Taking the Bastile (35 page)

‘Yes, without doubt she is suffering,’ answered the count, ‘and it is for that reason that I shall ask your majesty the permission to have her carried to her own apartment.

‘Do so,’ said the queen, raising her hand to the bell.

But scarcely had Andre heard the ringing of the bell, when she wrestled fearfully, and cried out in her delirium,

‘Ohl Gilbert I that Gilbert 1’

The queen trembled at the sound of this name, and the astonished count placed his wife upon a sofa. At this moment a servant appeared to answer the bell.

‘It is nothing,’ said the queen, making a sign to him with her hand to leave the room.

Then, being once more left to themselves, the count and the queen looked at each other. Andre had again closed her eyes, and seemed to suffer from a second attack. M. de Charny who was kneeling near the sofa, prevented her from falling off it.

‘Gilbert, repeated the queen, ‘what name is that?’

‘We must inquire.’

‘I think I know it,’ said Marie Antoinette; ‘I think it is not the first time I have heard the countess pronounce that name.’

But as if she had been threatened by this recollection of the queen, and that this threat had surprised her in the midst of her convulsions, Andre opened her eyes, stretched out her arms to heaven, and, making a great effort, stood upright. Her first look, an intelligent look, was this time directed at M. de Charny, whom she recognised, and greeted with caressing smiles. Then, as if this involuntary manifestation of her thought had been unworthy of her Spartan soul, Andre turned her eyes in another direction, and perceived the queen. She immediately made a profound inclination.

‘Ah 1 good Heaven, what, then, is the matter with you, madame?’ said M. de Charny; ‘you have alarmed me you, who are usually so strong and so courageous to have suffered from a swoon?’

‘Sir,’ said she, ‘such fearful events have taken place

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at Paris, that when men are trembling, it ia by no means strange that women should faint. Have you, then, left Paris ? oh 1 you have done rightly.’

‘Good God I countess,’ said Charny, in a doubting tone, ‘was it then on my account that you underwent all this suffering?’

Andre again looked at hr husband and the queen, but did not answer.

‘Why, certainly, that is the reason, count why should you doubt it ? ‘ answered Marie Antoinette. ‘The Countess de Charny is not a queen; she has the right to be alarmed for her husband’s safety.’

Charny could detect jealousy in the queen’s language.

‘Oh 1 madame,’ said he, ‘I am quite certain that tlffe countess fears still more for her sovereign’s safety than for mine.’

‘But in fine,’ asked Marie Antoinette, ‘why and how is it that we found you in a swoon in this room, countess ?’

‘Oh I it would be impossible for me to tell you that, madame; I cannot myself account for it; but in this life of fatigue, of terror, and painful emotions, which we have led for the last three days, nothing can be more natural, it seems to me, than the fainting of a woman.’

‘That is true,’ murmured the queen, who perceived that Andre did not wish to be compelled to speak out.

‘But,’ rejoined Andre, in her turn, with that extraordinary degree of calmness which never abandoned her after she had once become the mistress of her will, and which was so much the more embarrassing in difficult circumstances, that it could be easily discerned to be mere affectation, and concealed feelings altogether human; ‘but even your majesty’s eyes are at this moment humid.’

And the count thought he could perceive in the words of his wife that ironical accent he had remarked but a few moments previously in the language of the queen.

‘Madame,’ said he to Andre, with a degree of severity to which his voice was evidently not accustomed, ‘it is not astonishing that the queen’s eyes should be suffused with tears, for the queen loves her people, and the blood of the people has been shed.’

‘Fortunately, God has spared yours, sir,’ said Andre, who was still no less cold and impenetrable.

‘Yes; but it U not of her majesty that we are speaking,

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madame, but of you; let us then return to our subject; the queen permits us to do so,’

Marie Antoinette made an affirmative gesture with her head.

‘You were alarmed, then, were you not? You have been suffering; do not deny it; some accident has happened to you what was it ? I know not what it can have been, but you will tell us.’

‘You are mistaken, sir.’

‘Have you had any reason to complain of any one of a man?’

Andre turned pale.

‘I have had no reason to complain of any one, sir; I have just come from the king’s apartment.’

‘Did you come direct from there?’

‘Yes, direct. Her majesty can easily ascertain that fact.’

