 Prologue, Part 1 of The Queen's Necklace. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gail Timmerman Vaughn. The Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas. Translator unknown. Prologue, Part 1. The Predictions. An old nobleman and an old metre d'hôtel. It was the beginning of April, 1784, between twelve and one o'clock. Our old acquaintance, the Marshal de Richelieu, having with his own hands coloured his eyebrows with a perfume to dye, pushed away the mirror which was held to him by his valet, the successor of his faithful rafet, and shaking his head in the manner peculiar to himself, ah, said he, now I look myself. And rising from his self with juvenile vivacity, he commenced shaking off the powder which had fallen from his wick over his blue velvet coat. Then, after taking a turn or two up and down his room, called for his metre d'hôtel. In five minutes this personage made his appearance, elaborately dressed. The Marshal turned towards him, and with a gravity befitting the occasion, said, Sir, I suppose you have prepared me a good dinner, certainly your grace. You have the list of my guests. I remember them perfectly, your grace. I have prepared a dinner for nine. There are two sorts of dinners, sir, said the Marshal. True, your grace, but the Marshal interrupted him with a slightly impatient movement, although still dignified. Do you know, sir, that whenever I have heard the word but, and I have heard it many times in the course of eighty-eight years, it has been each time, I'm sorry to say, the harbinger of some folly. Your grace, in the first place, at what time do we dine? Your grace, the citizens dine at two, the bar at three, the nobility at four. And I, sir? Your grace will dine to-day at five. Oh, at five? Yes, your grace, like the king. And why like the king? Because on the list of your guests is the name of a king. Not so, sir, you mistake. All my guests to-day are simple noblemen. Your grace is surely jesting, the Count Haga, who is among the guests. Well, sir, the Count Haga is a king. I know no king so cold. Your grace must pardon me, then, said the Metro-Dotel bowing. But I believed, supposed. Your business, sir, is neither to believe nor suppose. Your business is to read without command, the orders I give you. When I wish a thing to be known, I tell it. When I do not tell it, I wish it unknown. The Metro-Dotel bowed again more respectfully, perhaps, than he would have done to a reigning monarch. Before, sir, continued the old marshal, you will, as I have none but noblemen to dinner, let us dine at my usual hour, for a clock. At this order the countenance of the Metro-Dotel became crowded, as if he had heard his sentence of death. He gradedly pale, then recovering himself with a courage of despair he said, in any event your grace cannot dine before five o'clock. Why so, sir, cried the marshal, because it is utterly impossible. Sir, said the marshal with a haughty air. It is now, I believe, twenty years, since you entered my service. Twenty-one years a month and two weeks? Well, sir, to these twenty-one years a month and two weeks. You will not add a day nor an hour. You understand me, sir. He continued, biting his thin lips, and depressing his eyebrows. This evening you seek a new master. I do not choose that the word impossible should be pronounced in my house. I am too old now to begin to learn its meaning. The Metro-Dotel bowed a third time. This evening, he said, I shall have taken leave of your grace, but at least, up to the last moment my duty shall have been performed as it should be. And he made two steps towards the door. What do you call as it should be? cried the marshal. Learn, sir, that to do it as it suits me is to do it as it should be. Now I wish to dine at four, and it does not suit me when I wish to dine at four, to be obliged to wait till five. Your grace, replied the Metro-Dotel gravely. I have served as butler to his highness the prince de Subis, and as steward to his eminence the cardinal de Laurent. With the first his majesty, the late king of France, dined once a year. With the second, the emperor of Austria, dined once a month. I know therefore how a sovereign should be treated. When he visited the prince de Suis, Louis XV called himself in vain the Baron de Gonesse. Inside the house of Monsieur de Laurent, the emperor Joseph was announced as the Count de Pakenstein, but he was none the less emperor. Today your grace also receives a guest, who vainly calls himself Count Haga. Count Haga is still king of Sweden. I shall leave your service this evening, but Count Haga will have been treated like a king. But that, said the marshal, is the very thing that I am tiring myself to death in forbidding. Count Haga wishes to preserve his incognito as strictly as possible. Well, do I see through your absurd vanity it is not the crown that you honour but yourself that you wish to glorify. I repeat again that I do not wish it imagined that I have a king here. What then does your grace take me for? It is not that I wish it known that there is a king here. Then in heaven's name do not be obstinate but let us have dinner at four. But at four o'clock your grace what I am expecting will not have arrived. What are you expecting, a fish like Monsieur Vatelme? Does your grace wish that I should tell you? On my faith I am curious. Then your grace I wait for a bottle of wine. A bottle of wine, explain yourself, sir, the thing begins to interest me. Listen then, your grace. His Majesty, the king of Sweden, I beg pardon. The Count Haga, I should have said, drinks nothing but toque. Well, am I so poor as to have no toque in my cellar? If so, I must dismiss my butler. Not so your grace, on the contrary, you have about sixty bottles. Well, do you think Count Haga will drink sixty bottles with his dinner? Know your grace. But when Count Haga first visited France, when he was only Prince Royal he dined with a late king, who had received twelve bottles of toque from the Emperor of Austria. You are aware that the toque of the finest vintages is reserved exclusively for the cellar of the Emperor, and that kings themselves can only drink it when he places to send it to them. I know it. Then your grace, of these twelve bottles of which the Prince Royal drank, only two remain. One is in the cellar of His Majesty at Louis XVI. Any other? Ah, your grace, said the Metritor Hotel, with a triumphant smile, for he felt that after the long battle he had been fighting the moment of victory was at hand. The other one was stolen. By whom, then? By one of my friends, the late king's butler, who was under great obligations to me. Oh, and so he gave it to you? Certainly your grace, said the Metritor Hotel, with pride. And what did you do with it? I placed it carefully in my master's cellar. Your master, and who was your master at that time? His eminence, the Cardinal de Roi. Amon Dieu est Strasbourg, et sa veine. And you have sent to seek this bottle for me, cried the old marshal. For you, your grace, replied the Metritor Hotel, in a town which plainly said, ungrateful as you are. The Duc de Richelieu seized the hand of the old servant and cried, I beg pardon, you are the king of Metritor Hotel. And you would have dismissed me, he replied, with an indescribable shrug of shoulders. Oh, I will pay you one hundred pistols for this bottle of wine. And the expenses of its coming here will be another hundred, but you will grant that it is worth it. I will grant anything you please. And to begin from today I double your salary. I seek no reward, your grace. I have but done my duty. And when will your courier arrive? Your grace may judge if I have lost time. On what day did I have my orders for the dinner? Why, three days ago, I believe. It takes a courier at his utmost speed, twenty-four hours to go, and the same to return. There still remain twenty-four hours, said the marshal. How have they been employed? Alas, your grace, they were lost. The idea only came to me the day after I received the list of your guests. Now calculate the time necessary for the negotiation, and you will perceive that in asking you to wait till five, I am only doing what I am absolutely obliged to do. The bottle has not yet arrived, then. Know your grace. Ah, sir, if your colleague at Savin be as devoted to the Place d'Or, as you are to me, and should refuse the bottle, as you would do in his place. I your grace? Yes, you would not, I suppose, have given away such a bottle, had it belonged to me. I beg your pardon humbly, your grace. But had a friend, having a king to provide for, asked me for your best bottle of wine, he should have had it immediately. Oh! said the marshal with a grimace. It is only by helping others that we can expect help in our own need, your grace. Well, then, I suppose we may calculate that it will be given, but there is still another risk, if the bottle should be broken. Oh, your grace, who would break a bottle of wine of that value? Well, I trust not. What time, then, do you expect your career? At four o'clock precisely. Then why not dine at four? replied the marshal. Your grace, the wine, must rest for an hour. And had it not been for an invention of my own, it would have required three days to recover itself. Beaten at all the points, the marshal gave way. Besides, continued the old servant, be sure, your grace, that your guests will not arrive before half past four. And why not? Consider your grace to begin with, Monsieur de Lonne. He comes from the Bastille, and with the eyes at present covering the streets of Paris. No, but he will leave after the prisoner's dinner, at twelve o'clock. Pardon me, your grace, but the dinner hour at the Bastille has been changed, since your grace was there. It is now one. Sir, you are learned on all points, pray go on. Madame de Barrie comes from the Lucien. One continued dissent, and in this frost. That would not prevent her being punctual, since she is no longer a duke's favourite. She plays the queen only among barons. But let me tell you, sir, that I desire to have dinner early, on account of Monsieur de la Paris, who sets off to-night and would not wish to be late. But your grace, Monsieur de la Paris, is with the king. In geography and cosmography, he will not get away too early. It is possible. It is certain, your grace, and it will be the same with Monsieur de Fafra, who is with the count de Provence, talking no doubt of the new play by the Canada Beaumarchais. You mean the marriage of Figaro. Yes, your grace. Why, you are quite literary also, it seems. In my leisure moments I read, your grace. We have, however, Monsieur de Condorcet, who, being a geometrician, should at least be punctual. Yes, but he will be deep in some calculation, from which he rouses himself. It will probably be at least half an hour too late. As for the count Cagliastro, as he is a stranger and not well acquainted with the customs of Versailles, he will in all probability make us wait for him. Well, said the Marshal, you have disposed of all my guests, except Monsieur de Tavernet, in a manner worthy of Homer, or of my pour affaire. The Metro-Dotel bowed. I have not, said he named Monsieur de Tavernet, because, being an old friend, he will probably be punctual. Good, and where do we dine? In the great dining-room, your grace. But we shall freeze there. It has been warmed for three days, your grace, and I believe you will find it perfectly comfortable. Very well, but there is a clock striking. Why, it is half past four, cried the Marshal. Yes, your grace. In there is the courier entering the courtyard with my bottle of toque. May I continue for another twenty years to be served in this manner, said the Marshal, turning again to his looking glass, while the Metro-Dotel ran downstairs. Twenty years, said a laughing voice, interrupting the Marshal in a survey of himself. Twenty years, my dear Duke, I wish them you, but then I shall be sixty, I shall be very old. You, Countess, cried the Marshal, you are my first arrival, and, mon Dieu, you are looking as young and charming as ever. Duke, I am frozen. Come into the boudoir, then. Oh, tete, tete, Marshal. Not so, replied a somewhat broken voice. Ah, tavernée, said the Marshal, and then whispering to the Countess, plague take him for disturbing us. Madame de Barry laughed, and they all entered the adjoining room. End of part one of the prologue. Part two of the prologue of the Queen's Necklace, my Alexandre Dumas, the translator, is unknown. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gail Timmerman Vaughn. Prologue part two. Monsieur de la Paris. At the same moment the noise of carriages in the street warned the Marshal that his guests were arriving, and soon after, thanks to the punctuality of his maître d'hôtel, nine persons were seated round the oval table in the dining room, nine lackeys, silent as shadows, quick without bustle, and attentive without importunity, glided over the carpet and passed among the guests without ever touching their chairs which were surrounded with furs which were wrapped round the legs of the sitters. These furs, with the heat from the stoves and the odours from the wine and the dinner, diffused a degree of comfort which manifested itself in the gaiety of the guests who had just finished their soup. No sound was heard from without, and none within, save that made by the guests themselves, for the plates were changed and the dishes moved around with the most perfect quiet. Nor from the maître d'hôtel could a whisper be heard. He seemed to give his orders with his eyes. The guests therefore began to feel as though they were alone. It seemed to them that servants so silent must also be deaf. Monsieur de Richelieu was the first to broke the silence, by saying to the guests on his right hand, but count, you drink nothing. This was addressed to a man about thirty-eight years of age, short, fair-haired, and with high shoulders. His eye a clear blue, now bright, but often are with a pensive expression, and with nobility stamped unmistakably on his open and manly forehead. I only drink water, Marshal, he replied. Except with Louis XV returned the Marshal. I had the honour of dining at his table with you, and you dained that day to drink wine. Ah! You recall a pleasing remembrance, Marshal. That was in 1771. It was toque from the imperial cellar. It was like that, with which my maître d'hôtel will now have the honour to fill your glass, replied Richelieu, bowing. Count Haga raised his glass and looked through it. The wine sparkled in the light like liquid rubies. It is true, he said. Marshal, I thank you. These words were uttered in a manner so noble that the guests, as if by a common impulse rose and cried, Long live the king. Yes, said Count Haga. Long live his Majesty the King of France. What say you, Monsieur de la Perousse? My lord, replied the captain, with that tone, at once flattering and respectful, common to those accustomed to address crowned heads. I have just left the king, and his Majesty has shown me so much kindness that no one will more willingly cry Long live the king than I. Only as in another hour I must leave you to join the two ships, which his Majesty has put at my disposal. Once out of this house I shall take the liberty of saying Long life to another king, whom I should be proud to serve, had I not already so good a master. This health that you propose, said Madame Dubarie, who sat on the Marshal's left hand, we are all ready to drink, but the oldest of us should take the lead. Is it you that that concerns or me, Tavernay, said the Marshal, laughing? I do not believe, said another on the opposite side, that Monsieur de Richeneau is the senior of our party. Then it is you, Tavernay, said the Duke. No, I am eight years younger than you. I was born in 1704, returned he. How rude, said the Marshal, to expose my eighty-eight years. Impossible, Duke, that you are eighty-eight, said Monsieur de Condorcet. It is, however, but too true. It is calculation easy to make, and therefore unworthy of an algebraus like you, Marquis. I am of the last century, the great century, as we call it. My date is 1696. Impossible, Cré-de-Loné. Though if your father were here he would not say impossible. He who, when Governor of the Bastille, had me for a lodger in 1714. The senior in age here, however, said Monsieur de Fafra, is the wine that Haga is now drinking. You are right, Monsieur de Fafra, this wine is a hundred and twenty years old. To the wine, then, belongs the honour. One moment, gentlemen, said Cagliastro, raising his eyes, beaming with intelligence and vivacity. I claim the precedence. You claim the precedence over the Toquets, exclaimed all the guests in Porus. Assuredly, returned Cagliastro calmly, since it was I who bottled it. You? Yes, I. On the day of the victory won by Monte Cacouli over the Turks in 1664. A burst of laughter followed these words which Cagliastro had pronounced, with perfect gravity. By this calculation you would be something like one hundred and thirty years old, said Madame de Barris. For you must have been at least ten years old when you bottled the wine. I was more than ten when I performed that operation, Madame. As on the following day I had the honour of being deputed by His Majesty, the Emperor of Austria, to congratulate Monte Cacouli, who, by the victory of Saint Gautard, had avenged the day at Espec in Sklavonia, in which the infidels treated the imperialists so roughly, who were my friends and companions in arms, in 1536. Oh! said Count Haga, as coldly as Cagliastro himself. You must have been at least ten years old when you were at that memorable battle. A terrible defeat, Count, returned to Cagliastro. That's terrible than Cressy, however, said Condorcet, smiling. True, sir, for at the battle of Cressy it was not only an army but all France that was beaten, but then this defeat was scarcely a fair victory to the English. For King Edward had canon, a circumstance of which Philippe de Valois was ignorant or rather, which he would not believe, although I warned him that I had with my own eyes seen four pieces of artillery which Edward had bought from the Venetians. Ah! said Madame de Baris. You knew Philippe de Valois? Madame, I have the honour to be one of the five lords who escorted him off the field of battle. I came to France with the poor old King of Bohemia who was blind and who threw away his life when he heard that the battle was lost. Ah! sir! said Monsieur de la Perousse. How much I regret that instead of the battle of Cressy it was not that of Actium at which you assisted. Why so, sir? Oh! because you might have given me some nautical details which, in spite of Plutarch's fine narration, have ever been obscured to me. Which, sir? I should be happy to be of service to you. Oh! you were there then, also? No, sir. I was then in Egypt. I had been employed by Queen Cleopatra to restore the library at Alexandria, an office for which I was better qualified than anyone else from having personally known the best authors of antiquity. And you have seen Queen Cleopatra, said Madame de Baris, as I now see you, Madame. Well, she is pretty as they say. Madame, you know beauty is only comparative. A charming Queen in Egypt, in Paris, she would only have been a pretty grisette. They know harm of grisettes, count. God forbid, think Cleopatra was—little, slender, lively, and intelligent, with large almond-shaped eyes, a grecian nose, teeth like pearls, and a hand like your own countess, a fit hand to hold a scepter. See, here is a diamond which she gave me, and which she had had from her brother Ptolemy. She wore it on her thumb. On her thumb? cried Madame de Baris. Yes, it was in Egyptian fashion. And IUC can hardly put it on my little finger, and taking off the ring he handed it to Madame de Baris. It was a magnificent diamond of such fine water, and so beautifully cut, as to be worth thirty thousand or forty thousand francs. The diamond was passed round the table, and returned to Cagliostro, who, putting it quietly on his finger again, said, Ah, I see well you are all incredulous. This fatal incredulity I have had to contend against all my life. Ptolemy de Valois would not listen to me when I told him to leave open a retreat to Edward. Cleopatra would not believe me when I warned her that Antony would be beaten. The Trojans would not credit me when I said to them, with reference to the wooden horse, Cassandra is inspired, listen to Cassandra. Oh, it is charming, said Madame de Baris, shaking with laughter. I have never met a man at once so serious and so diverting. I assure you, replied Cagliostro, that Jonathan was much more so. He was really a charming companion, until he was killed by Saul. He nearly drove me crazy with laughing. Do you know, said the doctor Richelieu, if you go on in this way you will drive poor Tavernet crazy. He is so afraid of death, that he is staring at you with all his eyes, hoping you to be an immortal. Immortal, I cannot say but one thing I can affirm. What, cried Tavernet, who was the most eager listener, that I have seen all the people and events of which I have been speaking to you. You have known Montecoucouli, as well as I know you, Monsieur de Fafra, and indeed much better, for this is but the second or third time I have had the honour of seeing you, while I lived nearly a year under the same tent, with him of whom you speak. You knew Philippe de Valois? As I have already had the honour of telling you, Monsieur de Condorcet, but when he returned to Paris, I left France and returned to Bohemia. And Cleopatra? Yes, Countess, Cleopatra, I can tell you, had eyes as black as yours and shoulders almost as beautiful. But what do you know of my shoulders? They are like what Cassandra's ones were, and there is still a further resemblance. She had like you, or rather, you have like her a little black spot on your left side, just above the sixth rib. Oh, Count, now you really are a sorcerer. No, no, cried the Marshal, laughing. It was I who told him. And pray, how do you know? The Marshal bit his lips and replied, Oh, it is a family secret. Well, really, Marshal, said the Countess, why don't you put on a double coat of rouge before visiting you, and turning again to Cogliastro? Then, sir, you have the art of renewing your youth, for although you say you are three or four thousand years old, you scarcely look forty. Yes, madame, I do possess that secret. Oh, then, sir, impart it to me. To you, madame, it is useless. Your youth is already renewed, your age is only what it appears to be, and you do not look thirty. Ah, you flatter. No, madame, I speak only the truth, but it is easily explained. You have already tried my receipt. How so? You have taken my elixir. I? You countess. Oh, you cannot have forgotten it. Do you not remember a certain house in the Roussaint Claude, and coming there on some business respecting Monsieur de Sartine? You remember rendering a service to one of my friends, called Joseph Balsamo, and that this Joseph Balsamo gave you a bottle of elixir, recommending you to take three drops every morning? Do you not remember having done this regularly until the last year, when the bottle became exhausted? If you do not remember all this, countess, it is more than forgetfulness, it is in gratitude. Oh, Monsieur Cagliostro, you are telling me things, which were only known to yourself, I am aware, but what would be the use of being a sorcerer, if one did not know one's neighbour's secrets? Then Joseph Balsamo has, like you, the secret of this famous elixir? No, madame, but he was one of my best friends, and I gave him three or four bottles. And has he any left? Oh, I know nothing of that. For the last two or three years poor Balsamo has disappeared. The last time I saw him was in America, on the banks of the Ohio. He was setting off on an expedition to the Rocky Mountains, and since then I have heard that he is dead. Come, come, count, cried the Marshal, let us have the secret by all means. Are you speaking seriously, sir? said Count Haga. Very seriously, sire. I beg pardon, I mean count. And Cagliostro bowed, in such a way as to indicate that his error was a voluntary one. Then, said the Marshal, Madame du Péris is not old enough to be made young again? No on my conscience. Well, then, I will give you another subject. Here is my friend, Monsieur Tavernet. What do you say to him? Does he not look like a contemporary of Pontius Pilate? But perhaps he, on the contrary, is too old. Cagliostro looked at the Baron. No, said he. Ah, my dear Count, exclaimed Richelieu, if you will renew his youth, I will proclaim you a true pupil of Medea. You wish it, asked Cagliostro of the host, and looking round at the same time on all assembled. Everyone called out, yes, and you also, Monsieur Tavernet. I'm more than anyone, said the Baron. Well, it is easy, returned Cagliostro, and he drew from his pocket a small bottle, and poured into a glass some of the liquid it contained. Then, mixing these drops with half a glass of iced champagne, he passed it to the Baron. All eyes followed his movements eagerly. The Baron took a glass, but as he was about to drink, he hesitated. Everyone began to laugh, but Cagliostro called out, Drink Baron, or you will lose a liquor of which every drop is worth a hundred louis d'eux. The devil cried Richelieu. That is even better than Touquet. I must then drink, said the Baron, almost trembling, or pass the glass to another sir that someone at least may profit by it. Pass it here, said Richelieu, holding out his hand. The Baron raised the glass and decided doubtless by the delicious smell and the beautiful rose color which those few drops had given to the champagne. He swallowed the magic liquor. In an instant a kind of shiver ran through him. He seemed to feel all his old and sluggish blood rushing quickly through his veins, from his heart to his feet. His wrinkled skin seemed to expand. His eyes, half covered by their lids, appeared to open without his will, and the pupils to grow and brighten, the trembling of his hands to cease, his voice to strengthen, and his limbs to recover their former youthful elasticity. In fact it seemed as if the liquid in its descent had regenerated his whole body. A cry of surprise, wonder, and admiration rang through the room. Tavernet, who had been slowly eating with his gums, began to feel famished. He seized a plate and helped himself largely to a ragout, and then demolished a partridge-bones and all, calling up that his teeth were coming back to him. He ate, laughed, and cried for joy, for half an hour, while the others remained gazing at him in stupefied wonder. Then little by little he failed again, like a lamp whose oil is burning out, and all the former signs of old age returned upon him. Oh! groaned he, once more adieu to my youth, and he gave utterance to a deep sigh, while two tears rolled over his cheeks. Distinctively in this mournful spectacle of the old man first made young again, and then seeming to become yet older than before, from the contrast the sigh was echoed all round the table. It is easy to explain, gentlemen, said Cagliostro. I gave the Baron but thirty-five drops of the elixir. He became young, therefore, for only thirty-five minutes. Oh! more, more, count, cried the old man eagerly. No, sir, for perhaps the second trial, would kill you. Of all the guests, Madame Dubarie, who had already tested the virtue of the elixir, seemed most deeply interested, while old Tavane's youth seemed thus to renew itself. She had watched him with delight and triumph, and half fancied herself