"Here?" exclaimed the queen, with an air of stupefaction.
"If you will permit it."
"But—Sire—"
"You were conversing, it is true; but while at supper I shall converse also."
The mere word "supper" had chilled the enthusiasm of every one present. But on hearing the king's last words,—"at supper I shall converse also," the young queen herself could hardly help thinking that so much calmness concealed some small heroism. The king doubtless thought by his tranquillity to overcome all the terror occasioned by the events that had taken place. This must certainly be his design.
The daughter of Marie Thérèse could not conceive that at so critical a moment the son of Saint Louis could still remain subject to the material wants of ordinary life.
Marie Antoinette was mistaken; the king was hungry, that was all.
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Chapter XXVI
How the King supped on the 14th of July, 1789
ON a word from Marie Antoinette, the king's supper was served on a small table in the queen's own cabinet.
But the contrary of what the princess had hoped soon happened. Louis XVI. ordered every one to be silent, but it was only that he might not be disturbed while at supper.
While Marie Antoinette was endeavoring to revive enthusiasm, the king was devouring a Périgord pie.
The officers did not think this gastronomical performance worthy of a descendant of Saint Louis, and formed themselves into small groups, whose observations were not perhaps as respectful as circumstances ought to have demanded.
The queen blushed, and her impatience betrayed itself in all her movements. Her delicate, aristocratic, and nervous nature could not comprehend this domination of matter over mind.
She drew nearer to the king, with a view to bring those nearer to the table who had retired to a more distant part of the room.
"Sire," said she, "have you no orders to give?"
"Ah! ah!" said the king, his mouth full, "what orders, Madame? Let us see; will you be our Egeria in this difficult moment?"
And while saying these words he bravely attacked a partridge stuffed with truffles.
"Sire," said the queen, "Numa was a pacific king.
Now it is generally thought that what we need at present is a warlike king; and if you are going to take antiquity for your model, as your Majesty cannot become a Tarquin, you must be a Romulus."
The king smiled with a tranquillity which almost seemed holy.
"Are these gentlemen warlike also?" asked he.
And he turned towards the group of officers, and his eyes being animated by the cheering influence of his meal, appeared to all present to sparkle with courage.
"Yes, Sire," they all cried with one voice, "war! we only ask for war!"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said the king, "you do me in truth the greatest pleasure, by proving to me that when occasion may require it I may rely upon you. But I have for the moment not only a council, but also a stomach; the former will advise me what I ought to do, the second advises me to do what I am now doing."
And he laughed loudly, and handed his plate, full of fragments, to the officer in waiting, in exchange for a clean one.
A murmur of stupefaction and of rage passed like a shudder through the group of gentlemen, who only required a signal from the king to shed their last drop of blood.
The queen turned round and stamped her foot.
The Prince de Lambesq immediately came to her.
"You see, Madame," said he, "his Majesty no doubt thinks, as I do, that it is better to wait. It is prudence—and although it is not one of mine, unfortunately, prudence is a necessary virtue in the times we live in."
"Yes, sir, yes; it is a very necessary virtue," said the queen, biting her lips till they bled.
With a death-like sadness she reclined against the chimney-piece, her eye lost in darkness, and her soul overwhelmed by despair.
The singular contrast between the disposition of the king and that of the queen struck every one with astonishment. The queen could hardly restrain her tears, while the king continued his supper with the proverbial appetite of the Bourbon family.
The room gradually became empty; the various groups melted away as does the snow in a garden before the rays of the sun,—the snow, beneath which the black and desolate earth soon makes its appearance here and there.
The queen, seeing this warlike group, upon which she relied so much, gradually disappear, imagined that all her power was vanishing; as in former times, the breath of the Lord had melted those vast armies of Assyrians or Amalekites, which one single night sufficed to swallow up in its darkness.
She was aroused from this species of torpor by the sweet voice of the Countess Jules, who approached her with Madame Diana de Polignac, her sister-in-law.
At the sound of this voice, the sweet future, with its flowers and palm-leaves, returned to the mind of this haughty woman. A sincere and devoted friend was to her of more value than ten kingdoms.
"Oh, thou, thou!" murmured she, clasping the Countess Jules in her arms; "I have then one friend left."
And the tears, which for so long a time had been restrained, burst forth from her eyelids, trickled down her cheeks, and inundated her bosom; but instead of being bitter, these tears were sweet,—instead of oppressing her, they disburdened her heart.
They both remained silent for a few moments, during which the queen continued to hold the countess in her arms.
It was the duchess who first broke this silence, while still holding her sister-in-law by the hand.
"Madame," said she, with a voice so timid that she almost appeared ashamed, "I do not think your Majesty will disapprove the project which I am about to submit to your notice."
"What project?" asked the queen attentively; "speak, Duchess, speak?"
And while preparing to listen to the Duchess Diana, the queen leaned upon the shoulder of her favorite, the countess.
"Madame," continued the duchess, "the opinion which I am about to pronounce comes from a person whose authority will not be doubted by your Majesty; it comes from her Royal Highness, Madame Adelaide, the queen's aunt."
