Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.3 #18 (Nov 1851).
In the year 1641, there lived in a narrow, obscure street of Cologne a poor woman named Marie Marianni. With an old female servant for her sole companion, she inhabited a small, tumble-down, two-storied house, which had but two windows in front. Nothing could well be more miserable than the furniture of this dark dwelling. Two worm-eaten four-post bedsteads, a large deal-press, two rickety tables, three or four old wooden chairs, and a few rusty kitchen utensils, formed the whole of its domestic inventory.
Marie Marianni, despite of the wrinkles which nearly seventy years had left on her face, still preserved the trace of former beauty. There was a grace in her appearance, and a dignity in her manner, which prepossessed strangers in her favor whenever they happened to meet her; but this was rarely. Living in the strictest retirement, and avoiding as much as possible all intercourse with her neighbors, she seldom went out except for the purpose of buying provisions. Her income consisted of a small pension, which she received every six months. In the street where she lived she was known by the name of "The Old Nun," and was regarded with considerable respect.
Marie Marianni usually lived in the room on the ground-floor, where she spent her time in needlework; and her old servant Bridget occupied the upper room, which served as a kitchen, and employed herself in spinning.
Thus lived these two old women in a state of complete isolation. In winter, however, in order to avoid the expense of keeping up two fires, Marie Marianni used to call down her domestic, and cause her to place her wheel in the chimney-corner, while she herself occupied a large old easy-chair at the opposite side. They would sometimes sit thus evening after evening without exchanging a single word.
One night, however, the mistress happened to be in a more communicative temper than usual, and addressing her servant, she said: "Well, Bridget, have you heard from your son?"
"No, madame, although the Frankfort post has some in."
"You see, Bridget, it is folly to reckon on the affection of one's children; you are not the only mother who has to complain of their ingratitude."
"But, madame, my Joseph is not ungrateful: he loves me, and if he has not written now, I am certain it is only because he has nothing to say. One must not be too hard upon young people."
"Not too hard, certainly; but we have a right to their submission and respect."
"For my part, dear lady, I am satisfied with possessing, as I do, my son's affection."
"I congratulate you, Bridget," said her mistress, with a deep sigh. "Alas! I am also a mother, and I ought to be a happy one. Three sons, possessing rank, fortune, glory; yet here I am, forgotten by them, in poverty, and considered importunate if I appeal to them for help. You are happy, Bridget, in having an obedient son—mine are hard and thankless!"
"Poor, dear lady, my Joseph loves me so fondly!"
"You cut me to the heart, Bridget: you little know what I have suffered. An unhappy mother, I have also been a wretched wife. After having lived unhappily together during several years, my husband died, the victim of an assassin. And whom, think you, did they accuse of instigating his murder! Me! In the presence of my children—ay, at the instance of my eldest son—I was prosecuted for this crime!"
"But doubtless, madame, you were acquitted?"
"Yes; and had I been a poor woman, without power, rank, or influence, my innocence would have been publicly declared. But having all these advantages, it suited my enemies' purpose to deprive me of them, so they banished me, and left me in the state in which I am!"
"Dear mistress!" said the old woman.
Marie Marianni hid her face in her handkerchief, and spoke no more during the remainder of the evening.
As the servant continued silently to turn her wheel, she revolved in her mind several circumstances connected with the "Old Nun." She had often surprised her reading parchments covered with seals of red wax, which, on Bridget's entrance, her mistress always hurriedly replaced in a small iron box.
One night Marie Marianni, while suffering from an attack of fever, cried out in a tone of unutterable horror: "No: I will not see him! Take away yon red robe—that man of blood and murder!"
These things troubled the simple mind of poor Bridget, yet she dared not speak of them to her usually haughty and reserved mistress.
On the next evening, as they were sitting silently at work, a knock was heard at the door.
"Who can it be at this hour!" said Marie Marianni.
"I can not think," replied her servant; "'tis now nine o'clock."
"Another knock! Go, Bridget, and see who it is, but open the door with precaution."
