THE DAUPHIN'S SISTER
René, on feeling stronger, resolved to read the manuscript which awakened his interest more and more deeply. The enigma of Naundorff's obscure life, the cause of the attack in the square, Amélie's startling resemblance to the medallion—all would be explained by that roll of paper in the cylindrical case.
He rose and breakfasted on tea and toast, after which, fortified and resolute, he examined his pistols and placed them within reach. Then he stretched himself upon a lounge near the table and broke the seal, which represented a tuberose and sarcophagus,—a symbolic emblem causing him to start. His eyes next fell upon the dedicatory words at the head of the manuscript: TO HER.
"Is this a love history?" he asked himself, recalling Naundorff's beautiful countenance and indefinable charm. With feverish anxiety, he turned the leaf and read:
"This is the recital of my misfortunes which you alone can assuage. Remember that you must at last stand before God."
Then the text continued:
Since my tireless enemies and malevolent fate are combined for the purpose of forcing me to die beneath a spurious name and destitute of the rights to which my birth entitles me; since you, yourself (in whom I had faith because it seemed monstrous to doubt you), have discredited my claim: I hold up to you a mirror reflecting the insistent memories of which you are so great a part, that your remorse may hereafter be the greater, if this appeal I make softens not your heart and if the impositions of royalty outweigh the supplications of blood.
A day shall come, Thérèse, when posterity, marveling at my abandoned condition, will indignantly ask why the powers of Europe made no protest at the iniquity practised upon me. But that posterity should consider the fate of our parents,—yours and mine, Thérèse,—the fate of the ignominious journey to the guillotine as well as the indifference before that spectacle of those who should have burned their last cartridge in defence of the victims! Ah, Thérèse! In vain do you seek to restore THE PRINCIPLE,—to use the expression you of the Court employ—in vain do you seek to restore THE PRINCIPLE which is the basis of our national glory. Our country's weakness at the present time consists in the repudiation of that PRINCIPLE.
Perhaps I seem a dreamer or a lunatic, but, nevertheless, 'tis by the light of my unparalleled misfortunes that I perceive the impending cataclysm. The PRINCIPLE has suicided and the INSTITUTION has received its death blow. What life remains to it will be puerile and despicable. Trampled by its enemies, humiliated, scourged, manacled, crowned in mockery, buffeted, its purple mantle in shreds, it shall at last be crucified, not to await a glorious resurrection but to crumble to dust in a fleur de lis cemetery.
Fools are those who build above a raging torrent. Lay not the flattering unction to your soul, Thérèse, that you have saved the dynasty by sacrificing your brother. God is no Moloch to be propitiated by such holocausts. Sterile has been your womb as a warning to you, and other lessons, tremendous and desolating, have you yet to learn. As for me, my descendants will toil and sweat over labors as arduous as my own, and so shall the ages expiate.
How dreadful is my fate, Thérèse! I live, I breathe, but I, as I, do not exist; that I has been buried in an empty coffin, in the angle of two walls of a cemetery. At times I doubt my very senses and all that I am about to relate to you seems the very fabric of a dream,—but then no dream has ever been so long and fearful. 'Tis only my anguish that convinces me of reality. I co-ordinate my memories and perceive that I am not a deluded fool. Once I described my misgivings to a physician in Germany, saying that in believing myself to be another I feared at times that I was demented. He said he had known similar cases and advised me to summon all my mental strength and hold a powerful light to the mirror of my consciousness.
"Impostors have there been who were not liars," said the doctor fixing upon me a penetrating look. "Those impostors have believed their asseverations." Thérèse, I appeal to you to rescue me from this appalling phenomenon.
And as I am opening my heart to you,—the heart which throbs, not the inert heart which was offered you with the assurance that it had been taken from my dead body and which you refused to accept,—since I conceal nothing from you, Thérèse, O listen! I implore you to convince me that I am a wretched dupe of the Revolution, for perhaps 'twould be best that I should be persuaded that my reason is diseased. Be pitiful, Thérèse, even tho you refuse me love.
And now, whether I rave or speak truth, I summon my life's memories even from infancy. I stand in that incomparable summer palace in which we lived before the bursting forth of the Revolution. I walk through the magnificent salons adorned by rare artists, and amid those marvelous gardens wherein the skill of Le Nôtre surpassed itself. But more vivid still than the memories of these splendors is the image of the charming villa of diminutive blue lakes and rustic kiosks and the verdant farm where our mother in simple muslin (how beautiful she was, Thérèse!) delighted to drink fresh milk, gather wild flowers and scatter grain to the birds. How gay we were, you and I, participating in these innocent amusements, in our straw hats and cool white dresses. One day an artist painted us so, and, as I grew restive and troublesome during the sitting, my mother said gently, "Charles Louis, I shall soon know whether or not you love me." This sweet remonstrance quieted me. I so loved my mother that the sound of her voice in singing always brought tears to my eyes.
