IN the interior of the Hôtel de Ville the king received the most flattering welcome; he was styled the Restorer of Liberty.
Being invited to speak,—for the thirst for speeches became every day more intense,—and wishing, in short, to ascertain the feelings of all present, the king placed his hand upon his heart, and said:—
“Gentlemen, you may always calculate on my affection.”
While he was thus listening in the Hôtel de Ville to the communications from the government,—for from that day a real government was constituted in France, besides that of the throne and the National Assembly,-the people outside the building were admiring the beautiful horses, the gilt carriage, the lackeys, and the coachman of his Majesty.
Pitou, since the entry of the king into the Hôtel de Ville, had, thanks to a louis given by Father Billot, amused himself in making a goodly quantity of cockades of red and blue ribbons, which he had purchased with the louis, and with these, which were of all sizes, he had decorated the horses' ears, the harness, and the whole equipage.
On seeing this, the imitative people had literally metamorphosed the king's carriage into a cockade-shop.
The coachman and the footmen were profusely ornamented with them.
They had, moreover, slipped some dozens of them into the carriage itself.
However, it must be said that Monsieur de Lafayette, who had remained on horseback, had endeavored to restrain these honest propagators of the national colors, but had not been able to succeed.
And therefore, when the king came out:—
“Oh, oh!” cried he, on seeing this strange bedizenment of his equipage.
Then, with his hand he made a sign to Monsieur de Lafayette to approach him.
Monsieur de Lafayette respectfully advanced, lowering his sword as he came near the king.
“Monsieur de Lafayette,” said the king to him, “I was looking for you to say to you that I confirm your appointment to the command of the National Guards.”
And Louis XVI. got into his carriage amid a universal acclamation.
As to Gilbert, tranquillized henceforward as to the personal safety of the king, he had remained in the hall with Bailly and the electors.
The speechifying had not yet terminated.
However, on hearing the loud hurrahs which saluted the departure of the king, he approached a window, to cast a last glance on the square, and to observe the conduct of his two country friends.
They were both, or at least they appeared to be, still on the best terms with the king.
Suddenly Gilbert perceived a horseman advancing rapidly along the Quay Pelletier, covered with dust, and obliging the crowd, which was still docile and respectful, to open its ranks and let him pass.
The people, who were good and complaisant on this great day, smiled while repeating:—
“One of the king's officers!—one of the king's officers!”
And cries of “Long live the king!” saluted the officer as he passed on, and women patted his horse's neck, which was white with foam.
This officer at last managed to reach the king's carriage, and arrived there at the moment when a servant was closing the door of it.
“What! is it you, Charny?” cried Louis XVI.
“How are they all out yonder?” he inquired.
“Very anxious, Sire,” replied the officer, who had thrust his head completely into the carriage-window.
“Do you return to Versailles?”
“Well, then, tell our friends they have no cause for uneasiness. All has gone off marvellously well.”
Charny bowed, raised his head, and perceived Monsieur de Lafayette, who made a friendly sign to him.
Charny went to him, and Lafayette shook hands with him; and the crowd, seeing this, almost carried both officer and horse as far as the quay, where, thanks to the vigilant orders given to the National Guards, a line was formed to facilitate the king's departure.
The king ordered that the carriage should move out at a walking pace, till it reached the Place Louis XV. There he found his body-guards, who were awaiting the return of the king, and not without impatience; so that this impatience, in which every one participated, kept on increasing every moment, and the horses were driven on at a pace which increased in rapidity as they advanced upon the road to Versailles.
Gilbert, from the balcony of the window, had fully comprehended the meaning of the arrival of this horseman, although he did not know his person. He readily imagined the anguish which the queen must have suffered, and especially for the last three hours; for during that time he had not been able to despatch a single courier to Versailles, amid the throng by which he was surrounded, without exciting suspicion, or betraying weakness.
He had but a faint idea of all that had been occurring at Versailles.
We shall now return there with our readers, for we do not wish to make them read too long a course of history.
The queen had received the last courier from the king at three o'clock.
Gilbert had found means to despatch a courier just at the moment the king entered the Hôtel de Ville, under the arch formed by the swords of the National Guards.
The Countess de Charny was with the queen. The countess had only just left her bed, which from severe indisposition she had kept since the previous day.
She was still very pale. She had hardly strength to raise her eyes, the heavy lids of which seemed to be constantly falling, weighed down either with grief or shame.
The queen, on perceiving her, smiled, but with that habitual smile which appears, to those familiar with the court, to be stereotyped upon the lips of princes and of kings.
