in attacking Catholicity is retaliation, the Pope having refused to indorse his absurd pretensions. His marriage was according to Protestant rites. It is claimed that he reckons as a saint that old Martin who pretends revelations from the archangel Raphael."
"The King has received that old man," remarked the Duchess. "It is said that he spoke dreadful prophecies. The hand of God weighs heavily upon us!"
"Thérèse, it is unworthy a strong intelligence to attach importance to such nonsense. The old idiot would today be in a mad-house but for the indulgence of the King."
"Well," said she, making a great effort, "am I to grant this interview, then?"
"Certainly, that your mind may be at rest. Light drives away phantoms. The King desires you to receive the man. Make it a condition that he bring the documents. Arrange that the conference be secret, for 'tis necessary to proceed with the greatest caution. Our enemies are vigilant. Thérèse, I hold forth both arms to sustain the tottering throne, but shall be powerless unless you help me. Have I in you an ally? You and I must not work at cross purposes."
He clasped his wife in his arms, uttering endearing words which seemed a promise of new days, full of happiness, and of a perfect union. The Duchess listened rapturously to the husband whom the state and church had given her. Her smothered youth rose in a strong tide. She realized that the grief which had really oppressed her through so many years was the glacial attitude which she and the Duke had maintained towards; each other. Closing her eyes, she leaned upon his; breast. He folded her in his arms and led her into the adjoining apartment, her dormitory, through which they passed into the oratory. They walked to the crimson prie-Dieu and knelt together upon; the velvet cushion. Holding her hand tightly, he solemnly said:
"Before God, who hears us, Thérèse,—sole woman that exists on earth for me,—and He knows I speak the truth,—promise me that you will save the royal House of France from perishing, that you will not permit the impious to rejoice nor the enemies of the cause to triumph, that you will prevent the sacred oil from being poured upon the head of this counterfeiter, this incendiary, this heretic. If he be an impostor, 'twould be sacrilegious; if he be not an impostor (to state an impossible case) his accession to the throne would let loose again license and unbridled passions which would precipitate a second Revolution. Promise, Thérèse. Swear!"
She raised her eyes to the crucifix. The thorn-crowned face against the dark background seemed, in a sublime melancholy, to murmur: "Father forgive them—" The oath died on her lips.
"Swear, Thérèse, my love, my wife!" repeated the Duke.
Tears coursed down her face as she groaned: "I swear, my God, I swear," and sank in a nervous paroxysm into her husband's arms. He had triumphed. Sustaining her, he led the Duchess from the oratory.