“Dear master,” said Gilbert, “yon know that night and morning, at every hour, two doors are open to you here: that of the house and that of the heart.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert! I, too, perhaps, shall be called upon to show how much I love you, and should such a day ever come, the proof shall not be wanting. Now let us talk.”

  “And of what?” asked Gilbert, smiling; for Cagliostro’s presence always brought something astonishing with it.

  “Of what?” repeated Cagliostro, “of that great topic of discussion, the king’s departure.”

  Gilbert felt himself freeze from head to foot; but the smile did not disappear for a single moment from his lips.

  “And as we shall have some time of it, let us sit down,” continued Cagliostro.

  And Cagliostro sat down.

  The first moment of terror past, Gilbert reflected, that if it were chance that had brought Cagliostro to see him, it was at least a fortunate one. Cagliostro, not being in the habit of keeping secrets to himself, would without doubt relate all that he knew about the departure of the king and queen, which he had just mentioned.

  “Well!” continued Cagliostro, seeing Gilbert waiting, “it is then decided to start tomorrow?”

  “My dear master,” said Gilbert, “you know I am in the habit of letting you talk to the end, and even if you err there is always something for me to learn.”

  “And when have I been mistaken, up to now, Gilbert?” said Cagliostro. “Was it when I predicted the death of Favras, whom, up to the very last moment, I tried to save? Was it when I told you that the king himself was intriguing against Mirabeau, and that Mirabeau would not be minister? Was it when I told you that Robespierre would re-erect the scaffold of Charles the First, and Bonaparte the throne of Charlemagne? As to this last, you can accuse me of no error, because the time has not yet passed by, and, moreover, these things belong to the next century; and to-day, more than any one else, you know that I speak the truth when I say that during to-morrow night the king will fly — for you are one of the agents.”

  “If it be so,” said Gilbert, “you do not expect that I should avow it, do you?”

  “And what need have I of your avowal? You know well that I am not only he who is, but more, that I am he who knows.”

  “But if you are he who knows,” said Gilbert, “you know what the queen said yesterday, apropos of the refusal of Madame to attend the Fete Dieu next Sunday, to M. de Montmorin: ‘I am sorry she will not go with us to Saint Germain 1’Auxerrois — she might well sacrifice her opinions for the king.” So if the queen goes on Sunday with the king to the church of Saint Germain 1’Auxerrois, they cannot go to-night, nor go on a long journey.”

  “Yes, but I know also,” said Cagliostro., “that a great philosopher has said, ‘Speech was given to man to conceal his thoughts;’ and God is not so exclusive as to have given to man alone a gift so precious.”

  “My dear master,” said Gilbert, “you know the history of the incredulous apostle?’

  “Who began to believe when Christ allowed him his feet, his hands, and side. Well, my dear Gilbert, the queen, who is in the habit of considering her ease, and who does not wish to undergo any deprivation during the journey, however short it may be, if the calculation of M. de Charny is correct, the queen has ordered at Desbrosses, Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, a charming necessaire in silver-gilt, which is thought to be intended for her sister, the Archduchess Christine. The necessaire, bought yesterday morning only, was sent yesterday evening to the Tuileries. They are going in a large, roomy travelling carriage, which will hold six people. It has been ordered of Louis, the first builder in the Champs Elysees, by M. de Charny, who is with him at this very moment, paying him twenty-five louis, that is to say, the half of the sum agreed for. The report, also, of M. Isidor de Charny was not bad. M. de Montmorin, without knowing what it was, signed this morning a passport for Madame la Baronne de Korff, her two children, her two maids, her steward, and three servants. Madame de Korff is Madame de Tourzel, governess of the children of France; her two children are Madame Royale, and Monsieur the Dauphin; her two women are the queen and Madame Elizabeth; her steward is the king; lastly, her three domestics, who, habited as couriers, intend to precede and accompany the carriage, are M. Isidor de Charny, M. de Maiden, and M. de Valory. That passport is the paper you held in your hand when I entered, which you folded and put in your pocket, and which is conceived in these terms:

  “On behalf of the king. “We command all to let pass Madame la Baronne de Korff, with her two children, one woman, one valet de chambre, and three servants.