growing young again at the sight, while she could hardly refrain from endeavouring to snatch from Cagliostro the wonderful bottle, but now seeing him resume his old age even quicker than he had lost it. Alas! she said sadly, all is vanity and deception. The effects of this wonderful secret last for thirty-five minutes. Let us to say, said Count Haga, that in order to resume your youth for two years you would have to drink a perfect river. Everyone laughed. Oh! said de Grand-Dorcet. The calculation is simple, a mere nothing, of three million one hundred and fifty-three thousand drops, for one year's youth. An inundation, said la Peruse. However, sir, continued Madame Dubarie, according to you I have not needed so much, as a small bottle about four times the size of that you hold, has been sufficient to arrest the March of Time for ten years. Just so, Madame, and you alone approach this mysterious truth. The man who has already grown old needs this large quantity to produce an immediate and powerful effect. But a woman of thirty, as you were, or a man of forty as I was, when I began to drink this elixir, still full of life and youth, needs but ten drops at each period of decay, and with these ten drops may eternally continue his life and youth, of the same point. What do you call the periods of decay, asked Count Haga? The natural periods count. In a state of nature, man's strength increases until thirty-five years of age. It then remains stationary until forty, and from that time forward it begins to diminish, but almost imperceptibly until fifty. Then the process becomes quicker and quicker to the day of his death. In our state of civilization, when the body is weakened by excess, cares, and maladies, the failure begins at thirty-five. The time, then, to take nature, is when she is stationary, so as to forestall the beginning of decay. He who, possessor as I am of the secret of this elixir, knows how to seize the happy moment, will live as I live, always younger at least, always young enough, for what he has to do in the world. Oh, Mr. Cagliostro, cries the Countess, why, if you could choose your own age, did you not stop at twenty instead of forty? Because madame, said Cagliostro, smiling, it suits me better to be a man of forty, still healthy and vigorous, than a raw youth of twenty. Oh, said the Countess. Doubtless madame, continued Cagliostro, at twenty-one pleases women of thirty, at forty we govern women of twenty and men of sixty. I yield, sir, said the Countess, for you are a living proof of the truth of your own words. Then I, said Taverné piteously, am condemned, it is too late for me. Monsieur de Richelieu has been more skillful than you, said la Peruse naivle, and I have always heard that he had some secret. It is a report that women have spread, laughed Count Haga. Is that a reason for disbelieving at Duke? Asked madame de Barry. The old Duke coloured a rare thing for him, but replied, Do you wish, gentlemen, to have my receipt? Oh, by all means. Well, then it is simply to take care of yourself. Oh, oh, cried all. But, monsieur Cagliostro, continued madame de Barry, I must ask more about the elixir. Well, madame, you said you first used it at forty years of age. Yes, madame, and that since that time, that is, since the Siege of Troy, a little before, madame, that you have always remained forty years old. You see me now. But then, sir, said de Condorcet, you argue not only the perpetuation of youth, but the preservation of life, for if since the Siege of Troy you have always been forty, you have never died. True, Marquis, I have never died. But are you then invulnerable like Achilles, or still more so, for Achilles was killed by the arrow of Paris? No, I am not invulnerable, and there is my great regret, said Cagliostro. Then, sir, you may be killed. Alas, yes. How, then, have you escaped all accidents? For three thousand, five hundred years. It is chance, Marquis, but will you follow my reasoning? Yes, yes, cried all with eagerness. Cagliostro continued. What is the first requisite to life, he asked, spreading out his white and beautiful hands covered with rings, among which Cleopatra's shone conspicuously. Is it not health? Certainly. And the way to preserve health is? For management, said Count Haga. Right, Count, and why should not my elixir be the best possible method of treatment? And this treatment I have adopted, and with it I have preserved my youth, and with youth, health, and life. But all things exhaust themselves, the finest constitution, as well as the worst. The body of Paris like that of Vulcan, said the Countess. Perhaps you knew Paris by the by? Perfectly Madame. He was a fine young man, but really did not deserve all that has been said of him. In the first place, he had red hair. Red hair? Horrible! Unlikely Madame, Helen, was not of your opinion. But to return to our subject. You say, M. de Tavernet, that all things exhaust themselves, but you also know that everything recovers again, regenerates, or is replaced. Whichever you please to call it. The famous Knife of Saint-Uber, which so often changed both blade and handle, is an example, for through every change it still remained the Knife of Saint-Uber. The wines, which the monks of Heidelberg preserve so carefully in their cellars, remain still the same wine, although each year they pour into it a fresh supply. Therefore this wine always remains clear, bright, and delicious, while the wine which Oppamas and I hid in the earthen jars was, when I tried it a hundred years after, only a thick dirty substance, which might have been eaten but certainly could not have been drunk. Well I follow the example of the monks of Heidelberg and preserve my body by introducing into it every year new elements which regenerate the old. Every morning a new and fresh atom replaces in my body my flesh and my bones some particle which has perished. I say that ruin which most men allow insensibly to invade their whole being, and I force into action all those powers which God has given to every being but which most people allow to lie dormant. This is the great study of my life, and as in all things he who does one thing constantly does that better than others. I am becoming more skillful than others in avoiding danger. Thus you would not get me to enter a tottering house. I have seen too many houses, not to tell at a glance, the safe from the unsafe. You would not see me go out hunting with a man who managed his gun badly. From Cephalus, who killed his wife, down to the regent, who shot the prince in the eye, I have seen too many unskillful people. You could not make me accept in battle the post which many a man would take without thinking, because I should calculate in a moment the chances of danger at each point. You will tell me that one cannot foresee a stray bullet, but the man who has escaped a thousand gunshots will hardly fall a victim to one now. Are you looking credulous, but am I not a living proof? I do not tell you that I am immortal, only that I know better than others how to avoid danger. For instance, I would not remain here now alone with Monsieur de Loney, who was thinking that, if he had me in the Bastille, he would put my immortality to the test of starvation. Neither would I remain with Monsieur du Condorcet, for he is thinking that he might just empty into my glass the contents of that ring which he wears on his left hand, and which is full of poison, not with any evil intent, but just as a scientific experiment, to see if I should die. The two people named looked at each other, and coloured. Confess, Monsieur de Loney, we are not in a court of justice. Besides, thoughts are not punished. Did you not think what I said, and you, Monsieur du Condorcet, would you not have liked to let me taste the poison in your ring, in the name of your beloved mistress, Science? Indeed, said Monsieur de Loney, laughing, I confess you are right, it was folly. But that folly did pass through my mind, just before you accused me. And I, said Monsieur du Condorcet, will not be less candid. I did think, that if you tasted the contents of my ring, I would not give much for your life. A cry of admiration burst from the rest of the party. These avowals confirming not the immortality, but the penetration of Count Cagliastro. You see, said Cagliastro quietly, that I divide these dangers, while it is the same with other things. The experience of a long life reveals to me at a glance much of the past and of the future of those whom I meet. My capabilities in this way extend even to animals and inanimate objects. If I get into a carriage, I can tell from the look of the horses, if they are likely to run away, and from that of the coachmen, if he will overturn me. If I go on board ship, I can see if the captain is ignorant or obstinate, and consequently likely to endanger me. I should then leave the coachman or captain, escape from those horses, or that ship. I do not deny chance. I only lessen it, and instead of incurring a hundred chances, like the rest of the world, I prevent 99 of them and endeavor to guard against the hundredth. This is the good of having lived 3,000 years. Then, said Cagliastro, laughing, amidst the wonder and enthusiasm created by the speech of Cagliastro's, you should come with me when I embark to make the tour of the world. You would render me a signal service. Cagliastro did not reply. Monsieur de Richelieu continued la peruse. As a Count Cagliastro, which is very intelligible, does not wish to quit such good company, you must permit me to do so without him. Excuse me, Count Haga, and you, madame, but it is seven o'clock, and I have promised His Majesty to start at a quarter past. But since Count Cagliastro will not be tempted to come with me and see my ships, perhaps he can tell me what will happen to me between Versailles and Brest. From Brest to the Pole I ask nothing. That is my own business. Cagliastro looked at la peruse with such a melancholy air, so full of both pity and kindness, that the others were struck by it. The sailor himself, however, did not remark it. He took leave of the company, put on his fur riding-coat, into one of the pockets of which Madame de Barrie pushed a bottle of a delicious cordial welcome to a traveller, but which he would not have provided for himself. To recall to him, she said, his absent friends during long nights of a journey, in such bitter cold. La peruse was still full of gaiety, bowed respectfully to Count Haga, and held out his hand to the old marshal. Adieu, Dieu la peruse, said the latter. N'audeuc, au revoir, repris de la peruse. One would think I was going away forever. Now I have but to circumnavigate the globe. Five or six years' absence, it is scarcely worthwhile to say adieu for that. Five or six years, said the marshal, you might almost as well say five or six centuries. Days are years at my age. Therefore I say adieu. Bah, ask the sorcerer, return la peruse, still laughing. He will promise you twenty years more life. Will you not, Count Cudley-Ostrow? Oh, count! Why did I not hear sooner of those precious drops of yours? Whatever the price I should have shipped a ton. Madame, another kiss of that beautiful hand. I shall certainly not see such another till I return. Au revoir! Cudley-Ostrow, still preserved to the same mournful silence. They heard the steps of the captain as he left the house, his gay voice in the courtyard, and his farewells to the people assembled to see him depart. Then the horses shook their heads, covered with bells. The door of the carriage shut, with some noise, and the wheels were heard rolling along the street. La peruse had started on that voyage, from which he was destined never to return. When they could no longer hear a sound, all looks were again turned to Cudley-Ostrow. There seemed a kind of inspired light in his eyes. Count Haga first broke the silence, which had lasted for some minutes. Why did you not reply to his question? He inquired of Cudley-Ostrow. Cudley-Ostrow started as if the question had roused him from a reverie. Because, said he, I must either have told a falsehood or a sad truth. How so? I must have said to him, Monsieur de la Peruse, the Duke is right in saying to you adieu, and not au revoir. Oh! said Richelieu, turning pale. What do you mean? Reassure yourself, Marshal, this sad prediction does not concern you. What! cried Madame de Barrie. This poor La Peruse who has just kissed my hand. Not only Madame will never kiss it again, but will never see again those he has just left. Said Cagley-Ostrow, looking attentively, at the glass of water, he was holding up. A cry of astonishment burst from all. The interest of the conversation deepened every moment, and you might have thought from the solemn and anxious air with which all regarded Cagley-Ostrow, that it was some ancient and infallible oracle they were consulting. Pray then count, said Madame de Barrie, tell us what will be fall, pour la Peruse. Cagley-Ostrow shook his head. Oh! yes, let us hear! cried all the rest. Well, then, Monsieur de la Peruse intends, as you know, to make the tour of the globe and continue the researches of poor Captain Cook, who was killed in the Sandwich Islands. Yes, yes, we know. Everything should foretell a happy termination to this voyage. Monsieur de la Peruse is a good seaman, and his route has been most skillfully traced by the king. Yes, interrupted Count Haga. The king of France is a clever geographer. Is he not, Monsieur de Condorcet? More skillful than is needful for a king, replied the Marquis. Things ought to know things only slightly, then they will let themselves be guided by those who know them thoroughly. Is this a lesson, Marquis? said Count Haga, smiling. Oh, no! only a simple reflection, a general truth. Well, he is gone, said Madame