The count fell on his knees before the queen, and kissed her feet with the respect the Egyptians had for the goddess Isis.
"Oh, Count, my only friend!" said the queen, trying to raise him up, "do you know what the Duchess Diana is about to do?"
"She is going to emigrate," answered Charny, without hesitating.
"He has guessed the truth!" exclaimed Marie Antoinette. "He has guessed it. Alas! was it then possible to guess it?"
"Oh, certainly, Madame," answered the count; "one can imagine anything at such a moment as this."
"But you and your friends," exclaimed the queen, "why do you not emigrate, if you consider it so natural a step?"
"In the first place, Madame, I do not emigrate because I am profoundly devoted to your Majesty, and because I have promised, not to you, but to myself, that I will not quit you for a single instant during the impending storm. My brothers will not emigrate, because my conduct will be the model on which they will regulate theirs. In fine, Madame de Charny will not emigrate, because she loves your Majesty sincerely; at least, so I believe."
"Yes, Andrée has a very noble heart," said the queen, with perceptible coldness.
"That is the reason why she will not leave Versailles," answered De Charny.
"Then I shall always have you near me," said the queen, in the same icy tone, which she varied so as to express either her jealousy or her disdain.
"Your Majesty has done me the honor to make me lieutenant of the guards," said the Count de Charny; "my post is at Versailles. I should not have left my post if your Majesty had not intrusted me with the care of the Tuileries. 'It is a necessary exile,' said the queen to me, and I accepted that exile. Now, in all this, your Majesty well knows the Countess de Charny has neither reproved the step, nor was she consulted with regard to it."
"It is true," replied the queen, in the same freezing tone.
"To-day," continued the count, with intrepidity, "I think my post is no longer at the Tuileries, but at Versailles. Well, may it not displease the queen, I have violated my orders, thus selecting the service I prefer; and here I am. Whether Madame de Charny be alarmed or not at the complexion of events, whether it be her desire to emigrate or not, I will remain near the queen, unless, indeed, the queen breaks my sword; in which case, having no longer the right to fight and to die for her on the floor of Versailles, I shall still have that of sacrificing it on its threshold, on the pavement."
The young man pronounced these simple words so valiantly and so loyally, which emanated so evidently from the depths of his heart, that the queen appeared suddenly to lose her haughtiness, a retreat behind which she had just concealed feelings more human than royal.
"Count," said she, "never utter that word again. Do not say that you would die for me, for in truth I know that you would do as you say."
"Oh, on the contrary, I shall always say it!" exclaimed Monsieur de Charny. "I shall say it to every one, and in every place. I shall say it, and I shall do it, because the time has come, I fear, when all who have been attached to the kings of this earth must die."
"Count! Count!—what is it gives you this fatal forewarning?"
"Alas! Madame," replied De Charny, shaking his head, "and I too, during that fatal American war, I too was affected like the rest with that fever of independence which pervaded all society. I too wished to take an active part in the emancipation of the slaves, as it was customary to say in those days; and I was initiated into the secrets of masonry. I became affiliated with a secret society, with the Lafayettes and the Lameths. Do you know what the object of this society was, Madame? The destruction of thrones. Do you know what it had for its motto? Three letters,—L. P. D."
"And what did these letters signify?"
"Lilia pedibus destrue!—Trample the lilies underfoot!"
"Then, what did you do?"
"I withdrew with honor. But for one who withdrew from the society, there were twenty who applied to be admitted into it. Well, then, what is happening to-day, Madame, is the prologue to the grand drama which has been preparing in silence and in darkness for twenty years. At the head of the men who are stimulating Paris to resistance, who govern the Hôtel de Ville, who occupy the Palais-Royal, and who took the Bastille, I recognized the countenances of my former affiliated brethren. Do not deceive yourself, Madame; all the events which have just taken place are not the results of chance; they are outbreaks which had been planned for years."
