AS usual, they were completely ignorant at Versailles of what was going on at Paris.
After the scenes which we have described, and on the occurrence of which the queen had openly congratulated herself, her Majesty was resting herself after her fatigue.
She had an army; she had her devotees; she had counted her enemies; she wished to begin the contest.
Had she not the defeat of the 14th of July to avenge? Had she not the king's journey to Paris—a journey from which he had returned with the tricolored cockade in his hat—to forget, and to make her court forget it also?
Poor woman! she but little expected the journey which she herself would be shortly compelled to take.
Since her altercation with Charny, she had scarcely spoken to him. She affected to treat Andrée with her former friendliness, which had for a time been deadened in her heart, but which was forever extinguished in that of her rival.
As to Charny, she never turned towards or looked at him, but when she was compelled to address herself to him upon matters regarding his service, or to give him an order.
It was not a family disgrace; for on the very morning on which the Parisians were to leave Paris to come to Versailles, the queen was seen talking affectionately with young George de Charny, the second of the three brothers, who, in contradiction to Olivier, had given such warlike counsels to the queen on the arrival of the news of the capture of the Bastille.
And in fact, at nine in the morning, as the young officer was crossing the gallery to announce to the huntsman that the king intended going out, Marie Antoinette, returning from Mass in the chapel, saw him, and called him to her.
“Where are you running thus, sir?” said she to him.
“As soon as I perceived your Majesty I ran no longer,” replied George; “on the contrary, I instantly stopped, and I was waiting humbly for the honor you have done me in addressing me.”
“That does not prevent you, sir, from replying to my question, and telling me whither you are going.”
“Madame,” replied George, “I am on duty to-day, and form part of the escort. His Majesty hunts to-day; and I am going to the huntsman to make arrangements for the meet.”
“Ah! the king hunts again to-day,” said the queen, looking at the big dark clouds which were rolling on from Paris towards Versailles. “He is wrong to do so. The weather appears to be threatening; does it not, Andrée?”
“Yes, Madame,” absently replied the Countess de Charny.
“Are you not of that opinion, sir?”
“I am so, Madame; but such is the king's will.”
“May the king's will be done, in the woods and on the highroads!” replied the queen, with that gayety of manner which was habitual with her,and of which neither the sorrows of the heart nor political events could ever deprive her.
“It is but just that he should have this amusement,” said the queen to her in a whisper.
“Can you tell me, sir, where the king intends hunting?”
“Well, then, accompany him, and watch carefully over his safety.”
At this moment the Count de Charny had entered the room. He smiled kindly at Andrée, and shaking his head, ventured to say to the queen:—
“That is a recommendation which my brother will not fail to remember, Madame, not in the midst of the king's pleasures, but in the midst of his dangers.”
At the sound of the voice which had struck upon her ear, before her eyes had warned her of the presence of Charny, Marie Antoinette started, and turning round:
“I should have been much astonished,” said she, with disdainful harshness, “if such a saying had not proceeded from the Count Olivier de Charny.”
“And why so, Madame?” respectfully inquired the count.
“Because it prophesies misfortune, sir.”
Andrée turned pale on seeing that the color fled from her husband's cheeks.
He bowed without offering a reply.
Then, on a look from his wife, who appeared to be amazed at his being so patient:—
“I am really extremely unfortunate,” he said, “since I no longer know how to speak to the queen without offending her.”
The “no longer” was emphasized in the same manner as a skilful actor would emphasize the more important syllables.
The ear of the queen was too well exercised not to perceive at once the stress which Charny had laid upon his words.
“No longer!” she exclaimed sharply, “no longer; what mean you by no longer?”
“I have again spoken unfortunately, it would appear,” said De Charny, unaffectedly.
And he exchanged a look with Andrée, which the queen this time perceived.
She in her turn became pale, and then her teeth firmly set together with rage.
“The saying is bad,” she exclaimed, “when the intention is bad.”
“The ear is hostile,” said Charny, “when the thought is hostile.”
And after this retort, which was more just than respectful, he remained silent.
“I shall wait to reply,” said the queen, “until the Count de Charny is more happy in his attacks.”
“And I,” said De Charny, “shall wait to attack until the queen shall be more fortunate than she has lately been in servants.”