The servant took their solitary lamp in her hand, and went to the door. She presently returned, ushering into the room Father Francis, a priest who lived in the city. He was a man of about fifty years old, whose hollow cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes wore a sinister and far from hallowed expression.
"To what, father, am I indebted for this late visit!" asked the old lady.
"To important tidings," replied the priest, "which I am come to communicate."
"Leave us, Bridget," said her mistress. The servant took an old iron lamp, and went upstairs to her fireless chamber.
"What have you to tell me?" asked Marie Marianni of her visitor.
"I have had news from France."
"Good news?"
"Some which may eventually prove so."
"The stars, then, have not deceived me!"
"What, madam!" said the priest, in a reproving tone; "do you attach any credit to this lying astrology? Believe me, it is a temptation of Satan which you ought to resist. Have you not enough of real misfortune without subjecting yourself to imaginary terrors?"
"If it be a weakness, father, it is one which I share in common with many great minds. Who can doubt the influence which the celestial bodies have on things terrestrial?"
"All vanity and error, daughter. How can an enlightened mind like yours persuade itself that events happen by aught save the will of God?"
"I will not now argue the point, father; tell me rather what are the news from France?"
"The nobles' discontent at the prime minister has reached its height. Henri d'Effiat, grand-equerry of France, and the king's favorite, has joined them, and drawn into the plot the Duke de Bouillon, and Monsieur, his majesty's brother. A treaty, which is upon the point of being secretly concluded with the king of Spain, has for its object peace, on condition of the cardinal's removal."
"Thank God!"
"However, madame, let us not be too confident; continue to act with prudence, and assume the appearance of perfect resignation. Frequent the church in which I minister, place yourself near the lower corner of the right-hand aisle, and I will forewarn you of my next visit."
"I will do so, father."
Resuming his large cloak, the priest departed, Bridget being summoned by her mistress to open the door.
From that time, during several months, the old lady repaired regularly each day to the church; she often saw Father Francis, but he never spoke, or gave her the desired signal. The unaccustomed daily exercise of walking to and from church, together with the "sickness of hope deferred," began to tell unfavorably on her health; she became subject to attacks of intermitting fever, and her large, bright eyes seemed each day to grow larger and brighter. One morning, in passing down the aisle, Father Francis for a moment bent his head toward her, and whispered, "All is lost!"
With a powerful effort Marie Marianni subdued all outward signs of the terrible emotion which these words caused her, and returned to her cheerless dwelling. In the evening Father Francis came to her. When they were alone, she asked, "Father, what has happened?"
"Monsieur de Cing-Mars is arrested."
"And the Duke de Bouillon?"
"Fled."
"The treaty with the king of Spain?"
"At the moment it was signed at Madrid, the cunning cardinal received a copy of it."
"By whom was the plot discovered!"
"By a secret agent, who had wormed himself into it."
"My enemies, then, still triumph?"
"Richelieu is more powerful, and the king more subject to him than ever."
That same night the poor old woman was seized with a burning fever. In her delirium the phantom-man in red still pursued her, and her ravings were terrible to hear. Bridget, seated at her bed-side, prayed for her; and at the end of a month she began slowly to recover. Borne down, however, by years, poverty, and misfortune, Marie Marianni felt that her end was approaching. Despite Father Francis's dissuasion, she again had recourse to the astrological tablets, on which were drawn, in black and red figures, the various houses of the sun, and of the star which presided over her nativity. On this occasion their omens were unfavorable; and rejecting all spiritual consolation—miserable in the present, and hopeless for the future—Marie Marianni expired in the beginning of July, 1642.
As soon as her death was known a magistrate of Cologne came to her house, in order to make an official entry of the names of the defunct and her heirs. Bridget could not tell either, she merely knew that her late mistress was a stranger.
Father Francis arrived. "I can tell you the names of her heirs," he said. "Write—the King of France; Monsieur the Duke of Orleans; Henrietta of France, queen of England."
"And what," asked the astounded magistrate, "was the name of the deceased?"
"The High and Mighty Princess Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV., and mother of the reigning king!"