  “The Minister of Foreign Affairs,

  “MONTMORIN.”

  “Am I well informed, my dear Gilbert?”

  “Except a little contradiction between your words and the passport.”

  “Which?”

  “You said that the queen and Madame Elizabeth represented the two femmes de chambre of Madame de Tourzel, and I see but a single woman mentioned in the passport.”

  “Ah! I see! Arrived at Boudy, Madame de Tourzel, who thinks to go to Montmedy; will be asked to descend. The queen will then become Madame de Korff, and then, as there will be only one woman, and she Madame Elizabeth, it would be useless to put two on the passport. Now, would you like more details? I will give you some. The journey ought to have taken place before the 1st of June; M. de Bouille wished it much — he even wrote to the king about it in a very pressing letter, adding that the they were being corrupted from day to day. By these words, being corrupted, he meant that the army was beginning to understand its having to choose between a monarchy which had for three centuries sacrificed the people to the nobility, the soldier to the officer, and a constitution which proclaimed equality before the law, which recognised merit and courage. But the carriage and other things were not ready, and it was therefore impossible to start on the 1st of June. This was a great misfortune, for since the 1st of June the army has become more corrupted, and the troops are ready to swear to the constitution. The departure was then fixed for the eighth; but M. de Bouille received notice of this date too late, and in his turn he was obliged to answer that he was not ready. Then the twelfth was chosen. They would have preferred the eleventh, but a woman, very democratic, and, moreover, mistress of M. de Gouvoin, aide-decamp to M. de Lafayette, Madame de Rochereul, if you would know her name, was in close attendance on the dauphin, and they feared she would see something and denounce them. On the twelfth the king perceived he had only six days to wait to get possession of a quarter of his yearly civil list — six millions. Peste! you understand well the trouble of waiting those six days, my dear Gilbert. In brief, the departure was put off until Sunday; the nineteenth, at midnight; but on the eighteenth a despatch arrived putting off this departure until Monday the twentieth, at the same hour, that is to say, to-morrow evening. This, too, may have its own inconveniences. M. de Bouille had already sent his orders to the detachments, and now he must send counter orders. Take care, my dear Gilbert, take care; all this wearies the soldiers, and makes the people think.”

  “Count,” said Gilbert, “I shall not deceive you: all that you have said is true. Now, considering his personal danger, and that of the queen and his children, if the king would remain, tell me frankly whether as king, man, husband, father, you do not think him justified in flying?”

  “Well, do you wish me to tell you one thing, my dear Gilbert? It is not as a father, it is not as a husband, it is not as a man, that Louis XVI. flies. It is not on account of the 5th of October that he leaves France. No; he is a Bourbon, and the Bourbons know how to look danger in the face. No; he leaves France on account of this Constitution, which, at the instance of the United States, the National Assembly is about to form, without reflecting that the model it follows is adapted for a republic, and applied to a monarchy does not leave the king breathing room. No! he leaves France on account of that famous affair of the Knights of the Poniard, in which your friend Lafayette acted so irreverently towards the king. No, my dear Gilbert, you are honestly, frankly, a constitutional royalist — you believe in that sweet, consoling Utopia of a monarchy tempered by liberty. You should know one thing, and that is this: kings, in imitation of God, whom they pretend to represent on the earth, have a religion of their own — the religion of royalty; and the day on which the people prevented the king from going to Saint Cloud, and that on which they expelled the Knights of the Poniard from the Tuileries, this religion was touched — was broken in upon — and this is what the king cannot bear; that is the true abomination; this is why the king, who had refused! to be carried off by M. de Favras, and to save himself with his aunt, consents to fly to-morrow with a passport of M. de Montmorin, who knows not for whom he signed it, under the name of Durand and in the dress of a domestic; always reminding them, however — kings will be kings to the end — to put the red coat embroidered with gold that he wore at Cherbourg into the portmanteaus.”

