TWO DAYS AFTER, thanks to the strange ramifications Cagliostro possessed in all classes of society, and even in the royal service, he ascertained that Count Louis, son of the Marquis de Bouille, had come on the 15th or 16th of November, had been discovered by his cousin Lafayette on the 18th, and on the same day introduced himself to the king: that he had offered himself to the locksmith as an apprentice on the 22nd, had remained three days with him, and on the fourth day had gone to the Tuileries and been introduced to the king without any difficulty; that he had left the king two hours after Gamain, and having gone to the lodging of his friend, Achille du Chastillon, had immediately changed his dress, and on the same evening returned to Metz.
Ou the other hand, on the day after the nocturnal conference in the cemetery of Saint Jean between Beausire and Cagliostro, the former hurried out of breath to Bellevue, the house of the banker Zanoni. As he came from the gaming-table at seven in the morning, after losing his last sou, in spite of the certain martingale of Law, Beausire found the house empty, and that Oliva and Toussaint had disappeared.
He then remembered that Cagliostro had refused to leave with him, saying that he had something confidential to say to Oliva. This opened the door to suspicion. Cagliostro had carried Oliva off. Like a good dog, Beausire put his nose close on the track, and went to Bellevue, where he left his name, and was at once admitted to Baron Zanoni, or to Count Cagliostro, as the reader pleases to call him—if not the principal personage, at least the one on whom all the drama hinges.
Being introduced into the saloon with which we are already acquainted, from having seen Doctor Gilbert, Cagliostro and the Marquis de Favras there, Beausire when he saw the count hesitated. The count appeared such a great lord that he dared not even demand his mistress.
But as if he read the heart of hearts of the old soldier, Cagliostro said: “Beausire, I have observed that you have two real passions; gaming and Mademoiselle Oliva.”
“Ah! count, you know what I came for!”
“Yes, to ask Mademoiselle Oliva of me. She is in my house.”
“Yes, at my house in the Rue St. Claude, where she has her old rooms, and if you be prudent, and I am satisfied with you, and you bring me news which amuses me, some day, M. de Beausire, we will put twenty-five louis in your pocket to enable you to play the gentleman in the Palais Royal, and a good coat on your back to enable you to play the lover in the Rue St. Claude.”
Beausire had a great desire to talk loudly, and to demand Mademoiselle Oliva, but Cagliostro said two words about that unfortunate affair of the Portuguese embassy, which always hung over his head like the sword of Damocles, and Beausire said nothing.
Some doubt having been manifested by him as to whether Mademoiselle Oliva really was at the house in the Rue St. Claude, the count ordered his carriage, and returned with Beausire to the house on the Boulevard, where he introduced him into the sanctum sanctorum, and displacing a picture, showed him, by a skilfully contrived opening, Mademoiselle Oliva dressed like a queen and lolling in a chair, while she read one of the bad books which at the time were so common, and which', when she was fille de chambre of Madame de Taverney, she was so happy to get hold of. M. Toussaint, her son, was dressed like a prince, with white hat, role Henry IV., with plumes, and sky blue pantaloons, sustained by a tri-coloured sash, fringed with gold and magnificently embroidered.
Beausire felt his paternal and marital heart dilate. He promised all the count wished, and the count permitted him every day, as soon as he had brought him his news, and received his ten louis d'or, to enjoy the luxury of love in Oliva's arms.
All progressed according to the count's wishes, and we may say almost according to Beausire's, when towards the end of the month of December, at a strange hour for that season, that is to say, six o'clock in the morning, Doctor Gilbert, who had already been three hours at work, heard three knocks on his door, and from their peculiar intonation recognized a brother mason. He opened—Count Cagliostro stood on the other side of the door. Gilbert never met this mysterious man without something of terror. “Ah!” said he to the count, “is it you?” Then, making an effort over himself, and giving him his hand, he said: “You are welcome whenever you come, or for whatever purpose.”
“What brings me, dear Gilbert, is to enable you to be present at a philanthropical experiment, of which I have already spoken to you.”
Gilbert sought to recollect, but in vain, and finally said, “I do not remember.”
“Come though, dear Gilbert; I do not disturb you for nothing. Besides, you will meet many acquaintances of yours. Go with me.”