de Barrie, anxious to bring the conversation back to la Peruse. Yes, he is gone, replied Cagley-Ostrow, but don't believe in spite of his haste, that he will soon embark. I have received much time lost at Brest. That would be a pity, said de Condorcet. This is the time to set out. It is even now rather late, February or March, would have been better. Oh, do not grudge him these few months, Monsieur de Condorcet, for during them he will at least live, and hope. He has good officers, I suppose, said Richelieu. Yes, he who commands a second ship is a distinguished officer. I see him, young, adventurous, brave, unhappily. Why unhappily? A year after I look for him, and see him no more, said Cagley-Ostrow, anxiously consulting his glass. No one here is related to Mr. Dunlungle? No. No one knows him? No. Well, death will commence with him. A murmur of a fright escaped from all the guests. But he, la Peruse, cried several voices. He sails, he lands, he re-embarks. I see one, two years of successful navigation. We hear news of him, and then, then, years pass. Got lost? The sea is vast, the heavens are clouded. Here and there appear unknown lands, and figures hideous as the monsters of the Grecian archipelago. They watch the ship which is being carried in a fog amongst the breakers, by a tempest less fearful than themselves. Oh, la Peruse, la Peruse, if you could hear me I would cry out to you. You set out like Columbus to discover a world, beware of unknown isles. He ceased, and an icy shiver ran through the assembly. But why did you not warn him?" asked Count Haga, who, in spite of himself, had succumbed to the influence of this extraordinary man. Yes, cried Madame Dubarie, why not send after him and bring him back? The life of a man like la Peruse is surely worth a courier, my dear Marshal. The Marshal rose to ring the bell. Cagliostro extended his arm to stop him. Alas! said he. All advice would be useless. I can foretell destiny, but I cannot change it. Monsieur de la Peruse would laugh if he heard my words, as the son of Priam laughed when Cassandra prophesied. And see, you begin to laugh yourself, Count Haga, and laughing is contagious. Your companions are catching it. Do not restrain yourselves, gentlemen. I am accustomed to an incredulous audience. Oh, we believe, said Madame Dubarie, and the ductor chelot. And I believe, murmured Taverne, and I also, said Count Haga politely. Yes, replied Cagliostro, you believe because it concerns la Peruse, but if I spoke of yourself, you would not believe. I confess that what would have made me believe would have been, if you had said to him, beware of unknown aisles, then he would at least have had the chance of avoiding them. I assure you no, Count, and if he had believed me it would only have been more horrible, for the unfortunate man would have seen himself approaching those aisles destined to be fatal to him without the power to flee from them. Therefore he would have died, not one, but a hundred deaths, for he would have gone through it all by anticipation. Hope, of which I should have deprived him, is what best sustains a man under all trials. Yes, said de Condorcet, the veil which hides us from our future is the only real good which God has vouchsafed to man. Nevertheless, said Count Haga, did a man like you say to me, shun a certain man or a certain thing, I would believe, and I would thank you for the counsel. Cagliostro shook his head with a faint smile. I mean it, Monsieur de Condliostro, continued Count Haga, warned me and I will thank you. You wish me to tell you what I would not tell la Peruse? Yes, I wish it. Cagliostro opened his mouth as if to begin, and then stopped and said, No Count, no, I beg you, Cagliostro still remained silent. Take care, said the Count, you are making me incredulous. In credulity is better than misery. Monsieur de Cagliostro said the Count gravely, you forget one thing, which is that though there are men who had better remain ignorant of their destiny, there are others who should know it, as it concerns not themselves alone, but millions of others. Then, said Cagliostro, command me, if your Majesty commands, I will obey. I command you to reveal to me my destiny, Monsieur de Cagliostro said the King, with an air at once courteous and dignified. At this moment, as Count Haga had dropped his incognito in speaking to Cagliostro, Monsieur de Richelieu advanced towards him and said, Thanks, Sire, for the honour you have done my house. Will your Majesty assume the place of honour? Let us remain as we were, Marshal. I wish to hear what Monsieur de Cagliostro is about to say. One does not speak the truth to King's sire. Bah, I'm not in my kingdom. Take your place again, Duke. Proceed, Monsieur de Cagliostro, I beg. Cagliostro looked again through his glass, and one might have imagined the particles agitated by this look as they danced in the light. Sire, he said, tell me what you wish to know. Tell me by what death I shall die. By a gunshot, Sire. The eyes of Gustavus grew bright. Ah, in a battle, he said. The death of a soldier, thanks, Mr. de Cagliostro, a thousand times thanks. Oh, I foresee battles, and Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII have shown me how King of Sweden should die. Cagliostro dropped his head, without replying. Oh! cried Count Haga. Will not my wound then be given in battle? No, Sire. In a sedition, yes, that is possible. No, not in a sedition, Sire. But where, then? At a bowl, Sire? The king remained silent, and Cagliostro buried his head in his hands. Everyone looked pale and frightened, but then Monsieur de Combe d'Orsay took the glass of water and examined it, as if there he could solve the problem of all that had been going on, but finding nothing to satisfy him. Well, I also, said he, will beg our illustrious prophet to consult for me his magic mirror. Unfortunately, I am not a powerful lord. I cannot command, and my obscure life concerns no millions of people. Sire, said Count Haga, you command in the name of science, and your life belongs not only to a nation, but to all mankind. Thanks, said de Combe d'Orsay, but perhaps your opinion on this subject is not shared by Monsieur de Cagliostro. Cagliostro raised his head. Yes, Marquis, said he, in a manner which began to be excited. You are indeed a powerful lord in the kingdom of intelligence. Look me then in the face and tell me seriously, if you also wish that I should prophesy to you. Seriously, Count, upon my honour. Well, Marquis, said Cagliostro, in a hoarse voice. You will die of that poison which you carry in your ring. You will die. Oh, but if I throw it away, throw it away. You will allow that that would be easy. Throw it away. Oh, yes, Marquis, cried Madame du Barry, throw away that horrid poison. Throw it away. If it be only to falsify this prophecy of evil, who threatens us all with so many misfortunes. For if you throw it away, you cannot die by it, as Monsieur de Cagliostro predicts. So there at least he will have been wrong. Madame Le Contest is right. Said Count Haga. Bravo, Countess. C'est le chleur. Madame Marquis, throw away that poison. For now I know you carry it. I shall tremble every time we drink together. The ring might open of itself, and— It is useless, said Cagliostro quietly. Monsieur du Condorcet will not throw it away. No, returned Condorcet. I shall not throw it away. Not that I wish to aid my destiny, but because this is a unique poison, prepared by Cabanes, and which chance has completely hardened, and that chance might never occur again. Therefore I will not throw it away. Try if you will, Monsieur de Cagliostro. Destiny, replied he, ever finds some way to work out its own ends. And then I shall die by poison, said the Marquis. Well, so be it. It is an admirable death, I think. A little poison on the tip of the tongue, and I am gone. It is scarcely dying. It is merely ceasing to live. It is not necessary for you to suffer, sir, said Cagliostro. And sir, said Monsieur de Favreur, we have a shipwreck, a gunshot, and a poisoning, which makes my mouth water. Will you not do me the favour also to predict some little pleasure of the same kind for me? Oh Marquis, replied Cagliostro, beginning to grow warm under this irony. Do not envy these gentlemen. You will have still better. Better, said Monsieur de Favreur, laughing. This is pledging yourself to a great deal. It is difficult to beat the sea, fire, and poison. Everything remains the cord, Marquis, said Cagliostro, bowing. The cord? What do you mean? I mean that you will be hanged, replied Cagliostro, seeming no more the master of his prophetic rage. Hanged? The devil, cried Richelieu. Monsieur forgets that I am a nobleman, said Monsieur de Favreur courtly. Or if he means to speak of a suicide, I warn him that I shall respect myself sufficiently, even in my last moments, not to use a cord, while I have a sword. I do not speak of a suicide, sir. Then you speak of a punishment? Yes. You are a foreigner, sir, and therefore I pardon you. What? You're ignorant, sir, in France. We decapitate nobleman. You may arrange this, if you can, with the executioner, replied Cagliostro. Monsieur de Favreur said no more. There was a general silence, and shrinking for a few minutes. Do you know that I tremble at last? said Monsieur de Launay. My predecessors have come off so badly, that I fear for myself, if I now take my turn. Then you are more reasonable than they. You are right. Do not seek to know the future good or bad. Let it rest. It is in the hands of God. Oh Monsieur de Launay, said Madame du Barry, I hope you will not be less courageous than the others have been. I hope so too, Madame, said the Governor, then turning to Cagliostro. Sir, he said, favour me in my turn with my horoscope, if you please. It's easy, replied Cagliostro, a blow on the head with a hatchet, and all will be over. A look of dismay was once more general. Richelieu and Tavernay begged Cagliostro to say no more. But female curiosity carried the day. To hear you talk count, said Madame du Barry, one would think the whole universe must die a violent death. Where we were, eight of us and five are already condemned by you. Oh, you understand that it is all pre-arranged to frighten us, and we shall only laugh at it, said Monsieur de Favre, trying to do so. Certainly we will laugh, said Count Haga, be it true or false. Oh, I will laugh too, then, said Madame du Barry. I will not dishonour the assembly by my cowardice, but alas, I am only a woman. I cannot rank among you and be worthy of a tragical end. A woman dies in her bid. My death, a sorrowful old woman, abandoned by everyone, will be the worst of all. Will it not, Monsieur de Cagliostro? She stopped and seemed to wait for the prophet to reassure her. Cagliostro did not speak, so her curiosity, obtaining the mastery over her fears, she went on. Well, Monsieur de Cagliostro, will you not answer me? What do you wish me to say, Madame? She hesitated, then rallying her courage. Yes, she cried. I will run the risk. Tell me the fate of Jean de Vaubernier, Countess du Barry. On the scaffold, Madame, replied the prophet of evil. A jest, sir, is it not? said she, looking at him with a supplicating air. Cagliostro seemed not to see it. Why do you think I jest? said he. Oh, because to die on the scaffold one must have committed some crime, stolen, or committed murder, or done something dreadful. But it is not likely I shall do that. It was a jest, was it not? Oh, mon Dieu, yes, said Cagliostro. All I have said is but a jest. The Countess laughed, but scarcely in a natural manner. Come, Monsieur de Favre, she said, let us order our funerals. Oh, that will be needless for you, Madame, said Cagliostro. Why so, sir? Because you will go to the scaffold in a car. Oh, how horrible! This dreadful man, Marshal, for heaven's sake, choose more cheerful guests next time, or I will never visit you again. Excuse me, Madame, said Cagliostro, but you, like all the rest, would have me speak. At least I hope you will grant me time to choose my confessor. It will be superfluous, Countess. Why? The last person who will mount the scaffold in France, with a confessor, will be the King of France, and Cagliostro pronounced these words in so thrilling a voice that everyone was struck with horror. All were silent. Cagliostro raised to his lips the glass of water, in which he had read these fearful prophecies, but scarcely had he touched it when he set it down with a movement of disgust. He turned his eyes to Monsieur de Tavrenais. Oh, he cried in terror, do not tell me anything. I do not wish to know. Well then I will ask instead of him, said Richelieu. You, Marshal, be happy. You are the only one of us who will die in his bed. Coffee, gentlemen, coffee! cried the Marshal, enchanted with a prediction. Everyone rose. But before passing into the drawing-room, Count Haga, approaching Cagliostro, said, Tell me what to be aware of? Of a muffsor, replied Cagliostro, and I, said Condorcet, of an omelette. Good! I renounced eggs, and he left the room. And I, said Monsieur de Tavrenais, what must I fear? A letter. And I, said de Lonaise. The taking of the Bastille. Oh, you quite reassure me! And he went away laughing. Now for me, sir, said the Countess, trembling. You beautiful Countess! Shun the plas, Louis-Cance. Alas! said the Countess. One day already I lost myself there. That day I suffered much. She left the room, and Cagliostro was about to follow her when Richelieu stopped him. One moment, said he. There remains only Tavrenais, and I, my dear sorcerer. Monsieur de Tavrenais begged me to say nothing, and you, Marshal, have asked me nothing. Oh, I do not wish to hear again crying Tavrenais. But come, to prove your power, tell us something that only Tavrenais and I know. C'est