Andrée eagerly seized her husband's hand, and was preparing to leave the room with him.
A glance from the queen restrained her. She had observed this gesture.
“But, in fine, what has your husband to say to me?” asked the queen.
“He had intended telling your Majesty that having been sent to Paris yesterday by the King, he had found the city in a most extraordinary state of ferment.”
“Again! cried the queen; “and on what account The Parisians have taken the Bastille, and are now occupied in demolishing it; what can they require more? Answer me, Monsieur de Charny.”
“That is true, Madame,” replied the count; “but as they cannot eat the stones, they are calling out for bread,—they say that they are hungry.”
“That they are hungry! that they are hungry!” exclaimed the queen; “and what would they have us do in that respect?”
“There was a time,” observed De Charny, “when the queen was the first to compassionate and assuage the sufferings of the people; there was a time when she would ascend even to the garrets of the poor, and the prayers of the poor ascended from the garrets to God with blessings on her head.”
“Yes,” bitterly replied the queen; “and I was well rewarded, was I not, for the compassion which I felt for the misery of others? One of the greatest misfortunes which ever befell me was in consequence of having ascended to one of these garrets.”
“Because your Majesty was once deceived,” said De Charny, “because she bestowed her favors and her grace upon a miserable wretch, ought she to consider all human nature upon a level with that infamous woman? Ah, Madame! Madame! how at that time were you beloved!”
The queen darted a furious glance at De Charny.
“But, finally,” she said, “what did actually take place in Paris yesterday? Tell me only things that you have yourself seen, sir; I wish to be sure of the truth of your words.”
“What I saw, Madame! I saw a portion of the population crowded together on the quays, vainly awaiting the arrival of flour. I saw others standing in long files at the bakers' doors, uselessly waiting for bread. What I saw was a starving people,—husbands looking sorrowfully at their wives, mothers looking sorrowfully at their children. What I saw! I saw clinched and threatening hands held up in the direction of Versailles. Ah, Madame! Madame! the dangers of which I just now spoke to you are approaching,—the opportunity of dying for your Majesty; a happiness which my brother and myself will be the first to claim. I fear the day is not far distant when it will be offered to us.”
The queen turned her back to De Charny with an impatient gesture, and went to a window and placed her pale though burning face against a pane of glass. This window looked into the marble courtyard.
She had scarcely done this when she was seen to start.
“Andrée!” cried she, “come here and see who is this horseman coming towards us; he appears to be the bearer of very urgent news.”
Andrée went to the window, but almost immediately recoiled a step from it, turning very pale.
“Ah, Madame!” cried she, in a tone of reproach.
De Charny hastened towards the window; he had minutely observed all that had passed.
“That horseman,” said he, looking alternately at the queen and at Andrée, “is Doctor Gilbert.”
“Ah, that is true,” said the queen; and in a tone which rendered it impossible, even to Andrée, to judge whether the queen had drawn her to the window in one of those fits of feminine vengeance to which poor Marie Antoinette sometimes gave way, or whether her eyes, weakened by watching and the tears she had shed, could no longer recognize, at a certain distance, even those whom it was her interest to recognize.
An ice-like silence immediately ensued; and the three principal characters in this scene interrogated and replied to one another merely by looks.
It was in fact Gilbert who was coming, bringing with him the untoward news which De Charny had predicted.
Although he had hurriedly alighted from his horse, although he had rapidly ascended the staircase, although the three agitated faces of the queen, Andrée, and De Charny were turned towards the door which led to this staircase, and by which the doctor ought to have entered the room, this door did not open.
There was, then, on the part of these three persons an anxious suspense of some minutes.
Suddenly, a door on the opposite side of the room was opened, and an officer came in.
“Madame,” said he, “Doctor Gilbert, who has come for the purpose of conversing with the king on important and urgent matters, demands to have the honor of being received by your Majesty, the king having set out for Meudon an hour ago.”
“Let him come in!” said the queen, fixing on the door a look which was firm even to harshness; while Andrée, as if naturally she sought to find a supporter in her husband, drew back and supported herself on the count's arm.
Gilbert soon made his appearance on the threshold of the door.