But the roaring tempest broke,—the Revolution. Our father did not realize the peril; he could not believe that he was hated; he expected daily a reconciliation with his people. But our mother's virile spirit perceived from the first that not only the throne but the royal heads as well were in danger. I was too young to understand causes but I realized that the atmosphere was transformed into something strained and dolorous. Accustomed as I was to all manner of attentions, to hear laughing applause after my youthful sallies, to behold only approving and smiling countenances, I suddenly realized that no one had the time or the inclination to caress me and that grave anxiety seemed the reason for my neglect. Rumors of contentions, abrupt alarms, hurried changing of apartments, enforced awakenings in the early morning, terrorized prayers dictated by our good aunt, our father's sister, who, joining our hands, would bid us kneel and beg God for mercy—all this filled even my child-mind with the consciousness of impending danger. One night a furious multitude surrounded the palace. Some one snatched me from bed and carried me away to concealment, and my mother, our mother, stripped herself of a lace gown and flung it around me, that I should be somewhat protected. You were near, Thérèse, sobbing affrightedly and waiting to be carried away to a place of security.
Do you remember the morning on which the inebriated multitude forced us to return to Paris? Our carriage was advancing slowly; the heat and dust almost asphyxiated us; our throats were parched with thirst, but none of us dared ask for a drop of water. Brawny fellows rode ahead of us, howling and brandishing pikes surmounted by bleeding human heads. One of these men, whose wide-open mouth in the midst of a long matted beard resembled a cavern, came to the window. Terror-stricken, I buried my face in our mother's bosom and so remained during the entire journey.
After this journey,—how long after, I know not—we made that other journey, ill-timed and inauspicious, which sealed our fate. And now appeared my uncle's form, our father's brother, whom, of late, we had scarcely seen, for since our misfortunes he had frequented the camps of the disaffected and abetted our parents' calumniators. But on this occasion he seemed solicitous for our deliverance and co-operated in our arrangements for escape. Against our mother's judgment, had our father confided the project to his brother, who advised that the iniquitous Valory, a creature possessed body and soul by the Count of Provence, should be entrusted with the details of the flight.
A program was mapped out whose happy exit seemed assured. To what purpose all the minute precautions? Why was I disguised as a girl and told I should say my name was 'Amélie,' were I asked: Amélie, a name to me eternal and which I have given to the daughter of my soul. Reflect, Thérèse, upon that sinister journey, and decide who profited thereby. There is a sentence in Hamlet running thus: The serpent that did sting my father's life now wears his crown.
I shall always believe that our mother suspected the hand that detained us. Valory, who preceded us, was but the agent of those who with the kiss of betrayal delivered us shackled. The ambush was prepared with infernal adroitness. The detention occurred when we had almost reached the frontier that greater obloquy might be heaped upon the royal family than if it had been surprised near Paris.
Valory rode mounted ahead of our carriage and took so little pains to dissemble as to disappear near the last change of horses, causing our mother mortal terror. She made her suspicions known to our father, who, displeased and pained, rejected them. Our father's faith in his brother was implicit. Our mother never succeeded in combating it, not even after the farce accomplished by the notorious Drouet, who today enjoys the favor and protection of the usurper.
You, Thérèse, have accepted his protection, also. 'Tis we who make history and not revolutions caused by currents of ideas. Believe, rather, in human passions, in the ambitions of the mighty which carry in their train the faith of a confiding and bewildered multitude. And believe, also, in a Nemesis of expiation, though 'tis at times the innocent who wash away the stains of the guilty.
You remember the termination of that flight. On our return I was exceedingly fatigued and ill at ease. My girl's dress added to my discomfort and I was at last relieved of it by our faithful valet, who put me to bed, on this first night in Paris after our capture.
Several officers of the National Guard remained near my bed and affectionately bade me sleep tranquilly. While I dozed, they smoked and chatted and their voices soothed me; even the clanking of their spurs was pleasant reassurance. I sank into a lethargy, of what length I know not. Suddenly my eyes seemed opening on a startling spectacle. The Guard surrounded me. They laughed and spoke words which I could not understand. By degrees their human outlines became blurred and they were covered with hair. Their hands grew into long grey paws terminating in sharp nails, their faces projected into snouts, their eyes glowed as live coals and their voices howled fearfully. Wolves! wolves! famishing, frantic wolves. Their hot breathing was stifling as they leaned to devour me—
I must have screamed, for I waked in my mother's arms, as she snatched me from bed, covering my face with kisses. Those kisses are still on my face, Thérèse, and I feel now the passionate embrace with which she clasped me to her, and I see the terrible dread on her beautiful pale face.