The Queen's Necklace. Dumas Alexandre
the ante-chamber."
"It is so cold there."
"There is some one 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 M. de la Motte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched him as yet – but patience;" and she smiled again, and looked at herself in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. "Well, then," she continued, "I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but," said she, starting up, "some one 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 deny 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 air 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 Comtesse de la Motte lives?"
"Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois," replied Clotilde.
"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 round, and say to some one 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.
"Announce a Sister of Charity," said the elder lady.
"From Paris?"
"No; from Versailles."
Clotilde entered the room, and the strangers followed her.
Jeanne de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to receive her visitors.
Clotilde placed chairs for them, and then unwillingly withdrew.
CHAPTER III.
JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS
The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte 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 thirty-two years of age, was remarkably beautiful, although, at first sight, a great air of hauteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingué that Jeanne 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 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, calm and serene; a well-formed mouth, indicating great frankness of disposition; a nose that rivaled the Venus de Medicis; such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne 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 M. le Comte de la Motte, an excellent gentleman."
"Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on the subject."
"Mesdames," replied Jeanne, "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 Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?"
Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, "It is true, madame; and," she went on, "as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of 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 St. Rémy de 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 assent.
"Then," continued Jeanne, "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 St. Rémy, 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 their ancient kings."
Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity and mildness which created a favorable 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 recognize?"
"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, Baron de 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, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with the suffering wretches in the Hôtel Dieu!"
The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.
"From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is 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 this 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,