The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1, April, 1851

"Very well, very well," said the Prince gayly. "Pretty women are always generous; they, however, are least worthy of commendation on that account, when they resemble you."

"Signor," said Aminta to the Prince, "I know not to whom I have the honor to speak. You have, however, told me you come from France, and I will thank you to tell me if men are volatile there, as I have heard."

"Signora, I do not think I slander my countrymen, when I say their hearts are not easily fixed for a long time. Were they more faithful, they would not, perhaps, be so amiable. In my time, for instance, marriage was an affair of business. One married to be married, to have an heir, to regulate one's household. That was all. If a man loved his wife three or six months it was superb. A year of constancy became ridiculous and vulgar. Then the lady would fall in love, and the husband conceived a friendship for the courtier, mousquetaire, or abbe, whom the lady patronized. The husband did not fall in love; he only looked for amusements. Sometimes chance afforded him what he needed, or he went to the opera, where the nymphs of music and dancing took charge of his superfluous funds. People talked of him for two days, and then he was forgotten. Thus gently and pleasantly the husband and wife floated down the stream of time; each keeping close to a bank, and shaking hands whenever the currents brought them together. In the business of life they were always as considerate as possible of each other, and shed some honest tears when death separated them. Sometimes in old age, when both were wearied by passion, and satiated with love, they recounted to each other their wild adventures, as sailors tell their stories of shipwrecks and the perils of their voyages. But," continued the Prince, "as there are exceptions to all rules, the exceptions were the kindly-disposed and well-regulated households, which were spoken of and laughed at. Happiness, however, avenged them. Thus, beautiful lady, people lived in other times. They do not live thus now—"

"All this I own," said Aminta, "interests me deeply."

"The devil!" said the Prince, aside, and under the impression that he was in the presence of the irregular passion of his son, "Does not morganaticism suffice?" Under this hypothesis, which made him smile with pity, he resolved to cut the foolish hope short at the roots.

"In our days all is changed—women are saints and husbands are angels—and the two are riveted together for all time. The wife is constant, the husband faithful; or, if the contrary be the case, the matter is hushed up and concealed. If public morality is satisfied, the lovers are not the losers. It is also said that unhappy marriages now are the exceptions. The chief difference is, though, that now men do before marriage what they used to do afterwards. If one finds a pleasant woman," said he, approaching Aminta, "like you, beautiful, intelligent, and I venture to say also full of talent, as you are—we swear we love her, and are really sincere. Reason, however, in the guise of matrimony, hurries to sound the knell of love. At the first peal, it escapes, and whither? The beauty we adore first weeps, and then finds consolation, or rather suffers herself to be consoled. Then, opening her wings like the butterfly, she hurries to find the pleasure she calls and expects."

The tone, rather than the language, of this conversation terrified and amazed Aminta.

The Prince observed this. "Did she love him really?" he said; and touched with this idea, he added—

"All that I say, madame, is a general remark, the application of which I make to no one, least of all to yourself."

"Signor," said Aminta, rising, "I do not understand you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "you do not understand that one who loves you should cease to do so. That is what I had the honor to tell you just now. The Marquis, though, is very young and inexperienced. He believes in love, as men of twenty-five usually do. This explains to me the apparent rigidness of his words, and unveils the mystery of his pretended wisdom. I do not, however, wish to make a person so charming as you are desperate; and perhaps I do you a great favor in warning you against future dangers and mischances."

"Signor," said Aminta, trembling with emotion, "I cannot guess why you speak to me thus; but I perceive that you do not know me."

The Prince said, with a smile, "I speak to a charming woman, to one of earth's angels, whom some lucky mortals meet with, and who by their tenderness reveal all the pleasures and joys promised to the faithful by the houris of divine Providence."

"Signor," said Aminta, looking at the Prince with an expression in which both indignation and contempt were visible, "unused as I am to such language, though I scarcely understand it, my reason and good sense tell me you would speak thus only to the mistress of the Marquis de Maulear."

"True," said the Prince, "and I speak now to the most charming mistress imaginable."

"Me! do you speak thus to me, Signor?" said the young woman, with a painful accent. "And you thought–?"

"Who then are you, madame!" asked the old man, with surprise and terror at Aminta's tone.

