"To me, Madame?"
"Yes, it is now for you to speak. I understand you, do I not? To you it is quite another matter. You love France merely and simply for France herself."
"Madame," replied Gilbert, bowing, "I should fail in respect to your Majesty, should I fail in frankness."
"Oh," exclaimed the queen, "frightful, frightful period I when all people who pretend to be people of worth, isolate two things which have never been separated from each other; two principles which have always gone hand in hand,—France and her king. But have you not a tragedy of one of your poets, in which it is asked of a queen who has been abandoned by all, 'What now remains to you?' and to which she replies, 'Myself' Well, then, like Medea, I also will say, 'Myself!' and we shall see."
And she angrily left the room, leaving Gilbert in amazement.
She had just raised to his view, by the breath of her anger, one corner of the veil behind which she was combining the whole work of the counter-revolution.
"Come, come!" said Gilbert to himself, as he went into the king's room, "the queen is meditating some project."
"Well," said the queen to herself, as she was returning to her apartment, "decidedly, there is nothing to be made of this man. He has energy, but he has no devotedness."
Poor princes! with whom the word devotednesss" is synonymous with "servility."
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Chapter XVI
What the Queen wished
GILBERT returned to Monsieur Necker after his professional visit to the king, whom he had found as tranquil as the queen was agitated.
The king was composing speeches; he was examining accounts; he was meditating reforms in the laws.
This well-intentioned man, whose look was so kind, whose soul was so upright, whose heart erred only from prejudices inherent to the royal condition,—this man was absolutely bent on producing trivial reforms in exchange for the serious inroads made on his prerogative. He was obstinately bent on examining the distant horizon with his short-sighted eyes, when an abyss was yawning beneath his feet. This man inspired Gilbert with a feeling of profound pity. As to the queen, it was not thus; and in spite of his impassibility, Gilbert felt that she was one of those women whom it was necessary to love passionately, or to hate even to the death.
When she had returned to her own apartment, Marie Antoinette felt as if an immense burden were weighing on her heart.
And in fact, whether as a woman or as a queen, she felt that there was nothing stable around her,—nothing which could aid her in supporting even a portion of the burden which was crushing her.
On whichever side she turned her eyes, she saw only hesitation and doubt.
The courtiers, anxious with regard to their fortunes, and realizing what they could.
Relatives and friends thinking of emigrating.
The proudest woman of them all, Andrée, gradually becoming estranged from her in heart and mind.
The noblest and the most beloved of all the men who surrounded her, De Charny, wounded by her caprice and a prey to doubt.
The position of affairs caused her great anxiety,—she, who was instinct and sagacity personified.
How could this man, who was purity itself, how could this heart without alloy have changed so suddenly?
"No, he has not yet changed," said the queen to herself, sighing deeply, "but he is about to change."
He is about to change!—frightful conviction to the woman who loves passionately, insupportable to the woman who loves with pride.
Now, the queen loved De Charny both passionately and proudly.
The queen was suffering therefore from two wounds.
And yet, at that very time,—at the time when she felt the consciousness of having acted wrongly, of the evil she had committed,—she had still time to remedy it.
But the mind of that crowned woman was not a flexible mind. She could not descend to waver, even though she knew she was acting unjustly; had it been towards an indifferent person, she might or would have wished to show some greatness of soul, and then she might perhaps have asked for forgiveness.
But to the man whom she had honored with an affection at once so tender and so pure, to him whom she had deigned to admit to a participation in her most secret thoughts, the queen considered it would be degrading to make the slightest concession.
The misfortune of queens who condescend to love a subject, is to love him always as queens, but never as women.
Marie Antoinette estimated herself at so high a price that she thought there was nothing human which could compensate her love, not even blood, not even tears.
From the moment she felt that she was jealous of Andrée, she had begun to dwindle morally.
The consequence of this inferiority was her caprice.
The consequence of her caprice was anger.
The consequence of her anger was evil thoughts, which always bring in their train evil actions.
De Charny did not enter into any of the considerations which we have just stated; but he was a man, and he had comprehended that Marie Antoinette was jealous of his wife.
Of his wife, towards whom he had never shown any affection.
There is nothing which so much revolts an upright heart, one altogether incapable of treachery, as to see that it is believed capable of treachery.
There is nothing which so much conduces to direct the attention towards a person as the jealousy with which that person is honored.
Above all, if that jealousy be really unjust.
Then the person who is suspected reflects.
He alternately considers the jealous heart and the person who has caused that jealousy.
The greater the soul of the jealous person, the greater is the danger into which it throws itself.
In fact, how is it possible to suppose that a person of expansive heart, of superior intelligence, of legitimate pride, could become agitated for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value Why should a woman who is beautiful be jealous? Why should a woman of the highest rank, power, and talent be jealous? How could it be supposed that, possessing all these advantages, a woman could be jealous for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value?