“Dear count, I will go anywhere that you please to take me. The place and persons are but secondary considerations.”
“Then come, for we have no time to lose.”
Gilbert was dressed, and had only to lay aside his pen, and put on his hat and cloak. A carriage was waiting. They entered it.
The carriage was driven rapidly away, there being not even an order given. The driver evidently knew whither he was going.
When he got out of the carriage, Gilbert saw that he was in the court of a prison, and at once recognised the Bicetre.
It was nearly a quarter after six; the worst hour of the twenty-four, for even the most vigorous constitutions then suffer from cold.
A small misty rain fell diagonal and stained the grey walls. In the middle of the court, five or six carpenters under the direction of a master workman, and a little man clad in black, who seemed to direct everybody, put up a machine of a strange and unknown form.
Gilbert shuddered; he had recognized Doctor Guillotin, whom he had met at Marat's. The machine was the one, a model of which he had seen in the cellar of the editor of l'Ami du Peuple.
The little man recognised Cagliostro and Gilbert.
“Good baron,” said he, “it is kind in you to come first and to bring the doctor. You remember I invited you at Marat's to come and see the experiment. I forgot, however, to ask you for your address. You will see something curious—the most philanthropic machine ever invented.”
All at once, turning to the machine, which to him was a perfect hobby, he said: “Eh! Guidon, what are you about? You are putting it hind part before.”
Rushing up the ladder, which two men had placed at one of the sides, he stood for a moment on the platform, when in a few moments he gave directions for the correction of an error which the workmen had committed, they being as yet ignorant of the secrets of this novel machine.
“There!” said Doctor Guillotin, seeing with satisfaction that, under his direction, all went right, “things go straight. It is now only necessary to put the knife in the groove.” “Guidon, Guidon,” said he, with an expression of terror, “why is not the groove faced with copper?”
“Doctor, I thought well-seasoned oak quite as good as copper,” said the carpenter.
“Ah, that is it!” said the doctor. “Petty economy!—economy! when the progress and good of humanity is concerned! Guidon, if the experiment fails to-day, I hold you responsible. Gentlemen,” said he to Cagliostro and Gilbert, “I call you to witness, that I wished the grooves for the knife to be faced with copper; therefore, if it stick or not slide easily, it is not my fault, and I wash my hands of it.”
Notwithstanding this difficulty, however, the machine was erected, and certainly had a kind of homicidal air which delighted its inventor, but which horrified Doctor Gilbert. This is the form of the machine: A platform reached by a simple staircase. It was fifteen feet square, and on two of the parallel sides of this platform, ten or twelve feet high, arose two uprights. In them was the famous groove, the copper facing of which M. Guidon had sought to save, and which had evoked the lamentations of the philanthropic Guillotin. Down these grooves slid, by means of a spring, which, when opened, suffered it to fall freely from its own weight, and much more fastened to it, a kind of crescent-shaped knife. A little opening was made between two beams, through which a man's head could be passed, and which was contrived to seize the head as if it were a collar. A frame-work, long as the stature of an ordinary man, moved up and down on a hinge, and when let fall, was exactly level with the opening.
All this, it will be seen, was very ingenious.
While the carpenters, Master Guidon, and the doctor were finishing their work, while Cagliostro and Gilbert were discussing the novelty of the instrument, the invention of which by Doctor Guillotin the count disputed, by showing much that was analogous in the Italian mannaya, and the doloire of Toulouse, with which the Marshal Montmorenci was executed, new spectators began to come, called together, doubtless, by a desire to witness the experiment, and filled the court-yard.
As the rain continued to fall, not so intensely, perhaps, but more steadily, Doctor Guillotin, who doubtless feared lest “bad weather" should deprive him of some of his spectators, hurried to the most important group, which was composed of Gilbert, Cagliostro, Doctor Louis, and the architect Giraud, and like a manager aware of the impatience of the public, said: “Gentlemen, we await only one person—Doctor Cabanis; when he comes we will begin.”