Then, as if overjoyed that her husband was in safety:—
“Good news again!” exclaimed the queen to those who surrounded her; “may the whole day pass off as well!”
“Oh, Madame!” said a courtier, “your Majesty alarms yourself too much. The Parisians know too well the responsibility which weighs upon them.”
“But, Madame,” said another courtier, who was not so confiding, “is your Majesty well assured as to the authenticity of this intelligence?”
“Oh, yes,” replied the queen. “The person who writes to me has engaged, at the hazard of his head, to be responsible for the safety of the king. Moreover, I believe him to be a friend.”
“Oh! if he is a friend,” rejoined the courtier, bowing, “that is quite another matter.”
Madame de Lamballe, who was standing at a little distance, approached.
“It is,” said she, “the lately appointed physician, is t not?”
“Yes, Gilbert,” unthinkingly replied the queen, without reflecting that she was striking a fearful blow at one who stood close beside her.
“Gilbert!” exclaimed Andrée, starting as if a viper had bit her to the heart; “Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!”
Andrée had turned round with flashing eyes, her Lands clinched with anger and shame, and seemed proudly to accuse the queen, both by her looks and attitude.
“But still,” said the queen, hesitating.
“Oh, Madame, Madame!” murmured Andrée, in a tone of the bitterest reproach.
A deathlike silence pervaded the whole room after this mysterious incident.
In the midst of this silence, a light step was heard upon the tesselated floor of the adjoining room.
“Monsieur de Charny!” said the queen, in a half-whisper, as if to warn Andrée to compose herself.
Charny had heard—he had seen all—only he could not comprehend it.
He remarked the pallid countenance of Andrée, and the embarrassed air of Marie Antoinette.
It would have been a breach of etiquette to question the queen, but Andrée was his wife; he had the right to question her.
He therefore went to her, and in the most friendly tone—
“What is the matter, Madame?” said he.
Andrée made an effort to recover her composure.
“Nothing, Count,” she replied.
Charny then turned towards the queen, who, notwithstanding her profound experience in equivocal positions, had ten times essayed to muster up a smile, but could not succeed.
“You appear to doubt the devotedness of this Monsieur Gilbert,” said he to Andrée. “Have you any motive for suspecting his fidelity?”
“Speak, Madame; speak!” said Charny, insistingly.
Then, as Andrée still remained mute:—
“Oh, speak, Madame!” cried he. “This delicacy now becomes condemnable. Reflect that on it may depend the safety of our master.”
“I do not know, sir, what can be your motive for saying that,” replied Andrée.
“You said, and I heard you say it, Madame,—I appeal moreover to the princess,”—and Charny bowed to the Princess de Lamballe, “you exclaimed with an expression of great surprise, 'Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!'“
“'Tis true, you did say that, my dear,” said the Princess de Lamballe, with her habitual ingenuousness.
“If you do know anything, Monsieur de Charny is right.”
“For pity's sake, Madame! for pity's sake!” said Andrée, in an imploring tone, but so low that it could not be heard by any one but the princess.
The princess retired a few steps.
“Oh, good Heaven! it was but a trifling matter,” said the queen, feeling that should she any longer delay to interfere, she would be betraying her trust. “The countess was expressing her apprehensions, which doubtless were but vague. She had said that it was difficult for a man who had taken part in the American Revolution, one who is the friend of Monsieur de Lafayette, to be our friend.”
“Yes, vague,” mechanically repeated Andrée,—“very vague.”
“A fear of a similar nature to one which had been expressed by one of the gentlemen present before the countess had expressed hers,” rejoined Marie Antoinette.
And with her eyes she pointed out the courtier whose doubts had given rise to this discussion.
But it required more than this to convince Charny. The great confusion which had appeared on his entering the room persuaded him that there was some mystery in the affair.
“It matters not, Madame,” said he. “It seems to me that it is your duty not to express vain fears, but on the contrary, to state precise facts.”
“What, sir,” said the queen, with some asperity, “you are returning to that subject!”
“Your pardon, but I find that you are still questioning the Countess de Charny.”
“Excuse me, Madame,” said Charny; “it is from interest for—”
“For your self-love, is it not? Ah, Monsieur de Charny,” added the queen, with an ironical expression of which the count felt the whole weight, “acknowledge the thing frankly. You are jealous.”
“Jealous! jealous!” cried Charny, coloring,—“but of what? I ask this of your Majesty.”
