We will now leave our hero for a few moments, to refer to a terrible event which at this crisis overwhelmed the Royal family and France with grief. This circumstance, yet enwrapped in mystery, was the death of the Duke de Berry. This Prince, the hope of France, expiring in the spring time of life beneath the dagger of a vulgar assassin; the obscurity which covered the details of the murder distressed all Europe. There was a general outcry against secret societies. The one, the chief members of which were now in prison, was especially thought guilty of having instigated the murder. The chiefs of the Carbonari ventas saw their chains grow heavier and their prisons become dungeons. Ober, the banker F——, General A——, and Von Apsberg, were not spared: their papers were examined, their past life scrutinized in search of some connection with this odious murder. The trial of the ruffian was anxiously waited for, in the hope that something would connect him with Carbonarism. Nothing, however, was found in the whole of the long and minute examination; and it soon became evident that the crime had been committed by a fanatic who was isolated, without adherents, instigators, or accomplices. Thus at least France thought of the result of the trial. This was the impression produced by the execution of Louvel.
The liberals, who had been for a time terrified by the reports circulated in relation to their partisans, began to regain their courage, and, fortified by their acquittal, complained of the calumnies circulated in relation to them. The first reproach cast on Government, and especially on the ministry of Decazes, was great injustice towards the Carbonari. The ministry was accused of having invented a conspiracy and conspirators—questions of political humanity were mooted—and true or imaginary tortures, to which the prisoners had been subject, were recounted. French generosity and pity became interested for the sake of victims who languished in chains. One voice, though, was heard above all others, and spoke so distinctly, that it touched every heart and mind. It reached the very throne, and aroused one of those powerful influences which truth alone can. This voice was that of the Duke d'Harcourt—a king in virtue and feeling. His word was a law people of every shade of opinion listened to, in consequence of the admiration caused by his life and conduct. The Duke, who was entitled to sympathy from the successive death of his sons, accused those who had taken the last from him of barbarity. He told of the death of the Vicomte while suspected of a crime which perhaps was imaginary; and in the sublime tones of his despair uttered loud charges against the fallen administration. The new one trembled before a unanimous sentiment, and sought to win popularity from clemency. This sentiment, which in Louis XVIII. was innate, his ministers echoed. One by one the prisons were opened and their sad inmates restored to life and light. The chief Carbonari were less fortunate than their followers. Their trial progressed, and though many abortive schemes were discovered, no act was found. There were ideas, utopias, and social paradoxes, but nothing positive. F——, B——, Ober and their associates, whose friends acted busily, were subjected to some months' imprisonment, which, added to their previous incarceration, seemed to their judges a sufficient punishment for their hopes, which, though criminal, had never been realized. General A—— was exiled, and Von Apsberg was detained for a long time in the conciergerie. He was ultimately released. As for Taddeo, all the inquiries of Aminta and of the Prince de Maulear, who loved him as a son, were vain. Every day increased their uneasiness on this account, bringing to light the disappointment of some hope. Thus a year passed....
Early in April, 1821, a man of about forty sat on a bench in a little garden attached to a modest country abode near Neuilly. The garden was on the Seine, which was the limit of a kind of town. The man of whom we speak was almost bent beneath the double weight of grief and suffering. His features were sharp and thin, his eyes sunken, and his hair, almost white, gave him the appearance of one far more advanced in age. In this person prematurely old and wretched, none would have recognized the brilliant and elegant Count Monte-Leone, who once had been so deservedly admired. A deep sorrow had crushed his strong constitution—months to him had become years—and he had suffered all that a mind, richly endowed as his was, could. Pursued by the atrocious slanders we refer to, he had given way beneath the blow. In vain had he striven for some time after his useless visit to the Prefect against them. The hideous monster which pursued him redoubled its attacks, and cries of reprobation burst from every lip. The relations and friends of the prisoners reproached him, and adversity seemed to have seized him with its iron claw. In vain did he protest and call for proof. All appealed to the circumstances. His many duels made people say in his favor only this, "Brave as he is, he is a spy!" Despair, then, took possession of him, and he fled from the world which cursed him, and hid himself. One reason alone restrained him from suicide. This was, that he knew another life depended on his, and clung to it as the ivy does to the oak. The Count lived that another might not die. This person was an angel rather than a woman. It was Aminta. Watching the unfortunate man as a mother watches a child, braving the public opinion which dishonored him she adored, Aminta rarely left the Count, whose tears fell on her heart like burning lava.
The Marquise had purchased an establishment near the house of Monte-Leone, with whom she passed all her time; for her visits made his desolate heart more serene. On the day we speak of, the Count sat in the garden, and old Giacomo advanced towards him, taking care to announce himself with a slight cough. "Monseigneur," said he, "it is I, your intendant. I am come to speak to you."
"I have no intendant," said the Count, "a miserable outlaw like myself can indulge in no such luxury. Do not call me Monseigneur; the title now is become an ironical insult."
"It, however, is your excellency's name, and that the slanderous villains cannot deprive you of."
"They have done more than that," said the Count, with a bitter smile; "they have destroyed my honor. You shall not call me thus any longer."
"Very well," said the good man, whom the Marquise had told not to thwart his master; "I will call Monseigneur, Count only. You are Monseigneur, for all that."
"Enough," said the Count, "go away, you fatigue me, you injure me."
"I injure you," said Giacomo, "when you know I would die for you?"