"Oh, you think so!—you think so, my friend!" exclaimed the queen, bursting into tears.
"Do not weep, Madame, but endeavor to comprehend the present crisis," said the count.
"You wish me to comprehend it!" continued Marie Antoinette. "I, the queen,—I, who was born the sovereign of twenty-five millions of men,—you wish me to understand how these twenty-five millions of subjects, born to obey me, should revolt and murder my friends! No,—that I shall never comprehend."
"And yet it is absolutely necessary for you to understand it, Madame; for the moment this obedience becomes a burden to these subjects, to these men born to obey you, you become their enemy; and until they have the strength to devour you, to do which they are sharpening their famished teeth, they will devour your friends, still more detested than you are."
"And perhaps you will next tell me that they are right, most sage philosopher," exclaimed the queen, imperiously, her eyes dilated, and her nostrils quivering with anger.
"Alas! yes, Madame, they are right," said the count, in his gentle and affectionate voice; "for when I drive along the Boulevards, with my beautiful English horses, my coat glittering with gold, and my attendants bedecked with more silver than would be necessary to feed three families, your people, that is to say, those twenty-five millions of starving men, ask themselves of what use I am to them,—I, who am only a man like themselves."
"You serve them with this, Marquis," exclaimed the queen, seizing the hilt of the count's sword; "you serve them with the sword that your father wielded so heroically at Foutenoy, your grandfather at Steinkirk, your great-grandfather at Lens and at Rocroi, your ancestors at Ivry, at Marignan, and at Agincourt. The nobility serves the French nation by waging war. By war, the nobility has earned, at the price of its blood, the gold which decks its garments, the silver which covers its liveries. Do not, therefore, ask yourself, Olivier, how you serve the people, you who wield in your turn, and bravely too, the sword which has descended to you from your forefathers."
"Madame!—Madame!" said the count, shaking his head, "do not speak so much of the blood of the nobility: the people, too, have blood in their veins; go and see it running in streams on the Place de la Bastille; go and count their dead, stretched out on the crimsoned pavement, and consider that their hearts, which now no longer beat, throbbed with a feeling as noble as that of a knight, on the day when your cannon were thundering against them; on the day when, seizing a new weapon in their unskilful hands, they sang in the midst of grapeshot,—a thing which even our bravest grenadiers do not always. Ah! Madame, my sovereign, look not on me, I entreat you, with that frowning eye. What is a grenadier? It is a gilt blue coat, covering the heart of which I was speaking to you a moment since. Of what importance is it to the bullet which pierces and kills, that the heart be covered with blue cloth or with a linen rag? Of what importance is it to the heart which is pierced through, whether the cuirass which protected it was cloth or canvas? The time is come to think of all that, Madame. You have no longer twenty-five millions of slaves in France; you have no longer twenty-five millions of subjects; you have no longer even twenty-five millions of men. You have twenty-five millions of soldiers."
"Who will fight against me, Count?"
"Yes, against you; for they are fighting for liberty, and you stand between them and liberty."
A long silence followed the words of the count. The queen was the first to break it.
"In fine," said she, "you have told me this truth, which I had begged you not to tell me."
"Alas! Madame," replied
De Charny, "under whatever form my devotion may conceal it, under whatever veil my respect disguises it, in spite of me, in spite of yourself, examine it, listen to it, think of it. The truth is there, Madame, is there forever, and you can no longer banish it from your mind, whatever may be your efforts to the contrary. Sleep!—sleep, to forget it, and it will haunt your pillow, will become the phantom of your dreams, a reality at your awakening."
"Oh, Count," said the queen, proudly, " I know asleep which it cannot disturb!"
"As for that sleep, Madame, I fear it no more than does your Majesty, and perhaps I desire it quite as much."
"Oh," exclaimed the queen, in despair, "according to you, it is, then, our sole refuge?"
"Yes; but let us do nothing rashly, Madame. Let us go no faster than our enemies, and we shall go straight to that sleep by the fatigue which we shall have to endure during so many stormy days."
