CHAPTER XII.

The Necklace vanishes.

It is the first day of February; that grand day of Delivery. The Sieur Boehmer is in the Court of the Palais de Strasbourg; his look mysterious-official, and though much emaciated, radiant with enthusiasm. The Seine has missed him; though lean, he will fatten again, and live through new enterprises.

66

Singular, were we not used to it: the name Boehmer," as it passes upwards and inwards, lowers all halberts of Heydues in perpendicular rows: the historical eye beholds. him, bowing low, with plenteous smiles, in the plush Saloon of Audience. Will it please Monseigneur, then, to do the ne-plus-ultra of Necklaces the honour of looking at it? A piece of Art, which the Universe cannot parallel, shall be parted with (Necessity compels Court-Jewellers) at that ruinously low sum. They, the Court-Jewellers, shall have much ado to weather it; but their work, at least, will find a fit Wearer, and go down to juster posterity. Monseigneur will merely have the condescension to sign this Receipt of Delivery all the rest, her Highness the Sultana of the Sublime Porte has settled it. Here the Court-Jeweller, with his joyous though now much-emaciated face, ventures on a faint knowing smile; to which, in the lofty dissoluteserene of Monseigneur's, some twinkle of permission could not but respond. This is the First of those Three realpoetic Exhibitions, brought about by our Dramaturgist, with perfect success.

-

It was said, long afterwards, that Monseigneur should have known, and even that Boehmer should have known, her Highness the Sultana's marginal note, her RightMarie Antoinette of France,' to be a forgery and mockery: the of France' was fatal to it. Easy talking, easy criticis

་

ing! But how are two enchanted men to know; two men with a fixed-idea each, a negative and a positive, rushing together to neutralise each other in rapture? Enough, Monseigneur has the ne-plus-ultra of Necklaces, conquered by man's valour and woman's wit; and rolls off with it, in mysterious speed, to Versailles, triumphant as a Jason with his Golden Fleece.

The Second grand scenic Exhibition by our Dramaturgic Countess occurs in her own apartment at Versailles, so early as the following night. It is a commodious apartment, with alcove; and the alcove has a glass door.1 Monseigneur enters, with a follower bearing a mysterious Casket, who carefully deposits it, and then respectfully withdraws. It is the Necklace itself in all its glory! Our tutelary Countess, and Monseigneur, and we, can at leisure admire the queenly Talisman; congratulate ourselves that the painful conquest of it is achieved.

But, hist! A knock, mild but decisive, as from one knocking with authority! Monseigneur and we retire to our alcove; there, from behind our glass screen, observe what passes. Who comes? The door flung open: de par la Reine! Behold him, Monseigneur: he enters with grave, respectful, yet official air; worthy Monsieur Queen's-valet Lesclaux, the same who escorted our tutelary Countess, that moonlight night, from the back apartments of Versailles. Said we not, thou wouldst see him once more? — Methinks, again, spite of his Queen's-uniform, he has much the features of Villette of Rascaldom!- Rascaldom or Valetdom (for to the blind all colours are the same), he has, with his grave, respectful, yet official air, received the Casket, and its priceless contents; with fit injunction, with fit engagements; and retires bowing low.

Thus softly, silently, like a very Dream, flits away our solid Necklace-through the Horn Gate of Dreams!

1 Georgel, &c.

CHAPTER XIII.

Scene Third: by Dame de Lamotte.

Now too, in these same days (as he can afterwards prove by affidavit of Landlords) arrives Count Cagliostro himself, from Lyons! No longer by predictions in cipher; but by his living voice, often in wrapt communion with the unseen world, with Caraffe and four candles;' by his greasy prophetic bulldog face, said to be the most perfect quack-face of the eighteenth century,' can we assure ourselves that all is well; that all will turn to the glory of Monseigneur, to the good of France, and of mankind,' and of Egyptian masonry. Tokay flows like water;' our charming Countess, with her piquancy of face, is sprightlier than ever; enlivens with the brightest sallies, with the adroitest flatteries to all, those suppers of the gods. O Nights, O Suppers - too good to last! Nay, now also occurs another and Third scenic Exhibition, fitted by its radiance to dispel from Monseigneur's soul the last trace of care.