"What a singular preamble, dear Duchess," said the queen, gayly, "come, let us hear this opinion."
"Madame, circumstances are disheartening; the favors which our family enjoy from your Majesty have been much exaggerated; calumny stains the august friendship which you deign to grant us in exchange for our respectful devotion."
"Well, then, Duchess," said the queen, with a commencement of astonishment, "do you not think I have evinced sufficient courage? Have I not valiantly sustained my friends against public opinion, against the court, against the people, against the king himself?"
"Oh, Madame, certainly! and your Majesty has so nobly sustained your friends, that you have opposed your breast to every blow, so that to-day when the danger has become great, terrible even, the friends so nobly defended by your Majesty would be cowardly and unfaithful servants, if they did not prove themselves grateful to their queen."
"Ah, this is well, this is beautiful!" said Marie Antoinette, with enthusiasm, embracing the countess, whom she still pressed against her bosom, while holding the hand of Madame de Polignac in hers.
But both of them turned pale, instead of proudly raising their heads, after they had been thus caressed by their sovereign.
Madame Jules de Polignac made a movement to disengage herself from the arms of the queen; but the latter still pressed her to her heart, despite her efforts to disengage herself.
"But," stammered Madame Diana de Polignac, "your Majesty does not perhaps well understand what we have the honor to make known to you, in order to enable you to ward off the blows which threaten your throne, your person, perhaps, on account of the very friendship with which you honor us. There is a painful means, a bitter sacrifice to our hearts, but we must endure it; necessity commands it."
At these words it was the queen's turn to become pale, for she no lo
nger perceived courageous and faithful friendship, but fear, beneath this exordium, and under the veil of this reserve.
"Let us see," said she; "speak, speak, Duchess; what is this sacrifice?"
"Oh, the sacrifice is entirely on our side, Madame!" replied the latter. "We are, God knows for what reason, execrated in France; by disencumbering your throne, we shall restore to it all the splendor, all the warmth of the popular love, a love either extinguished or intercepted by our presence."
"You would leave me!" cried the queen, vehemently. "Who has said that? who has asked for that?"
And she cast a despairing look on the Countess Jules de Polignac, gently pushing her from her; the latter held down her head in great confusion.
"Not I," said the Countess Jules; "I, on the contrary, ask but to remain."
But these words were uttered in such a tone that they implied, "Order me to leave you, Madame, and I will leave you."
O holy friendship, thou sacred chain which can link together the hearts of even a sovereign and her subject in indissoluble bonds! O holy friendship, thou engenderest more heroism than even love or ambition, those two noble maladies of the human heart! But thou canst not brook deceit. The queen at once shattered to atoms the adored altar she had raised to thee in her heart; she required but a look, one only look, to reveal to her that which during ten years she had not perceived, she had not even surmised,—coldness and interested calculation, excusable, justifiable, legitimate perhaps; but what can excuse, justify, or legitimize, in the eyes of one who still fondly loves, the abandonment of the one who has ceased to love?
Marie Antoinette's only revenge for the pain which was thus inflicted on her, was the icy coldness with which she gazed upon her friend.
"Ah, Duchess Diana! this, then, is your opinion?" cried she, compressing with her feverish hand the agitated pulsation of her heart.
"Alas! Madame," answered the latter, "it is not my choice, it is not my will which dictates to me what I am to do: it is the law of destiny!"
"Yes, Duchess," said Marie Antoinette. And turning to the Countess Jules: "And you, Countess: what say you to this?"
The countess replied by a burning tear, as if from a pang of remorse; but she had exhausted all her strength in the effort she had made.
"Well," said the queen, "well, it is gratifying to my feelings to see how much I am beloved. Thank you, my dear Countess; yes, you incur great danger here; the anger of the people no longer knows any bounds; yes, you are all in the right, and I alone was foolish. You ask to remain,—that is pure devotedness; but I cannot accept such a sacrifice."
The Countess Jules raised her beautiful eyes and looked at the queen. But the queen, instead of reading the devotedness of a friend in them, could only perceive the weakness of the woman.
"Thus, Duchess," replied the queen, "you are resolved to leave me." And she emphasized the word "you."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Doubtless for some one of your estates—a distant—a very distant one?"
"Madame, in going away, in leaving you, it would be as painful to travel fifty leagues as one hundred and fifty."
"But do you, then, intend to go abroad?"
"Alas, yes, Madame!"
A suppressed sigh tore the very depths of the queen's heart, but it did not escape her lips.
"And where are you going?"
"To reside on the banks of the Rhine, Madame."
"Well, you speak German, Duchess," said the queen, with a look of indescribable sadness, "and it was I who taught it you. The friendship of your queen will at least have been useful to you to that extent, and I rejoice at it."
Then, turning to the Countess Jules:—
"I do not wish to dismiss you, my dear Countess," said she. "You desire to remain here, and I deeply appreciate that desire. But I—I, who fear for you-I insist on your departure; I order you to leave me."
And having said these words, she suddenly stopped, overcome by emotions which, in spite of her heroism, she would perhaps not have had the power to control, had not she heard at that moment the voice of the king who had taken no part whatever in what we have just been relating.
