A FEW moments after the queen had expressed the above desire,—a desire which the person to whom it had been mentioned had complied with,—Gilbert, who felt astonished, slightly anxious, and profoundly agitated, but still without showing any external marks of it, presented himself to Marie Antoinette.
The firm and noble carriage, the delicate pallor of the man of science and of thought, to whom study had given a second nature,—a pallor still more enhanced by the black dress which was not only worn by all the deputies of the Tiers État, but also by those who had adopted the principles of the Revolution; the delicate white hand of the surgical operator, surrounded by a plain muslin wristband; his slender though well-formed limbs, which none of those at court could surpass in symmetry, even in the estimation of the connoisseurs of the il-de-Buf (combined with all these, there was a mixture of respectful timidity towards the woman, and of calm courage towards the patient, but no signs of servility towards her as a queen),—such were the plainly written signs that Marie Antoinette, with her aristocratic intelligence, could perceive in the countenance of Gilbert at the moment when the door opened to admit him into her bedchamber.
But the less Gilbert was provoking in his demeanor, the more did the queen feel her anger increase. She had figured him to herself as a type of an odious class of men; she had considered him instinctively, though almost involuntarily, as one of those impudent heroes of whom she had so many around her. The author of the sufferings of Andrée, the bastard pupil of Rousseau, that miserable abortion who had grown up to manhood, that pruner of trees who had become a philosopher and a subduer of souls,—Marie Antoinette, in spite of herself, depicted him in her mind as having the features of Mirabeau; that is to say, of the man she most hated, after the Cardinal de Rohan and Lafayette.
It had seemed to her, before she saw Gilbert, that it required a gigantic physical development to contain so colossal a mind.
But when she saw a young, upright, and slender man, of elegant and graceful form, of sweet and amiable countenance, he appeared to her as having committed the new crime of belying himself by his exterior. Gilbert, a man of the people, of obscure and unknown birth!—Gilbert, the peasant, the clown, and the serf!—Gilbert was guilty, in the eyes of the queen, of having usurped the external appearance of a gentleman and a man of honor. The proud Austrian, the sworn enemy of lying and deception in others, became indignant, and immediately conceived a violent hatred for the unfortunate atom whom so many different motives combined to induce her to abhor.
For those who were intimate with her nature, for those who were accustomed to read in her eyes either serenity of temper or indications of an approaching storm, it was easy to discern that a tempest, full of thunder-claps and flashes of lightning, was raging in the depths of her heart.
But how was it possible for a human being, even a woman, to follow, in the midst of this hurricane of passions and anger, the succession of strange and contrasting feelings which clashed together in the queen's brain, and filled her breast with all the mortal poisons described by Homer!
The queen with a single look dismissed all her attendants, even Madame de Misery.
They immediately left the room.
The queen waited till the door had been closed on the last person; then, casting her eyes upon Gilbert, she perceived that he had not ceased to gaze at her.
So much audacity offended her. The doctor's look was apparently inoffensive; but as it was continual, and was full of meaning, it weighed so heavily upon her that Marie Antoinette felt compelled to repress its importunity.
“Well, then, sir,” said she, with the abruptness of a pistol-shot, “what are you doing there, standing before me and gazing at me, instead of telling me with what complaint I am suffering?”
This furious apostrophe, rendered more forcible by the flashing of her eyes, would have annihilated any of the queen's courtiers; it would even have compelled a marshal of France, a hero, or a demi-god, to fall on his knees before her.
But Gilbert tranquilly replied:—
“It is by means of the eyes, Madame, that the physician must first examine his patient. By looking at your Majesty, who sent for me, I do not satisfy an idle curiosity; I exercise my profession: I obey your orders.”
“Then you must have studied me sufficiently.”
“As much as lay in my power, Madame.”
“Not in the strict sense of the word. But your Majesty is suffering from great over-excitement.”
“Ah! ah!” said Marie Antoinette, ironically, “why do you not say at once that I am in a passion?”
“Let your Majesty allow me, since you have ordered the attendance of a physician, to express myself in medical terms.”
“Be it so. But what is the cause of my over-excitement?”
“Your Majesty has too much knowledge not to be aware that the physician discovers the sufferings of the body, thanks to his experience and the traditions of his studies; but he is not a sorcerer, who can discover at first sight the depths of the human soul.”
“By this you mean to imply, that the second or third time you could tell me not only from what I am suffering, but also what are my thoughts?”
