"Those of Monsieur de Necker? Yes, Madame."
"Well, the proverb holds good," said the queen, gayly: "we are never betrayed but by our own friends. Well, then, here is my own calculation; will you listen to it?"
"With all respect."
"Among these twelve fifteenths there are six of women, are there not?"
"Yes, your Majesty. But—"
"Do not interrupt me. We said there were six fifteenths of women, so let us say six; two of indifferent or incapable old men,—is that too much?"
"No."
"There still remain four fifteenths, of which you will allow that at least two are cowards or lukewarm individuals,—I flatter the French nation. But finally, there remain two fifteenths; I will grant you that they are furious, robust, brave, and warlike. These two fifteenths, let us consider them as belonging to Paris only, for it is needless to speak of the provinces, is it not? It is only Paris that requires to be retaken?"
"Yes, Madame. But—"
"Always but; wait a moment. You can reply when I have concluded."
Monsieur de Charny bowed.
"I therefore estimate," continued the queen, "the two fifteenths of Paris at one hundred thousand men; is that sufficient?"
This time the count did not answer. The queen rejoined:—
"Well, then! to these hundred thousand men, badly armed, badly disciplined, and but little accustomed to battle, hesitating because they know they are doing wrong, I can oppose fifty thousand men, known throughout Europe for their bravery, with officers like you, Monsieur de Charny; besides that sacred cause which is denominated divine right, and in addition to all this, my own firm soul, which it is easy to move, but difficult to break."
The count still remained silent.
"Do you think," continued the queen, "that in a battle fought in such a cause, two men of the people are worth more than one of my soldiers?"
Charny said nothing.
"Speak,—answer me!—Do you think so?" exclaimed the queen, growing impatient.
"Madame," answered the Count, at last, throwing aside, on this order from the Queen, the respectful reserve which he had so long maintained, "on a field of battle, where these hundred thousand men would be isolated, undisciplined and badly armed as they are, your fifty thousand soldiers would defeat them in half an hour."
"Ah!" said the queen, "I was then right."
"Wait a moment. But it is not as you imagine. And, in the first place, your hundred thousand insurgents in Paris are five hundred thousand."
"Five hundred thousand?"
"Quite as many. You had omitted the women and children in your calculation! Oh, Queen of France! Oh, proud and courageous woman! consider them as so many men, these women of Paris; the day will perhaps come when they will compel you to consider them as so many demons."
"What can you mean, Count?"
"Madame, do you know what part a woman plays in a civil war? No, you do not. Well, I will tell you; and you will see that two soldiers against each woman would not be too many."
"Count, have you lost your senses?"
Charny smiled sadly.
"Did you see them at the Bastille?" asked he, "in the midst of the fire, in the midst of the shot, crying, 'To arms!' threatening with their fists your redoubtable Swiss soldiers, fully armed and equipped, uttering maledictions over the bodies of the slain, with that voice that excites the hearts of the living. Have we not seen them boiling the pitch, dragging cannon along the streets, giving cartridges to those who were eager for the combat, and to the timid combatants a cartridge and a kiss? Do you know that as many women as men trod the drawbridge of the Bastille, and that at this moment, if the stones of the Bastille are falling, it is by pickaxes wielded by women's hands? Ah! Madame, do not overlook the women of Paris; take them into consideration; think also of the children who cast bullets, who sharpen swords, who throw paving-stones from a sixth story; think of them, for the bullet which was cast by a child may kill your best general from afar off, for the sword which it has sharpened will cut the hamstrings of your war-horses, for the clouds of stones which fall as from the skies will crush your dragoons and your guards; consider the old men, Madame, for if they have no longer the strength to raise a sword, they have still enough to serve as shields. At the taking of the Bastille, Madame, there were old men; do you know what they did,—those aged men whom you affect to despise? They placed themselves before the young men, who steadied their muskets on their shoulders, that they might take sure aim, so that the balls of your Swiss killed the helpless aged man, whose body served as a rampart to the vigorous youth. Include the aged men, for it is they who for the last three hundred years have related to succeeding generations the insults suffered by their mothers,—the desolation of their fields, caused by the devouring of their crops by the noblemen's game; the odium attached to their caste, crushed down by feudal privileges; and then the sons seize a hatchet, a club, a gun, in short, any weapon within their reach, and sally out to kill, fully charged with the curses of the aged against all this tyranny, as the cannon is loaded with powder and iron. At Paris, at this moment, men, women, old men, and children are all crying, 'Liberty, deliverance!' Count everything that has a voice, Madame, and you may estimate the number of combatants in Paris at eight hundred thousand souls."
