GILBERT returned to Monsieur Necker after his professional visit to the king, whom he had found as tranquil as the queen was agitated.
The king was composing speeches; he was examining accounts; he was meditating reforms in the laws.
This well-intentioned man, whose look was so kind, whose soul was so upright, whose heart erred only from prejudices inherent to the royal condition,—this man was absolutely bent on producing trivial reforms in exchange for the serious inroads made on his prerogative. He was obstinately bent on examining the distant horizon with his short-sighted eyes, when an abyss was yawning beneath his feet. This man inspired Gilbert with a feeling of profound pity. As to the queen, it was not thus; and in spite of his impassibility, Gilbert felt that she was one of those women whom it was necessary to love passionately, or to hate even to the death.
When she had returned to her own apartment, Marie Antoinette felt as if an immense burden were weighing on her heart.
And in fact, whether as a woman or as a queen, she felt that there was nothing stable around her,—nothing which could aid her in supporting even a portion of the burden which was crushing her.
On whichever side she turned her eyes, she saw only hesitation and doubt.
The courtiers, anxious with regard to their fortunes, and realizing what they could.
Relatives and friends thinking of emigrating.
The proudest woman of them all, Andrée, gradually becoming estranged from her in heart and mind.
The noblest and the most beloved of all the men who surrounded her, De Charny, wounded by her caprice and a prey to doubt.
The position of affairs caused her great anxiety,—she, who was instinct and sagacity personified.
How could this man, who was purity itself, how could this heart without alloy have changed so suddenly?
“No, he has not yet changed,” said the queen to herself, sighing deeply, “but he is about to change.”
He is about to change!—frightful conviction to the woman who loves passionately, insupportable to the woman who loves with pride.
Now, the queen loved De Charny both passionately and proudly.
The queen was suffering therefore from two wounds.
And yet, at that very time,—at the time when she felt the consciousness of having acted wrongly, of the evil she had committed,—she had still time to remedy it.
But the mind of that crowned woman was not a flexible mind. She could not descend to waver, even though she knew she was acting unjustly; had it been towards an indifferent person, she might or would have wished to show some greatness of soul, and then she might perhaps have asked for forgiveness.
But to the man whom she had honored with an affection at once so tender and so pure, to him whom she had deigned to admit to a participation in her most secret thoughts, the queen considered it would be degrading to make the slightest concession.
The misfortune of queens who condescend to love a subject, is to love him always as queens, but never as women.
Marie Antoinette estimated herself at so high a price that she thought there was nothing human which could compensate her love, not even blood, not even tears.
From the moment she felt that she was jealous of Andrée, she had begun to dwindle morally.
The consequence of this inferiority was her caprice.
The consequence of her caprice was anger.
The consequence of her anger was evil thoughts, which always bring in their train evil actions.
De Charny did not enter into any of the considerations which we have just stated; but he was a man, and he had comprehended that Marie Antoinette was jealous of his wife.
Of his wife, towards whom he had never shown any affection.
There is nothing which so much revolts an upright heart, one altogether incapable of treachery, as to see that it is believed capable of treachery.
There is nothing which so much conduces to direct the attention towards a person as the jealousy with which that person is honored.
Above all, if that jealousy be really unjust.
Then the person who is suspected reflects.
He alternately considers the jealous heart and the person who has caused that jealousy.
The greater the soul of the jealous person, the greater is the danger into which it throws itself.
In fact, how is it possible to suppose that a person of expansive heart, of superior intelligence, of legitimate pride, could become agitated for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value Why should a woman who is beautiful be jealous? Why should a woman of the highest rank, power, and talent be jealous? How could it be supposed that, possessing all these advantages, a woman could be jealous for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value?
The jealous person is like the lime-hound, pointing out merits to the indifferent, which, left to himself, he would never have discovered.
De Charny knew that Mademoiselle Andrée de Taverney had been long a friend of the queen,—that in former days she had been well treated, always preferred by her. How then was it that she no longer loved her? How was it that Marie Antoinette had all at once become jealous of her?
