_ CHAPTER LXI THE PRISONER
Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue St. Claude, where M. de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house, to keep her from the pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy: Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return. Only what did he want? she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air in which we must confess poor Beausire now very rarely had a place. Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her dreams, and playing the great lady. However, her books were soon read through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the attention of the passers-by; and her delightful promenades in the Quartier St. Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after her. True, the police-agents were formidable people, but what availed safety if she was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and then regretted Beausire.
Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had been used to walk every day.
One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice, "Monsieur, I am ennuyee here."
"This is unlucky, my dear child."
"I shall die here."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Well," said he, soothingly, "do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of police, who persecutes you."
"You exasperate me with your sang froid, monsieur; I would rather you flew in a passion."
"Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable," said he, seating himself.
"It is all very well for you to talk," replied she; "you come and go as you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I vegetate in the space to which you have limited me, and your assistance, is useless to me if I am to die here."
"Die!" said the count, smiling.
"You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately."
"M. Beausire?"
"Yes, Beausire, I love him. I always told you so. Did you think I had forgotten him?"
"So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him."
"Ah!"
"He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not?"
"Full of imagination and fire, rather rough toward me, but that is his way of showing his love."
"Therefore I wished to take you back to him."
"You did not wish that a month ago."
"No, but when I see how you love him."
"Ah! you are laughing at me."
"Oh, no, you have resisted all my advances so well."
"Yes, have I not?"
"It was your love for him."
"But yours, then, was not very tenacious."
"No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would always have preferred Beausire."
"Oh, but," cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle so long, "this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked; did that give you no hope?"
Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her glances.
"Let us return to Beausire," she said, piqued at his indifference; "why have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is free----"
"Because," replied Cagliostro, "Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police."
"What has he done?"
"Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people--and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can be--call it a theft."
"A theft!" cried Oliva, frightened. "Is he arrested?"
"No, but he is pursued."
"And is he in danger?"
"That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled."
"Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here, I shall end by committing some imprudence."
"What do you call imprudence?"
"Oh, just getting some fresh air."
"I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your beauty, and M. Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as much as you like."
"Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me."
"Offended me--how?"
"Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, sir, I entreat;" and she put her arms round his neck.
"Poor little thing," said he, kissing her forehead; "do not be afraid; I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments. Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you."
Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended generosity of Cagliostro. "Oh, I shall say henceforth," she cried, "that there are men superior to what I ever thought."
"All women are good," thought Cagliostro, "if you only touch the right chord.--From this evening," he said aloud, "you shall move to other rooms, where the windows look on Menilmontant and the Bellevue. You need not fear to show yourself to the neighbors; they are all honest, simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At least you will have air and sunshine."
Oliva looked pleased.
"Shall I conduct you there now?"
"Oh, yes."
He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third story, and entered a room, completely furnished, and ready for occupation.
"One would think it was prepared for me," she said.
"Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your femme-de-chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour." And he left the room.
The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, "I understand nothing of all this." _