"Three hundred Spartans defeated the army of Xerxes, Monsieur de Charny."
"Yes; but to-day your three hundred Spartans have increased to eight hundred thousand, and your fifty thousand soldiers compose the army of Xerxes."
The queen raised her head, her hands convulsively clinched, and her face burning with shame and anger.
"Oh, let me fall from my throne," said she, "let me be torn to pieces by your five hundred thousand Parisians, but do not suffer me to hear a Charny, a man devoted to me, speak to me thus."
"If he speaks to you thus, Madame, it is because it is necessary; for this Charny has not in his veins a single drop of blood that is unworthy of his ancestors, or that is not all your own."
"Then let him march upon Paris with me, and there we will die together."
"Ignominiously," said the count, "without the possibility of a struggle. We shall not even fight; we shall disappear like the Philistines or the Amalekites. March upon Paris!—but you seem to be ignorant of a very important thing,—that at the moment we shall enter Paris, the houses will fall upon us as did the waves of the Red Sea upon Pharaoh; and you will leave in France a name which will be accursed, and your children will be killed like the cubs of a wolf"
"How then, should I fall, Count " said the queen, with haughtiness; "teach me, I entreat you."
"As a victim, Madame," respectfully replied Monsieur de Charny; "as a queen, smiling and forgiving those who strike the fatal blow. Ah! if you had five hundred thousand men like me, I should say: "Let us set out on our march!—let us march to-night! let us march this very instant! And to-morrow you would reign at the Tuileries; to-morrow you would have reconquered your throne."
"Oh," exclaimed the queen, "even you have given way to despair,—you in whom I had founded all my hopes!"
"Yes, I despair, Madame; because all France thinks as Paris does; because your army, if it were victorious in Paris, would be swallowed up by Lyons, Rouen, Lille, Strasbourg, Nantes, and a hundred other devouring cities. Come, come, take courage, Madame; return your sword into its scabbard."
"Ah! was it for this," cried the queen, "that I have gathered around me so many brave men? Was it for this that. I have inspired them with so much courage?"
"If that is not your opinion, Madame, give your orders, and we will march upon Paris this very night. Say what is your pleasure."
There was so much devotion in this offer of the count, that it intimidated the queen more than a refusal would have done. She threw herself in despair on a sofa, where she struggled for a considerable time with her haughty soul.
At length, raising her head:—
"Count," said she, "do you desire me to remain inactive?"
r /> "I have the honor to advise your Majesty to remain so."
"It shall be so,—come back."
"Alas! Madame, have I offended you?" said the count, looking at the queen with a sorrowful expression but in which beamed indescribable love.
"No—your hand."
The count bowed gracefully, and gave his hand to the queen.
"I must scold you," said Marie Antoinette, endeavoring to smile.
"For what reason, Madame?"
"How! you have a brother in the army, and I have only been accidentally informed of it."
"I do not comprehend—"
"This evening, a young officer of the Hussars of
Bercheny—"
"Ah! my brother George!"
"Why have you never spoken to me of this young man? Why has he not a high rank in a regiment?"
"Because he is yet quite young and inexperienced; because he is not worthy of command as a chief officer; because, in fine, if your Majesty has condescended to look so low as upon me who am called Charny, to honor me with your friendship, it is not a reason that my relatives should be advanced, to the prejudice of a crowd of brave noblemen more deserving than my brothers."
"Have you then still another brother?"
"Yes, Madame; and one who is as ready to die for your Majesty as the two others."
"Does he not need anything?"
"Nothing, Madame. We have the happiness to have not only our lives, but also a fortune to lay at the feet of your Majesty."
While he was pronouncing these last words,—the queen being much moved by a trait of such delicate probity, and he himself palpitating with affection caused by the gracious kindness of her Majesty,—they were suddenly disturbed in their conversation by a groan from the adjoining room.
The queen rose from her seat, went to the door, and screamed aloud. She had just perceived a woman who was writhing on the carpet, and suffering the most horrible convulsions.
"Oh, the countess," said she in a whisper to Monsieur de Charny; "she has overheard our conversation."
"No, Madame," answered he, "otherwise she would have warned your Majesty that we could be overheard."
And he sprang towards Andrée and raised her in his arms.
The queen remained standing at two steps from her, cold, pale, and trembling with anxiety.
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Chapter XXIX
A Trio
ANDRÉE was gradually recovering her senses, without knowing from whom assistance came, but she seemed instinctively to understand that some one had come to her assistance.
She raised her head, and her hands grasped the unhoped-for succor that was offered her.
But her mind did not recover as soon as her body; it still remained vacillating, stupefied, somnolent, during a few minutes.
After having succeeded in recalling her to physical life, Monsieur de Charny attempted to restore her moral senses; but he was struggling against a terrible and concentrated unconsciousness.
Finally she fastened her open but haggard eyes upon him, and with her still remaining delirium, without recognizing the person who was supporting her, she gave a loud shriek, and abruptly pushed him from her.
During all this time the queen turned her eyes in another direction; she, a woman; she, whose mission it was to console, to strengthen this afflicted friend,—she abandoned her.
Charny raised Andrée in his powerful arms, notwithstanding the resistance she attempted to make, and turning round to the queen, who was still standing, pale and motionless:—
"Pardon me, Madame," said he; "something extraordinary must doubtless have happened. Madame de Charny is not subject to fainting, and this is the first time I have ever seen her in this state."
"She must then be suffering greatly," said the queen, who still reverted to the idea that Andrée had overheard their conversation.
"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. She needs the assistance of her attendants."
"Do so," said the queen, raising her hand to the bell.
But scarcely had Andrée heard the ringing of the bell, when she wrestled fearfully, and cried out in her delirium,—
"Oh, Gilbert, that Gilbert!"
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. Andrée had again closed her eyes, and seemed to suffer from a second attack.
Monsieur 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 this threat had surprised her in the midst of her convulsions, Andrée 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 Monsieur de Charny, whom she recognized, and greeted with caressing smiles.
Then, as if this involuntary manifestation of her thought had been unworthy of her Spartan soul, Andrée turned her eyes in another direction, and perceived the queen. She immediately made a profound inclination.
"Ah! good Heaven, what then is the matter with you, Madame?" said Monsieur 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 at Paris, that when men are trembling, it is by no means strange that women should faint. Have you then left Paris?—oh! you have done rightly."
"Good God! Countess," said Charny, in a doubting tone, "was it then on my account that you underwent all this suffering!"
Andrée again looked at her 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, Madame," said he, "I am quite certain that the 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, 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."
"This is true," murmured the queen, who perceived that Andrée did not wish to be compelled to speak out.
"But," rejoined Andrée, 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 easily be discerned to be mere affectation, and concealed feelings altogether human; "but even your Majesty's eyes are at this moment in tears."
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 Andrée, 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 Andrée, who was still no less cold and impenetrable.
"Yes; but it is not o
f her Majesty that we are speaking, 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?"
"Who, I?"
"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?" Andrée 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 be 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.
"A name?"
"Yes; when you were recovering your senses."
Andrée 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! did I pronounce the name of Gilbert?" exclaimed Andrée, in a tone so full of terror that the count was more affected by this cry than he had been by her fainting.
"Yes!" exclaimed he, "you pronounced that name."
"Ah, indeed!" said Andrée, "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 Andrée."
"But, Madame," said the count to Marie Antoinette, "perhaps it is mere chance, and this name may be unknown to the countess."