She must therefore have discerned some secret and mysterious beauty which Monsieur de Charny had not discovered, and undoubtedly because he had not sought for it.
She had therefore felt that De Charny might have perceived something in this woman, and that she, the queen, had lost in the comparison.
Or again, she might have believed that she perceived that De Charny loved her less, without there being any extraneous cause for this diminution of his passion.
There is nothing more fatal to the jealous than the knowledge which they thus give to others of the temperature of that heart which they wish to keep in the most fervid degree of heat.
How often does it happen that the loved object is informed by reproaches of a coldness which he had begun to experience without being able to account for it?
And when he discovers that; when he feels the truth of the reproach,—say, Madame, how many times have you found that he has allowed your chains to be again thrown round him, that his languishing flame has been rekindled?
O unskilfulness of lovers! It is, however, true that where much art or adroitness is exercised, there scarcely ever exists a great degree of love.
Marie Antoinette had therefore herself taught De Charny to believe, by her own anger and injustice, that his heart was less full of love than formerly.
And as soon as he knew this, he endeavored to account for it, and looking around him, very naturally discovered the cause of the queen's jealousy.
Andrée, the poor, abandoned Andrée, who had been a bride, but had never been a wife.
The scene of the return from Paris had unveiled the secret of this deep-rooted jealousy, so carefully concealed from all eyes.
The queen also clearly saw that all was discovered; and as she would not bend before De Charny, she employed another method, which in her opinion would lead to the same end.
She began to treat Andrée with great kindness.
She admitted her to all her excursions, to all her evening parties; she overwhelmed her with caresses; she made her the envy of all the other ladies of the court.
And Andrée allowed her to do all this, with some astonishment, but without feeling grateful for it. She had for years said to herself that she belonged to the queen, that the queen could do as she pleased with her, and therefore was it that she submitted to it.
But, on the other side, as it was necessary that the irritation of the woman should be vented on some one, the queen began to treat De Charny severely. She no longer spoke to him; she was absolutely harsh to him; she affected to pass evenings, days, weeks, without observing that he was present.
Only, when he was absent, the heart of the poor woman swelled with anxiety; her eyes wandered around eagerly, seeking him, from whom, the moment they perceived him, they were instantly averted.
Did she need the support of an arm, had she an order to give, had she a smile to throw away, it was bestowed on the first comer.
But this first comer never failed to be a handsome and distinguished man. The queen imagined she was curing her own wound by wounding De Charny.
The latter suffered, but was silent. Not an angry or impatient gesture escaped him. He was a man possessing great self-command; and although suffering frightful torture, he remained, to appearance, perfectly impassible.
Then was seen a singular spectacle,—a spectacle which women alone can furnish and fully comprehend.
Andrée felt all the sufferings of her husband; and as she loved him with that angelic love which never had conceived a hope, she pitied him, and allowed him to perceive she did so.
The result of this compassion was a sweet and tacit reconciliation. She endeavored to console De Charny without allowing him to perceive that she comprehended the need he had of consolation.
And all this was done with that delicacy which may be called essentially feminine, seeing that women alone are capable of it.
Marie Antoinette, who had sought to divide in order to reign, perceived that she had made a false move, and that she was only drawing together two souls by the very means which she had adopted to keep them separate.
Then the poor woman, during the silence and the solitude of night, endured the most frightful paroxysms of despair, such as would make us wonder that God had created beings of sufficient strength to support them.
And the queen would assuredly have succumbed to so many ills, but for the constant occupation given to her mind by political events. No one complains of the hardness of a bed when his limbs are exhausted by fatigue.
Such were the circumstances under which the queen had been living since the return of the king to Versailles, up to the day when she thought seriously of resuming the absolute exercise of her power.
For in her pride, she attributed to her decadence the species of depreciation to which for some time her feminine nature had been subjected.
To her energetic mind, to think was to act. She therefore commenced her combinations without losing a moment.
Alas! these combinations which she was then meditating were those which wrought out her perdition.
