Edward Bulwer Lytton - "Haunted and the Haunters"

James Huneker - "Promenades of an Impressionist"

Alphonse Daudet - "L'Immortel"

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Books: Book review: 'The Mercy Papers' and 'Downtown Owl'
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And then, afraid of casting a gloom over those around him by a grave or
sullen countenance, Henri, who wished to appear gentle and amiable at
the expense of his brother Francois, exclaimed, "Well, then, since he
has not come to meet us, we will go to meet him."

"Show us the way there," said Catherine, from the litter.

All the escort followed the road leading to the old park.

At the very moment that the guards, who were in advance, approached the
hedge, a shrill and piercing cry rent the air.

"What is that?" said the king, turning toward his mother.

"Great Heaven!" murmured Catherine, endeavoring to read the faces of
those around her, "it sounded like a cry of distress or despair."

"My prince! my poor master!" cried Francois' other aged attendant,
appearing at the window, and exhibiting signs of the most passionate
grief.

Every one hastened toward the pavilion, the king himself being hurried
along with the others. He arrived at the very moment when they were
raising from the floor the Duc d'Anjou's body, which his
valet-de-chambre, having entered without authority, in order to announce
the king's arrival, had just perceived lying on the carpet of the
bedroom. The prince was cold, stiff, and perfectly inanimate, and it was
only by a strange movement of the eyelids and a nervous contraction of
the lips that it could be observed he was still alive. The king paused
at the threshold of the door, and those behind him followed his example.

[Illustration: THE PRINCE WAS COLD, STIFF, AND PERFECTLY INANIMATE.]

"This is an ugly omen," he murmured.

"Do not enter, my son, I implore you," said Catherine to him.

"Poor Francois!" said Henri, delighted at being sent away, and thus
being spared the spectacle of this agonizing scene.

The crowd, too, followed the king as he withdrew.

"Strange! strange!" murmured Catherine, kneeling down by the side of the
prince, or rather of the corpse, no one being in the room, with her but
the two old servants; and while the messengers were dispatched in every
quarter of the town to find the prince's physician, and while a courier
galloped off to Paris in order to hasten the attendance of the king's
physicians, who had remained at Meaux with the queen, Catherine, with
less knowledge, very probably, but not with less perspicacity than Miron
himself could possibly have shown, examined the diagnostics of that
singular malady which had struck down her son so suddenly.

Her experience was by no means indifferent; in the first place,
therefore, she interrogated calmly, and without confusing them, the two
attendants, who were tearing their hair and wringing their hands in the
wildest despair.

Both of them replied that the prince had returned on the previous
evening about nightfall, after having been disturbed at an inconvenient
hour by Monsieur du Bouchage, who had arrived with a message from the
king.

They then added that when the audience had terminated, which had been
held in the chateau itself, the prince had ordered supper to be
prepared, and had desired that no one should venture to approach the
pavilion without being summoned; and lastly, that he had given the
strictest injunctions not to be awakened in the morning, and that no one
should enter without a positive summons.

"He probably expected a visit from a lady?" observed the queen-mother,
inquiringly.

"We think so, madame," replied the valet respectfully, "but we could not
discreetly assure ourselves of the fact."

"But in removing the things from the table, you must have seen whether
my son had supped alone?"

"We have not yet removed the things, madame, since the orders of
monseigneur were that no one should enter the pavilion."

"Very good," said Catherine; "no one, therefore, has been here?"

"No one, madame."

"You may go."

And Catherine was now left quite alone in the room. Leaving the prince
lying on the bed where he had been placed, she immediately commenced the
minutest investigation of each symptom or of each of the traces to
which her attention was directed, as the result of her suspicions or
apprehensions.

She had remarked that Francois' forehead was stained or dyed of a bister
color, his eyes were bloodshot and encircled with blue lines, his lips
marked with furrows, like the impression which burning sulphur leaves on
living flesh.

She observed the same sign upon his nostrils and upon the sides of the
nose.

"Now let me look carefully," she said, gazing about her on every side.

The first thing she remarked was the candlestick in which the flambeau
which Remy had lighted the previous evening had burned away.

"This candle has burned for a length of time," she said, "and shows that
Francois was a long time in this room. Ah! here is a bouquet lying on
the carpet."