He had scarcely finished speaking, when a carriage entered the yard, and a man of thirty-eight or forty years, with an open face and intelligent expression of features and eye, dismounted. It was Doctor Cabanis, the person they had waited for. He bowed affably to all, as a philosophic physician should do, gave Guillotin his hand, who from his platform exclaimed, “Welcome, doctor, we waited for no one but you.” He then joined the group in which Gilbert and Cagliostro were.
“Gentlemen,” said Guillotin, “all being here, we will begin.”
At a motion of his hand a door was opened, and two men, clad in a kind of gray uniform, were seen to leave it, bearing on their shoulders a sack, in which the outline of a human body was vaguely seen.
Behind the glass of the windows the pale faces of the criminals were seen, looking with an expression of terror, though uninvited, at the terrible spectacle, the object and reason of which they could not understand.
On the evening of the same day, that is to say, on the 24th of December, Christmas eve, there was a reception at Flora's Pavilion.
The queen did not wish to receive company herself, so the Princess de Lamballe received for her, and was doing the honours of the circle when the queen arrived.
In the course of the morning the young Baron Isidor de Charny had returned from Turin, and immediately after his arrival he had been admitted to the king, and then at once had an audience of the queen.
He had been received with great courtesy by both; but two reasons rendered this courtesy on the part of the queen remarkable.
In the first place, Isidor was the brother of Charny, and since Charny was absent, the queen experienced some pleasure in seeing his brother.
And then Isidor brought despatches from M. le Comte d'Artois and M. le Prince de Conde, which were quite in accordance with, her own wishes.
The princes recommended the project of M. de Favras to the queen, and begged her to profit by the devotion of this generous gentleman to fly and rejoin them at Turin.
He was further charged to express to M. de Favras all the sympathy which they felt for his project, as well as the wishes they entertained for its success.
The queen kept Isidor more than an hour with her, invited him to join the evening circle of Madame de Lamballe, and would not even then have allowed him to go, if he had not himself asked leave, in order to acquit himself of his commission to M. de Favras.
The marquis had been forewarned of everything direct from Turin, and knew on whose behalf Isidor came.
The message which the queen had entrusted to the young man completed the joy of the conspirator. Everything, in fact, seconded his hopes; the plot was getting on wonderfully.
One thing only made the marquis uneasy. This was the silence of the king and queen on his account. This silence the queen had attempted to break through the intervention of Isidor, and however vague might be the expressions which Isidor brought with him from the queen for M. and Madame de Favras, they were of great importance, since they came from royal lips.
At nine in the evening, the baron went to Madame de Lamballe's.
He had never been presented to that princess. She did not know him; but, forewarned by the queen in the course of the day, when his name was announced, the princess rose and welcomed him with a charming grace, and took him at once into her own little circle.
Neither the king nor the queen had yet arrived. Monsieur, who seemed sufficiently uneasy, was talking in a corner with two gentlemen of the most intimate of his acquaintance, M. de la Chatre and M. de Avary. Count Louis de Narbonne went from group to group with the ease of a man who feels himself to be one of the family.
“When the ushers had announced the king and queen, all conversation and bursts of laughter at once gave place to a respectful silence. Madame de Lamballe and Madame Elizabeth joined the queen.
Monsieur walked straight up to the king to pay his respects, and, bowing to his majesty, said: “Brother, cannot you manage to get up a private game of whist, composed of yourself, the queen, me, and some one of your intimate friends, so that, under the appearance of play, we may be able to enjoy some private conversation?”
“Willingly, brother,” replied the king; “go and arrange the matter with the queen.” Monsieur approached Marie Antoinette, to whom Charny was tendering his respects, and saying quite low, “Madame, I have seen M. de Favras, and I have a communication of the utmost importance to make to your majesty.”
“My dear sister,” said Monsieur, “the king wishes us to make up a party of four for whist; we challenge you, and beg you to choose your partner yourself.”
“Very well,” said the queen, who herself doubted that this game of whist was but a pretext, “my choice is made. M. le Baron do Charny, you shall join our game, and while we are playing you shall tell us the news you have brought with you from Turin.”
“Ah! you have just come from Turin, baron?” said Monsieur.
“Yes, monseigneur; and in returning from Turin I passed through the Place Royale, where I saw a man who is entirely devoted to the king, the queen, and to, your royal highness.”