‘If such bo the case,’ said Marie Antoinette, ‘the countess must be right. The king loves her too well, and knows that my own affection for her is too strong, for him to disoblige her in any way whatever.’

‘But you mentioned a name said Charny, still persisting.

Andre looked at the queen as if to ask her for assistance; but, either because the queen did not understand her, or did not wish to do so,

‘Yes,’ said she, ‘you pronounced the name Gilbert.’

‘ Gilbert 1 did I pronounce the name of Gilbert?’ exclaimed Andre, in a tone so full of terror, that the count was more affected by this cry than he had been by her fainting.

‘Yes I’ exclaimed he, ‘you pronounced that name.’

‘Ah 1 indeed 1’ said Andre, ‘that is singular.’

And, by degrees, as the clouds close again, after having been rent asunder by the lightning, the countenance of the young woman, so violently agitated at the sound of that fatal name, recovered Its serenity, and but a few muscles of her lovely face continued to tremble almost imperceptibly, like the last flashes of the tempest which vanish in the horizon.

‘Gilbert,’ she repeated, ‘I do not know that name.’

‘Yes, Gilbert,’ repeated the queen; ‘come, try to recollect, my dear Andre.’

‘But, madame,’ said the count to Marie Antoinette,

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‘perhaps it is mere chance, and this name may be unknown to the countess.’

‘No,’ said Andre, ‘no; it is not unknown to me. It is that of a learned man, of a skilful physician who has just arrived from America, I believe, and who became intimate while there with Monsieur de Lafayette.’

‘Well, then?’ asked the count.

‘Well, then I’ repeated Andre, with the greatest presence of mind, ‘I do not know him personally, but he is said to be a very honourable man.’

‘Then why all this emotion, my dear countess ? ‘ observed the queen.

‘This emotion I Have I, then, been excited? I will tell you how it happened. I met a person in the king’s cabinet, who was dressed in black, a man of austere countenance, who spoke of gloomy and horrible subjects; he related with the most frightful reality the assassination of Monsieur de Launay and Monsieur de Flesselles. I became terrified on hearing this intelligence, and I fell into the swoon in which you saw me. It may be that I spoke at that time; perhaps I then pronounced the name of Monsieur Gilbert.

‘ It is possible,’ repeated M. de Charny, who was evidently not disposed to push the questioning any further. ‘But now you feel more reassured, do you not, madame?’

‘Completely.’

‘I will then beg of you to do one thing, Monsieur de Charny,’ said the queen.

‘I am at the disposal of your majesty.”

‘Go and find out Messieurs de B6zenval, De Broglie, and De Lambesq. Tell them to quarter their troops where they now are. The king will decide to-morrow in council what must be then done.’

The count, making a most respectful bow to the queen, left the room. As to Andre, she followed with her eyes every one of her husband’s movements, her bosom palpitating, and almost breathless. She seemed to accelerate with her wishes the slow and noble step with which he approached the door. She, as it were, pushed him out of the room with the whole power of her will. Therefore was it that, as soon as he had closed the door, as soon as he had disappeared, all the strength that Andre had summoned to assist her in surmounting the difficulties of her position abandoned her; her face became pale, her

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limbs failed beneath her, and she fell into an armchair which was within her reach, while she endeavoured to apologise to the queen for her involuntary breach of etiquette. The queen ran to the chimney-piece, took a smelling-bottle of salts, and making Andre inhale them, she was soon restored to her senses, but more by the power of her own will than by the efficacy of the attentions she received at the royal hands. In fact, there was something strange in the conduct of these two women. The queen seemed to love Andre; Andre respected the queen greatly, and, nevertheless, at certain moments they did not appear to be, the one an affectionate queen, the other a devoted subject, but two determined enemies. As we have already said, the potent will of Andre soon restored her strength. She rose up, gently removed the queen’s hand, and, curtseying to her,

‘Your majesty,’ said she, ‘has given me permission to retire to my own room.’

‘Yes, undoubtedly; and you are always free, dear countess, and this you know full well. Etiquette is not intended for you. But before you retire, have you nothing to tell me?’

‘No : what should I have to tell you?’

‘In regard to this Monsieur Gilbert, the sight of whom has made so strong an impression upon you.’

Andre trembled; but she merely made a sign of denial.

‘In that case, I will not detain you any longer, dear Andre; you may go.’