“Perhaps so, Madame,” coldly replied Gilbert.
The queen appeared to tremble with anger: her words seemed to be hanging on her lips, ready to burst forth in burning torrents.
She, however, restrained herself.
“I must believe you,” said she,—“you who are a learned man.”
And she emphasized these last words with so much contempt, that the eye of Gilbert appeared to kindle, in its turn, with the fire of anger.
But a struggle of a few seconds' duration sufficed to this man to give him a complete victory.
Accordingly, with a calm brow and an unembarrassed expression he almost immediately rejoined:—
“It is too kind of your Majesty to give me the title of a learned man without having received any proofs of my knowledge.”
“You must understand that I do not know if you are a scientific man,” she replied; “but I have heard it said, and I repeat what everybody says.”
“Well, then,” said Gilbert, respectfully, and bowing still lower than he had done hitherto, “a superior mind, like that of your Majesty, must not blindly repeat what is said by the vulgar.”
“Do you mean the people?” said the queen, insolently.
“The vulgar, Madame,” repeated Gilbert, with a firmness which made the blood thrill in the queen's veins, and gave rise to emotions which were as painful to her as they had hitherto been unknown.
“In fine,” answered she, “let us not discuss that point. You are said to be learned; that is all that is essential. Where have you studied?”
“I prefer that answer. Have you studied nowhere?”
As it may please you, Madame,” replied the doctor, bowing, “and yet it is less exact than to say everywhere.”
“Come, answer me, then!” exclaimed the queen, becoming exasperated; “and above all, for Heaven's sake, Monsieur Gilbert, spare me such phrases.”
Then, as if speaking to herself:—
“Everywhere! everywhere! what does that mean It is the language of a charlatan, a quack, of a physician who practises in the public squares! Do you mean to overawe me by your sonorous syllables?”
She stepped forward with ardent eyes and quivering lips.
“Everywhere! Mention some place; come, explain your meaning, Monsieur Gilbert.”
“I said everywhere,” answered Gilbert, coldly, “because in fact I have studied everywhere, Madame,—in the hut and in the palace, in cities and in the desert, upon our own species and upon animals, upon myself and upon others, in a manner suitable to one who loves knowledge, and studies it where it is to be found, that is to say, everywhere.”
The queen, overcome, cast a terrible glance at Gilbert, while he, on his part, was eying her with terrible perseverance. She became convulsively agitated, and turning round, upset a small stand, upon which her chocolate had been served in a cup of Sèvres porcelain. Gilbert saw the table fall, saw the broken cup, but did not move a finger.
The color mounted to the cheeks of Marie Antoinette; she raised her cold, moist hand to her burning temples, but did not dare to raise her eyes again to look at Gilbert.
But her features assumed a more contemptuous, more insolent expression than before.
“Then, under what great master did you study?” continued the queen, again taking up the conversation at the point where she had left it off.
“I hardly know how to answer your Majesty, without running the risk of again wounding you.”
The queen perceived the advantage that Gilbert had given her, and threw herself upon it like a lioness upon her prey.
“Wound me—you wound me—you!” exclaimed she. “Oh, sir, what are you saying there? You wound a queen! You are mistaken, sir, I can affirm to you. Ah, Doctor Gilbert, you have not studied the French language in as good schools as you have studied medicine. People of my station are not to be wounded, Doctor Gilbert. You may weary them, that is all.”
Gilbert bowed, and made a step towards the door; but it was not possible for the queen to discover in his countenance the least show of anger, the least sign of impatience.
The queen, on the contrary, was stamping her feet with rage; she sprang towards Gilbert, as if to prevent him from leaving the room.
“Pardon me, Madame,” said he. “It is true I committed the unpardonable error to forget that, as a physician, I was called to see a patient. Forgive me, Madame; hereafter I shall remember it.”
“Your Majesty,” continued he, “is rapidly approaching a nervous crisis. I will venture to ask you not to give way to it; for in a short time it would be beyond your power to control it. At this moment your pulse must be imperceptible, the blood is rushing to the heart; your Majesty is suffering, your Majesty is almost suffocating, and perhaps it would be prudent for you to summon one of your ladies-in-waiting.”
The queen took a turn round the room, and seating herself:—
“Is your name Gilbert?” asked she.
“Strange! I remember an incident of my youth, the strange nature of which would doubtless wound you much, were I to relate it to you. But it matters not; for if hurt, you will soon cure yourself,—you, who are no less a philosopher than a learned physician.”