Monsieur coloured, coughed, and passed on. He was a man of considerable circumspection.
He beckoned to M. de la Chatre, who approached him, and receiving his orders in a low voice, left at once. During this time the king addressed and received the ladies and gentlemen who still continued to visit the Tuileries.
The queen went and took him by the arm to lead him to the whist table. They played two or three hands, only speaking when necessary.
But after playing some time, and after observing that respect kept the crowd from the royal table, “Brother,” hazarded the queen to Monsieur, “the baron has told you that he has only just arrived from Turin?”
“Yes,” said Monsieur; “he said something about it.”
“He has told you, has he not, that M. le Comte d'Artois and M. le Prince de Conde advise us strongly to go and join them?”
“Brother,” whispered Madame Elizabeth, with the sweetness of an angel, “do listen, I beg.”
“And you, too, sister?” said the king.
“I more than anybody, my dear Louis; for I love you, and am more uneasy than any one else.”
“I was about to add,” hazarded Isidor, “that I passed through the Place Royale, and that I stopped nearly an hour at No. 21.”
“At No. 21?” said the king; “what is there there?”
“At No. 21,” replied Isidor, “there lives a gentleman entirely devoted to your majesty, ready, as we are, to die for you, but who, more active than all of us put together, has managed a project for your safety.”
“What is it, monsieur?” questioned the king, raising his head.
“If I could believe that I am displeasing the king by repeating to his majesty what I know of this matter, I would at once be silent.”
“No, no! monsieur!” said the queen quickly, “speak; sufficient people form projects against us; it is well that we should know those they make for our advantage. M. le Baron, tell us what they call this gentleman.”
“M. le Marque de Favras, madame.”
“Ah!” said the queen, “we know him; and you have faith in his devotion, M. le Baron?”
“Of his devotion? Yes, madame; I not only believe in it, but I am sure of it.”
“Take care, monsieur,” observed the king; “you promise much.”
“Heart judges heart, sire. I answer for the devotion of M. de Favras; as for the value of his project, and the chance of its succeeding, that is another thing. I am too young, and whilst he is working for the safety of the king and queen, I am too prudent, to dare to express my own opinions upon the matter.”
“And this project. What may it be?” said the queen.
“Madame, it is ready for execution; and if it pleases the king to say a word or make a sign this evening, to-morrow at the same hour he shall be at Peronne.”
“Sire,” remarked the queen, addressing her husband, “did you hear what the baron said?”
“Certainly,” said the king, “I heard.”
“Well, brother,” asked Monsieur, “is not what the baron proposes very tempting?”
The king turned very quickly toward Monsieur, and fixing his look firmly on his countenance, said: “And if I go, will you go with me?”
Monsieur changed colour; his lips trembled, agitated by an emotion which he could not master.
“Yes! you, my brother,” said Louis XVI, “you who wish me to quit Paris, you, I ask, if I go, will you go with me?”
“But,” lisped Monsieur, “I am not prepared, not having been forewarned; nothing is consequently ready.”
“What! you were never forewarned?” said the king; “and it is you who have furnished the money necessary to M. de Favras! None of your preparations are made, and yet you have known, from hour to hour, how the conspiracy got on!”
“The conspiracy!” repeated Monsieur, looking very pale.
“Without doubt, the conspiracy; for it is a conspiracy, a conspiracy so real, that if it is discovered, M. de Favras will be imprisoned, conducted to the Chatelet, and condemned to death!—at least, unless, by means of money and promises, you manage to save him, as we contrived to save M. de Bezenval.”
“But if the king saved Bezenval, surely he will also rescue M. de Favras.”
“No! because what I have done for one I may not be able to do for another. M. de Bezenval was my man, just as M. de Favras is yours. Let each one save his own, and then we shall each do our duty.”
And as he uttered these words, the king rose.
The queen seized the skirt of his coat.
“Sire,” said she, “whether you acceptor refuse, you must send an answer to M. de Favras.”
“Yes; what reply shall the Baron de Charny make in the name of the king?”
“He will answer,” said Louis XVI., as he loosened his dress from the hands of the queen—” he will answer that the king cannot permit himself to be carried off.”