Catherine picked it up eagerly, and then, remarking that all its flowers
were still fresh, with the exception of a rose, which was blackened and
dried up:

"What does this mean?" she said; "what has been poured on the leaves of
this flower? If I am not mistaken, I know a liquid which withers roses
in this manner." She threw aside the bouquet, shuddering as she did so.

"That explains to me the state of the nostrils and the manner in which
the flesh of the face is affected; but the lips?"

Catherine ran to the dining-room. The valets had spoken the truth, for
there was nothing to indicate that anything on the table had been
touched since the previous evening's repast had been finished.

Upon the edge of the table lay the half of a peach, in which the
impression of a row of teeth was still visible. Catherine's attention
was drawn to this in a particular manner, for the fruit, usually of a
rich crimson near the core, had become as black as the rose, and was
discolored by violet and brown spots. The corrosive action was more
especially visible upon the part which had been cut, and particularly so
where the knife must have passed.

"This explains the state of the lips," she said; "but Francois had only
bitten one piece out of this peach. He did not keep the bouquet long in
his hand, for the flowers are still fresh; the evil may yet be repaired,
for the poison cannot have penetrated very deeply.

"And yet, if the evil be merely superficial, why should this paralysis
of the senses be so complete, and why indeed should the decomposition of
the flesh have made so much progress? There must be more that I have not
seen."

And as she spoke Catherine again looked all round her, and observed,
hanging by a silver chain to its pole, the red and blue parrot to which
Francois was so attached.

The bird was dead, stiff, and the feathers of its wings rough and erect.

Catherine again looked closely and attentively at the torch which she
had once before already narrowly inspected, to satisfy herself that, by
its having burned out completely, the prince had returned early in the
evening.

"The smoke," said Catherine to herself; "the smoke! the wick of that
torch was poisoned; my son is a dead man."

She called out immediately, and the chamber was in a minute filled with
attendants and officers of the household.

"Miron, Miron!" cried some of them.

"A priest!" exclaimed the others.

But Catherine had, in the meantime, placed to the lips of Francois one
of the small bottles which she always carried in her alms-bag, and
narrowly watched her son's features to observe the effect of the
antidote she applied.

The duke immediately opened his eyes and mouth, but no glance of
intelligence gleamed in his eyes, no voice or sound escaped from his
lips.

Catherine, in sad and gloomy silence, quitted the apartment, beckoning
to the two attendants to follow her, before they had as yet had an
opportunity of communicating with any one.

She then led them into another chamber, where she sat down, fixing her
eyes closely and watchfully on their faces.

"Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou," she said, "has been poisoned some time during
his supper last evening; and it was you who served the supper."

At these words the two men turned as pale as death.

"Torture us, kill us, if you will," they said; "but do not accuse us."

"Fools that you are; do you suppose that if I suspected you, that would
have already been done? You have not yourselves, I know, assassinated
your master, but others have killed him; and I must know who the
murderers are. Who has entered the pavilion?"

"An old man, wretchedly clothed, whom monseigneur has seen during the
last two days."

"But the woman--"

"We have not seen her--what woman does your majesty mean?"

"A woman has been here, who made a bouquet--"

The two attendants looked at each other with an expression of such
simple surprise that Catherine perceived, by this glance alone, how
perfectly innocent they were.

"Let the governor of the town and the governor of the chateau be sent
for," she said. The two valets hurried to the door.

"One moment!" exclaimed Catherine, fixing them in their places by this
single word as they approached the threshold. "You only and myself are
aware of what I have just told you; I shall not breathe a word about it;
if any one learns it, therefore, it will be from or through one of you;
on that very day both your lives shall be forfeited. Now, go!"

Catherine interrogated the two governors with more reserve. She told
them that the duke had received from some person or persons a
distressing intelligence which had deeply affected him; that that alone
was the cause of his illness, and that if the duke had an opportunity of
putting a few further questions to the persons again, he would in all
probability soon recover from the alarm into which he had been thrown.

The governors instituted the minutest search in the town, the park, the
environs, but no one knew what had become of Remy and Diana.

Henri alone knew the secret, and there was no danger of his betraying
it.

Throughout the whole day, the terrible news, commented upon,
exaggerated, and mutilated, circulated through Chateau-Thierry and the
province; every one explained, according to his own individual character
and disposition, the accident which had befallen the duke.

But no one, except Catherine and Du Bouchage, ventured to acknowledge
that the chance of saving the duke's life was hopeless.

The unhappy prince did not recover either his voice or his senses, or
rather, he ceased to give any sign of intelligence.