And the queen smiled ironically.
“Precisely so, Madame,” said Gilbert; “you may smile, and little by little subdue your nervousness by irony. It is one of the most beautiful prerogatives of the intelligent will to be able thus to control itself. Subdue it, Madame, subdue it; but, however, without making a too violent effort.”
This prescription of the physician was given with so much suavity and such natural good-humor, that the queen, while feeling the bitter irony contained in his words, could not take offence at what Gilbert bad said to her.
She merely returned to the charge, recommencing her attack where she had discontinued it.
“This incident of which I spoke,” continued she, “is the following.”
Gilbert bowed, as a sign that he was listening.
The queen made an effort, and fixed her gaze upon him.
“I was the dauphiness at that time, and I inhabited Trianon. There was in the gardens a little dark-looking, dirty boy, covered with mud, a crabbed boy, a sort of sour Jean Jacques, who weeded, dug, and picked off the caterpillars with his little crooked fingers. His name was Gilbert.”
“It was myself, Madame,” said Gilbert, phlegmatically.
“You!” said Marie Antoinette, with an expression of hatred. “I was, then, right! but you are not, then, a learned man?”
“I think that, as your Majesty's memory is so good, you must also remember dates,” rejoined Gilbert. “It was in 1772, if I am not mistaken, that the little gardener's boy, of whom your Majesty speaks, weeded the flower-beds, of Trianon to earn his bread. We are now in 1789. It is therefore seventeen years, Madame, since the events to which you allude took place. It is more time than is necessary to metamorphose a savage into a learned man; the soul and the mind operate quickly in certain positions, like plants and flowers, which grow rapidly in hothouses. Revolutions, Madame, are the hotbeds of the mind. Your Majesty looks at me, and, notwithstanding the perspicacity of your scrutiny, you do not perceive that the boy of sixteen has become a man of thirty-three; you are therefore wrong to wonder that the ignorant, the ingenuous little Gilbert, should, after having witnessed these revolutions, have become a learned man and a philosopher.”
“Ignorant! be it so; but ingenuous,—ingenuous, did you say" furiously cried the queen. “I think you called that little Gilbert ingenuous.”
“If I am mistaken, Madame, or if I praised this little boy for a quality which he did not possess, I do not know how your Majesty can have ascertained more correctly than myself that he had the opposite defect.”
“Oh, that is quite another matter!” said the queen, gloomily; “perhaps we shall speak of that some other time; but, in the mean time, let me speak of the learned man, of the man brought to perfection, of the perfect man I see before me.”
Gilbert did not take up the word “perfect.” He understood but too well that it was a new insult.
“Let us return to our subject, Madame,” replied Gilbert. “Tell me for what purpose did your Majesty order me to come to your apartment?”
“You propose to become the king's physician,” said she. “Now, you must understand, sir, that I attach too much importance to the health of my husband to trust it in the hands of a man whom I do not know perfectly.”
“I offered myself to the king, Madame,” said Gilbert, “and I was accepted without your Majesty having any just cause to conceive the least suspicion as to my capacity or want of zeal. I am, above all, a political physician, Madame, recommended by Monsieur Necker. As for the rest, if the king is ever in want of my science, I shall prove myself a good physical doctor, so far as human science can be of use to the Creator's works. But what I shall be to the king more particularly, besides being a good adviser and a good physician, is a good friend.”
“A good friend!” exclaimed the queen, with a fresh outburst of contempt. “You, sir, a friend of the king!”
“Certainly,” replied Gilbert, quietly; “why not, Madame?”
“Oh yes! all in virtue of your secret power, by the assistance of your occult science,” murmured she; “who can tell? We have already seen the Jacqueses and the Maillotins; perhaps we shall go back to the dark ages! You have resuscitated philters and charms. You will soon govern France by magic; you will be a Faust or a Nicholas Flamel!”
“I have no such pretensions, Madame.”
“And why have you not, sir?' How many monsters more cruel than those of the gardens of Armida, more cruel than Cerberus himself, would you not put to sleep on the threshold of our hell!”
When she had pronounced the words, “would you not put to sleep,” the queen cast a scrutinizing look on the doctor.
This time Gilbert blushed in spite of himself.
It was a source of indescribable joy to Marie Antoinette; she felt that this time the blow she had struck had inflicted a real wound.