"Who is she, monsieur?" said the Marquis, coming from a neighboring alley, where, pale and terrified, he had for some time been listening to this conversation, "she is my wife, the Marquise de Maulear!"

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the Prince he could not have been more surprised. The blood left his face, and he supported himself against the back of his chair.

"Henri," said Aminta, "tell this man again that he has dared to insult your wife! Tell him I am yours in God's eyes, and that he has doubly outraged me in the fact that his words fell from the lips of age. Say to him, that a gentleman, if such he is, should not utter such things until assured they were neither an insult nor an outrage to her who heard them."

"Aminta," said the Marquis, "the person of whom you speak thus is–"

"Be silent, monsieur,"[14 - As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render the terms of courtesy now by signor, signora, and signorina, and again by monsieur, madame, and mademoiselle.] interrupted the Prince, looking sternly at his son, "madame has not offended me, though I have her. Madame," said he, "accept my apology for a fault caused by the Marquis alone. The name you bear is entitled to the respect of all, especially to mine. I will be the last to forget it. Be pleased to leave the Marquis de Maulear and myself together for a few moments. What I have to say none must listen to. Do not be afraid," added he, when he saw the hesitation with which Aminta left; "I am no foe of the Marquis, and besides, the only weapon of old men is the tongue. Our conversation will not be long, and I will then leave the Marquis to you for ever."

Henri made a motion, the purport of which was to beseech Aminta to go. Taking a lateral alley, she disappeared.

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "you should know that my name should not be pronounced in the presence of that young woman, especially after the error which your silence has led me into in relation to her." The Prince continued, "So you are married?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Maulear, trembling like a criminal in the presence of the judge.

"Contrary to my orders, and without my consent," continued the Prince.

"Father, if any excuse be possible, you will find it in the person I have selected."

"I do not ask for justification, monsieur, but for excuse. How long did you reflect on this union before you contracted it?"

"A month," said the Marquis.

"A month is a short time to reflect on a life of remorse and regret. You know I never will forgive you."

"Never, monsieur?" asked Maulear, bowing respectfully before his father. "God himself pardons."

"I am not God, monsieur, and have neither his goodness nor his mercy. Hearken to me, and let none of my words be lost, as they are the last I shall ever speak to you. I have not concealed my principles, which were probably not firm enough in relation to morals and virtue. In these principles the people of the century in which I was born lived. I was, perhaps, badly educated, but so were all nobles then; and if they preserved their loyalty and honor, were faithful to their kings, and died for them,—if they did honor to their family, and fought well, they were forgiven for other faults. Philosophy and the progress of the age have rectified all this: whether they have improved the state of things the future must decide. I am too old to retrace my steps, and have the faults, and perhaps the virtues, of my century. There is one thing true, certain ideas I never will abandon, among which are my opinions about marriage. All this you think behind the spirit of the age, and perhaps ridiculous; but I intend to express myself fully, that you may not expect me ever to alter my opinion about your conduct. For four centuries, monsieur, there has not been a single mesalliance in my family. The Dukes of Salluce, the Princes of Maulear, from whom we are sprung, were never married but with the noblest families of the world—those of France—that is the only safety for me, that was the only marriage for you. I was willing to receive as a daughter-in-law only a French woman, of noble blood—noble as our own. This you say is a prejudice—so it may be, monsieur, but it is a prejudice I will not lay aside. I was never a rigorous father to you, and I contemplated using only one of my paternal rights, that of bringing about a marriage for you to suit myself. You acted for yourself, monsieur, and must continue to do so. Adieu! Henceforth the Marquis de Maulear has no father, and the Prince no son."

The old man arose with cold and haughty dignity, preparing to leave.

"Father, do not leave me thus—for the sake of my mother, whom you loved, pause."

The Prince walked away.

"For the sake of your father, whom you adored!"

The Prince did not pause.

"Well," said the Marquis, in despair, and just then he saw Aminta at the end of the alley, "I prefer to abandon the nobility of the Maulears, which produces such obduracy, for the virtues and talent of a Rovero."

The old man had scarcely heard the last word, than he turned around and said to his son:

"Rovero! did you say Rovero? the minister of Murat?"