  Gilbert resolved to speak frankly on the matter.

  “Count,” observed he, “all you say is true, I admit. Now, why have you come to tell me this? Under what title do you present yourself to me? Do you come as a loyal enemy inviting me to battle, or do you come as a friend to aid me?”

  “I come, my dear Gilbert, in the first place,” said Cagliostro, kindly, “as the master comes to the pupil, to say: ‘My friend, you were wrong in attaching yourself to this falling ruin called monarchy. Men like you do not belong to the past or even to the present; they are the property of the future. Abandon what you do not believe in for what you know. Do not let fall the reality for the shadow; and if you do not become an active soldier of the revolution, let it pass by and do not attempt to check it.’ Mirabeau was a giant, but he failed.”

  “Count,” said Gilbert, “I will reply to that on the day that the king, who has confided in me, shall be safe. Louis XVI. has taken me as a confidant, as an auxiliary, as an accomplice, if you please — I have accepted this mission, and will fulfil it openly. I am a physician, my friend, and to me the material health of my patient is an object of primary consideration. Now answer me: in your mysterious plans and dark combinations, is it necessary that this succeed or fail? If you wish it to fail, say so, for it will be useless to go. Say ‘Do not go,’ and we will remain, bend our heads, and await the blow.”

  “Brother,” said Cagliostro, “if impelled by the God who has placed me on the route, it were necessary for me to strike those whom your heart loves, I would remain in the shadow and ask but one thing of the superhuman power I obey: that you might be ignorant whence the blow was winged. No; if I do not come as a friend — I cannot be the friend of kings, whose victim I have been — I do not come as an enemy. I come with a balance in my hand, and say I have weighed the fortunes of the last Bourbon, and I do not believe his death is important to the cause. Now, God forbid that I, who like Pythagoras think I have no right to take away the life of the merest insect, should destroy that of a lord of creation. There is none. But I come not only to say I will be neuter, but to offer you my aid, if you need it.”

  Gilbert tried a second time to read the heart of Cagliostro.

  “Good,” said the latter, in resuming his tone of raillery; “now you doubt. Let us see, thou man of letters, dost thou not remember the story of Achilles’ spear, that wounded and cured? I possess this lance. The woman who has passed as the queen in the shrubberies of Versailles, cannot she also pass for the queen in the apartments of the Tuileries, or on some route in the opposite direction to that which the true fugitive follows? Now, what I have just offered you is not to be despised, my dear Gilbert.”

  “Be frank, count, even to the end with what object you have made me this offer.”

  “Why, my dear doctor, it is a very simple one; in order that the king may quit France — that he may go — and so that we may be able to proclaim the republic.”

  “The republic?” said Gilbert, astonished.

  “Why not?” said Cagliostro.

  “But, my dear count, I look around me in France, north and south, east and west, and I do not see a single republican.”

  “There you are mistaken. I see three. Petion, Camille Desmoulins, and your humble servant. Those you can see, as I do; but I see those you do not see, but whom you will see when the time appears. Then rely upon me to produce a theatrical effect which will surprise you. I desire only that in the changes there may be no serious accident. Accidents always happen to the machinist.”

  Gilbert reflected for an instant. He then gave his hand to Cagliostro. “Count,” said he. “were I only concerned — were my life, my honour, reputation, and memory only at stake — I would accept at once. But as a kingdom, a king, a queen, a race, a monarchy are at stake, I cannot undertake to act for them. Remain neuter, my dear count, that is all I ask.”

  Cagliostro smiled. “Yes,” said he, “I understand. Well, Gilbert, the man of the necklace is about to give you advice.”

  “Silence!” said Gilbert, “some one rings.”

  “What of that? You know that person is the Count de Charny. Both he and you may profit by my advice. Enter, count.”

  Charny, in fact, appeared at the door. Seeing a stranger, when he had expected to see only Gilbert, he paused for a moment. “This advice,” said Cagliostro, “is this. Do without two heavy carriages and two striking likenesses. Adieu, Gilbert; adieu, count; and to use a common phrase, I wish you a pleasant journey. May God keep you in his holy charge!”