“For you have the power of causing sleep; you, who have studied everything and everywhere, you doubtless have studied magnetic science with the magnetizers of our century, who make sleep a treacherous instrument, and who read their secrets in the sleep of others.”
“In fact, Madame, I have often, and for a long time, studied under the learned Cagliostro.”
“Yes; he who practised and made his followers practise that moral theft of which I was just speaking; the same who, by the aid of that magic sleep which I call infamous, robbed some of their souls, and others of their bodies!”
Gilbert again understood her meaning, but this time he turned pale, instead of reddening. The queen trembled with joy, to the very depths of her heart.
“Ah, wretch” murmured she to herself: “I have wounded you, and I can see the blood.”
But the profoundest emotions were never visible for any length of time on the countenance of Gilbert. Approaching the queen, therefore, who, quite joyful on account of her victory, was imprudently looking at him:—
“Madame,” said he, “your Majesty would be wrong to deny the learned men of whom you have been speaking the most beautiful appendage to their science, which is the power of throwing, not victims, but subjects, into a magnetic sleep; you would be wrong, in particular, to contest the right they have to follow up, by all possible means, a discovery of which the laws, once recognized and regulated, are perhaps intended to revolutionize the world.”
And while approaching the queen, Gilbert had looked at her, in his turn, with that power of will to which the nervous Andrée had succumbed.
The queen felt a chill run through her veins as he drew nearer to her.
“Infamy,” said she, “be the reward of those men who make an abuse of certain dark and mysterious arts to ruin both the soul and body. May infamy rest upon the head of Cagliostro!”
“Ah!” replied Gilbert, with the accent of conviction, “beware, Madame, of judging the faults committed by human beings with so much severity.”
“Every one is liable to err, Madame; all human beings commit injuries on their fellow-creatures, and were it not for individual egotism, which is the foundation of general safety, the world would become but one great battle-field. Those are the best who are good; that is all. Others will tell you that those are best who are the least faulty. Indulgence must be the greater, Madame, in proportion to the elevated rank of the judge. Seated as you are on so exalted a throne, you have less right than any other person to be severe towards the faults of others. On your worldly throne, you should be supremely indulgent, like God, who upon his heavenly throne is supremely merciful.”
“Sir,” said the queen, “I view my rights in a different light from you, and especially my duties. I am on the throne to punish or reward.”
“I do not think so, Madame. In my opinion, on the contrary, you are seated on the throne,—you, a woman and a queen, to conciliate and to forgive.”
“I suppose you are not moralizing, sir.”
“You are right, Madame, and I was only replying to your Majesty. This Cagliostro, for instance, Madame, of whom you were speaking a few moments since, and whose science you were contesting, I remember,—and this is a remembrance of something anterior to your recollections of Trianon,—I remember that in the gardens of the Chateau de Taverney he had occasion to give the dauphiness of France a proof of his science; I know not what it was, Madame, but you must recollect it well, for that proof made a profound impression upon her, even so much as to cause her to faint.”
Gilbert was now striking blows in his turn; it is true that he was dealing them at random, but he was favored by chance, and they hit the mark so truly, that the queen became pale.
“Yes,” said she, in a hoarse voice, “yes, he made me see, as in a dream, a hideous machine; but I know not that, up to the present time, such a machine has ever really existed.”
“I know not what he made you see, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, who felt satisfied with the effect he had produced; “but I do know that it is impossible to dispute the appellation of 'learned' to a man who wields such a power as that over his fellow-creatures.”
“His fellow-creatures,” murmured the queen, disdainfully.
“Be it so,—I am mistaken,” replied Gilbert; “and his power is so much the more wonderful, that it reduces to a level with himself, under the yoke of fear, the heads of monarchs and princes of the earth.”
“Infamy, infamy, I say again, upon those who take advantage of the weakness or the credulity of others!”
“Infamous! did you call infamous those who make use of science?”
“Their science is nothing but chimeras, lies, and cowardice.”
“What mean you by that, Madame?” asked Gilbert, calmly.
“My meaning is, that this Cagliostro is a cowardly mountebank, and that his pretended magnetic sleep is a crime.”
“Yes, a crime,” continued the queen; “for it is the result of some potion, some philter, some poison; and human justice, which I represent, will be able to discover the mystery, and punish the inventor.”
“Madame, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, with the same patience as before, “a little indulgence, I beg, for those who have erred.”
“Ah! you confess their guilt, then?”