The jealous person is like the lime-hound, pointing out merits to the indifferent, which, left to himself, he would never have discovered.
De Charny knew that Mademoiselle Andrée de Taverney had been long a friend of the queen,—that in former days she had been well treated, always preferred by her. How then was it that she no longer loved her? How was it that Marie Antoinette had all at once become jealous of her?
She must therefore have discerned some secret and mysterious beauty which Monsieur de Charny had not discovered, and undoubtedly because he had not sought for it.
She had therefore felt that De Charny might have perceived something in this woman, and that she, the queen, had lost in the comparison.
Or again, she might have believed that she perceived that De Charny loved her less, without there being any extraneous cause for this diminution of his passion.
There is nothing more fatal to the jealous than the knowledge which they thus give to others of the temperature of that heart which they wish to keep in the most fervid degree of heat.
How often does it happen that the loved object is informed by reproaches of a coldness which he had begun to experience without being able to account for it?
And when he discovers that; when he feels the truth of the reproach,—say, Madame, how many times have you found that he has allowed your chains to be again thrown round him, that his languishing flame has been rekindled?
O unskilfulness of lovers! It is, however, true that where much art or adroitness is exercised, there scarcely ever exists a great degree of love.
Marie Antoinette had therefore herself taught De Charny to believe, by her own anger and injustice, that his heart was less full of love than formerly.
And as soon as he knew this, he endeavored to account for it, and looking around h
im, very naturally discovered the cause of the queen's jealousy.
Andrée, the poor, abandoned Andrée, who had been a bride, but had never been a wife.
He pitied Andrée.
The scene of the return from Paris had unveiled the secret of this deep-rooted jealousy, so carefully concealed from all eyes.
The queen also clearly saw that all was discovered; and as she would not bend before De Charny, she employed another method, which in her opinion would lead to the same end.
She began to treat Andrée with great kindness.
She admitted her to all her excursions, to all her evening parties; she overwhelmed her with caresses; she made her the envy of all the other ladies of the court.
And Andrée allowed her to do all this, with some astonishment, but without feeling grateful for it. She had for years said to herself that she belonged to the queen, that the queen could do as she pleased with her, and therefore was it that she submitted to it.
But, on the other side, as it was necessary that the irritation of the woman should be vented on some one, the queen began to treat De Charny severely. She no longer spoke to him; she was absolutely harsh to him; she affected to pass evenings, days, weeks, without observing that he was present.
Only, when he was absent, the heart of the poor woman swelled with anxiety; her eyes wandered around eagerly, seeking him, from whom, the moment they perceived him, they were instantly averted.
Did she need the support of an arm, had she an order to give, had she a smile to throw away, it was bestowed on the first comer.
But this first comer never failed to be a handsome and distinguished man. The queen imagined she was curing her own wound by wounding De Charny.
The latter suffered, but was silent. Not an angry or impatient gesture escaped him. He was a man possessing great self-command; and although suffering frightful torture, he remained, to appearance, perfectly impassible.
Then was seen a singular spectacle,—a spectacle which women alone can furnish and fully comprehend.
Andrée felt all the sufferings of her husband; and as she loved him with that angelic love which never had conceived a hope, she pitied him, and allowed him to perceive she did so.
The result of this compassion was a sweet and tacit reconciliation. She endeavored to console De Charny without allowing him to perceive that she comprehended the need he had of consolation.
And all this was done with that delicacy which may be called essentially feminine, seeing that women alone are capable of it.
Marie Antoinette, who had sought to divide in order to reign, perceived that she had made a false move, and that she was only drawing together two souls by the very means which she had adopted to keep them separate.
Then the poor woman, during the silence and the solitude of night, endured the most frightful paroxysms of despair, such as would make us wonder that God had created beings of sufficient strength to support them.
And the queen would assuredly have succumbed to so many ills, but for the constant occupation given to her mind by political events. No one complains of the hardness of a bed when his limbs are exhausted by fatigue.
Such were the circumstances under which the queen had been living since the return of the king to Versailles, up to the day when she thought seriously of resuming the absolute exercise of her power.
For in her pride, she attributed to her decadence the species of depreciation to which for some time her feminine nature had been subjected.
To her energetic mind, to think was to act. She therefore commenced her combinations without losing a moment.
Alas! these combinations which she was then meditating were those which wrought out her perdition.
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Chapter XVII
The Flanders Regiment
UNFORTUNATELY, in the queen's opinion, all the facts which had occurred were merely accidents, which a firm and active hand might remedy. It was only necessary to concentrate her power.
The queen, seeing that the Parisians had so suddenly transformed themselves into soldiers, and appeared to wish for war, resolved on showing them what real war was actually.