"There is his daughter," said Henri, pointing to Aminta.

The countenance of the Prince lost its icy coldness, and assumed an expression of deep tenderness. Drawing near to Aminta, with tears in his eyes, he said, "The daughter of Rovero?" and with increasing agitation, "Are you the daughter of Rovero?"

Looking at her for a few moments in silence, his countenance assumed an indefinable expression, and seemed to read in the countenance of the young girl an infinitude of memories and dreams. Finally, completely carried away by a feeling he could not control, he folded Aminta in his arms and clasped her to his bosom.

III.—THE MAN WITH THE MASK

Paris, that great theatre on which, for fifty years, so much sublime and common-place republicanism, so many monarchic, imperial, constitutional, and other dramas had been represented—Paris, about the end of 1818, two years after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter, presented a strange aspect, over which we will cast a retrospective glance for the purpose of making our story intelligible.

Louis XVIII. reigned perhaps a little more absolutely than the charter permitted. By the aggregation of power, kings and kingdoms almost always fall; and this king, who wished to govern with the restrictions on power which he had himself yielded to France, found himself in endless controversy, from the errors of his friends, his family, and his minister. Monsieur[15 - The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.] was in the opposition, and with him were all the malcontents of the realm. Monsieur had his creatures, and his ministers in casû, all ready to consecrate their services to the good of the country. These were the only men, said the Prince, who could rescue the restoration from the factions in arms against it. At the head of this ministry was the Count Jules de Polignac, the favorite of the ex-comte d'Artois. Next to Polignac came M. de Vitrolles, famous for his intellect and his devotion to the royal family, M. de Grosbois, and others, who had made progress in the graces and confidence of the Prince. The King at that time exhibited a decided favoritism to a certain statesman of merit and worth, the rapid fortune of whom, however, had made many persons jealous and had excited much hatred. The star of M. de Blacus, which till then had been so brilliant, began to grow pale. From these palace intrigues, from these divisions of families, arose in public affairs a species of perpetual controversy which impeded the progress of the ship of state. In the mean time, parties taking advantage of this discontent, excited every bad passion, and silently undermined the soil preparing the explosion which ultimately destroyed this feeble and disunited monarchy. The great parties were divided and subdivided into many factions opposed to each other, but, as will be seen hereafter, all striving to overturn the existing order of things—though in the end each purposed the triumph of his own cause when a general chase should have ensued. The French nation, though strong, great and powerful when its parts are united, was then composed of royalists frankly devoted to the government of the restoration of ultra royalists, more so even than the King himself—and who wished the country to retrace its steps to principles, which good sense, time, healthy reason, and especially the revolutionary tempest, had most painfully refuted. Next came the Bonapartists, who seeing themselves disinherited by a peaceful government, and deprived of the prospects of glory they had deemed their own, regretted sincerely the man of victory and his triumphs. Next came the liberals, a portion of whom were sincerely devoted to political progress, for which the country was not yet prepared—and, finally, the Jacobins, old relics of 1793, who sought to precipitate France into that abyss of horror, the very trace of which the wonderful genius of Napoleon had effaced. All these opinions, advocated by intelligent and capable men, of gifted minds, but also of turbulent and dangerous spirits, to whom agitation is the natural element—all these were secretly busy, watching their opportunity to burst upon the public attention. Paris, the head of the great French body, was all the time happy as possible, and seemed calm and flourishing. It was like those men with a smiling face, a calm and cold icy exterior, but who nurse violent passions and bitter animosities. The police at that time was under the control of a minister who was young and active, but who was often led astray; just as greyhounds, who, when almost overrunning their quarry, catch a glimpse of other prey. The multiplied and contradictory devices of the factions, therefore, led the police and its agents into difficulties of which the criminals always contrived to take advantage. For two years, plot followed plot, almost uninterruptedly; Bonapartist, liberal, ultra-royalist plots followed each other; that of Didier was the first. His object was to confide the Kingly office to a Lieutenant-General, to the Duke of Orleans. Didier sought for his confederates among the men, whom a kind of fanaticism yet attached to the exile of Saint-Helena; among the old soldiers of the valley of the Loire, and that crowd of imperial agents whom the restoration had stripped of honor and employment. He promised good titles, orders, to all, and seduced many. The plot failed from its own impotence, for the police had little to do with it. Another affair, the consequences of which to those concerned in it were great, gave increased activity to the police, and diverted it from the only circumstances which could unfold to it the true enemies of the government of Louis XVIII. This affair was known as the Society of Patriots of 1816, and had as its chiefs Pleigner, Carbonneau, and Tolleron. They intended to ask the Emperor of Russia to grant them a constitutional King, chosen elsewhere than from the elder branch of the Bourbons. A man named Schellstein, who had been a kind of enlisting agent to the conspirators, informed M. Angles, chief of police, of their plan, and intentions, and by a sentence given July 7, 1816, Pleigner, Carbonneau, and Tolleron, were sentenced to have their hands cut off and to be beheaded. Three days after the sentence was executed. Finally, in 1818, a third conspiracy was pointed out to the notice of the police. This conspiracy had a more exalted character than the preceding ones, for it included the ultra-royalists, that is to say the nobles, generals, peers, and high functionaries of France.

The Morning Chronicle, June 27, 1818, published at London the following:—"There was a report at Paris, that a conspiracy had been discovered at Saint Cloud, embracing many of the ultra-royalist party. The King would abdicate, and be replaced by Monsieur."

The Times, on the 2d July, said—"The plan of the conspiracy is known. Should the King abdicate, the conspirators have resolved to treat him like Paul I. The following is the list of ministers:—General Canuel, of war; M. de Chateaubriand, of foreign affairs; M. Bruges, of the navy; M. Villele, of the interior; M. de Labourdonnaie, of the police; General Donadieu, commandant of Paris." All this was announced with an appearance of truth; for all the persons named belonged to the opposition to the King and his favorite. When, however, facts were sought for, and the proof was pointed out, all the edifice crumbled away, and there remained only a few malcontents, but no rebels were to be found. The sentence of the Royal Court of Paris, given November 3d following, declared—"Generals Canuel and Donadieu, MM. de Rieux, de Songis, de Chapdelaine, de Romilly, and Joannis, are released and declared innocent." They had been imprisoned forty days. This affair produced a most painful sensation in France, and the minister of police was reproached with great imprudence, which made many new enemies to the government, and did not add to its security. The fact was, the true criminals had been overlooked; and, like the worms which eat away the interior of a beautiful fruit without changing its form and color, they more skilfully and adroitly attacked the very heart of society when it seemed most secure and safe. The perfidious worm which was eating away at the heart of France, as it had long done those of the other European monarchies, was Carbonarism. As we said in our first chapters, the existence of this power was scarcely suspected, while in secret, by its ramifications, it ruled Europe.

A man of mind and energy, but whose mild and almost effeminate manners concealed vigor and perseverance, M. H–, at that time under the direction of M. Angles, supervised the political police of the kingdom. M. H– was always aware of the extent of the operations of the various factions, and probably was the only man in France really alarmed at the influence which Carbonarism exerted in France and the neighboring states. Often he had made communications to the prefect, another minister, who paid attention to known parties and attached but little importance to this new foe, which was, however, the most terrible of all, and proposed to itself the object of destroying, at any risk, and received into its bosom all the operatives of this work, whatsoever might be their opinions. M. H– had no evidence in relation to this terrible organization, nor did he know where it met. Towards the end of February, 1819, M. H– received a letter sealed in black, and with the impression on the wax of an auger piercing the globe. The strange seal did not escape his notice. The direction was, "M. H–, for himself alone, confidential." The superior of the political police read the letter, which was as follows:—

"Monsieur,—A man who can do the state great service wishes to have an interview with you, and requests that you will grant him a moment's conversation to-morrow evening at nine-oclock, in your cabinet. He will be masked. He begs you to permit him to keep his mask until he shall be satisfied that he is seen by no one else. Should the strangeness of this request not permit you to accept it, place a lighted taper in your window opening on the quai des Orfevres and no one will come. The writer knows that he addresses a man of courage and honor, who never is terrified by mere forms when he looks for important results. It is also known that this man, though protected by wise precautions, made necessary by the grave circumstances in which he is often placed, would be incapable of taking an advantage of those who come to him frankly and truly."