The queen was mistaken, and thought from the mild tone of Gilbert's voice, that he was supplicating pardon for himself.
She was in error, and Gilbert did not allow the advantage she had thus given him to escape.
“What?” said he, dilating his flashing eyes, before the gaze of which Marie Antoinette was compelled to lower hers, as if suddenly dazzled by the rays of the sun.
The queen remained confounded for a moment, and then, making an effort to speak:—
“A queen can no more be questioned than she can be wounded,” said she: “learn to know that also, you who have but so newly arrived at court. But you were speaking, it seems to me, of those who have erred, and you asked me to be indulgent towards them.”
“Alas! Madame,” said Gilbert, “where is the human creature who is not liable to reproach? Is it he who has ensconced himself so closely within the deep shell of his conscience that the look of others cannot penetrate it? It is this which is often denominated virtue. Be indulgent, Madame.”
“But according to this opinion, then,” replied the queen, imprudently, “there is no virtuous being in your estimation, sir,—you, who are the pupil of those men whose prying eyes seek the truth, even in the deepest recesses of the human conscience.”
She laughed, and without seeking to conceal the contempt which her laughter expressed.
“Oh, pray, sir,” exclaimed she, “do remember that you are not now speaking on a public square, to idiots, to peasants, or to patriots.”
“I am aware to whom I am speaking; Madame; of this you may be fully persuaded,” replied Gilbert.
“Show more respect then, sir, or more adroitness; consider your past life; search the depths of that conscience which men who have studied everywhere must possess in common with the rest of mankind, notwithstanding their genius and their wisdom; recall to your mind all that you may have conceived that was vile, hurtful, and criminal,—all the cruelties, the deeds, the crimes even, you have committed. Do not interrupt me; and when you have summed up all your misdeeds, learned doctor, you will bow down your head, and become more humble. Do not approach the dwelling of kings with such insolent pride, who, until there is a new order of things, were established by Heaven to penetrate the souls of criminals, to examine the folds of the human conscience, and to inflict chastisement upon the guilty, without pity and without appeal.
“That, sir,” continued the queen, “is what you ought to do. You will be thought the better of, on, account of your repentance. Believe me, the best mode of healing a soul so diseased as yours, would be to live in solitude, far from the grandeurs which give men false ideas of their own worth. I would advise you, therefore, not to approach the court, and to abandon the idea of attending the king during sickness. You have a cure to accomplish, for which God will esteem you more than for any other,—the cure of yourself. Antiquity had a proverb, which expressed the following maxim, sir: Medice, cura teipsum.”
Gilbert, instead of being irritated at this proposal, which the queen considered as the most disagreeable of conclusions, replied with gentleness:—
“Madame, I have already done all that your Majesty advises.”
“And what have you done, sir?”
“And in regard to your conscience?”
“Especially on the subject of my conscience, Madame.”
“Do you think, then, I am sufficiently well informed of what you saw in it?”
“I do not know what your Majesty means by those words, but I think I can discover their meaning, which is, 'how many times a man of my age must have offended God!'“
“A philosopher,—do philosophers believe in the existence of a God?”
“I speak of God, and I believe in him.”
“And you are still determined not to withdraw from court?”
“Monsieur Gilbert, take heed.”
And the queen's countenance assumed a threatening expression, which it would be impossible to describe.
“Oh, I have reflected much upon the subject, Madame, and my reflections have led me to know that I am not less worthy than another; every one has his faults. I learned this axiom not by pondering over books, but by searching the consciences of others.”
“You are universal and infallible, are you not?” said the queen, ironically.
“Alas, Madame, if I am not universal, if I am not infallible, I am nevertheless very learned in human misery, well versed in the greatest sorrows of the mind. And this is so true, that I could tell, by merely seeing the livid circle round your wearied eyes, by merely seeing the line which extends from one eyebrow to the other, by merely seeing at the corners of your mouth a contraction which is called by the prosaic name of wrinkle,—I can tell you, Madame, how many severe trials you have undergone, how many times your heart has palpitated with anguish, to how many secret dreams of joy your heart has abandoned itself, to discover its error on awaking.
“I will tell you all that, Madame, when you shall desire it; I will tell it you, for I am sure of not being contradicted. I will tell it you, by merely fastening upon you a gaze which can read and wishes to read your mind; and when you have felt the power of that gaze, when you have felt the weight of this curiosity sounding to your inmost soul, like the sea that feels the weight of the lead that plunges into its depths, then you will understand that I am able to do much, Madame, and that if I pause awhile, you should be grateful to me for it, instead of provoking me on to war.”