“What he wished to say,” continued Monsieur, “is, that if the Marquis de Favras carries the king off without any permission on his part, he will be heartily welcome, provided always the affair succeeds; because if it does not succeed he will seem a fool, and in politics fools deserve double punishment.”
“M. le Baron,” said the queen, “run to M. de Favras this very evening, without losing an instant, and tell him the very words of the king: 'the king cannot consent that they carry him off.' It is for them to understand them, or for you to explain them. Go!”
The baron, who rightly regarded the answer of the king and the recommendation of the queen as a double acquiescence, seized his hat, and jumping into a carriage, ordered the driver to go to Place Royale, No. 21.
When the king arose from the whist table, he went towards a group of young men, whose joyous laughter had excited his attention before he entered the saloon. They were silent at his approach.
“Ah, gentlemen,” said he, “is the king so unfortunate as to bring sadness with him wherever he goes?”
“Sire!” murmured the young men.
“You were very lively, and laughing gaily, when the queen and I entered just now.”
Then, shaking his head, “Unhappy are the kings,” said he, “before whom others will not laugh.”
“Sire!” said M. de Lameth, “the respect—”
“My dear Charles,” said the king, “when you leave your prison, on Sundays and Thursdays, and I make you come for amusement to Versailles, does my being there ever prevent you from laughing? I have just now said, 'Unhappy are the kings before whom they all dare not laugh!' I now say, 'Happy indeed are the kings before whom all do laugh!'”
“Sire,” said M. le Castries, “perhaps the subject which excites our laughter might not seem in any way comical to you.”
“Of what are you talking then, gentlemen?”
“Sire, it was apropos to the National Assembly.”
“Oh! Ah! gentlemen, there were good reasons to become grave, then, on seeing me. I really cannot allow any one in my house to laugh at the National Assembly. It is true,” added the king, though he did not mean what he said, “I am not at home, but at the place of the Princess de Lamballe, so that whether you laugh any more or not at the Assembly, there can possibly be no harm in your telling me what it really was that made you laugh so loudly.”
“Does the king know what they have been discussing at the Assembly throughout the day's sitting?”
“Yes! and I have been very much interested. Has there not been a discussion about a new machine for executing criminals, proposed by M. Guillotin and offered to the nation?”
“Oh! oh! M. Suleau, and you jest with M. Guillotin—with a philosopher, a philanthropist! It's all very well, but you forget I am a philanthropist myself.”
''But, sire, there are two sorts of philanthropists. There is, for example, a philanthropist at the head of the French nation—a philanthropist who has abolished the question—him we respect, him we venerate; we do more—we love him, sire.”
All the young men bowed at once.
“But,” continued Suleau, “there are others, who, being already physicians—who, having in their hands a thousand means, both good, bad, and indifferent, to put the sick out of this world easily—endeavour to discover a means equally as satisfactory to them to carry off those in good health too—and, by my word! I beg your majesty will abandon them to me.”
“And what will you do with them, M. Suleau? Not behead them without pain?“ asked the king, alluding to the declaration of M. Guillotin; “or shall they take their departure feeling an agreeable freshness about their necks, eh?”
“Sire, it is just what I wish them, but it is not what I will promise them,” replied Suleau.
“What!” said the king, “is it that you wish them?”
“Yes, sire; I like the people who invent this kind of machine to try them. I do not complain much of Master Aubriot trying the walls of the Bastille, nor Sir Enguerrand de Marigny trying the gibbet at Montfaucon. Unhappily, I have not the honour of being king—unhappily, I have not the honour of being a judge; it is probable, then, I shall be obliged to keep myself opposed to this very respectable doctor, and what I have promised him, I have already commenced to carry out.”
“And what have you promised him?” asked the king.
“It has come into my head, sire, that this great benefactor of humanity ought to be one of the first to experience its advantages. So, to-morrow morning, in the 'Actes des Apotres,' which we shall print in the course of the night, the baptism shall take place. It is only that the daughter of M. de Guillotin, recognised this very day in the National Assembly by her father, should be known by his name, and called Mademoiselle Guillotine.”
“I believe an experiment has already been made, this very morning, in fact; were any of you there? The experiment was at Bicetre.”
