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,—
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?”
“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 of 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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“No,” said Andrée, “no; it is not unknown to me. It is that of a learned man, of a skilful physician who has just arrived from America, I believe, and who became intimate while there with Monsieur de Lafayette.”
“Well, then?” asked the count.
“Well, then!” repeated Andrée, with the greatest presence of mind; “I do not know him personally, but he is said to be a very honorable man.”
“Then why all this emotion, my dear countess?” observed the queen.
“This emotion! Have I then been excited?”
“Yes; one would have said that when you pronounced the name Gilbert, you felt as if undergoing torture.”
“It is possible; I will tell you how it happened. I met a person in the king's cabinet, who was dressed in black, a man of austere countenance, who spoke of gloomy and horrible subjects; he related with the most frightful reality the assassination of Monsieur de Launay and Monsieur de Flesselles. I became terrified on hearing this intelligence, and I fell into the swoon in which you saw me. It may be that I spoke at that time; perhaps I then pronounced the name of Monsieur Gilbert.”
“It is possible,” repeated Monsieur de Charny, who was evidently not disposed to push the questioning any further. “But now you feel recovered, do you not, Madame?”
“I will then beg of you to do one thing, Monsieur de Charny,” said the queen.
“I am at the disposal of your Majesty.”
“Go and find out Messieurs de Besenval, de Broglie, and de Lambesq. Tell them to quarter their troops where they now are. The king will decide to-morrow in council what must be done.”
The count bowed; but before leaving the room, he cast a last look at Andrée.
That look was full of affectionate anxiety.
“Countess,” said she, “will you not return to the king's apartment with me?”
“No, Madame, no,” replied Andrée, quickly.
“I ask your Majesty's permission to withdraw to my own apartment. The emotions I have undergone make me feel the want of rest.”
“Come now, Countess, speak frankly,” said the queen.
“Have you had any disagreement with his Majesty?”
“Oh, by no means, Madame! absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, tell me, if anything has happened! The king does not always spare my friends.”
“The king is, as usual, full of kindness to me, but—”
“But you have no great wish to see him. Is it not so? There must positively be something at the bottom of all this, Count,” said the queen, with affected gayety.
At this moment Andrée directed so expressive, so supplicating a look at the queen,—a look so full of revelations, that the latter understood it was time to put an end to this minor war.
“In fact, Countess,” said she, “we will leave Monsieur de Charny to execute the commission I intrusted to him, and you can retire or remain here, according to your choice.”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Andrée.
“Go, then, Monsieur de Charny,” continued Marie Antoinette, while she noticed the expression of gratitude which was visible on the features of Andrée.
Either the count did not perceive, or did not wish to perceive it. He took the hand of his wife, and complimented her on the return of her strength and color.
Then, making a most respectful bow to the queen, he left the room.
But while leaving the room he exchanged a last look with Marie Antoinette.
The queen's look meant to say, “Return quickly.” That of the count replied, “As soon as possible.”
As to Andrée, she followed with her eyes every one of her husband's movements, her bosom palpitating, and almost breathless.
She seemed to accelerate with her wishes the slow and noble step with which he approached the door. She, as it were, pushed him out of the room with the whole power of her will.
Therefore was it that, as soon as he had closed the door, as soon as he had disappeared, all the strength that Andrée had summoned to assist her in surmounting the difficulties of her position abandoned her; her face became pale, her limbs failed beneath her, and she fell into an arm-chair which was within her reach, while she endeavored to apologize to the queen for her involuntary breach of etiquette.
The queen ran to the chimney-piece, took a smelling-bottle of salts, and making Andrée inhale them, she was soon restored to her senses, but more by the power of her own will than by the efficacy of the attentions she received at the royal hands.
In fact, there was something strange in the conduct of these two women. The queen seemed to love Andrée; Andrée respected the queen greatly, and nevertheless at certain moments they did not appear to be, the one an affectionate queen, the other a devoted subject, but two determined enemies.
As we have already said, the potent will of Andrée soon restored her strength. She rose up, respectfully removed the queen's hand, and, courtesying to her:—
“Your Majesty,” said she, “has given me permission to retire to my own room.”
“Yes, undoubtedly; and you are always free, dear Countess, and this you know full well. Etiquette is not intended for you. But before you retire, have you nothing to tell me?”
“I, Madame?” asked Andrée. “Yes, you, without doubt.”
