He led her to the carriage, and drove to the Rue Dauphine, at the corner of which they pa.s.sed Beausire. Had Oliva seen him, doubtless she would have abandoned everything to fly with him and share his fate, whatever it might be; but Cagliostro, who did see him, took care to engage her attention by showing her the crowd, which was already in sight, and which was waiting to see what the police would do.

When Oliva could distinguish the soldiers who filled her house, she threw herself into the arms of her protector in despair. "Save me! save me!" she cried.

He pressed her hand. "I promise you."

"But they will find me out anywhere."

"Not where I shall take you; they will not seek you at my house."

"Oh!" cried she, frightened, "am I to go home with you?"

"You are foolish," said he; "I am not your lover, and do not wish to become so. If you prefer a prison, you are free to choose."

"No," replied she, "I trust myself to you, take me where you please."

He conducted her to the Rue Neuve St. Gilles, into a small room on the second floor.

"How triste!" said she; "here, without liberty, and without even a garden to walk in."

"You are right," said he; "besides, my people would see you here at last."

"And would betray me, perhaps."

"No fear of that. But I will look out for another abode for you; I do not mean you to remain here."

Oliva was consoled; besides, she found amusing books and easy-chairs.

He left her, saying, "If you want me, ring; I will come directly if I am at home."

"Ah!" cried she, "get me some news of Beausire."

"Before everything." Then, as he went down, he said to himself, "It will be a profanation to lodge her in that house in the Rue St. Claude; but it is important that no one should see her, and there no one will. So I will extinguish the last spark of my old light."

CHAPTER XLV.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

When Cagliostro arrived at the deserted house in the Rue St. Claude, with which our readers are already acquainted, it was getting dark, and but few people were to be seen in the streets.

Cagliostro drew a key from his pocket, and applied it to the lock; but the door was swollen with the damp, and stiff with age, and it required all his strength to open it. The courtyard was overgrown with moss, the steps crumbling away; all looked desolate and deserted. He entered the hall, and lighted a lamp which he had brought with him. He felt a strange agitation as he approached the door which he had so often entered to visit Lorenza. A slight noise made his heart beat quickly; he turned, and saw an adder gliding down the staircase; it disappeared in a hole near the bottom.

He entered the room; it was empty, but in the grate still lay some ashes, the remains of the furniture which had adorned it, and which he had burned there. Among it several pieces of gold and silver still sparkled. As he turned, he saw something glittering on the floor; he picked it up. It was one of those silver arrows with which the Italian women were in the habit of confining their hair. He pressed it to his lips, and a tear stood in his eyes as he murmured, "Lorenza!" It was but for a moment; then he opened the window and threw it out, saying to himself, "Adieu! this last souvenir, which would soften me. This house is about to be profaned--another woman will ascend the staircase, and perhaps even into this room, where Lorenza's last sigh still vibrates; but to serve my end the sacrifice shall be made. I must, however, have some alterations made."

He then wrote on his tablets the following words: "To M. Lenoir, my architect,--Clean out the court and vestibule, restore the coach-house and stable, and demolish the interior of the pavilion. To be done in eight days."

"Now, let us see," said he to himself, "if we can perfectly distinguish the window of the countess. It is infallible," said he, after looking out; "the women must see each other."

The next day fifty workmen had invaded the house and commenced the projected alterations, which were completed within the given time. Some of the pa.s.sers-by saw a large rat hung up by the tail.

CHAPTER XLVI.

JEANNE THE PROTECTRESS.

M. le Cardinal de Rohan received, two days after his visit to M.

Boehmer, the following note:

"His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan knows, doubtless, where he will sup this evening."

"From the little countess," said he; "I will go."

Among the footmen given to her by the cardinal, Jeanne had distinguished one, black-haired and dark-eyed, and, as she thought, active and intelligent. She set this man to watch the cardinal, and learned from him that he had been twice to M. Boehmer's. Therefore she concluded the necklace was bought, and yet he had not communicated it to her. She frowned at the thought, and wrote the note which we have seen.

M. de Rohan sent before him a basket of Tokay and other rarities, just as if he was going to sup with La Guimard or Mademoiselle Dangeville.

Jeanne determined not to use any of it at supper.

"When they were alone, she said to him:

"Really, monseigneur, one thing afflicts me."

"What, countess?"

"To see, not only that you no longer love me, but that you never have loved me."

"Oh, countess! how can you say so?"

"Do not make excuses, monseigneur; it would be lost time."

"Oh, countess!"

"Do not be uneasy; I am quite indifferent about it now."

"Whether I love you or not?"

"Yes, because I do not love you."

"That is not flattering."

"Indeed, we are not exchanging compliments, but facts. We have never loved each other."

"Oh, as for myself, I cannot allow that; I have a great affection for you, countess."