“No! sire! no, no, no!” said a dozen of them, all at once.
“I was there,” said a grave voice.
The king turned and recognised Gilbert, who had entered during the discussion, and who was the only one who could answer the king.
“Ah! you were there, doctor, were you?” said the king, turning towards him.
“And how do you think it succeeded?” asked his majesty.
“Perfectly on the two first, sire; but although the vertebrae of the third were cut, they were obliged to finish the cutting off of the head with a knife.”
The young men listened with open mouths and open eyes.
“How, sire,” said Charles Lameth, speaking evidently for the rest as well as for himself, “have they executed three men this morning?”
“Yes, gentlemen,” said the king, “only the three men were three dead bodies furnished by the Hotel-Dieu. And your opinion, Gilbert?”
“Sire, it is evidently an improvement upon all machines invented for the purpose of depriving our fellow creatures of life; but the accident which happened to the third body proves that this machine requires perfecting.”
“And how does it act?” asked the king, in whom the genius of mechanism began to arise.
Gilbert then attempted to give an explanation; but as the king could not catch an exact idea of the instrument from the description of the doctor, he said:
“Come, come, doctor, here is a table, pen, ink, and paper. You draw, I think?”
“Well, then, you shall make me a sketch; I shall understand it better.”
And as the young men, restrained by respect, did not like to seek to mate the king.
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said Louis XVI., “questions like this interest the whole of humanity.”
“And who knows,” said Suleau, half-aloud, “but one of us is destined to have the honour of marrying Mademoiselle Guillotine? Come, gentlemen, let us be made acquainted with our bride.”
And all of them, following Gilbert and the king, collected round the table, at which Gilbert seated himself, in order to more conveniently make his sketch, at the invitation of the king.
Gilbert commenced a sketch of the machine, while Louis XVI. traced each line with great attention.
Nothing was wanting, neither the platform nor the steps which conducted to it, nor the little window, nor anything else.
He had nearly finished the last details, when the king interrupted him.
“Parbleu!” said he, “there is nothing astonishing in its failure, especially at the third experiment.”
“How so, sire?” asked Gilbert.
“That has the form of a hatchet,” said Louis XVI. “It is not necessary to know much of mechanics to be able to tell that the shape of anything intended to cut when falling from a height ought to approach to that of a crescent.”
“What form would your majesty then give the knife?”
“A very simple one, that of a triangle.”
Gilbert tried to alter the design.
“No! no! not so,” said the king, “just lend me your pencil.”
“Here is the pencil, sire,” said Gilbert.
“Wait, wait,” said Louis XVI., carried away by his love for mechanics; “look—thus and thus—and thus—and I will undertake that you shall cut off some five-and-twenty heads, one after another, without the edge twisting at all.”
He had scarcely said these words, when a piercing cry, one of terror, as much as grief, was uttered just behind him.
He turned quickly, and saw the queen fall fainting into Gilbert's arms.
Urged, like the rest, by curiosity, she had approached the table, and leaning on the chair of the king, she had, looking over his shoulder at the very time he was engaged in correcting its details, recognised the machine that Cagliostro had made her look at twenty years before in the Chateau de Taverney Maison-Rouge.
At this sight she had only strength to utter the cry, and life seemingly had abandoned her, as if the fatal machine itself had operated on her; she had, in fact, fallen completely insensible into Gilbert's arms.
One can easily understand that after such a circumstance the evening was soon brought to a close.
Her majesty had at once been taken to the bedroom of the princess and laid upon a bed; and the princess, who with that peculiar intuition belonging to females guessed there was some mystery, watched with the king, until, thanks to the skill of Doctor Gilbert, the queen recovered her senses.
But it was evident that life was going to awake before reason; for some moments she looked about the room with that vague and indifferent look with which people regard everything, when they do not know where they are and what has happened. But soon a slight trembling ran through her body; she uttered a short shrill cry, and covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out some painful sight.
She was coming round—the crisis was passed! Gilbert was about to depart, when the queen, as if she had already understood he was going, stretched out her hand, and in a nervous voice, accompanied by a gesture as well, “Remain!” said she.
Gilbert stopped, quite astonished, for he was not unaware of how little sympathetic feeling the queen entertained for him.