Richelieu. What! asked Cagliostro, smiling. Tell us what makes Tavrenais come to Versailles, instead of living quietly in his beautiful house at Maison Rouge, which the king bought for him three years ago. Nothing more simple, Marshal, said Cagliostro. Ten years ago Monsieur de Tavrenais wished to give his daughter, mademoiselle André, to the king Louis-Cance, but he did not succeed. Oh, growled Tavrenais! Now Monsieur wishes to give his son, Philippe de Tavrenais, to Queen Marie-Antoinette. Ask him if I speak the truth. On my word, said Tavrenais, trembling. This man is a sorcerer. Devil take me if he is not. Do not speak so cavalierly of the devil, my old comrade, said the Marshal. It is frightful, murmured Tavrenais, and he turned to implore Cagliostro to be discreet, but he was gone. Come, Tavrenais, to the drawing-room, said the Marshal, or they will drink their coffee without us. But when they arrived there the room was empty. No one had courage to face again the author of these terrible predictions. The wax-knights burned in the candelabra. The fire burned on the hearth. But all for nothing. Ma foie, old friend, it seems we must take our coffee, tête-à-tête. Why were the devil has he gone? Richelieu looked all around him, but Tavrenais had vanished, like the rest. Never mind, said the Marshal, chuckling, as Voltaire might have done, and rubbing his withered, though still white hands. I shall be the only one to die in my bed. Well, count Cagliostro, at least I believe. In my bed. That was it. I shall die in my bed, and I trust not for a long time. Ole, my valet de chambre, and my drops. The valet entered with a bottle, and the Marshal went with him into the bedroom, end of the prologue. Chapter one of the Queen's Necklace, my Alexandre Dumas, translator unknown. The Slupervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gael Timmerman Vaughn. Chapter one. Two unknown ladies. The winter of 1784, that monster, which devoured Huff France, we could not see, although he growled at the doors, while at the house of Monsieur de Richelieu, shut in as we were in that warm and comfortable dining-room. A little frost on the windows seems but the luxury of nature, added to that of man. Winter has its diamonds, its powder, and its silver embroidering, for the rich man, wrapped in his furs, and packed in his carriage, or a snug among the wadding and velvet of a well-warmed room. Whorefrost is a beauty, ice a change of decoration by the greatest of artists, which the rich admire through their windows. He who is warm can admire the withered trees, and find a somber charm in the sight of the snow-covered plain. He who, after a day without suffering, when millions of his fellow creatures are enduring dreadful privations, throws himself on his bed of down between his fine and well-air sheets, may find out that all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds. But he who is hungry sees none of these beauties of nature. He who is cold hates the sky without a sun, and consequently without a smile for such unfortunates. Now at the time at which we write that is, about the middle of the month of April, three hundred thousand miserable beings, dying from cold and hunger, grown in Paris alone, in that Paris where, in spite of the boast that scarcely another city contained so many rich people, nothing had been prepared to prevent the poor from perishing of cold and wretchedness. For the last four months the same leaden sky had driven the poor from the villages into the town, as it sent the wolves from the woods into the villages. No more bread, no more wood. No more bread for those who felt this cold. No more wood to cook it. All the provisions which had been collected Paris had devoured in a month. The provost, short-sighted and incapable, did not know how to procure for Paris, which was under his care, the wood which might have been collected in the neighborhood. When it froze he said the frost prevented the horses from bringing it. If it thawed he pleaded want of horses, and conveyances. We the sixteenth ever good and humane, always ready to attend to the physical wants of his people, although we overlooked their social ones, began by contributing a sum of two hundred thousand francs for horses and carts, and insisting on their immediate use. Still that a man continued greater than the supply. At first no one was allowed to carry away from the public timber-yard more than a cartload of wood. Then they were limited to half this quantity. Soon the long strings of people might be seen waiting outside the doors, as they were afterwards seen at the baker's shops. The king gave away the whole of his private income in charity. He procured three million francs by a grant and applied it to the relief of the sufferers, declaring that every other need must give way before that of cold and famine. The queen on her part gave five hundred louis from her purse. The convents, the hospitals, and the public buildings were thrown open as places of asylum for the poor, who came in crowds for the sake of the fires that were kept there. They kept hoping for a thaw, but heaven seemed inflexible. Every evening the same copper-colored sky disappointed their hopes, and the stars shone bright and clear as funeral torches through the long, cold nights which hardened again and again the snow which fell during the day. All day long thousands of workmen with spades and shovels cleared away the snow from before the houses, so that on each side of the streets, already too narrow for the traffic, rose a high thick wall blocking up the way. Soon these masses of snow and ice became so large that the shops were obscured by them, and they were obliged to allow it to remain where it fell. Paris could do no more. She gave in, and allowed the winter to do its worst. December, January, February, and March passed thus, although now and then a few days' thaw changed the streets whose sewers were blocked up into running streams. Horses were drowned and carriages destroyed in the streets, some of which could only be traversed in boats. Paris, faithful to its character, sang through this destruction by the thaw, as it had done through that by the famine. Precessions were made to the markets to see the fisherwomen serving their customers, with immense leather and boots on, inside which their trousers were pushed, and with their petticoats tucked round their waists, all laughing, gesticulating and splashing each other as they stood in the water. These thaws, however, were transitory. The frost returned, harder and more obstinate than ever, and every course was had to sledges pushed along by skaters, or drawn by rough-shot horses along the causeways, which were like polished mirrors. The Seine, frozen many feet deep, was become the rendezvous for all idlers who assembled there to skater-slide until, warmed by exercise, they ran to the nearest fire lest the perspiration should freeze upon them. All trembled for the time when the water communications being stopped and the roads impassable, provisions could no longer be sent in, and began to fear that Paris would perish from want. The king, in this extremity, called a council. They decided to implore all bishops, abbeys, and monks to leave Paris and retire to their diocese or convents, and all those magistrates and officials who, preferring the opera to their duties, had crowded to Paris to return to their homes. For all these people used large quantities of woods in their hotels, and consumed no small amount of food. There were still the country gentlemen who were also to be entreated to leave. But Monsieur Linois, lieutenant of police, observed to the king that, as none of these people were criminals, and could not therefore be compelled to leave Paris in a day, they would probably be so long thinking about it that the thaw would come before their departure, which would then be more hurtful than useful. All this care and pity of the king and queen, however, excited the ingenious gratitude of the people who raised monuments to them as ephemeral as the feelings which prompted them. Obelisks and pillars of snow and ice, engraved with their names, were to be seen all over Paris. At the end of March the fall began, but by fits and starts, constant returns of frost prolonging the miseries of the people. Indeed, in the beginning of April it appeared to set in harder than ever, and the half-thawed streets frozen again became so slippery and dangerous that nothing was seen but broken limbs and accidents of all kinds. The snow prevented the carriages from being heard, and the police had enough to do from the reckless driving of the aristocracy to preserve from the wheels those who were spared by cold and hunger. It was about a week after the dinner given by Monsieur de Richelieu, the four elegant sledges entered Paris, gliding over the frozen snow which covered the coups-la-renne and the extremity of the boulevards. From thence they found it more difficult to proceed, for the sun and the traffic had begun to change the snow and ice into a wet mass of dirt. In the foremost sledge were two men in brown riding-coats with double capes. They were drawn by a black horse, and turned from time to time, as if to watch the sledge that followed them, and which contained two ladies so enveloped in furs that it was impossible to see their faces. It might even have been difficult to distinguish their sex had it not been for the height of their coiffure, crowning which was a small hat with a plume of feathers. From the colossal edifice of this coiffure, all mingled with ribbons and jewels escaped occasionally a cloud of white powder as when a gust of wind shakes the snow from the trees. These two ladies, seated side by side, were conversing so earnestly ascaresly to see the numerous spectators who watched their progress along the boulevards, one of them taller and more majestic than the other, and holding up before her face a finely embroidered cambrick handkerchief carried her head erect and stately in spite of the wind which swept across their sledge. It had just struck five by the clock of the church Sainte-Croix-d'Antain, and night was beginning to descend upon Paris, and with a night the bitter cold. They had just reached the Port Saint-Denis, when the lady of whom we have spoken made a sign to the men in front, who thereupon quickened the pace of their horse and soon disappeared among the evening mists, which were fast thickening around the colossal structure of the Bastille. This signal she then repeated to the two other sledges, which also vanished along the Rue Saint-Denis, meanwhile the one in which she sat, having arrived at the boulevard de Menilmonton, stopped. In this place few people were to be seen, night had dispersed them. Besides, in this out-of-the-way quarter not many citizens would trust themselves without torches and an escort, since winter had sharpened the wants of three or four thousand beggars who were easily changed into robbers. The lady touched with her finger the shoulder of the coachman, who was driving her and said, Véber, how long will it take you to bring the cabriolet, you know where? Madame, vicious me to bring the cabriolet, asked the coachman, with a strong German accent. Yes, I shall return by the streets, and as there is still more muddy than the boulevard we should not get on in the sledge. Besides, I begin to feel the cold, do you not petite? Was it she turning to the other lady? Yes, madame. Then, Véber, we will have the cabriolet. Vérivel, madame. What is the time, petite? The young lady looked at her watch, which however she could hardly see, as it was growing dark, and said, a quarter to six, madame, then at a quarter to seven, Véber. Saying these words, the lady leapt lightly from her sledge, followed by her friend, and walked away quickly, while the coachman murmured with a kind of respectful despair, kindly loud for his mistress to hear, Oh, my God, what imprudence! The two ladies laughed, drew their cloaks close around them, and went tramping along through the snow, with their little feet. You have good eyes, André, said the woman who seemed the elder of the two, although she could have not have been more than thirty or thirty-two. Try to read the name at a corner of the street. Rue du Pont aux Choux, madame. Rue du Pont aux Choux, amon Dieu, we must have come wrong. They told me the second street on the right, but what a smell of hot bread. That is not astonishing, said her companion, for here is a baker's shop. Well, let us ask there for the Rue Saint-Claude. She said, moving to the door. Oh, do not go in, madame, allow me, said André. The Rue Saint-Claude, my pretty ladies, said a cheerful voice. Are you asking for the Rue Saint-Claude? The two ladies turned toward the voice, and saw leaning against the door of the shop, a man who, in spite of the cold, has his chest and his legs quite bare. Oh, a naked man! cried the young lady, half-hiding behind her companion. Are we among savages? Was not that what you asked for? said the journeyman baker, for such he was, who did not understand her movement in the least, and accustomed to his own costume, never dreamt of its effect upon them. Yes, my friend, the Rue Saint-Claude, said the elder lady, hardly able to keep from laughing. Oh, it's not difficult to find. Besides, I will conduct you there myself, and, suiting the action to his words, he began to move his long bony legs, which terminated in immense wooden shoes. Oh, no! cried the elder lady, who did not fancy such a guide. Pray do not disturb yourself, tell us the way, and we shall easily find it. First read to the right, he said, drawing back again. Thanks! said the ladies, who ran on as fast as they could, that he might not hear the laughter, which they could no longer restrain. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of the Queen's Nicholas, by Alexandre Dumas. Translate her unknown. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gail Timmerman Vaughn. Chapter 2. An Interior If we do not calculate too much on the memory of our readers, they certainly know the Rue Saint-Claude, which joins at one end of the Boulevard, and at the other, the Rue Saint-Louis. This was an important street in the first part of our story, when it was inhabited by Joseph Balsamo, his Sybil Lorenza, and his master, Althotus. It was still a respectable street, though badly lighted, and by no means clean, but little known or frequented. There was, however, at the corner of the Boulevard a large house, with an aristocratic air, but this house, which might, from the number of its windows, have illuminated the whole street, had it been lighted up, was the darkest and most somber looking of any. The door was never seen to open, and the windows were thick with dust, which seemed never disturbed. Sometimes an idler, attracted by curiosity, approached the gates and peeped through. All he would see, however, were masses of weeds, growing between the stones of the courtyard, and green moss spreading itself over everything. Occasionally an enormous rat, sole inmate of those deserted domains, ran across the yard on his way to his usual habitation in the cellars, which seemed, however, to be in excess of modesty when he had the choice of so many fine sitting-rooms, where he need never fear the intrusion of a cat. At times one or two of the neighbours passing the house might stop to take a survey, and one would say to the other, Well, what do you see? Why? he would reply, I see the rat. Oh, let me look at him! How fat he has grown! That is not to be wondered at, he is never disturbed, and there must be some good pickings in the house. Monsieur de Balçamo disappeared so suddenly that he must have left something behind, but you forget that the house was half burned down, and they would pursue their way. Opposite this ruin was a high narrow house, enclosed within a garden wall. From the upper windows alight was to be seen, the rest was shrouded in darkness. Either all of the inhabitants were already asleep, or they were very economical of wooden candles, which certainly were frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only that we have any business. We must in the first place take a survey of the house, and ascending the staircase, open the first door. The room is empty and dark, however, but it opens into another of which the furniture deserves our attention. The doors were godly painted, and it contained easy chairs covered in white, with yellow velvet trimming, and a sofa to match. The cushions of which, however, were so full of age and the wrinkles of old age, as scarcely to be cushions any longer. One portrait's hanging on the wall's next attracted attention. A candle and a lamp, one placed on a stand, about three feet high, and the other on the chimney-piece, through a constant light on them. The first was a well-known portrait of Henry III, King of France and Poland, a cap on his head surmounting his long pale face and heavy eyes, a pointed beard, and a rough round his neck. Under it was the inscription traced in black letters on a badly gilded frame, Henri de Valois. The other portrait of which the gilding was newer, and the painting more fresh and recent represented a young lady with black eyes, a straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a tower of hair and ribbons, to which the cap of Henry III was in the proportion of a molehill to a pyramid. Under this portrait was inscribed Jean de Valois, glancing at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains and then towards a little oak table in the corner, for there leaning on her elbow and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of this portrait. A few steps off in an attitude half curious, half respectful. Stands a little old woman, apparently about sixty. Jean de Valois says the inscription, but if this lady be indeed of Valois, one wonders, however, the portrait of Henry III, the subarite king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name. In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did notice credit to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to time she rubbed together, as if to endeavour to put some warmth into them. Her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet slipper, was small and pretty. The wind whistled through all the old doors and penetrating the crevices of the shaking windows, and the old servant kept glancing sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation, talking aloud as she did so. Madame de Misery, she murmured, first lady, of the bedchamber to her majesty. I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has already given to me once. And she sighed. Madame Patrick, ladies made to her majesty, to louis, Monsieur Dormissant, an audience, Monsieur de Calonne, some good advice, Monsieur de Laurent, a visit. At least we will try to induce him. She said, smiling at the thought. Well, then, I think I may hope for eight louis within a week. Then looking up, Dame Clotilde, she said, snuff this candle. The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place. This kind of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, break go and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me, this tallow is odious. There is none, replied the old woman, but just look, where? In the antechamber. It is so cold there. There is someone ringing, said the young lady. Madame is mistaken, replied the obstinate old woman. I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde. Then abandoning the attempt, she turned again to her calculations. Eight louis. Three I owe for the rent, and five I have promised to Monsieur de Lamotte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Obe. Pauvre Diable. Our marriage has not enriched him as yet, but patience. And she smiled again and looked at herself in the mirror, then hung between the two portraits. Well then, she continued, I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back, living for a week, one louis, dress and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, for louis. But she said, starting up, someone is ringing. No, Madame, replied the old woman, it is below on the next floor. But I tell you it is not, said she angrily, as the bell rang yet louder. Even the old woman could die it no longer, so she hobbled off to open the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers and seated herself on the sofa, assuming the error of a person humble and resigned, although suffering it was however only her body that reposed, for her eyes restless and unquiet, sought incessantly first her mirror and then the door. At last it opened and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, Is it here that Madame la Conteste de Lamotte lives? Madame la Conteste de Lamotte valois, replied Coltide. It is the same person, my good woman. Is she at home? Yes, Madame, she is too ill to go out. During this colloquy the pretended invalid saw reflected in the glass, the figure of a lady talking to Clotilde, unquestionably belonging to the higher ranks. She then saw her turn around and say to someone behind, We can go in. It is here. And the two ladies we have before seen asking the way prepared to enter the room. Whom shall I announce to the Countess? said Clotilde. Once a sister of charity, said the elder lady. From Paris? No, from Versailles. Clotilde entered the room and the strangers followed her. Jean de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to receive her visitors. Clotilde placed chairs for them and then unwillingly withdrew. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas. The translator is unknown. The snubber-rocks recording is in the public domain. Recording by Guillaume Timmerman Vaughn. Chapter 3 Jean de la Morte, Valois. The first thought of Jean de la Morte was to examine the faces of her visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder lady, who might have been, as we have said, about 32 years of age, was remarkably beautiful, although at first sight a great air of auteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression. The marriage was so proud at her whole appearance, so destanguier that Jean could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory glance. She however seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from the light, so as to be a little seen. Her companion appeared four or five years younger and was not less beautiful. Her complexion was charming. Her hair drawn back from her temples showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face, two large blue eyes, comb, and serene, a well-formed mouth indicating great frankness of disposition, a nose that rivaled the venous to Medici's. Such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jean de Valois. She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honor of their visit. The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, Madame, for I believe you are married. I have the honor to be the wife of Monsieur de la Conte de la Morte, an excellent gentleman. Well, Madame la Conte, we are the head of a charitable institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that interest us, and we consequently wish to have more precise details on the subject. Madame, replied Jean, you see there the portrait of Henry III, that is to say, of the brother of my grandfather, for I am truly of the race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told. And she waited for the next question, looking at her visitors, with a sort of proud humility. Madame, said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, is it true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a place called Fontel, near Bar-sur-Sienne? Jean colored at this question but replied, it is true, Madame, and she went on, as Marie-Joselle, my mother, was possessed of a rare beauty. My father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by my father that I am nobly descended. He was a sarri amide of Valois, direct descendant of the Valois, who were on the throne. But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, Madame? Alas! That is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the accession of Henry IV, by which the crown passed from the house of Valois, to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the fallen family, obscure doubtless, but incontestably springing from the same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably. The two ladies made a sign of ascent. Then continued Jean, these remnants of the Valois fearing, in spite of their obscurity to be obnoxious to the reigning family, changed their name of Valois into that of Sarrémy, which they took from some property, and they may be traced under this name, down to my father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore in poverty and obscurity, in a distant province, while no one at the court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of the ancient kings. Jean stopped at these words, which he had spoken with a simplicity and mildness, which created a favourable impression. You have doubtless your proofs already arranged, Madame? said the elder lady with kindness. Oh, Madame! she replied with a bitter smile. Proofs are not wanting. My father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole legacy, but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will recognise? Your father is then dead, asked the younger lady. Alas! yes. Did he die in the provinces? No, Madame. At Paris, then. Yes. In this room? No, Madame. My father, bound of Valois, great nephew of the King Henry III, died of misery and hunger, and not even in this poor retreat, not in his own bed, for as that was, no, my father died side by side with the suffering wretches in the Hotel Dieu. The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress. From what you tell me, Madame, you have experienced it as evident great misfortunes above all the death of your father. Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, Madame, you would see that my father's death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes. How, Madame? You regard as a minor evil, the death of your father? said the elder lady with a frown. Yes, Madame, and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in his life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in knowing that the descendant of Kings is no longer obliged to beg his bread. To beg his bread? Yes, Madame. I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself. But you do not speak of your mother? Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now, that I blessed God for taking my father, I complained that he had left me my mother. The two ladies looked at each other almost shuddering at these strange words. Would it be indiscreet, Madame, to ask you for a more detailed account of your misfortunes? The indiscretion, Madame, would be in me if I fatigued you with such a long catalogue of woes. Speak, Madame, said the elder lady, so commandingly that her companion looked at her as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent and stared at her with some astonishment. I listen, Madame, she then said in a more gentle tone, if you would be good enough to inform us what we ask. Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and, verring that she felt cold, pushed toward her a rug on which to place her feet and which she had discovered under one of the chairs. Keep it yourself, my sister, said she, pushing it back again. You are more delicate than I. Indeed, Madame, said Jean, it grieves me much to see you suffer from the cold. But wood is now so dear and my stock was exhausted a week ago. You said, Madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother, said the elder lady returning to the subject. Yes, Madame, doubtless, such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it not? Said Jean. But hear my explanation. I have already had the honour to tell you that my father made a messa-lience and married his housekeeper. Marie chose to sell my mother, instead of feeling gratified and proud of the honour he had done her, began by ruining my father, which certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her own pleasures, and having reduced him to sell all his remaining property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded. Perhaps he hoped in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he possessed into money. He had besides me another daughter and a son. His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates now in the lowest ranks of the army. The daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned on the evening of our departure before the house of a neighbouring farmer. The journey exhausted our little resources. My father wore himself out in fruitless appeals. We scarcely ever saw him. Our house was wretched, and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her discontent and ill-humour upon me. She even reproached me with what I ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The neighbours, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I experienced. He endeavoured to protect me, but his interference only served to embitter her still more against me. At last my father fell ill and was confined first to the house, and then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as I was, I shrank from saying. But she would drive me out into the street with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not wish to be beaten to death. And what was the sentence, asked the older lady. It was this madame, half-pity on a little orphan, who descends in a direct line, from Henri de Valois. What a shame, cried the ladies. But what effected this produce on the people? inquired André. Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me. Some kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from repeating such words. But I knew no other danger than that of disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped, I generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from starvation or the hospital. But this life became so odious to me that at last one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a doorstep all the time and returned in the evening empty-handed. My mother beat me so that the next day I felt ill. Then my poor father, deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the hôtel d'eux, where he died. Oh, what a horrible history, cried the ladies. What became of you after your father's death? First the elder lady. God took pity upon me a month after my father's death. My mother ran away with a soldier, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity although we never begged for more than enough to eat. One day I saw a carriage going slowly along the Faux-Bourg-Saint-Marcelle. There were four footmen behind and a beautiful lady inside. I held out my hand to her for charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike her with surprise. She asked for my address, and the next day made inquiries, and finding that I had told her the truth she took charge of my brother and myself. She placed my brother in the army and me with a dressmaker. Was not this lady Madame de Boulainvillet? It was. She's dead, I believe. Yes, and her death deprived me of my only protector. Her husband still lives, and is rich. Ah, Madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown tall and as he thought pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile Madame de Boulainvillet died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, Monsieur de la Morte. But separated from him I seemed more abandoned after her death than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, Madame, which I have shortened as much as possible in order not to weary you. Where then is your husband? Ask the elder lady. He is in Garrison at Varserobe. He serves in the gendarmerie, and is waiting like myself in hopes of better times. But have you laid out your case before the court? Undoubtedly. The name of Valois must have awakened some sympathy. I know not, Madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have received no answer to any of my petitions. You have seen neither the ministers the king nor the queen? No one, everywhere I have failed. You cannot now beg, however. No, Madame, I have lost the habit, but I can die of hunger like my poor father. You have no child. No, Madame, and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his king, will find for himself a glorious end to all of our miseries. Can you, Madame, I beg pardon if I seem intrusive, but can you bring forward the proofs of your genealogy? Jean Rose opened a drawer and drew out some papers, which she presented to the lady who rose to come nearer the light that she might examine them, but seeing that Jean eagerly seized this opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to do, she turned away as if the light heard her eyes, turning her back to Madame de la Motte. But said she, at last, these are only copies. Oh, Madame, I have the original safe, and am ready to produce them. If any important occasion should present it itself, I suppose, said the lady smiling. It is doubtless, Madame, an important occasion which procures me the honour of your visit, but these papers are so precious that you cannot show them to the first-comer. I understand you. Oh, Madame, cried the Countess, you shall see them. And opening a secret drawer above the other she drew out the originals, which were carefully enclosed in an old portfolio on which were the arms of a valois. The lady took them, and after examining them said, you are right, these are perfectly satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in readiness to produce them, when called upon by proper authority. And what do you think I may expect, Madame, asked Jean, doubtless a penchant for yourself, and advancement for M. de la Motte if he prove worthy of it. My husband is an honourable man, Madame, and has never failed in his military duties. It is enough, Madame, said the lady, drawing her hoods to more over her face. She then put her hand in her pocket and drew out first the same embroidered handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her face when in a sledge, then a small roll of about an inch in diameter, and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonnier saying, The treasurer of our charity authorises me, Madame, to offer you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better. Madame la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll. Three frank pieces thought she, and there must be nearly a hundred of them. What a boon from heaven! While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the outer room where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair. The candle was burning out in the socket, and the smell which came from it made the ladies dry out their smelling bottles. Jean woke Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end. Au revoir, Madame la Contesse, c'est d'être. Where may I have the honour of coming to thank you? Asked Jean. We will let you know, replied the elder lady, going quickly down the stairs. Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her rouleau, but her foot struck against something and stooping to pick it up. She saw a small flat gold box. She was some time before she could open it, but having it last found the spring, it flew open and disclosed a portrait of a lady, possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a collar like an order, an M and a T, encircled by a laurel wreath, ornamented the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt, from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her, that it was that of her mother or some near-relation. She ran to the stairs to give it back to them, but hearing the street door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window, but arrived there only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away. She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present and turned again to the little rouleau. When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy. W. Fifty double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs, and transported to the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life. She remained with clasped hands and open lips. A hundred louis, she repeated. These ladies are then very rich. Oh, I will find them again. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas. The translator is unknown. The slob revocs recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gael Timmerman Vaughn. Chapter 4 Bélus Madame de la Motte was not wrong in thinking that the cabriolet which she saw driving off contained the two ladies who had just left her. They had, in fact, found it waiting for them on their exit. It was lightly built, open and fashionable, with high wheels and a place behind for a servant to stand. It was drawn by a magnificent bay horse of Irish breed, short-tailed and plump, which was driven by the same man whom we have already heard addressed by the name of Vaughn. The horse had become so impatient with waiting that it was with some difficulty that Vaughn kept him stationary. When he saw the ladies he said, Madame, I intended to bring Scipio, who is gentle and easy to manage, but, unluckily, he received an inchery last night, and I was forced to bring Bélus, and he is rather unmanageable. Oh, Vapor, I do not mind in the least, said the lady. I am well used to driving, and not at all timid. I know how well Madame drives, but the roads are so bad. Where are we to go? To Versailles. By the boulevards, then, Madame? No, Vapor. It freezes hard, and the boulevards will be dreadful. The streets will be better. He held the horse for the ladies to get in, then jumped up behind, and they set off at a rapid pace. Well, André, what do you think of the Countess, fastly elder lady? I think, Madame, she replied, that Madame de la Motte is poor and unfortunate. She has good manners, has she not? Yes, doubtless. You are somewhat cold about her, André. I must confess there is a look of cunning in her face that does not please me. Oh, you are always difficult to please, André. To please you. One must have every good quality. Now, I find the little Countess interesting and simple, both in her pride and in her humility. It is fortunate for her, Madame, that she has succeeded in pleasing you. Take care, cried the lady, at the same time endeavouring to check her horse, which nearly ran over a street porter at the corner of the rue Saint-Antoine. Gare, shouted Vapor, in the voice of the stentor. They heard the man growling and swearing, in which he was joined by several people near, but Belus soon carried them away from the sound, and they quickly reached the Place Badoillet. From thence the skillful conductoress continued her rapid course down the rue de la Tissérin d'Arry, a narrow, un aristocratic street always crowded. Thus, in spite of the reiterated warnings of herself and Vapor, the numbers began to increase around them, many of whom cried fiercely, oh, the Cabriolet down with the Cabriolet, Belus, however, guided by the steady hand which held the reins, kept on his rapid course, and not the smallest accident, had yet occurred. In spite of the skillful progress the people seemed to discontent it at the rapid course of the Cabriolet, which certainly required some care on their part to avoid, and the lady, perhaps half-right into the murmurs, and knowing the present excited state of the people, only urged on her horse the faster to escape from them. Thus they proceeded until they reached the rue du Cork Saint-Honoré, and here had been raised one of the most beautiful of those monuments in snow, of which we have spoken. Round this a great crowd had collected, and they were obliged to stop, until the people would make an opening for them to pass, which they did at last, and with great grumbling and discontent. The next obstacle was at the gates of the Palais Royale, where, in a courtyard, which had been thrown open, were a host of beggars crowding round fires which had been lighted there, and receiving soup which the servants of Monsieur le Duc d'Orléans were distributing to them in earthen basins. And as in Paris a crowd collects to see everything, the number of the spectators of this scene far exceeded that of the actors. Here then they were again obliged to stop, and to their dismay began to hear distinctly from behind loud cries of, Donne with a Capriolet, Donne with those that crush the poor. Can it be those cries are addressed to us? said the elder lady to her companion. Indeed, Madame, I fear so, she replied. Have we do think run any one over? I'm sure you have not. But still the cries seem to increase. A crowd soon gathered round them, and some even seized they loose by the rains, who thereupon began to stamp and foam most furiously. To the magistrate, to the magistrate cried several voices. The two ladies looked at each other in terror. Curious heads began to peep under the apron of the Capriolet. Oh, they are women, some cried, opera-girls doubtless, said others. Who think they have the right to crush the poor, because they receive ten thousand francs a month? A general shout hailed these words, and they began again to cry, to the magistrate. The younger lady shrank back trembling with fear. The other looked round her with wonderful resolution, though with frowning brows and compressed lips. Oh, Madame, cried her companion, for heaven's sake, take care. Courage, André, courage! She replied. But they will recognize you, Madame. Look through the windows, if Weber is still behind the Capriolet. He is trying to get down, but the mob surrounds him. Ah, here he comes! Weber, said the lady in German, veval get out. The men vacarously pushed aside those nearest the carriage, and opened out the door. The ladies jumped out, and the crowd instantly seized on the horse and Capriolet, which would evidently soon be in pieces. What in heaven's name does it all mean? Do you understand it, Weber? said the lady, still in German. M'afouan nomadam, he replied, struggling to free a passage for them to pass. But they are not men there, wild beasts, continued the lady. With what do they possibly reproach me? She was answered by a voice whose polite and gentlemanly tone contrasted strangely with the savage murmurs of the people, and which said in excellent German. They reproach you, madame, with having braved the police order, which appeared this morning, and which prohibited all Capriolets, which are always dangerous, and fifty times more so in this frost, when people can hardly escape fast enough from driving through the streets until spring. The lady turned, and saw she was addressed by a young officer, whose distinguished and pleasing air and fine figure could not but make a favourable impression. Oh, Monsieur, she said, I was perfectly ignorant of this order. You are a foreigner, madame, inquired the young officer. Yes, but tell me what I must do. They are destroying my Capriolet. You must let them destroy it and take advantage of that time to escape. The people are furious just now against all the rich, and on the pretext of your breaking this regulation would conduct you before the magistrate. Oh, never, cried André. Then, said the officer, laughing, profit by the space which I shall make in the crowd, and vanish. The ladies gathered from his manner that he shared the opinion of the people, as to their station, but it was no time for explanations. Give us your arm to a cap stand, said the elder lady, in a voice full of authority. I was going to make your horse rear and thereby clear you of a passage, said the young man, who did not wish much to take the charge of escorting them through the crowd. The people would become yet more enraged if they hear us speaking in a language unknown to them. Véber, cried the lady, in a firm voice. Make Belus rear to disperse the crowd. And then, madame, remain till we are gone, but they will destroy the carriage. Let them. What does that matter? Save Belus if you can, but yourself above all. Yes, madame. And a slight touch to the horse soon produced the desired effect of dispersing the nearest part of the crowd and throwing down those who held by his reins. Your arm, sir, again said the lady to the officer. Come on, Petite, turning to André. Let us go, then, courageous woman, said the young man, giving his arm with real admiration to her who asked for it. In a few minutes he had conducted them to a cap stand, but the men were all asleep on their seats. End of chapter four. Chapter five of The Queen's Necklace by Alexandre Dumas. The translator is unknown. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gail Timmerman Vaughn. Chapter five. The road to Versailles. The ladies were free from the crowd for the present, but there was some danger that they might be followed and recognized when the same tumult would doubtless be renewed and escape a second time be more difficult. The young officer knew this and therefore hastened to awaken one of the half-frozen and sleepy men. So stupefied, however, did they seem, that he had great difficulty in arousing one of them. At last he took them by the collar and shook him roughly. Gently, gently, cried the man, sitting up. Where do you wish to go, ladies? Asked the officer. To Versailles, said the elder lady, still speaking German. Oh, to Versailles, repeated the coachman. Four miles and a half over this ice. No, I would rather not. We will pay well, said the lady. This was repeated to the coachman and French by the young officer. But how much, said the coachman. You see, it is not only going, but I must come back again. A Louis, is that enough? Asked the lady of the officer, who, turning to the coachman, said, these ladies offer you a Louis. Well, that will do, although I risk breaking my horse's legs. Why, you rascal, you know that if you were paid all the way there and back it would be but 12 francs and we offer you 24. Oh, do not stay to bargain, cried the lady. He shall have his 20 Louis, if he will only set off at once. One is enough, madame. Come down, sir, and open the door. I will be paid first, said the man. You will, said the officer fiercely. Oh, let us pay, said the lady, putting her hand in her pocket. She turned pale. Oh, mon Dieu, I've lost my purse. Feel for yours, André. Oh, madame, it is gone too. They looked at each other in dismay, while the young officer watched their proceedings and the coachman sat grinning and priding himself on his caution. The lady was about to offer her gold chain as a pledge when the young officer drew out a Louis and offered it to the man who thereupon got down and opened the door. The ladies thanked him warmly and got in. And now, sir, drive these ladies carefully and honestly. The ladies looked at each other in terror. They could not bear to see their protector leave them. Oh, madame, said André, do not let him go. But why not? We will ask for his address and return him his Louis tomorrow with a little note of thanks, which you shall write. But, madame, suppose the coachman should not keep faith with us and should turn us out halfway. What would become of us? Oh, we will take his number. Yes, madame, I do not deny that you could have him punished afterwards, but, meanwhile, you would not reach Versailles. And what would they think? True, replied her companion. The officer advanced to take leave. Monsieur, said André, one more word, if you please. At your orders, madame, he said politely, but somewhat stiffly. Monsieur, you cannot refuse us one more favour after serving us so much. What is it, madame? We are afraid of the coachman who seems so unwilling to go. You need not fear, replied he. I have his number. And if he does not behave well, apply to me. To you, sir, said André and French, forgetting herself. We do not even know your name. You speak French, exclaimed the young man. And you have been condemning me all this time to blunder on in German. Excuse us, sir, said the elder lady coming to André's rescue. But you must see that, though not perhaps foreigners, we are strangers in Paris and above all, out of our places, in a hackney-coach. You are sufficiently a man of the world to see that we are placed in an awkward position. I feel assured you are generous enough to believe the best of us and to complete the service you have rendered, and above all, to ask no questions. Madame, replied the officer, charmed with her noble, yet pleasing manner, dispose of me as you will. Then, sir, have the kindness to get in and accompany us to Versailles. The officer instantly priced himself opposite to them and directed the man to drive on. After proceeding in silence for some little time, he began to feel himself surrounded with delicate and delicious perfumes and gradually began to think better of the lady's position. They are, thought he, ladies who have been detained late as some rendezvous and are now anxious to regain Versailles, much frightened and a little ashamed. Still, two ladies driving themselves in a cabriolet. However, recollected he, there was a servant behind, but then again, no money on either of them. But probably the footman carried the purse, and the carriage was certainly a very elegant one and the horse could not have been worth less than one hundred and fifty Nuit. Therefore they must be rich so that the accidental want of money proves nothing. But why speak a foreign language when they must be French? However, that at least shows a good education and they speak both languages with perfect purity. Besides, there is an air of distinction about them. The supplication of the younger one was touching and the request of the other was noble and imposing. Indeed, I begin to feel it dangerous to pass two or three hours in a carriage with two such pretty women, pretty and discreet also, for they do not speak but wait for me to begin. On their parts the ladies were doubtless thinking of him, for just as he had arrived at these conclusions, the elder lady said to her companion, but this time in English, really this coachman crawls along, we shall never reach Versailles. Our fear or poor companion must be terribly ennuyé, particularly answered André smiling, as our conversation has not been very amusing. Do you not think he has the most distinguished air? Yes, certainly. Besides, he wears the uniform of a naval officer and all naval officers are of good family. He looks well in it too, for he is very handsome. Here the young man interrupted them. Your pardon, ladies, said he in excellent English, but I must tell you that I understand English perfectly. I do not, however, know Spanish. Therefore, if you can and like to speak in that language, you are safe from my understanding you. Oh, monsieur, replied the lady laughing, we had no harm to save you, as you must have heard. Therefore we will content ourselves with French, for the remainder of the time. Thanks, madame, but if my presence be irksome to you, you cannot suppose that, sir, as it was we who begged you to accompany us. Exacted it, Ian, said André. Oh, madame, you overwhelm me. Pray pardon me my momentary hesitation, but Paris is so full of snares and deceptions. Then you took us for? Monsieur took us for snares, that is all. Oh, lady, said the young man, quite humiliated. I assure you I did not. But what is the matter? The coach stops. I will see, madame. Oh, I think we are overturning. Pray take care, sir. And André, in her terror, laid her hand on the young man's shoulder. He, yielding to an impulse, attempted to seize her little hand, but she had in a moment thrown herself back again in the carriage. He therefore got out and found the coachman engaged in raising one of the horses, which had fallen on the ice. The horse, with his aid, was soon on its legs again, and they pursued their way. It seemed, however, that this little interruption had destroyed the intimacy which had begun to spring up, for after the ladies had asked and been told the cause of their detention, all relapsed into silence. The young man, however, who had derived some pleasure from the touch of that little hand, thought he would at least have a foot in exchange. He therefore stretched out his and endeavored to touch hers, which was, however, quickly withdrawn. And when he did just touch that of the elder lady, she said, with great sans-fois, I fear, sir, I am dreadfully in your way. He colored up to the ears and felt thankful to the darkness, which prevented it from being seen. After this he desisted and remained perfectly still, fearing even to renew the conversation, lest he should seem impertinent to these ladies to whom, at first, he thought himself rather condescending in his politeness. Still, in spite of himself, he felt more and more strongly attracted towards them and an increasing interest in them. From time to time he heard them speak softly to each other and he caught these words. So late an hour, what excuse for being out? At last the coach stopped again, but this time it was no accident, but simply that they had arrived at Versailles. The young man thought the time had passed with marvellous quickness. We are at Versailles, said the coachman. Where must he stop, ladies? asked the officer. At the plus-down. At the plus-down, coachman, said the officer. Go on. I must say something to them, he thought, or they will now think me as stupid as they must before have thought me impertinent. Made down, said he, you are at length arrived, thanks to your generous assistance. What trouble we have given you, added André. Oh, madame, do not speak of it. Well, sir, we shall not forget. Will you tell us your name? My name? Certainly, sir, you do not wish to make a present of a Louis, I hope. Oh, madame, if that is it, said the young man rather peaked. I yield, I am the Count Charnais, and as madame has already remarked, a naval officer. Charnais, repeated the elder lady. I shall not forget. Yes, madame, Georges de Charnais, and you live, Hotel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu. The coach stopped, the elder lady opened the door and jumped out quickly, holding out a hand to her companion. But pray, ladies, said he, preparing to follow them. Take my arm, you are not yet at your own door. Oh, sir, do not move, not move. No, pray remain in the coach. You cannot walk alone. At this time of night, it is impossible. Now you see, said the elder lady gaily. After almost refusing to oblige us, you wish to be too obliging, but madame, sir, remain to the end of loyal and gallant cavalier. We thank you, Monsieur de Charnais, with all our hearts, and will not even ask your word to do what, madame, to shut the door and order the man to drive back to Paris, without even looking where we go, which you will do, will you not? I will obey you, madame. Coachman, back again, and he put a second louis into the man's hand, who joyfully set out on his return. The young man sighed as he took his place on the cushions, which the unknown ladies had just occupied. They remained motionless till the coach was out of sight, and then took their way towards the castle. End of chapter five.