CHAPTER XXXIV.

MADAME’S CRIME COMES HOME TO TORTURE HER.

Zamara drew close to his mistress.

“Madame will, perhaps, remember a man whom she once summoned from his home in Germany—a learned physician——”

The countess put a hand up to her forehead, and seemed to search her memory. All at once she looked up.

“You mean that Dr. Gosner, with the ring?”

“Yes; that is the man.”

“Well, what of him? He was sent to the Bastille; I remember it all. It seems to me that I intended to let him out; but the king died, and then all my power for good or harm ended. Of course, there was no one to intercede for him. The Bastille makes quick work with its inmates. Of course, he died.”

“No, my mistress, he still lives; and the young girl you saw yonder with Dame Tillery has his release in her bosom. To-morrow he will be the lion of Paris. All France will know that a word of yours took this man from his family, and shut him up in a dungeon deep below the sewers of the street, where his best companions have been toads and creeping things from which human nature revolts. In this dungeon a good man, a learned man, has grown old in misery. He will come forth with hair like the drifted snow, weak and tottering, perhaps imbecile; and the people, who hate you, will cry out, ‘This is the work of that monster, Du Berry. She kills souls! She had no mercy! She——’”

The countess uttered an impatient cry, and clapped both hands to her ears.

“Stop, Zamara—stop, if you have not resolved to kill me. All that was so long ago, I had almost forgotten it. Can men live forever under ground?”

“Not often; but some lives defy nature, and all that outrages it. Another man has spent half a lifetime in those hideous vaults, and came out at last to exasperate the people. This will complete their frenzy. Gosner will appear in the clubs, in the marketplaces, everywhere. His white hair will madden the people like a hostile banner; his own lips will tell the story of his wrongs. This will draw tears from the women, clamors of rage from the men. They will demand the author of this cruelty, and he will pronounce your name.”

Madame shrunk back in her chair, white and craven with fear; the dwarf had drawn his picture with terrible force. Shuddering, she acknowledged its truth, and cried out,

“What can I do, Zamara? How can all these horrors be averted? They know that I am in France. I cannot leave; I cannot exist in that horrible England. Oh! why will all one’s little errors keep upon the track so long? I had forgotten this but for the ring—you remember the ring, Zamara?”

“Yes, my mistress. It was only to-day that I saw it coiling around the queen’s finger. They tell me it never leaves her hand.”

“I placed it there. It was only by the ring I remembered this man Gosner at all. It was to get that I obtained the _lettre-de-cachet_. You know how I hated her then. She scorned me so, it was natural; but when the king died how forbearing she was, how generous. No insults reached me from her; all my estates were left; she crushed me beneath the grandeur of her magnanimity. Then I repented; then I would gladly have taken that fatal serpent from her finger. I remember well what he said of its power—to every hand but his it would bring disgrace and sorrow. Without it, all these evils would fall on him. I took it from him and gave it to her. See how his prediction has turned out, Zamara—from that day to this he has languished in a dungeon; while she, who wears the ring, has seen her great popularity vanish from the hearts of the people. All the power of the throne began to crumble beneath her feet from the very hour that she mounted it.”

“I have often thought of that,” said Zamara, who was now more than formerly the companion of his mistress. “When I heard that he was alive, a great terror seized upon me, for I saw danger to the queen in his release, more fearful danger to yourself. The people will know that you cast this learned man into prison without even naming his crime; they will believe that the queen kept him there through all these long years.”

“When she did not even know of his existence!” exclaimed the countess. “See how just this great monster, the people, is!”

“Just! It is a ferocious wild beast, with no higher reason than instinct of rage and greed—a wild beast that may easily be goaded into madness.”

“And the release of this man may do it—I see that, I see that!” cried the countess. “But how to avoid the peril? The populace had almost forgotten me; this will arouse the old hatred afresh. Ah! if I had but one friend!”

Poor woman! this was a mournful cry from one who had seen a whole nation at her feet; but of all that host of abject flatterers, this Indian dwarf, the creature of her bounty, the plaything of her fancy, the scoff of her former worshipers, alone stood faithful. This it was that wrung the cry from her heart.

The dwarf stood near her, troubled and anxious as a dog waiting for orders. At last he drew close to her chair, a gleam of partial relief came into her face as she looked into his.

“You have thought of something,” she said. “What is it, my friend?”

“Mistress, this man must not come out of the Bastille.”

Zamara spoke almost in a whisper, and looked warily around, as if afraid of being overheard.

“But how can we prevent it?”

“You know the governor?”

“Yes. When he was young, I obtained for him a subordinate place in the prison,” answered the countess.

“That is a pity!”

“But why?”

“Gratitude does not often stretch back so many years—it has neither the life or grasp of revenge. I would rather this man owed you nothing.”

A low, bitter laugh broke from the countess as she replied,

“Never fear, the man will have forgotten it.”

“Then our task is easier. I do not know how it is to be done. Give me a little time for thought. Will it be possible to keep this young girl here till morning?”

“Not of her own free will, if she has her father’s pardon, as you say, in her bosom. I have never seen so much happiness in a human face. She is very lovely. Ah! it is a terrible thing to break up all this joy!”

“But more terrible to be driven to a strange land, or torn by a mob,” answered Zamara.

“I know—I know. Oh! why did I not let this poor man alone! He would have done me no harm. Now, I think of it, the girl looks like her father; his face was almost as fair as hers, his eyes of the same tender blue. It is strange how clearly I remember them—and she is so happy?”

There was irresolution in the woman’s words, and in her heart. Disappointment, trouble, and ingratitude, had broken down her arrogance and humanized her conscience. She felt a yearning desire to protect this young girl in her happiness, and give her wronged father back to his life.

Zamara saw all this, and trembled. He understood better than she did the danger that lay before them.