WHEN THE QUEEN revived, she found herself in her bed-chamber in the palace of the Tuileries. Madame de Misere, and Madame Campan, her two ladies in waiting, were at her side. Her first expressed wish was to see the dauphin.
He was in his chamber and in bed, watched by Madame de Tourzel, his governess.
This assurance did not suffice the queen; she arose immediately, and all in disorder as she was, ran to the apartment of her son, where she remained a long time with her eyes fixed upon him, leaning on the post of the bedstead, and looking at him through her tears.
The terrible words that that mysterious being had said to her, in his low but sweet voice, murmured incessantly through her ear. “I have need of thee to push monarchy down into its last abyss, and so I save thee.”
Was it then true? Was it really she who was pushing monarchy towards the abyss?
It seemed that it must be so, since her enemies watched over her class, leaving her to work out its destruction, which she was accomplishing better than themselves.
At last she shook her head and returned to her own apartments.
Barnave had been twice to bring her news.
Since their arrival at the barrier, Charny and his companions had formed a plan. This plan had for its object the taking away, in relieving themselves from them, a part of the dangers, too, that threatened the king and queen. It was arranged, consequently, that as soon as the carriage, stopped, one should cast himself to the right, the other to the left, and the one seated in the middle should go forward; dividing in this fashion the crowd of assassins, and making them follow in three opposite directions; perhaps, they thought, there might thus be a way left clear for the king and queen to reach their apartments.
We have said that the carriage stopped near the great terrace of the castle. The haste of the murderers was so great, that in throwing themselves before the carriage two of them were dreadfully wounded. For an instant longer the two grenadiers stationed on the seat were able to guard the three young officers, but being themselves soon torn to the ground, they left them to their own resources.
This was the moment that they selected. All three darted off, but not so rapidly, nevertheless, as not to overturn five or six men who had mounted on the wheels and steps in order to tear them down from their seats. Then, as they had imagined, the anger of the people was divided in three directions.
When scarcely on the ground, M. de Maiden found himself under the axes of two sappers. The two axes were raised, and only sought for means to strike him. He made a violent and rapid movement, by which he escaped from the two men who held him by the collar, and in a second be stood alone.
Then, crossing his arms, “Strike!” said he.
One of the axes remained raised. The courage of the victim paralysed the assassin. The other fell, thirsting for blood, but in falling it encountered a musket, which turned it aside, and the point only reached M. de Maiden's neck, making a slight wound.
Then the multitude opened, and he passed along with head hung down; but after a few paces he was received by a group of officers, who, wishing to save him, conducted him towards the National Guards, who had made the way safe for the royal family from the carriage to the chateau. At this moment General Lafayette perceived him, and pushing his horse towards him, he seized him by the collar and drew him towards his stirrups, so as in some measure to cover him with his popularity; but M. de Maiden recognised him, and cried:
“Leave me, sir; give all your attention to the royal family, and leave me to the mob.”
M. de Lafayette left him, perceiving a man who was seizing the queen, and rushed to her aid.
M. de Maiden had then been tossed about in every direction, attacked by some, defended by others, and at length had reached, covered with bruises, wounds, and blood, the gate of the chateau; there an officer, seeing him about to yield, seized him by the collar, and drawing him towards him, cried:
“It would be a pity that such a miserable being should die so pleasant a death; it will be necessary to invent some punishment for a brigand of this kind. Deliver him up to me, then; I'll take him in charge.”
And continuing to insult M. de Maiden, saying to him: “Come, rascal! come here! You'll have to deal with me now!” he had got him by this time drawn to a darker entrance into the palace, where he said to him: “Save yourself, sir, and pardon the stratagem I was obliged to use to get you out of the hands of these wretched fellows.”
M. de Maiden had glided up the staircases of the chateau, and had disappeared.
Something of the same kind had happened to M. de Valory; he had received two severe wounds upon his head. But at the very moment when twenty bayonets, twenty sabres, were raised to kill him, Petion had darted forward, and thrusting the assassins back with all his strength, “In the name of the National Assembly,” said he, “I declare you unworthy of the name of Frenchmen—if you do not disperse at once, and if you do not deliver up this man! I am Petion!”