  The prophet bowed kindly and courteously to Charny, and retired. The count looked anxiously after him.

  “Who is that man, doctor?” asked Charny, as soon as his steps were no longer heard.

  “One of my friends, a man who knows, and who has promised not to betray me.”

  “What is his name?”

  Gilbert hesitated a moment. “He is the Baron Zanoni.”

  “Strange! I do not know the name, but it seems to me I remember the face. Have you a passport?”

  “Here it is, count.”

  Charny took the passport, and becoming completely absorbed by the attention this important document required, for the moment, at least, forgot Zanoni.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  The Evening of June the Twentieth.

  NOT WITHOUT reason had distrust of Madame Rochereul been exhibited. Though her service had ceased on the 11th, she had continued, somehow or other, to return to the capital, and she had discovered, though the jewel cases of the queen were in their places, that the diamonds were gone: they had, in fact, been given by the queen to her hairdresser, Leonard, who was to set out on the 20th, a few hours before his august mistress, with M. de Choiseul, commander of the first detachment of soldiers, posted at the bridge of Someville, who also had charge of the relays at Varennes, composed of six good horses, awaiting the final orders of the queen and king. It was, perhaps, indiscreet to trouble De Choiseul with Leonard, and imprudent to take a hairdresser with her. But who abroad could have dressed her hair as Leonard did? A hairdresser who is a man of genius is not easily given up.

  The consequence was, that the chambermaid of the dauphin, not doubting but that the escape would be made on Monday, the 20th, at eleven o’clock, not only informed M. de Gouvion of the matter, but Bailly also.

  Lafayette had gone to find the king, and to have a frank explanation of the matter with him, simply shrugging up his shoulders.

  Bailly had done better. While Lafayette became blind as an astronomer, Bailly became courteous as a knight; he even sent the queen the letter of Madame Rochereul.

  M. de Gouvion, who was much interested, was very suspicious. Having learned all from his mistress, under the pretext of a military reunion, he had assembled a dozen officers of the National Guard, placed five or six as videttes at each door, and himself with five majors, undertook the surveillance of the doors of M. de Villequier, which had been specially pointed out to him.

  About the same hour, at No. 9, Rue Coq Heron, in a room we are all acquainted with, sat on a sofa a young and beautiful woman, apparently calm, but in fact deeply excited, who talked with a young man of twenty-three or four, clad in a courier’s vest of chamois, pantaloons of leather, a pair of boots, and armed with a couteau de chasse.

  The young woman insisted on something which the young man denied.

  “But, vicomte, why, during the last two months, since he has come to Paris, has he not come himself?”

  “My brother, madame, has often sent you messages.”

  “I know he has, and am grateful to him for doing so. It seems to me, though, that now he might have come himself.”

  “Madame, it was impossible, and therefore he sent me.”

  “And will your journey be long?”

  “I do not know, madame.”

  “I say so to you, count, because from your costume I think you are about to set out.”

  “In all probability, madame, I shall have left Paris at midnight.”

  “Do you go with your brother, or in an opposite direction?”

  “I think, madame, that we go in an opposite direction.”

  “Will you tell him that you have seen me?”

  “Yes, madame, for from the anxiety he exhibited when he sent me to you, and his reiterated orders not to return until I had spoken to you, he would not pardon me for any act of omission.”

  The young woman passed her hands over her eyes and said, after a moment’s reflection:

  “Vicomte, you are a gentleman, and will understand all I say to you. Tell me, will you answer me as if I were really your sister, and answer me as if you spoke to God? Does M. de Charny incur any serious danger in the journey he undertakes?”

  “Who can, tell, madame?” said Isidor, seeking to elude the question, “where danger does and does not exist? On the morning of the 5th of October, our poor brother George, had he been questioned, would have been confident that he saw no danger. On the next day he lay pale and dead at the queen’s door. Danger, madame, in the age we are in, springs from the earth, and we often stand face to face with death, without knowing why.”

 

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