"Up to this time, they have only had to deal with the Invalides, or with Swiss, but ill supported and wavering; we will show them what it is to have opposed to them two or three well-disciplined and royalist regiments.
"Perhaps there may be a regiment of this description which has already put to flight some of these rebellious rioters, and has shed blood in the convulsions of civil war. We will have the most celebrated of these regiments ordered here. The Parisians will then understand that their best policy will be to abstain from provocation."
This was after all the quarrel between the king and the National Assembly with regard to the veto. The king, during two months, had been struggling to recover some tattered shreds of sovereignty; he had, conjointly with the administration and Mirabeau, endeavored to neutralize the republican outburst which was endeavoring to efface royalty in France.
The queen had exhausted herself in this struggle, and was exhausted above all from having seen the king succumb.
The king in this contention had lost all his power and the remains of his popularity. The queen had gained an additional name, a nickname.
One of those words which were altogether foreign to the ears of the people, and from that reason more pleasing to the ears of the people,—a name which had not yet become an insult, but which was soon to become the most opprobrious of all; a witty saying, which afterwards was changed into a sanguinary rallying cry.
In short, she was called "Madame Veto."
This name was destined to be borne in Revolutionary songs beyond the banks of the Rhine, to terrify in Germany the subjects and the friends of those who, having sent to France a German queen, had some right to be astonished that she was insulted by the name of the "Autrichienne" (the Austrian woman).
This name was destined in Paris to accompany, in the insensate dancing-rings, on days of massacre, the last cries, the hideous agonies of the victims.
Marie Antoinette was thenceforth called "Madame Veto," until the day when she was to be called the "Widow Capet."
She had already changed her name three times. After having been called the "Autrichienne," she was next called "Madame Deficit."
After the contests in which the queen had endeavored to interest her friends by the imminence of their own danger, she had remarked that sixty thousand passports had been applied for at the Hôtel de Ville.
Sixty thousand of the principal families of Paris and of France had gone off to rejoin in foreign countries the friends and relatives of the queen,—a very striking example, and one which had forcibly struck the queen.
And therefore, from that moment she meditated a skilfully concerted flight,—a flight supported by armed force should it be necessary; a flight which had for its object safety, after which the faithful who remained in France might carry on the civil war; that is to say, chastise the Revolutionists.
The plan was not a bad one. It would assuredly have succeeded, but behind the queen the evil genius was also watching.
Strange destiny! that woman, who inspired so many with enthusiastic devotedness, yet could nowhere find discretion.
It was known at Paris that she wished to fly before she had even persuaded herself to adopt the measure.
Marie Antoinette did not perceive that from the moment her intention had become known, her plan had become impracticable.
However, a regiment, celebrated for its royalist sympathies, the Flanders regiment, arrived at Versailles by forced marches.
This regiment had been demanded by the municipal authorities of Versailles, who, tormented by the extraordinary guards, and by the strict watch it was necessary to keep around the palace, incessantly threatened by fresh demands for distributions of provisions, and successive disturbances, stood in need of some other military force than the National Guards and the Militia.
The palace had already quite
enough to do to defend itself.
The Flanders regiment arrived, as we have said; and that it should at once assume all the importance with which it was intended to be invested, it was necessary that a brilliant reception should be given to it, that it might at once attract the attention of the people.
The Count d'Estaing assembled all the officers of the National Guard and all those of the corps then present at Versailles and went out to meet it.
The regiment made a solemn entry into Versailles, with its park of artillery and its ammunition-wagons.
Around this group, which then became central, assembled a crowd of young gentlemen, who did not belong to any regular corps.
They adopted a sort of uniform by which they could recognize one another, and were joined by all the officers unattached, all the chevaliers of the Order of Saint Louis, whom danger or interest had brought to Versailles.
After this they made excursions to Paris, where were seen these new enemies, fresh, insolent, and puffed up with a secret which was sure to escape them as soon as an opportunity should present itself.
At that moment the king might have escaped. He would have been supported, protected on his journey, and Paris perhaps, still ignorant and ill prepared, would have allowed his departure.
But the evil genius of the Autrichiefine was still watching.
Liége revolted against the emperor; and the occupation which this revolt gave to Austria prevented her from thinking of the queen of France.
The latter, on her side, thought that in delicacy she must abstain from asking any aid at such a moment.
Then events, to which impulsion had been given, continued to rush on with lightning-like rapidity.
After the ovation in honor of the Flanders regiment, the body-guards decided on giving a dinner to the officers of that regiment.
This banquet, this festival, was fixed for the 1st of October. Every important personage in the town was invited to it.
And what, then, was the object of this banquet? To fraternize with the Flanders soldiers. And why should not soldiers fraternize with one another, since the districts and the provinces fraternize?