This language, supported by a terrible fixity of the will of provocation, exercised by the man upon the woman, this contempt for all etiquette in presence of the queen, produced an unspeakable effect upon Marie Antoinette.
She felt as if a mist were overshadowing her brow, and sending an icy chill through her ideas: she felt her hatred turning into fear; and letting her hands fall heavily by her side, retreated a step to avoid the approach of the unknown danger.
“And now, Madame,” said Gilbert, who clearly perceived all that was passing in her mind, “do you understand that it would be very easy for me to discover that which you conceal from everybody, and that which you conceal even from yourself; do you understand that it would be easy for me to stretch you on that chair, which your fingers are now instinctively seeking as a support?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the queen, who was terrified, for she felt an unknown chill invading even her heart.
“Were I but to utter to myself a word which I will not utter,” continued Gilbert, “were I but to summon up my will, which I renounce, you would fall as if thunder-stricken into my power. You doubt what I am telling you, Madame. Oh, do not doubt it; you might perhaps tempt me once,—and if once you tempted me! But no, you do not doubt it, do you?”
The queen, almost on the point of falling, exhausted, oppressed, and completely lost, grasped the back of her arm-chair with all the energy of despair and the rage of useless resistance.
“Oh,” continued Gilbert, “mark this well, Madame: it is that if I were not the most respectful, the most devoted, the most humble of your subjects, I should convince you by a terrible experiment. Oh, you need fear nothing. I prostrate myself humbly before the woman rather than before-the queen. I tremble at the idea of entertaining any project which might, even in the slightest way, inquire into your thoughts; I would rather kill myself than disturb your soul.”
“Sir! sir!” exclaimed the queen, striking the air with her arms, as if to repel Gilbert, who was standing more than three paces from her.
“And still,” continued Gilbert, “you caused me to be thrown into the Bastille. You only regret that it is taken, because the people, by taking it, reopened its gates for me. There is hatred visible in your eyes towards a man against whom personally you can have no cause of reproach. And see, now, I feel that since I have lessened the influence by means of which I have controlled you, you are perhaps resuming your doubts with your returning respiration.”
In fact, since Gilbert had ceased to control her with his eyes and gestures, Marie Antoinette had reassumed her threatening attitude, like the bird which, being freed from the suffocating influence of the air-pump, endeavors to regain its song and its power of wing.
“Ah! you still doubt; you are ironical; you despise my warnings. Well, then, do you wish me to tell you, Madame, a terrible idea that has just crossed my mind This is what I was on the point of doing. Madame, I was just about to compel you to reveal to me your most intimate troubles, your most hidden secrets. I thought of compelling you to write them down on the table which you touch at this moment, and afterwards, when you had awakened and come to your senses again, I should have convinced you by your own writing of the existence of that power which you seem to contest; and also how real is the forbearance, and shall I say it,—yes, I will say it,—the generosity of the man whom you have just insulted, whom you have insulted for a whole hour, without his having for a single instant given you either a reason or a pretext for so doing.”
“Compel me to sleep!—compel me to speak in my sleep!—me!—me!” exclaimed the queen, turning quite pale: “would you have dared to do it, sir? But do you know what that is? Do you know the grave nature of the threat you make? Why, it is the crime of high treason, sir. Consider it well. It is a crime which, after awakening from my sleep, I should have punished with death.”
“Madame,” said Gilbert, watching the feverish emotions of the queen, “be not so hasty in accusing, and especially in threatening. Certainly I should have possessed myself of all your secrets; but be convinced that it would not have been on an occasion like this; it would not have been during an interview between the queen and her subject, between a woman and a stranger. No: I should have put the queen to sleep, it is true,—and nothing would have been easier,—but I should not have ventured to put her to sleep, I should not have allowed myself to speak to her, without having a witness.”
“Yes, Madame, a witness who would faithfully note all your words, all your gestures, all the details, in short, of the scene which I should have brought about, in order that, after its termination, you could not doubt for a single moment longer.”
“A witness, sir!” repeated the queen, terrified; “and who would that witness have been? But consider it maturely, sir, your crime would then have been doubled, for in that case you would have had an accomplice.”
“And if this accomplice, Madame, had been none other than the king?” said Gilbert.
