Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/495

 488 internal contest had been severe and tempestuous. It was not only the choice between monarchy and liberalism, between the Bourbons and their enemies, that disturbed him, but the necessity for forsaking a family to which he was bound by those ties of kindred, loyalty, and affection, which it would be dishonour to violate, to another which he, in fact, hated, but to whose interests he was pledged by deliberate and formal acts, confirmed by sanctions universally regarded as the most emphatic in the power of man to give. But the restoration of peace rendered acquiescence in the new order of things necessary. The Duke de Bourbon gave in his adhesion to the government of Louis Philippe; his rights were confirmed, and he resumed the even tenor of his life so fearfully interrupted. Only his relations with Madame de Feuchères seem to have suffered strange alteration; towards her, though still affectionate, his manner was restrained and forced, his confidence reserved; the sound of her name even, seemed to strike him painfully. There was no open rupture between them, but it was evident that private quarrels were not unfrequent. The Duke’s Venus had developed the latent virago qualities that are sometimes ingredient, as psychologists tell us, in the most seraphic tempers. These symptoms of dissension were apparent to all the inmates of St. Leu. Finally, the Duke surprised two of his most attached servants by the news that he intended taking a long journey—which, from the secresy with which it was to be accomplished, bore more resemblance to a flight. From the whole household it was to be studiously concealed, but from no one more strictly than Madame de Feuchères. Pending its arrangements some strange circumstances happened, which excited gloomy conjectures and apprehensions in the château. An inflamed eye (l’œil en sang), as to the cause of which the Duke first prevaricated, and afterwards inconsistently explained, was attributed to the lovely Baroness; a letter pushed secretly under the door leading from a private staircase into the Duke’s chamber, which, when carried to the Prince, threw him into a violent agitation; most of all, a desire which he expressed to Manowry, his valet-de-chambre, that he should sleep at the door of his room. Manowry, though a faithful servant, objected on the ground of etiquette, saying, that it would appear very odd, and that such a duty fell to the lot of Lecomte, the valet-de-service. The Duke did not insist, but the order was not given to Lecomte. He had been introduced into the château by Madame de Feuchères. Everything was finally arranged for the departure of the Duke. A million of francs in bank notes had been provided; a skilful plan of deception had been matured, to render delay or detection impossible; the 31st of August had been fixed upon as the day for carrying into execution the well-arranged movement; and the perplexed old prince hoped on the 1st of September to be well on the road towards Geneva, out of the clutches of his troublesome legatees and heirs en totalité. Once safely beyond the persecutions of Madame de Feuchères, and a few resolute strokes of the pen could undo the mischief he lamented.

The 26th arrived. The morning was signalised by another scene between the Duke and the Baroness, mysterious and violent; but its effects passed off, and at dinner, amongst a circle of friends, the old man was gay and unrestrained. In the evening he played at whist, Madame de Feuchères forming one of the party; he was more than usually lively and affable, and at a late hour retired from the salon with the cheerful salutation, “A demain!”

His physician, the Chevalier Bonnie, and the valet, Lecomte, attended him in his chamber. He retired as usual; and to Lecomte’s question “At what hour will your highness be called?” replied as usual, “Eight o’clock.” The chamber of the Duke de Bourbon was on the second floor of the château. It communicated by a narrow passage with an ante-chamber. This ante-chamber opened on one side through a small dressing-room on the grand hall of the château, on the other upon a private staircase leading to the floor below, which contained the apartments of Madame de Feuchères and her niece, Madame de Flassans, and thence to a corridor conducting to the outer court. Immediately under the Duke’s bed-room were the rooms of the Abbé Briant, secretary to the Baroness, and of some domestics attached particularly to her service.

During this night of the 26th of August, no unusual noise disturbed the inmates of St. Leu. The gardes-chasse took their customary rounds in the park surrounding the château, and found everything quiet and in order. Within, a profound calm reigned throughout.

In the morning at eight o’clock, the punctual Lecomte knocked at the Duke’s door. There was no reply.

“Monseigneur is sound asleep,” he said to himself, “it would be a pity to disturb him.”

Twenty minutes after, he returned with the doctor; they passed through the dressing-room, of which Lecomte kept the key, and knocked again at the inner door which was bolted. Still no reply.

Alarmed at this strange silence, they roused Madame de Feuchères. She joined them in a moment or two en déshabille.

“When he hears my voice,” said she, “he will answer.” She herself knocked at the door, calling aloud: “''Ouvrez, Monseigneur! ouvrez! c’est moi!''”

Still no reply.

The alarm spread through the château. The whole household assembled at the outer door. A bar of iron was brought. The panels were broken in. Bonnie and the others entered. The room was almost dark. The shutters were closed, but a wax candle, placed behind a screen, still burned on the hearth. By its faint light they saw that the bed was empty; and, on further observation, the Duke de Bourbon was discovered apparently standing by the window, his right cheek leaning against the inside shutter, his head slightly inclined, in the position of a man who is listening.

They threw open the windows on the opposite side of the room. The light of the morning poured in and revealed a frightful spectacle. The Duke was not standing, but hanging—suspended from a bar of the shutters by two handkerchiefs, one tied within the other. His head had fallen on