And Petion, who, under a rude exterior, concealed great honesty of purpose, a courageous and loyal heart, presented, as he said these words, such a glorious appearance in the eyes of the murderers, that they had drawn back and abandoned M. de Valory. He sustained him, for, stunned by the blows he had received, M. de Valory could hardly support himself; conducted him to the National Guards, and placed him under the care of the aide-de-camp, Mathieu Dumas, who answered for his safety, and assisted him to the chateau.
At this moment Petion heard the voice of Barnave. Barnave was calling him, to his assistance, finding he could not protect Charny. The count, seized by twenty men, cast down, dragged in the dust, had got up again, snatched a baronet from a gun, and assailed the crowd around him. But he would have fallen in this unequal contest if Barnave and then Petion had not run to his assistance.
Half-an-hour had scarcely elapsed since the queen had been put in possession of these details, when the valet de chambre announced M. le Comte de Charny, and the, latter appeared in the entrance of the doorway, lit up by the reflection of the golden rays of the setting sun.
He, like the queen, had employed the time which had elapsed since his entrance into the chateau in removing the traces of his long journey, and the terrible conflict in which he had been engaged. He had put on his old uniform—that of a captain of a frigate.
Never had he been so elegant, calm and handsome, and the queen could scarcely believe that this was the same man who but one short hour before had barely escaped being cut to pieces by the people.
“Oh, monsieur!” cried the queen, “it is necessary to tell you how uneasy I hare been about you, and how I have sent in every direction to obtain some news of you.”
“Yes, madame,” said Charny, bowing, “but believe that I did not retire before being assured, by some of your ladies, that you yourself were safe and well.”
“They say you owe your life to M. Petion and M. Barnave, and do I owe to the last this new obligation?”
“It is true, madame, and I owe double thanks to M. Barnave; for not wishing to leave me when I had reached my chamber, he has had the goodness to inform me that you were anxious about me on the way hither.”
“About you, count? and in what way?”
“But in exposing to the king the inquietudes you chose to think your ancient friend would experience at my absence—I am far from believing, like you, madame, in the earnestness of these inquietudes—but yet—''
he stopped, for it seemed to him that the queen, already very pale, had become paler still.
“But—yet—” repeated the queen.
“Yet,” continued Charny, “without accepting, in every sense, the permission which your majesty had the intention to offer to me, I believed that, assured as I am of the safety of the king and yourself, madame, and that of the august children, it is right I should bear the news of my safety to Mai lame la Comtesse de Charny in person.”
The queen placed her left hand on her heart, as if she wished to assure herself that her heart had not ceased to beat, and in a voice nearly choked by the dryness of her throat, said:
“But it is just, monsieur, that I am only surprised that you have waited so long before fulfilling this duty.”
“The queen forgets that I pledged my word not to see the countess without her permission.”
“And you have come to ask for this permission?”
“Yes, madame,” said Charny, “and beg your majesty to give it me.”
“Without which, in the anxiety you are in to see Madame de Charny, you will even go, will you not?'”
“I believe the queen is unjust to me,” said Charny. “At the time I left Paris I thought I was leaving it for a long time, if not for ever. During the journey, I did all that it was in my power to do for the success of the journey. It is not my fault, your majesty must remember, if I have not, like my brother, left my life at Varennes, been cut to pieces on the road, or in the gardens of the Tuileries. If I had had the joy of conducting your majesty beyond the frontier, or the honour of dying for you, I should have exiled myself, or have died, without seeing the countess. But I repeat to your majesty, on my return to Paris, I cannot put on the woman who bears my name—and you know how she bears it, madame—the mark of indifference implied in not giving her some intelligence of myself; above all, my brother is no longer there to take my place. For the rest, M. Barnave has deceived himself, or it was your majesty's opinion the day before yesterday.”
“You love this woman, then, sir,” said the queen, “about whom you make such a complaint so coolly?”