“No: what should I have to tell you?”
“In regard to this Monsieur Gilbert, the sight of whom has made so strong an impression upon you.”
Andrée trembled; but she merely made a sign of denial.
“In that case, I will not detain you any longer, dear Andrée; you may go.”
And the queen took a step towards the door of the dressing-room, which communicated with her bedroom.
Andrée, on her side, having made her obeisance to the queen in the most irreproachable manner, was going towards the door.
But at the very moment she was about to open it, steps were heard in the corridor, and a hand was placed on the external handle of the door.
At the same time the voice of Louis XVI. was heard, giving orders for the night to his valet.
“The king, Madame!” said Andrée, retreating several steps; “the king!”
“And what of that? Yes, it is the king,” said Marie Antoinette. “Does he terrify you to such a degree as this?”
“Madame, in the name of Heaven,” cried Andrée, “let me not see the king! Let me not meet the king face to face, at all events this evening. I should die of shame.”
“But finally you will tell me—”
“Everything—yes, everything—if your Majesty requires it. But hide me!”
“Go into my boudoir,” said Marie Antoinette. “You can leave it as soon as the king himself retires. Rest assured your captivity will not be of long duration; the king never remains here long.”
“Oh, thanks!—thanks!” exclaimed the countess. And rushing into the boudoir, she disappeared at the very moment that the king, having opened the door, appeared upon the threshold of the chamber.
“Good-day, Mademoiselle Catherine.”
Catherine was a good, kind-hearted girl, and she welcomed Pitou as an old acquaintance. He was in point of fact an old acquaintance, for during two or three years she had seen him passing and repassing before the farmgate at least once a week; only that Catherine saw Pitou, and Pitou did not see Catherine. The reason was, that at first when Pitou used to pass by the farm in this manner Catherine was sixteen years old and Pitou but fourteen. We have just seen what happened when Pitou in his turn had attained his sixteenth year.
By degrees Catherine had learned to appreciate the talents of Pitou, for Pitou had given her evidence of his talents by offering to her his finest birds and his fattest rabbits. The result of this was that Catherine complimented him upon these talents, and that Pitou, who was the more sensible to compliments from his being so little habituated to receive them, allowed the charm of novelty to influence him, and instead of going on straightforward, as heretofore, to the Wolf's Heath, he would stop half way, and instead of employing the whole of his day in picking up beech-mast and in laying his wires, he would lose his time in sauntering round Father Billot's farm, in the hope of seeing Catherine, were it only for a moment.
The result of this was a very sensible diminution in the produce of rabbit-skins, and a complete scarcity of robin-redbreasts and thrushes.
Aunt Angélique complained of this. Pitou represented to her that the rabbits had become mistrustful, and that the birds, who had found out the secret of his lime-twigs, now drank out of hollows of trees, or out of leaves that retained the water.
There was one consideration which consoled Aunt Angélique for this increase in the intelligence of the rabbits and the cunning of the birds, which she attributed to the progress of philosophy, and this was that her nephew would obtain the purse, enter the seminary, pass three years there, and on leaving it would be an abbé. Now, being housekeeper to an abbé had been the constant aim of Mademoiselle Angélique's ambition.
This ambition could not fail of being gratified; for Ange Pitou, having once become an abbé, could not do otherwise than take his aunt for housekeeper, and above all, after what his aunt had done for him.
The only thing which disturbed the golden dreams of the old maid was, when speaking of this hope to the Abbé Fortier, the latter replied, shaking his head:—
“My dear Demoiselle Pitou, in order to become an abbe, your nephew should give himself up less to the study of natural history, and much more to De viris illustribus, or to the Selectæ è profanis scriptoribus.”
“And which means?” said Mademoiselle Angélique, inquiringly.
“That he makes too many barbarisms and infinitely too many solecisms,” replied the Abbé Fortier.
An answer which left Mademoiselle Angélique in the most afflicting state of vagueness and uncertainty.
Beech-mast, we must inform our readers who are less acquainted with forest terms than we are, is the fruit of the beech-tree. This fruit, of which a very good sort of oil is made, is, to the poor, a species of manna, which during two months of the year falls for them from heaven.
[Dumas should also have told his readers that beech-mast is excellent for pigs, and that pheasants, and indeed most kinds of game, are very fond of it.—TRANSLATOR.]