The king, who was immediately beset with the gloomiest fancies, which he
dreaded more than anything, would very willingly have returned to Paris;
but the queen-mother opposed his departure, and the court was obliged to
remain at the chateau.

Physicians arrived in crowds; Miron alone guessed the cause of the
illness, and formed an opinion upon its serious nature and extent; but
he was too good a courtier to confess the truth, especially after he had
consulted Catherine's looks.

He was questioned on all sides, and he replied that Monsieur le Duc
d'Anjou must certainly have suffered from some seriously-disturbing
cause, and had been subjected to some violent mental shock.

In this way he avoided compromising himself, therefore, which is a very
difficult matter in such a case.

When Henri III. required him to answer affirmatively or negatively to
his question, "Whether the duke would live?" he replied,

"I will answer your majesty in three days."

"And when will you tell me?" said Catherine, in a low voice.

"You, madame, are very different; I answer you unhesitatingly."--"Well?"

"Your majesty has but to interrogate me."

"On what day will my son die, Miron?"

"To-morrow evening, madame."

"So soon?"

"Ah! madame," murmured the physician, "the dose was by no means a slight
one."

Catherine placed one of her fingers on her lips, looked at the dying
man, and repeated in an undertone this sinister word, "Fatality!"




CHAPTER LXXXIX.

LES HOSPITALIERES.


The count had passed a terrible night, in a state bordering on delirium
and verging on death.

Faithful, however, to his duty, as soon as he had heard the king's
arrival announced, he rose and received him at the gate, as we have
described; but no sooner had he presented his homage to his majesty,
saluted respectfully the queen-mother, and pressed the admiral's hand,
than he shut himself up in his own room, not to die, but to carry
determinedly into execution his long cherished project, which nothing
could any longer interfere with.

Toward eleven o'clock in the morning, therefore--that is to say, as soon
as, immediately after the terrible news had circulated that the Duc
d'Anjou's life was in imminent danger, every one had dispersed, leaving
the king completely bewildered by this fresh event--Henri went and
knocked at his brother's door, who, having passed a part of the previous
night traveling, had just retired to his own room.

"Ah! is that you?" asked Joyeuse, half asleep; "what is the matter?"

"I have come to bid you farewell, my brother," replied Henri.

"Farewell! What do you mean? Are you going away?"

"Yes, I am going away, brother, and nothing need keep me here any
longer, I presume."

"Why nothing?"

"Of course, since the fetes at which you wished me to be present will
not take place, I may now consider myself as freed from my promise."

"You are mistaken, Henri," replied the grand-admiral; "I have no greater
reason for permitting you to leave to-day than I had yesterday."

"I regret that it is so; but in that case, for the first time in my
life, I shall have the misfortune to disobey your orders, and to fail
in the respect I owe you; for from this very moment I declare to you,
Anne, that nothing shall restrain me any longer from taking religious
vows."

"But the dispensation which is expected from Rome?"

"I can await it in a convent."

"You must positively be mad to think of such a thing." exclaimed
Joyeuse, as he rose, with stupefaction depicted on his countenance.

"On the contrary, my dear and honored brother, I am the wisest of you
all, for I alone know what I am about."'

"Henri, you promised us a month."

"Impossible."

"A week, then, longer."

"Not an hour."

"You are suffering so much, then, poor boy?"

"On the contrary, I have ceased to suffer, and that is why the evil is
without a remedy."

"But, at all events, this woman is not made of bronze; her feelings can
be worked upon; I will undertake to persuade her."

"You cannot do impossibilities, Anne; besides, even were she to allow
herself to be persuaded now, it is I who could no longer consent to love
her."

"Well, that is quite another matter."

"Such is the case, however, my brother."

"What! if she were now willing, would you be indifferent? Why, this is
sheer madness."

"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed Henri, with a shudder of horror, "nothing can
any longer exist between that woman and myself."

"What does this mean?" inquired Joyeuse, with marked surprise; "and who
can this woman really be? Come, tell me, Henri; you know very well that
we have never had any secrets from each other."

Henri trembled lest he had said too much, and that, in yielding to the
feeling which he had just exhibited, he had opened a channel by means of
which his brother would be able to penetrate the terrible secret which
he kept imprisoned in his breast. He therefore fell into an opposite
extreme; and, as it happens in such cases, and in order to recall the
imprudent words which had escaped him, he pronounced others which were
more imprudent still.

"Do not press me further," he said; "this woman will never be mine,
since she belongs to Heaven."

"Folly!--mere idle tales! This woman a nun! She has deceived you."

"No, no, this woman has not spoken falsely; she is now an Hospitaliere.
Do not let us speak any further of her, but rather let us respect those
who throw themselves at the feet of Heaven."

Anne had sufficient power over himself not to show the delight this
revelation gave him.

He continued: "This is something new, for you have never spoken to me
about it."

"It is indeed quite new, for she has only recently taken the veil; but I
am sure that her resolution, like my own, is irrevocable. Do not
therefore seek to detain me any longer, but embrace me, as you love me.
Permit me to thank you for all your kindness, for all your patience, and
for your unceasing affection for a poor heart-broken man, and farewell!"

Joyeuse looked his brother full and steadily in the face; he looked at
him like one whose feelings had overcome him, and who relied upon a
display of feeling to work upon the feelings of others. But Henri
remained unmoved at this exhibition of emotion on his brother's part,
and replied in no other way but by the same mournful smile.

Joyeuse embraced his brother, and allowed him to depart.

"Go," he said to himself, "all is not yet finished, and, however great
your hurry may be, I shall not be long before I shall have overtaken
you."

He went to the king, who was taking his breakfast in bed, with Chicot
sitting by his side.

"Good-day! good-day!" said the king to Joyeuse. "I am very glad to see
you, Anne; I was afraid you would lie in bed all day, you indolent
fellow. How is my brother?"

"Alas! sire, I do not know; I am come to speak to you about mine."

"Which one?"--"Henri."

"Does he still wish to become a monk?"

"More so than ever."

"And will he take the vows?"

"Yes, sire."

"He is quite right, too."

"How so, sire?"

"Because men go straight to heaven that way."

"Oh!" said Chicot to the king, "men go much faster still by the way your
brother is taking."

"Will your majesty permit me to ask a question?"

"Twenty, Joyeuse, twenty. I am as melancholy as I can possibly be at
Chateau-Thierry, and your questions will distract my attention a
little."

"You know all the religious houses in the kingdom, sire, I believe?"

"As well as I do a coat of arms."

"Is there one which goes by the name of Les Hospitalieres, sire?"

"It is a very small, highly distinguished, excessively strict, and
severe order, composed of twenty ladies, canonesses of Saint Joseph."

"Do they take the vows there?"

"Yes, as a matter of favor, and upon a presentation from the queen."

"Should I be indiscreet if I were to ask your majesty where this order
is situated?"

"Not at all; it is situated in the Rue de Chevet Saint-Laudry, in the
Cite, behind Le Cloitre Notre-Dame."

"At Paris?"--"Yes."

"Thank you, sire."

"But what the devil do you ask me that for? Has your brother changed his
mind, and, instead of turning a Capuchin friar, does he now wish to
become one of the Hospitalieres?"

"No, sire, I should not think he would be so mad, after what your
majesty has done me the honor to tell me; but I suspect he has had his
head turned by some one belonging to that order, and I should
consequently like to discover who this person is, and speak to her."

"Par la mordieu!" said the king, with a self-satisfied expression,
"some seven years ago I knew the superior of that convent, who was an
exceedingly beautiful woman."

"Well, sire, it may perhaps be the very one."

"I cannot say; since that time, I too, Joyeuse, have assumed religious
vows myself, or nearly so, indeed."

"Sire," said Joyeuse, "I entreat you to give me, at any rate, a letter
to this lady, and my leave of absence for a couple of days."

"You are going to leave me!" exclaimed the king; "to leave me all alone
here?"--"Oh! ungrateful king," said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, "am
I not here?"

"My letter, if you please, sire," said Joyeuse. The king sighed, but
wrote it notwithstanding.

"But you cannot have anything to do at Paris?" said Henri, handing the
note to Joyeuse.

"I beg your pardon, sire, I ought to escort, or at least, to watch over,
my brothers."

"You are right; away with you, but return as quickly as you can."

Joyeuse did not wait for this permission to be repeated; he quietly
ordered his horses, and having satisfied himself that Henri had already
set off, galloped all the way until he reached his destination.

Without even changing his dress, the young man went straight to the Rue
de Chevet Saint-Laudry. At the end of this street was the Rue d'Enfer,
and parallel with it the Rue des Marmouzets.