“I am at the orders of the queen,” said he, “but I believe it will be the best to calm the excited feelings of the people in the saloons, and if your majesty will permit—”
“Therese,'' said the queen, addressing herself to the Princess de Lamballe; “go and announce to the king that I am rapidly recovering, and say that I wish to talk to Doctor Gilbert,”
The princess obeyed, with that sweet passiveness which was the characteristic of her temper, and even of her physiognomy.
The queen followed her with her eyes, and waited anxiously while she finished her commission. Then, free to talk with Doctor Gilbert, she turned round, and fixing her eyes upon him, said:
“Doctor, what do you think caused this to happen?”
“Madame,” said Gilbert, “I am a man of science; have the goodness to put the question in a more precise form.”
“I ask you, sir,” said the queen, “whether the fainting fit I have experienced has been caused by one of those nervous crises to which we poor women, through feebleness of our constitutions, are particularly liable, or if you suspect this accident has been brought on by any cause more serious?”
“I shall answer to your majesty that the daughter of Maria Theresa, the woman whom I saw so calm and courageous during the night of the 5th and 6th of October, is not an ordinary woman, and consequently is not capable of being moved by what ordinarily affects a woman.”
“You are right, doctor. Do you believe in presentiments?”
“Science herself sets aside all those phenomena which have a tendency to change the common course of things.”
“I ought to have said, Do you believe in predictions?”
“I believe that Providence has concealed the future from us with an impenetrable veil. Some, by severely studying the past, are able to lift the corner and catch some idea of the future; but these instances are very rare, and since religion has abolished fatality, since philosophy has put limits to faith, prophets have lost fully three quarters of their mystical powers. And yet—-” added Gilbert.
“And yet—?” replied the queen, looking thoughtful.
“And yet, madame,” continued he, as if he were making an effort over himself, to avoid coming in contact with questions which he considered to lie within the region of doubt,—” and yet, madame, there is a man—”
“A man?” said the queen, who followed Gilbert's words with great interest.
“He is a man who has often confounded all my arguments by most unaccountable deeds.”
“I dare not name him before your majesty.”
“This man is your master, is he not, Gilbert? the man all-powerful! the immortal, divine Cagliostro!”
“Madame, my only true master is Nature; Cagliostro is only my saviour. Pierced by a ball which had traversed the whole length of my breast, and which, after having studied medicine twenty years, I considered incurable, thanks to a salve of whose composition I am still ignorant, he cured me in the course of a few days—hence my gratitude; I had almost said my admiration.”
“And this man has predicted to you things that have come to pass?”
“Strange, incredible things! Madame, this man walks so firmly through the present, that it is easy to believe he has some knowledge of the future.”
“How far, if this man had predicted a certain thing to you, would you believe in its coming to pass?”
“I should act at least as if I expected it to be realized.”
“If he had foretold that you would meet a terrible, premature, infamous death, would you prepare for such a death?”
Gilbert looked profoundly at the queen, and said, “After having tried all possible means to escape from such a death, I should certainly prepare myself for it.”
“To escape from it? No, doctor, no! I see well I am condemned,” said the queen. “This revolution is a whirlpool which will swallow up the throne; this people is a lion which will devour me.”
“Ah, madame,” said Gilbert, “it only depends upon you, and you may see this very lion, so terrible now, come and lie at your feet like a lamb. “Did you not see this lion at Versailles?—have you not seen it at the Tuileries? It is like an ocean, madame, which beats incessantly—until it has destroyed it—against any rock which opposes itself to its strength; but it caresses the barque which trusts to it.”
“Doctor, all connection between this people and me has been broken for a long time now; they hate me, I despise them.”
“Because you do not really understand each other. Cease to be their queen—be their mother. Forget that you are the daughter of Maria Theresa—our ancient foe—the sister of Joseph II.—our false friend. Be French, and you shall hear the voice of this people rise only to bless you, and you shall see the arms of this great people stretched out but to bless you.”
Marie Antoinette shrugged up her shoulders.
“Yes, I know that—yesterday the people blessed; to-day they caress, and to-morrow they will strangle those they have blessed and caressed.”
“Ah! madame,” cried Gilbert, “be not deceived! It is not the people that would rebel against the king and queen—it is they who have rebelled against the people, who continue to address them in a language full of the privileges of royalty, when they ought to speak the words of fraternity and love! Yes! Italy, Poland, Ireland, Spain, will look at this France, born yesterday, and cry, stretching forth their bauds—chained! chained!—'France, France! we are free in thee!' Madame, madame! there is yet time; take the young one, born yesterday, take it into your lap and be its mother!”
“Doctor,” said the queen, “you forget that I have other children—children of my womb—and that I should disinherit them by adopting this little strange child.”
“If it be so, madame,” said Gilbert, in a tone of great sadness, “wrap these children up in the royal mantle, in the mantle of war, of Maria Theresa, and carry them away from France, for you spoke truly when you said the people would devour you; but there is no time to lose—you must be quick, madame, very quick!”
“And you will not oppose this departure?”
“Far from it,” answered Gilbert; “now I know your intentions, I will assist you.”
“That is well,” said the queen, “for there is a gentleman quite ready to devote himself to this object.”
“Ah! madame,” said Gilbert, with alarm, “you do not mean M. de Favras?”
“Who told you his name? who revealed his project to you?''
“Oh! madame, take care! a fatal prediction follows him too.”
“And—according to this prophet, what fate awaits the marquis?”
“A terrible death! premature! infamous! such a one as you spoke of just now.”
“Then you indeed spoke truth; there is no time to lose in order to prevent the fulfilment of the prophecies.”
“You have sent to announce to M. de Favras that you accept his assistance?”
“Some one is with him now. I am expecting his answer every moment.”
At this moment, as Gilbert, frightened at the circumstances in which he found himself, passed his hand over his face to shut out the light, Madame de Lamballe entered, and whispered one or two words in the ear of the queen.
“Let him come in,” said the queen, “let him come in; the doctor knows all. Doctor,” continued she, “M. Isidor de Charny brings me the answer of M. le Marquis de Favras. To-morrow the queen will have left Paris; after to-morrow, the queen will be out of France. Come, baron, come. Great God! what's the matter, and why are you so pale?”
“Madame la Princesse de Lamballe has told me that I may speak before Doctor Gilbert,” observed Isidor.
“Yes, yes; speak! You have seen the Marquis do Favras? The marquis is ready—we accept his offer—we leave Paris—we leave France?”
“The Marquis de Favras was arrested an hour ago in the Rue Beaurepaire and carried to the Chatelet,” said Isidor.
The eyes of the queen crossed those of Gilbert; they were luminous, desperate, full of anger. But all the strength of Marie Antoinette seemed to be exhausted by this flash.
Gilbert approached her, and in a tone expressive of great pity said: “Madame, if I can be of any use to you, dispose of me as you like; my intelligence, my devotion, my life, I lay at once at your feet.”
The queen raised her eyes slowly towards the doctor.
Then, in a voice gentle and resigned: “M. Gilbert,” said she, “you, who are a learned man, and have assisted at the experiment of this morning, can you tell me whether the death caused by this frightful machine is as easy as the inventor declares it to be?”
Gilbert heaved a sigh, and covered his eyes with his hands.
At this moment Monsieur, who knew all he wished to know, for the news of M. de Favras' arrest spread like wild-fire through the palace, at this moment Monsieur ordered his carriage in a loud voice, and took his departure without taking leave of the king.
Louis XVI. stopped up the passage before him.
“Brother, I suppose you are not,” said he, “in such a hurry to enter the Luxembourg, as not to be able to give me some counsel. What ought I to do, in your opinion?”
“You would ask what, if I were in your place, I should do?”
“I should abandon M. de Favras, and swear fidelity to the constitution.”
“What? would you recommend me to swear fidelity to a constitution which is not as yet made?”
“So much the greater reason,” said Monsieur, with a cunning look, “so much the greater reason, my dear brother, you should do so, for then there is no occasion to keep the oath.”
The king stood thoughtfully for a moment.
“Let it be so,” said he; “that will not prevent my writing to M. de Bouille that our project still holds, but is adjourned, put off. This delay will allow the Count de Charny to collect together all who should follow us.”
