"No, it was not the same!" cried the cardinal, with pain. "No, it was an entirely different hand. Only the signature had any resemblance, although the letter to the duchess was simply subscribed 'Marie Antoinette.' I hastened home, and awaited the coming of the countess with feverish impatience. She came, smiling as ever, and brought me the thirty thousand francs. With glowing, passionate words, I threw my suspicions in her face. She appeared a moment alarmed, confused, and then granted that it was possible that the letters were not from the hand of the queen, but that she had dictated them. But the signatures were the queen's, she could take her oath of it. I again took a little courage; but soon after the countess had left me, the jewellers came in the highest excitement to me, to tell me that, receiving no payments from the queen, they had applied in writing to her several times, without receiving any answer; their efforts to obtain an audience were also all in vain, and so they had at last applied to the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, Madame de Campan, with whom they had just had an interview.
Madame de Campan had told them that the queen did not possess the necklace; that no Countess Lamotte-Valois had ever had an interview with the queen; that she had told the jewellers with extreme indignation that some one had been deceiving them; that they were the victims of a fraud, and that she would at once go to Trianon to inform the queen of this fearful intrigue. This happened on a Thursday; on the following Sunday I repaired to Versailles to celebrate high mass, and the rest you know. I have nothing further to add."
"In the name of the court I thank your eminence for your open and clear exposition of this sad history," said the president, solemnly.
"Your eminence needs refreshment, you are free to withdraw and to return to the Bastile."
The cardinal rose and bowed to the court. All the judges stood, and respectfully returned the salutation. [Footnote: 'Historical.--See "Memoires de l'Abbe Georgel," vol. i.]
One of the veiled ladies, sitting on the spectators' seats, cried with trembling voice: "God bless the cardinal, the noble martyr of the realm!"
All the spectators repeated the cry; and, while the words yet rang, the cardinal, followed by the officers who were to take him to the Bastile, had left the hall.
"Guards!" cried President de L'Aigre, with a loud voice, "bring in the accused, the Countess de Lamotte-Valois!"
All eyes directed themselves to the door which the guards now opened, and through which the accused was to enter.
Upon the threshold of this door appeared now a lady of slim, graceful form, in a toilet of the greatest elegance, her head decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace, her cheeks highly painted, and her fine ruby lips encircled by a pert, and at the same time a mocking smile, which displayed two rows of the finest teeth.
With this smile upon her lips she moved forward with a light and spirited step, turning her great blazing black eyes with proud, inquisitive looks now to the stern semicircle of judges and now to the tribune, whose occupants had not been able to suppress a movement of indignation and a subdued hiss.
"Gentlemen," said she, with a clear, distinct voice, in which not the faintest quiver, not the least excitement was apparent--" gentlemen, are we here in a theatre, where the players who tread the boards are received with audible signs of approval or of disfavor?"
The president, to whom her dark eyes were directed, deigned to give no answer, but turned with an expressive gesture to the officer who stood behind the accused.
He understood this sign, and brought from the corner of the hall a wooden seat of rough, clumsy form, to whose high back of unpolished dirty wood two short iron chains were attached.
This seat he placed near the handsome, gaudily-dressed countess with her air of assurance and self-confidence, and pointed to it with a commanding gesture.
"Be seated," he said, with a loud, lordly tore. She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at the offered seat with an expression of indignation. "How!" she cried, "who dares offer me the chair of criminals to sit in?"
"Be seated," replied the officer. "The seat of the accused is ready for you, and the chains upon it are for those who are not inclined to take it."
A cry of anger escaped from her lips, and her eyes flashed an annihilating glance upon the venturesome officer, but he did not appear to be in the least affected by the lightning from her eyes, but met it with perfect tranquillity.
"If you do not take it of yourself, madame," he said, "I shall be compelled to summon the police; we shall then compel you to take the seat, and in order to prevent your rising, the chains will be bound around your arms."
The countess answered only with an exclamation of anger, and fixed her inquiring looks upon the judges, the accusers, the defenders, and then again upon the spectators. Everywhere she encountered only a threatening mien and suspicious looks, nowhere an expression of sympathy. But it was just this which seemed to give her courage and to steel her strength. She raised her head proudly, forced the smile again upon her lips, and took her seat upon the chair with a grace and dignity as if she were in a brilliant saloon, and was taking her seat upon an elegant sofa. The president of the court now turned his grave, rigid face to the countess, and asked: "Who are you, madame?
What is your name, and how old are you?"