1

Why the Queen does not, even yet, openly receive me at Court? Patience, Monseigneur! Thou little knowest those too intricate cabals; and how she still but works at them silently, with royal suppressed fury, like a royal lioness only delivering herself from the hunter's toils. Meanwhile, is not thy work done? The Necklace, she rejoices over it; beholds, many times in secret, her Juno-neck mirrored back the lovelier for it, - as our tutelar Countess can testify. Come to-morrow to the Eil-de-Bouf; there see with eyes, in high noon, as already in deep midnight thou hast seen, whether in her royal heart there were delay.

Let us stand, then, with Monseigneur, in that Eil-de-Boeuf, in the Versailles Palace Gallery; for all well-dressed persons

1 Georgel, &c.

are admitted: there the Loveliest, in pomp of royalty, will

walk to mass.

The world is all in pelisses and winter furs; cheerful, clear, with noses tending to blue. A lively many-voiced hum plays fitful, hither and thither of sledge parties and Court parties; frosty state of the weather; stability of M. de Calonne; Majesty's looks yesterday ; — such hum as always, in these sacred Court-spaces, since Louis le Grand made and consecrated them, has, with more or less impetuosity, agitated our common Atmosphere.

Ah, through that long high Gallery what Figures have passed and vanished! Louvois, - with the Great King, flashing fire-glances on the fugitive; in his red right hand at pair of tongs, which pious Maintenon hardly holds back: Louvois, where art thou? Ye Maréchaux de France? Ye unmentionable-women of past generations? Here also was it that rolled and rushed the 'sound, absolutely like thunder,” of Courtier hosts; in that dark hour when the signal-light in Louis the Fifteenth's chamber-window was blown out; and his ghastly infectious Corpse lay lone, forsaken on its tumbled death-lair, 'in the hands of some poor women;' and the Courtier-hosts rushed from the Deep-fallen to hail the Newrisen! These too rushed, and passed; and their sound, absolutely like thunder,' became silence. Figures? Men? They are fast-fleeting Shadows; fast chasing each other it is not a Palace, but a Caravansera. Monseigneur (with thy too much Tokay overnight)! cease puzzling: here thou art, this blessed February day : the Peerless, will she turn lightly that high head of hers, and glance aside into the Eil-de-Bœuf, in passing? Please Heaven, she will. To our tutelary Countess, at least, she promised it; 2 though, alas, so fickle is womankind!

She issues, like the

Hark! Clang of opening doors! Moon in silver brightness, down the Eastern steeps. Reine vient! What a figure! I (with the aid of glasses) discern her. O Fairest, Peerless! Let the hum of minor

1 Campan.

2 See Georgel.

discoursing hush itself wholly; and only one successive rolling peal of Vive la Reine, like the movable radiance of a train of fire-works, irradiate her path. Ye Immortals! She does, she beckons, turns her head this way!" Does she not?" says Countess de Lamotte. Versailles, the Eilde Bœuf, and all men and things are drowned in a Sea of Light; Monseigneur and that high beckoning Head are alone, with each other in the Universe.

O Eminence, what a beatific vision! Enjoy it, blest as the gods; ruminate and re-enjoy it, with full soul: it is the last provided for thee. Too soon, in the course of these six months, shall thy beatific vision, like Mirza's vision, gradually melt away; and only oxen and sheep be grazing in its place; — and thou, as a doomed Nebuchadnezzar, be grazing with them.

"Does she not?" said the Countess de Lamotte. That it is a habit of hers; that hardly a day passes without her doing it this the Countess de Lamotte did not say.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Necklace cannot be paid.

Here, then, the specially Dramaturgic labours of Countess de Lamotte may be said to terminate. The rest of her life is Histrionic merely, or Histrionic and Critical; as, indeed, what had all the former part of it been but a Hypocrisia, a more or less correct Playing of Parts? O' Mrs. Facingboth-ways' (as old Bunyan said), what a talent hadst thou! No Proteus ever took so many shapes, no Chameleon so often changed colour. One thing thou wert to Monseigneur ; another thing to Cagliostro, and Villette of Rascaldom; a third thing to the World, in printed Mémoires; a fourth thing to Philippe Egalité: all things to all men!

Let her, however, we say, but manage now to act her own