“Of your wife, apparently,” replied the queen, harshly.
“Madame!” stammered Charny, perfectly astounded at this unlooked-for attack.
“It is perfectly natural,” dryly rejoined Marie Antoinette; “and the countess assuredly is worth the trouble.”
Charny darted a look at the queen, to warn her that she was going too far.
But this was useless trouble, superfluous precaution. When this lioness was wounded, and felt the burning pain galling her heart, she no longer knew restraint.
“Yes, I can comprehend your being jealous, Monsieur de Charny,—jealous and uneasy; it is the natural state of every soul that loves, and which consequently is on the watch.”
“And therefore I,” pursued the queen,—“I experience precisely the same feelings which you do at this moment, I am at once a prey to jealousy and anxiety.” She emphasized the word “jealousy.” “The king is at Paris and I no longer live.”
“But, Madame,” observed Charny, who could not at all comprehend the meaning of this storm, the thunder of which appeared to growl more fiercely and the lightnings to flash more vividly every moment, “you have just now received news of the king; the news was good, and you must feel more tranquil.”
“And did you feel tranquillized when the countess and myself, a moment ago, endeavored to reassure you?”
Andrée began to raise her head, at once surprised and alarmed,—surprised at what she heard, alarmed at what she thought she understood.
The silence which had ensued after the first question which Charny had addressed to Andrée was now renewed, and the company seemed anxiously awaiting Charny's answer to the queen. Charny remained silent.
“In fact,” resumed the queen, with still increasing anger, “it is the destiny of people who love to think only of the object of their affection. It would be happiness to those poor hearts to sacrifice pitilessly everything—yes, everything—to the feeling by which they are agitated. Good Heaven! how anxious am I with regard to the king!”
One of the courtiers ventured to remark that other couriers would arrive.
“Oh, why am I not at Paris, instead of being here? I why am I not with the king?” said Marie Antoinette, who had seen that Charny had become agitated since she had been endeavoring to instil that jealousy into his mind which she so violently experienced.
“If it be only that, Madame,” said he, “I will go there; and if, as your Majesty apprehends, the king is in any danger, if that valuable life be exposed, you may rely, Madame, that it shall not be from not having exposed mine in his defence.”
Charny bowed and moved towards the door.
“Sir! sir!” cried Andrée, rushing between Charny and the door; “be careful of yourself!”
Nothing was wanting to the completion of this scene but this outburst of the fears of Andrée.
And therefore, as soon as Andrée had been thus impelled, in spite of herself, to cast aside her habitual coldness, no sooner had she uttered these imprudent words and evinced this unwonted solicitude, than the queen became frightfully pale.
“Why, Madame,” she cried to Andrée, “how is this, that you here usurp the part of a queen?”
“Who,—I, Madame?” stammered Andrée, comprehending that she had, for the first time, allowed to burst forth from her lips the fire which for so long a period had consumed her soul.
“What!” continued Marie Antoinette, “your husband is in the king's service. He is about to set out to seek the king. If he is exposing his life, it is for the king; and when the question is the service of the king, you advise Monsieur de Charny to be careful of himself.”
On hearing these appalling words, Andrée was near fainting. She staggered, and would have fallen to the floor had not Charny rushed forward and caught her in his arms.
An indignant look, which Charny could not restrain, completed the despair of Marie Antoinette, who had considered herself an offended rival, but who, in fact, had been an unjust queen.
“The queen is right,” at length said Charny, with some effort, “and your emotion, Madame, was inconsiderate. You have no husband, Madame, when the interests of the king are in question; and I ought to be the first to request you to restrain your sensibility, if I presumed that you deigned to feel any alarm for me.”
Then, turning towards Marie Antoinette:—
“I am at the queen's orders,” said he, coldly, “and I set out at once. It is I who will bring you news of the king,—good news, Madame, or I will not bring any.”
Then, having spoken these words, he bowed almost to the ground, and left the room before the queen, moved at once by terror and by anger, had thought of detaining him.
A moment afterwards the hoofs of a horse galloping at full speed rang over the pavement of the courtyard.
The queen remained motionless, but a prey to internal agitation, so much the more terrible from her making the most violent efforts to conceal it.
Some understood, while others could not comprehend the cause of this agitation; but they all showed that they respected their sovereign's tranquillity.
Marie Antoinette was left to her own thoughts.
Andrée withdrew with the rest from the apartment, abandoning Marie Antoinette to the caresses of her two children, whom she had sent for, and who had been brought to her.