“The king!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, with an expression of fear that betrayed the wife more energetically than the confession of the somnambulist could have done. “Oh, Monsieur Gilbert!—Monsieur Gilbert!”
“The king,” continued Gilbert, calmly,—” the king is your husband, your supporter, your natural defender. The king would have related to you, when you were awakened from your slumber, how respectful and proud I was in being able to prove my science to the most revered of sovereigns.”
And after having spoken these words, Gilbert allowed her Majesty sufficient time to meditate upon their importance.
The queen remained silent for several minutes, during which nothing was heard but the noise of her agitated breathing.
“Sir,” replied she, after this pause, “from all that you have now told me, you must be a mortal enemy—”
“Or a devoted friend, Madame?”
“It is impossible, sir; friendship cannot exist in unison with fear or mistrust.”
“The friendship, Madame, that exists between a subject and a queen cannot subsist except by the confidence which the subject may inspire her with. You will already have said to yourself that he is not an enemy whom, after the first word, we can deprive of the means of doing harm, especially when he is the first to denounce the use of his weapons.”
“May I believe, sir, what you have been saying?” said the queen, looking thoughtfully at Gilbert.
“Why should you not believe me, Madame, when you have every proof of my sincerity?”
“Men change, sir,—men change.”
“Madame, I have made the same vow that certain illustrious warriors made, before starting on an expedition, as to the use of certain weapons in which they were skilled. I shall never make use of my advantages but to repel the wrong that others may attempt to do me. Not for offence, but for defence. That is my motto.”
“Alas!” said the queen, feeling humbled.
“I understand you, Madame. You suffer because you see your soul in the hands of a physician,—you who rebelled at times against the idea of abandoning the care of your body to him. Take courage; be confident. He wishes to advise you well who has this day given you proof of such forbearance as that you have received from me. I desire to love you, Madame; I desire that you should be beloved by all. The ideas I have already submitted to the king I will discuss with you.”
“Doctor, take care!” exclaimed the queen, gravely. “You caught me in your snare; after having terrified the woman, you think to control the queen.”
“No, Madame,” answered Gilbert, “I am not a contemptible speculator. I have ideas of my own, and I can conceive that you have yours. I must from this very moment repel this accusation—one that you would forever make against me—that I had intimidated you in order to subjugate your reason. I will say more, that you are the first woman in whom I have found united all the passions of a woman and all the commanding qualities of a man. You may be at the same time a woman and a friend. All humanity might be concentred in you, were it necessary. I admire you, and I will serve you. I will serve you without any remuneration from you, merely for the sake of studying you, Madame. I will do still more for your service. In case I should seem to be a too inconvenient piece of palace furniture, or if the impression made by the scene of to-day should not be effaced from your memory, I shall ask you, I shall pray you, to dismiss me.”
“Dismiss you!” exclaimed the queen, with a joyful air that did not escape Gilbert.
“Well, then, it is agreed, Madame,” replied he, with admirable presence of mind. “I shall not even tell the king what I had intended, and I shall depart. Must I go to a great distance to reassure you, Madame?”
She looked at him, and appeared surprised at so much self-denial.
“I perceive,” said he, “what your Majesty thinks. Your Majesty, who is better acquainted than is generally thought with the mysteries of the magnetic influence which so much alarmed you a few minutes since,—your Majesty says to herself that at a distance from her I shall be no less dangerous and troublesome.”
“How is that?” exclaimed the queen.
“Yes, I repeat it, Madame. He who would be hurtful to any one by the moans you have reproached my masters and myself for employing, could practise his hurtful power equally well were the distance a hundred leagues, as at three paces. Fear nothing, Madame. I shall not attempt it.”
The queen remained thoughtful for a moment, not knowing how to answer this extraordinary man, who made her waver even after she had formed the firmest resolutions.
On a sudden, the noise of steps coming from the end of the gallery made Marie Antoinette raise her head.
“The king,” said she,—” the king is coming.”
“In that case, Madame, answer me, I pray you—shall I remain here, or shall I leave you?”
“Make haste, Madame. I can avoid seeing the king, if you desire it. Your Majesty may show me a door by which I can withdraw.”
“Remain!” said the queen to him.
Gilbert bowed courteously, while Marie Antoinette endeavored to read in his features to what extent triumph would reveal more than either anger or anxiety.
Gilbert remained perfectly impassible.
“At least,” said the queen to herself, “he ought to have manifested some slight satisfaction.”