And the queen took a step towards the door of the dressing-room, which communicated with her bedroom. Andre, on her side, having made her obeisance to the queen, in the most irreproachable manner, was going towards the door. But at the very moment she was about to open it, steps were heard in the corridor, and a hand was placed on the external handle of the door. At the same time the voice of Louis XVI. was heard, giving orders for the night to his valet.

‘The king, madame 1’ said Andre, retreating several steps; ‘the king 1’

‘And what of that? Yes, it is the king,’ said Marie Antoinette. ‘Does he terrify you to such a degree as this?’

‘Madame, in the name of heaven,’ cried Andrde, ‘let

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me not see the king 1 Let me not meet the king face to face, at all events this evening. I should die of shame.’

‘But, finally, you will tell me ‘

‘Everything yes, everything if your majesty requires it. But hide me 1’

‘Go into my boudoir,’ said Marie Antoinette. ‘You can leave it as soon as the king himself retires. Rest assured your captivity will not be of long duration. The king never remains here long.’

‘Oh, thanks 1 thanks 1’ exclaimed the countess.

And rushing into the boudoir she disappeared, at the very moment that the king, having opened the door, appeared upon the threshold of the chamber.

CHAPTER XXVIII THB QUEEN’S THOUGHTS

How long the interview between Andre and the queen lasted, it would be impossible for us to say; but it was certainly of considerable duration, for at about half-past twelve o’clock that night, the door of the queen’s boudoir was seen to open, and on the threshold Andre, almost on her knees, kissing the hand of Marie Antoinette. After which, having raised herself up, the young woman dried her eyes, red with weeping, while the queen, on her side, re-entered her room. Andre, on the contrary, walked away rapidly, as if she desired to escape from her own thoughts. After this, the queen was alone. When the lady of the bed-chamber entered the room, to assist her in undressing, she found her pacing the room with rapid strides, and her eyes flashing with excitement. She made a quick movement with her hand, which meant to say, ‘Leave me.’ The lady of the bed-chamber left the room, without offering an observation. The queen again found herself alone. She had given orders that no one should disturb her, unless it was to announce the arrival of important news from Paris. Andre did not appear again. The queen wrote several letters, went into an adjoining room, where her two children slept under the care of Madame de Tourzel, and then went to bed, not for the sake of sleeping, like the king, but merely to meditate more at ease. But soon after, when silence reigned around Versailles. Marie Antoinette, tired of repose, felt the

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want of air, got out of bed, and putting on her velvet slippers and a long white dressing-gown, went to the window to inhale the ascending freshness of the cascades, and to seize in their flight those counsels which the night winds murmur to heated minds and oppressed hearts.

Then she reviewed in her mind all the astounding events which this strange day had produced. The fall of the Bastille, that visible emblem of royal power; the uncertainties of Charny, her devoted friend; that impassioned captive who for so many years had been subjected to her yoke, and who, during all those years, had never breathed anything but love, now seemed fo* the first time to sigh from regret and feelings of remorse. With that synthetic habit with which the knowledge of men and events endows great minds, Marie Antoinette immediately divided the agitation which oppressed her into two portions, the one being her political misfortunes, the other the sorrows of her heart. The political misfortune was that great event, the news of which had left Paris at three o’clock in the afternoon, and was then spreading itself over the whole world, and weakening in every mind that sacred reverence which until then had always been accorded to kings, God’s mandatories upon earth. The sorrow of her heart was the gloomy resistance of Charny to the omnipotence of his well-beloved sovereign. It appeared to her like a presentiment, that without ceasing to be faithful and devoted, his love would cease to be blind, and might begin to argue with itself on its fidelity and its devotedness.

In which direction could she turn ? For enemies, she had people who, having commenced with calumny, were now organising a rebellion. People whom, consequently, no consideration would induce to retreat. For defenders we speak of the greater portion at least of those men Who, little by little, had accustomed themselves to endure everything, and who, in consequence, no longer felt the depth of their wounds, their degradation people who would hesitate to defend themselves, for fear of attracting attention. It was, therefore, necessary to bury everything in oblivion to appear to forget, and yet to remember to feign to forgive, and yet not pardon. This would be conduct unworthy of a Queen of France : it was especially unworthy of the daughter of Marie Ther^se that high-minded woman.