And a new silence, still more gloomy than the first, weighed down the spirits of the two speakers.
They were seated, he near her, and she near him. They touched each other, and yet between them there was an immense abyss, for their minds viewed the future in a different light.
The queen was the first to return to the subject of their conversation, but indirectly. She looked fixedly at the count. Then:— "Let us see, sir," said she. "One word as to ourselves, and you will tell me al—all—all. You understand me?"
"I am ready to answer you, Madame."
"Can you swear to me that you came here only for my sake?"
"Oh, do you doubt it?"
"Will you swear to me that Madame de Charny had not written to you?"
"She?"
"Listen to me. I know that she was going out. I know that she had some plan in her mind. Swear to me, Count, that it was not on her account that you returned!"
At this moment a knock, or rather a scratch, at the door was heard.
"Come in," said the queen.
The waiting-woman again appeared.
"Madame," said she, "the king has just finished his supper."
The count looked at Marie Antoinette with astonishment.
"Well," said she, shrugging her shoulders, "what is there astonishing in that? Must not the king take his supper?"
Olivier frowned.
"Tell the king," replied the queen, without at all disturbing herself, "that I am just receiving news from Paris, and that I shall communicate it to him when I have received it.
Then, turning towards Charny:—"Go on," said she; "now that the king has supped, it is but natural that he should digest his food."
| Go to Contents |
Chapter XXVIII
Olivier de Charny
THIS interruption had only caused a momentary suspension in the conversation, but had changed in nothing the two-fold sentiment of jealousy which animated the queen at this moment,—jealousy of love as a woman, jealousy of power as a queen.
Hence it resulted that the conversation, which seemed exhausted during its first period, had, on the contrary, only been entered upon, and was about to be revived more sharply than ever; as in a battle, where, after the cessation of the first fire, which had commenced the action at a few points, the fire which decides the victory soon becomes general all along the line.
The count, moreover, as things had arrived at this point, seemed as anxious as the queen to come to an explanation; for which reason, the door being closed again, he was the first to resume the conversation.
"You asked me if it was for Madame de Charny that I had come back," said he. "Has your Majesty then forgotten that engagements were entered into between us, and that I am a man of honor?"
"Yes," said the queen, holding down her head, "yes, we have made engagements; yes, you are a man of honor; yes, you have sworn to sacrifice yourself to my happiness, and it is that oath which most tortures me, for in sacrificing yourself to my happiness, you immolate at the same time a beautiful woman and a noble character,—another crime!"
"Oh, Madame, now you are exaggerating the accusation! I only wish you to confess that I have kept my word as a gentleman."
"It is true; I am insensate; forgive me—"
"Do not call a crime that which originated in chance and necessity. We have both deplored this marriage, which alone could shield the honor of the queen. As for this marriage, there only remains for me to endure it, as I have done for many years."
"Yes!" exclaimed the queen. "But do you think that I do not perceive your grief, that I do not understand your sorrow, which evince themselves in the shape of the highest respect? Do you think that I do not see all this?"
"Do me the favor, Madame," said the count, bowing, "to communicate to me what you see, in order that if I have not suffered enough myself, and made others suffer enough, I may double the amount of suffering for myself, and for all those who surround me, as I feel certain of ever falling short of what I owe you."
The queen held out her hand to the count. The words of the young man had an irresistible power, like everything that emanates from a sincere and impassioned heart.
"Command me, then, Madame," rejoined he; "I entreat you, do not fear to lay your commands upon me."
"Oh, yes, yes! I know it well. I am wrong; yes, forgive me; yes, it is true. But if you have anywhere some hidden idol, to whom you offer up mysterious incense,—if for you there is in some corner of the world an adored woman—oh! I no longer dare to pronounce that word, it strikes me with terror; and I fear lest the syllables which compose it should strike the air and vibrate in my ear,—well, then, if such a woman does exist, concealed from every one, do not forget that you have publicly, in the eyes of others as in your own, a young and beautiful wife, whom you surround with care and attentions,—a wife who leans upon your arm, and who, while leaning on your arm, leans at the same time on your heart."
Olivier knit his brow, and the delicate lines of his face assumed for a moment a severe aspect.
"What do you ask, Madame?" said he; "do I separate myself from the Countess de Charny? You remain silent; is that the reason, then? Well, then, I am ready to obey this order, even; but you know that she is alone in the world—she is an orphan. Her father, the Baron de Taverney, died last year, like a worthy knight of the olden time, who wishes not to see that which is about to take place in ours. Her brother—you know that her brother, Maison-Rouge, makes his appearance once a year, at most—comes to embrace his sister, to pay his respects to your Majesty, and then goes away, without any one knowing what becomes of him."
"Yes, I know all that."
"Consider, Madame, that this Countess de Charny, were God to remove me from this world, could resume her maiden name, and the purest angel in heaven could not detect in her dreams, in her thoughts, a single unholy word or thought."
"Oh, yes, yes," said the queen. "I know that your Andrée is an angel upon earth; I know that she deserves to be loved. That is the reason why I think she has a brilliant future before her, while mine is hopeless! Oh, no, no! Come, Count, I beg of you, say not another word; I no longer speak to you as a queen—forgive me, I forget myself; but what would you have? there is in my soul a voice which always sings of happiness, joy, and love, although it is too often assailed by those sinister voices which speak of nothing but misfortune, war, and death. It is, the voice of my youth, which I have survived. Charny, forgive me, I shall no longer be young, I shall no longer smile, I shall no longer love!"
And the unhappy woman covered her burning eyes with her thin and delicate hands, and the tear of a queen filtered, brilliant as a diamond, between each of her fingers.
The count once more fell on his knees before her.
"Madame, in the name of Heaven!" said he, "order me to leave you, to fly from you, to die for you, but do not let me see you weep!"
And the count himself could hardly refrain from sobbing as he spoke.
"It is all over," said Marie Antoinette, raising her head, and speaking gently, with a smile replete with grace.
And, with a b
eautiful movement, she threw back her thick powdered hair, which had fallen on her neck, white as the driven snow.
"Yes, yes, it is over!" continued the queen; " I shall not afflict you any more; let us throw aside all these follies. Great God! it is strange that the woman should be so weak, when the queen so much needs to be firm. You come from Paris, do you not Let us converse about it. You told me some things that I have forgotten; and yet they were very serious, were they not, Monsieur de Charny?"
"Be it so, Madame; let us return to that fatal subject: for, as you observe, what I have to tell you is very serious. Yes, I have just arrived from Paris, and I was present at the downfall of the monarchy."
"I was right to request you to return to serious matters, and most assuredly, Count, you make them more than sufficiently gloomy. A successful riot,—do you call that the downfall of the monarchy? What! is it because the Bastille has been taken, Monsieur de Charny, that you say the monarchy is abolished? Oh, you do not reflect that the Bastille was founded in France only in the fourteenth century, while monarchy has been taking root in the world during the last six thousand years."
"I should be well pleased to deceive myself in this matter, Madame," replied the count; "and then, instead of afflicting your Majesty's mind, I should bring to you the most consoling news. Unfortunately, the instrument will not produce any other sounds but those for which it was intended."
"Let us see, let us see; I will sustain you,—I who am but a woman; I will put you on the right path."
"Alas! I ask for nothing better."
"The Parisians have revolted, have they not?"
"Yes."
"In what proportion?"
"In the proportion of twelve to fifteen."
"How do you arrive at this calculation?"
"Oh, very easily: the people form twelve fifteenths of the body of the nation; there remain two fifteenths for the nobility and one for the clergy."
"Your calculations are exact, Count, and you have them at your fingers' ends. Have you read the works of Monsieur and Madame de Necker?"