The king was at his dessert.
"Madame," said the king, "there is somebody in your apartment; they are seeking you."
"But, Sire," exclaimed the queen, throwing aside every other feeling but that of royal dignity, "in the first place, you have orders to give! Only three persons remain here; but they are those with whom you have to deal: Monsieur de Lambesq, Monsieur de Besenval, and Monsieur de Broglie. Give your orders, Sire; give your orders."
The king raised his heavy eyes and appeared to hesitate.
"What do you think of all this, Monsieur de Broglie?" said he.
"Sire," replied the old marshal, "if you withdraw your army from the sight of the Parisians, it will be said that it was beaten by them. If you leave it in their presence, your army must beat them."
"Well said!" exclaimed the queen, grasping the marshal's hand.
"Well said!" cried Monsieur de Besenval.
The Prince de Lambesq was the only person present who shook his head.
"Well! and after that?" said the king.
"Command: march!" cried the old marshal.
"Yes—march!" cried the queen.
"Well, then, since you all wish it, march!" said the king.
At that moment a note was handed to the queen; its contents were as follows:—
"In the name of Heaven, Madame, no rashness! I await an audience of your Majesty."
"His writing!" murmured the queen.
Then, turning round, she said in a low tone to the woman who had brought the note:—
"Is Monsieur de Charny in my room?"
"He has just arrived, completely covered with dust, and I even think with blood," answered the confidant.
"One moment, gentlemen!" exclaimed the queen, to Monsieur de Besenval and Monsieur de Broglie; "wait for me here; I shall return!"
And she passed into her own apartment in great haste.
The king did not even move his head.
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Chapter XXVII
Olivier de Charny
ON entering her dressing-room, the queen found the person there who had written the note brought by her waiting-woman.
He was a man thirty-five years of age, of lofty stature, with a countenance which indicated strength and resolution; his grayish-blue eye, sharp and piercing as that of the eagle, his straight nose, his prominent chin, gave a martial character to his physiognomy, which was enhanced by the elegance with which he wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the body-guards.
His hands were still trembling under his torn and ruffled cambric cuffs.
His sword had been bent, and could hardly be replaced in the scabbard.
On the arrival of the queen, he was pacing hurriedly up and down the dressing-room, absorbed by a thousand feverish and agitated thoughts.
Marie Antoinette advanced straight towards him.
"Monsieur de Charny!" she exclaimed, "Monsieur de Charny, you here?"
And seeing that the person whom she thus addressed bowed respectfully according to etiquette, she made a sign to her waiting-woman, who withdrew and closed the doors.
The queen scarcely waited for the door to be closed, when, seizing the hand of Monsieur de Charny with vehemence,—
"Count," cried she, "why are you here?"
"Because I considered it my duty to come, Madame," said the count.
"No; your duty was to fly Versailles; it was to do what we had agreed,—to obey me; it is, in fact, to do as all my friends are doing who fear to share my fate. Your duty is to sacrifice nothing to my destiny; your duty is to flee far from me!"
"To flee from you?" said he.
"Yes; to flee from me."
"And who, then, flies from you, Madame?"
"Those who are prudent."
"I think myself very prudent, Madame, and that is why I now come to Versailles."
"And from where do you come?"
"From Paris."
"From revolted Paris?"
"From boiling, intoxicated, and ensanguined Paris." The queen covered her face with her hands.
"Oh," said she, "no one, not even you, will then come to bring me good news."
"Madame, in the present circumstances, ask your messengers to tell you but one thing,—the truth."
"And is it the truth you have just told me?"
"I always tell you the truth, Madame."
"You have an honest soul, sir, and a stout heart."
"I am a faithful subject, Madame, that is all."
"Well, then, spare me for the moment, my friend; do not tell me a single word. You have arrived at a moment when my heart is breaking. My friends, to-day, for the first time overwhelm me with that truth which you have always told me. Oh, it is this truth, Count, which it was impossible for them to withhold from me any longer. It bursts forth everywhere: in the heavens which are red; in the air, which is filled with sinister noises; in the faces of the courtiers, who are pale and serious. No, no, Count; for the first time in your life, tell me not the truth."
The count looked at the queen with amazement.
"Yes, yes," said she; "you who know me to be courageous, you are astonished, are you not? Oh, you are not yet at the end of your astonishment!"
Monsieur de Charny allowed an inquiring gesture to escape him.
"You will see by-and-by," said the queen, with a nervous laugh.
"Does your Majesty suffer?" asked the count.
"No, no, sir. Come and sit down near me, and not a word more about those dreadful politics. Try to make me forget them."
The count obeyed with a sad smile. Marie Antoinette placed her hand upon his forehead.
"Your forehead burns," said she.
"Yes, I have a volcano in my head."
"Your hand is icy cold."
And she pressed the count's hand between both hers.
"My heart is affected with a deathlike coldness," said he. "Poor Olivier! I had told you so. Let us forget it. I am no longer queen; I am no longer threatened; I am no longer hated. No, I am no longer a queen. I am a woman, that is all. What is the whole universe to me? One heart that loves me would suffice me."