“Madame,” said Charny, “it will soon be six years since you yourself—at a moment when I did not dream of such a thing, because for me there existed but one woman on earth, and this woman God had placed in so high a position that I could not obtain her—it is six years since you gave me in marriage Mademoiselle de Taverney, since you made her my wife. During these six years my hand has not twice touched hers; without necessity, I have not addressed her ten times—and ten times we have not certainly interchanged a look. My life has been occupied, filled—filled with another love, occupied with a thousand cares, a thousand labours. I have lived at the court, traversed the world—blindfold on my part—with the thread that the king has been willing to confide to me, and I have neither counted the days, months, nor years; the time has passed so much the more rapidly, owing to my being so much occupied with all these affections, cares and intrigues I have just mentioned. But it has not been thus with the Countess de Charny, madame, since, having had, without doubt, the misfortune of displeasing you, she has lived alone, isolated, lost in her pavilion of the Rue Coq Heron. This solitude, this isolation, this abandonment, she has accepted without complaint, because, with heart free from love, she feels not the want of the same affections as other women do; but what she will not accept, perhaps, without complaint, will be my forgetfulness of duties and attentions so very simple.”
“Eh! mon Dieu! monsieur,” cried the queen, “you are pretty well preoccupied with what Madame de Charny will think or not think of you, according as she sees you or not. Before taking all this trouble, it would be as well, perhaps, to ascertain whether she thought of you at the time of your departure, or whether she dreams of you in the hour of your return.”
“I do not know whether the countess dreams of the hour of my return or not; but I am sure she thought anxiously of the hour of my departure.”
“You saw her then before you left?”
“I had the honour to tell your majesty that I have never seen the Countess de Charny since I pledged my word to the queen not to see her.”
“Then she has written to you?”
“Let us see?” cried Marie Antoinette, “she has written to you; say so, if she has?”
“She sent a letter for me to my brother Isidor.”
“And you have read this letter? What did she say, what could she write? Ah! she has spoken against me? Well, in this letter she says? Speak, then! you see I am impatient!”
“I cannot repeat to your majesty what she has said to me in this letter. I have not read it.”
“You have torn it up?” cried the queen joyously. “You threw it into the fire without reading it? Charny, Charny! if you have done so, you are the most loyal of men, and I am wrong, and have lost nothing!”
And the queen stretched out both her arms towards Charny, to call him to her. But Charny remained in his place.
“I have not torn it, I have not thrown it in the fire.”
“But then,” said the queen, falling again into her chair, “how is it that you have not read it?”
“The letter was not to have been given to me by my brother unless I was mortally wounded. Alas, it was not I who was about to die—it was he. When he was dead, they brought me his papers: amongst these papers was the letter of the countess, with this note. Take it, madame.”
And Charny presented to the queen the billet written by Isidor and annexed to the letter.
During this scene which we have just related, night had come on.
“Lights!” said she, “at once!”
The valet de chambre went out: there was a moment of silence, when nothing was heard but the loud breathing of the queen, and the beatings of her heart.
The valet de chambre entered with two candelabras, which he placed on the chimney-piece.
The queen would not even give him time to retire, and while he withdrew and shut the door, she approached the chimney-piece with the billet in her hand. But she looked at the paper twice without seeing anything.
“Oh!” murmured she, “it is not paper—it is flame.” And passing her hand over her eyes, as if to restore to them the faculty of seeing, which they seemed to have lost, “My God! my God!” said she, stamping her foot with impatience.
At length, by strength of will her hand ceased to tremble, and her eyes began to see. She read in a rough voice, which had nothing in common with her usual voice:
“'This letter is addressed not to me but to my brother, Comte Olivier de Charny; it is written by his wife, the Countess de Charny.'”
The queen stopped some seconds, and then continued:
“'If anything should happen to me, those into whose hands this paper may fall are begged to hand it to the Comte de Charny or send it to the countess.'”
The queen stopped a second time, shook her head and continued:
“'Add to this the following recommendation.' Ah! the recommendation,” murmured the queen; and she passed her hand again over her eyes.
“'If the enterprise in which the count is engaged should succeed without any accident, return the letter to the countess.'”
The voice of the queen panted more and more as she read.