A dark and venerable-looking house, behind whose walls the lofty summits
of a few trees could be distinguished, the windows of which were few,
bad, barred, and a wicket at the side, completed the exterior appearance
of the Convent des Hospitalieres.

Upon the keystone of the arch of the porch an artisan had rudely
engraved these Latin words with a chisel:--

MATRONAE HOSPITES.

Time had partially destroyed both the inscription and the stone.

Joyeuse knocked at the wicket, and had his horses led away to the Rue
des Marmouzets, fearing that their presence in the street might attract
too much attention.

Then, knocking at the entrance gate, he said, "Will you be good enough
to go and inform Madame la Superieure that Monsieur le Duc de Joyeuse,
Grand Amiral de France, is desirous of speaking to her on behalf of the
king."

The face of the nun who had made her appearance behind the gate blushed
beneath her veil, and she shut the gate.

Five minutes afterward a door was opened, and Joyeuse entered a room,
set apart for the reception of visitors. A beautiful woman, of lofty
stature, made Joyeuse a profound reverence, which the admiral returned
gracefully and respectfully.

"Madame," said he, "the king is aware that you are about to admit, or
that you have already admitted, among the number of the inmates here, a
person with whom I require to speak. Will you be good enough to place me
in communication with that person?"

"Will you tell me the name of the lady you wish to see, monsieur?"

"I am not aware of it."

"In that case, then, how can I possibly accede to your request?"

"Nothing is easier. Whom have you admitted during the last month?"

"You either tell me too precisely, or with not sufficient precision, who
this person is," said the superior, "and I am unable to comply with your
wish."

"Why so?"

"Because, during the last month I have received no one here until this
morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Duc, and you can understand that your own arrival, two
hours after hers, has too much the appearance of a pursuit to enable me
to grant you permission to speak to her."

"I implore you, madame."

"Impossible, monsieur."

"Will you merely let me see this lady?"

"Impossible, I repeat. Although your name was sufficient for the doors
of this house to be thrown open before you, yet in order to speak to
any one here, except indeed to myself, a written order from the king is
necessary."

"Here is the order you require, madame," replied Joyeuse, producing the
letter that Henri had signed.

The superior read it and bowed.

"His majesty's will shall be obeyed," she said, "even when it is
contrary to the will of Heaven."

And she advanced toward the courtyard of the convent.

"You now perceive, madame," said Joyeuse, courteously stopping her,
"that I have right on my side; but I fear I may be under a mistake, and
therefore may be abusing the permission I have received from the king.
Perhaps the lady may not be the one I am in search of; will you be kind
enough to tell me how she came here, why she came, and by whom she was
accompanied?"

"All that is useless, Monsieur le Duc," replied the superior, "you are
under no misapprehension for the lady, who arrived only this morning,
after having been expected for the last fifteen days; this lady, I say,
who was recommended by one who possesses the greatest authority over me,
is indeed the very person with whom Monsieur le Duc de Joyeuse must wish
to speak."

With these words the superior made another low courtesy to the duke and
disappeared.

Ten minutes afterward she returned, accompanied by an hospitaliere,
whose veil completely covered her face. It was Diana, who had already
assumed the dress of the order.

The duke thanked the superior, offered a chair to her companion, himself
sat down, and the superior quitted the room, closing with her own hands
the doors of the deserted and gloomy-looking apartment.

"Madame," said Joyeuse, without any preface, "you are the lady of the
Rue des Augustins; that mysterious person with whom my brother, Monsieur
le Comte du Bouchage, is so passionately and madly in love."

The hospitaliere bowed her head in reply, but did not open her lips.

This affectation appeared to Joyeuse almost like an act of rudeness; he
was already very indifferently disposed to his companion, and continued:

"You cannot have supposed, madame, that it is sufficient to be
beautiful, or to appear beautiful; to have no heart lying hidden beneath
that beauty, to inspire a wretched and despairing passion in the heart
and mind of a young man of my name, and then one day calmly to tell him,
'So much the worse for you if you possess a heart. I have none; nor do I
wish for any.'"

"That was not my reply, monsieur, and you have been incorrectly
informed," said the hospitaliere, in so noble and touching a tone of
voice that Joyeuse's anger was in a moment subdued.

"The actual words are immaterial, madame, when their sense has been
conveyed. You have rejected my brother, and have reduced him to
despair."