She continued: “'If he should be grievously wounded, but without danger of death, beg him to accord the favour to his wife of answering it.' Oh! it is clear!” lisped the queen. Then, in a verse nearly unintelligible: “'Lastly, if he should be so severely wounded that death is certain, give him this letter, and, if he cannot read it himself, read it for him, that before he expires he may know the secret that it contains.' Well! do you deny it now?” cried Marie Antoinette, gazing at the count with a vexed look.
“Who? I?—the countess love me? What do you say, madame?” cried Charny, in his turn.
“Oh! unhappy one that I am, I speak the truth!”
“The countess love me? I? Impossible!”
“Bat if the countess has loved me for six years, the countess would have told me—would have let me perceive it.”
The moment had come for poor Marie Antoinette in which she suffered so much, that she felt the need of driving away, like a poniard, the sufferings from her heart.
“No!” cried she, “she could not let you perceive anything. She would not say anything to you; but if she had said nothing—let you perceive nothing—it was because she knew well she could not be as your wife.”
“The Countess de Charny could not be as my wife?” repeated Olivier.
“It was,” said the queen, intoxicated more and more with her own grief, “it was that she knew well that there was between you a secret that would destroy your love.”
“A secret that would destroy our love?”
“It was that she knew well, at the very moment she spoke, you would despise her.”
“In proportion as we despise the young girl who is a woman without spouse, a mother without husband.”
It was Charny's turn to become pale, and to seek a shelter behind the nearest chair.
“Oh, madame, madame!” said he, “you have said either too much or too little; and I have the right to ask an explanation of you.”
“An explanation, monsieur, of me—of the queen—an explanation?”
“Yes, madame,” said Charny, “and I demand it.”
At this moment the door opened.
“Who wants me?” asked the queen, impatiently.
“Your majesty,” replied the valet-de-chambre, “said that you always wished to see Dr. Gilbert.”
“Doctor Gilbert has the honour to present his humble respects to your majesty.”
“Doctor Gilbert?” said the queen; “are you sure it is Doctor Gilbert?''
“Oh! let him come in! let him come in, then!” said the queen.
“You wish for an explanation about Madame de Charny,” said she, raising her voice, “look! ask Dr. Gilbert for the explanation; he is the best person to give it to you.”
During this time Gilbert had entered. He had heard the words Marie Antoinette had just spoken, and he remained immovable at the threshold of the door.
As for the queen, throwing back to Charny the note of his brother, she made some steps towards her dressing-room; but more rapid than she was, the count barred the passage, and seized her by the robe.
“Pardon, madame,” said he, “but this explanation—it ought to take place before you.”
“Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette, with set teeth, “you forget, I believe, that I am the queen!”
“You are an ungrateful friend who calumniates her friend; you are a jealous woman who insults another woman, the wife of a man who, for the last three days, has riskedt his life twenty times for you; the wife of the Count de Charny. It is before you, who have calumniated her, who have insulted her, that justice shall be done her. Sit down, then, there, and listen!”
“Well! let it be so!” said the queen; “M. Gilbert,” continued she, making a bad attempt to smile, “you see what monsieur wishes?”
“M. Gilbert,” said Charny, in a tone full of courtesy and dignity, “you hear what the queen orders?”
Gilbert stepped forwards, and looked sadly at Marie Antoinette.
“Oh, madame, madame!” murmured he.
“M. le Comte, what I have to tell you is the shame of a man—the glory of a woman. An unhappy man, a peasant, loved Mademoiselle de Taverney. One day he found her—she had fainted—and without respect for her youth, her beauty, her innocence, the miserable being violated her; and it was then that the young girl was a woman without spouse—mother without husband. Mademoiselle de Taverney is an angel! Madame de Charny is a martyr!”
Charny wiped away the perspiration that trickled down his face.
“Thanks, M. Gilbert!” said he.
“Madame!” said he, “I was ignorant that Mademoiselle de Taverney had been so unfortunate—I was ignorant that Madame de Charny was so much to be respected—or I beg you will believe me, I should not have been six years without falling on my knees before her, and adoring her as she deserves to be adored!”
And bowing before the stupefied queen, he left, without the unhappy woman daring to make a movement to detain him. He heard only her cry of grief as she saw the door shut between him and her.
Then she understood that it was upon this door that the hand of the demon of jealousy would come and write, as upon that of hell, these terrible words:
