Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  "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?"

  "Perfectly."

  "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.

  It did not escape the queen.

  "Countess," said she, "will you not return to the king's apartment with me?"

  "No, Madame, no," replied Andrée, quickly.

  "And why not?"

  "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.

  The king entered.

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  Chapter XXX

  A King and a Queen

  THE queen, after glancing round, exchanged friendly greetings with the king, who gave her his hand.

  "To what good chance," asked Marie Antoinette, "do I owe this visit?"

  "Really to chance; you have spoken correctly, Madame. I have just met De Charny, who said he was commissioned by you to go and tell all our warriors to keep themselves quiet. It affords me much pleasure that you have taken so wise a resolution, and I was unwilling to pass your apartment without thanking you."

  "Yes," said the queen, "I have in fact reconsidered the matter, and have come to the conclusion that it is decidedly the best course to leave the troops at rest, and thus to afford no pretext for intestine war."

  "Good! that is right!" said the king. "I am delighted to find you of that opinion. I knew very well that I should bring you over to it at last."

  "Your Majesty sees that you have gained your object without much trouble; since, uninfluenced by you, I have formed my decision."


  "Well done! that is a proof that you are almost reasonable, and when I have communicated to you some of my reflections, you will be so altogether."

  "But if we are of the same opinion, Sire, to impart to me these reflections would be useless."

  "Oh, calm yourself, Madame! I have no wish to enter upon discussion; you know well that I like it no more than you do. This will be a conversation. Come, now; are you not glad to talk with me occasionally about the affairs of France, as a good wife does with her spouse about domestic matters?"

  These last words were uttered with that perfect good-nature which Louis XVI. invariably manifested towards his familiar friends.

  "Oh, Sire," answered the queen, "I am always happy to do so; but is the time well chosen?"

  "I believe that it is. You desire that there should be no hostile demonstration. Did you not this moment say so?"

  "I did."

  "But you have not explained to me your reason."

  "You did not ask me."

  "Well, I now ask you."

  "Impotence!"

  "Ah! that is the reason, is it? If you thought yourself the stronger, you would make war."

  "If I thought that I was the stronger, I should burn Paris."

  "Oh, I was certain that your motives for not wishing war were not the same as mine."

  "Well, let us hear yours."

  " Mine?" asked the king. "Yes," answered Marie Antoinette, "yours."

  "I have but one."

  "Mention it."

  "Oh, that is soon done! I do not wish to enter into war with the people, because I find that the people are right."

  Marie Antoinette made a gesture of surprise.

  "Right!" she exclaimed, "the people right in rebelling!"

  "Certainly."

  "Right in storming the Bastille, in killing the governor, in murdering the provost of the merchants, in exterminating your soldiers?"

  "Yes, by Heaven, they were!"

  "Oh," exclaimed the queen, "these are your reflections, and it was such reflections as these that you wished me to hear!"

  "I have told you them as they occurred to me."

  "At dinner?"

  "Good!" said the king, "we are about to fall back on the subject of nourishment. You cannot pardon me for eating. You would have me poetic and ethereal. What do you wish! In my family we eat. Not only did Henry IV. eat, but he was also a hard drinker; the great and poetic Louis XIV. eat enough to make one blush; King Louis XV., to make sure of good eating and drinking, baked his biscuits with his own royal hands, and had his coffee made by Madame Dubarry. As for me, what would you have? When I am hungry, I cannot resist my appetite; I am compelled to follow the example of my ancestors, Louis XV., Louis XIV., and Henry IV. If this is a constitutional necessity, pray be lenient with me; if it is a fault, forgive me."

  "But, Sire, you must confess—"

  "That I ought not to eat when I am hungry; no," said the king, tranquilly shaking his head.

  "I am not talking of that: I speak of the people."

  "Ah!"

  "You must confess that the people have been in the wrong."

  "In rebelling? Not at all. Come, let us review all our ministers. Since we began to reign, how many have really concerned themselves about the welfare of the people? Two,—Turgot and Monsieur de Necker. You and your coterie have banished them. For one of these gentlemen the people have raised a tumult; for the other they will perhaps raise a revolution. Let us speak a little of the others! Ah! they are charming fellows, are they not? Monsieur de Maurepas, that creature of my aunts, a song-writer! It is not the ministers who should sing, it is the people. Monsieur de Calonne? That epigrammatic answer he made you was admirable, I know well,—a sentence that will live. Once when you asked him for something,—I forget what,—he gallantly replied: 'If it is possible, it is done: if it is impossible, it shall be done.' That epigram cost the people to the tune of a hundred millions. You should not be astonished, therefore, if they find it a little less witty than you do. In truth,—pray understand me, Madame,—if I retain all those who fleece the people, and dismiss all those who love them, it will not be the best means of tranquillizing them and of making them more attached to our government."

  "Good! Then insurrection is a right. Proclaim this principle from the house-tops. In truth I am glad that it is to me alone that you have communicated such ideas. If others heard you!"

  "Oh, yes, yes!" replied the king; "you tell me nothing new. Yes, I know well that if Polignac, Dreux-Brézé, Clermont-Tonnerre, and Coigny heard me, they would shrug their shoulders behind me,—I know it well; but in reality they pity me after a very different fashion. That Polignac, to whom one fine morning you made over the county of Fénestrange, which cost you twelve hundred thousand livres; Sartine, to whom I have already given a pension of eighty-nine thousand livres, and who has just received from you two hundred thousand livres ostensibly as a stipendiary fund; the prince of Deux-Ponts, to whom you compelled me to grant nine hundred and fortyfive thousand livres to clear off his debts; Marie de Laval and Madame de Magneville, who each finger a pension of eighty thousand livres; Coigny, who is loaded with all sorts of pensions, and who once, when I thought of making some reduction in his appointments, hedged me in between two doors, and would have beaten me, I believe, if I had not consented to give him all that he wished,—all these people are your friends, are they not? Well, speak about them. But this much I will say, and I know you will not believe it, because it is the truth; if instead of being at court, these friends of yours had been in the Bastille, the people would have fortified the place instead of demolishing it."

  "Oh!" exclaimed the queen, with a gesture of anger she was unable to suppress.

  "You may say what you please, but that is the case," said Louis, tranquilly.

  "Oh, your beloved people! Ah, well! they will not have occasion much longer to hate my friends, for they are going into exile."

  "They are going away!" exclaimed the king.

  "Yes, they are going away."

  "Polignac? the women?"

  "Yes."

  "So much the better," exclaimed the king, "so much the better! God be praised!"

  "How so much the better? How God be praised? Are you not sorry?"

  "No, indeed; far from it. Do they need money to take them away? I will give it them. That money at least will not be ill employed, I will warrant. I wish you a pleasant journey, gentlemen; and you also, ladies," said the king, all radiant.

  "Yes," said the queen, "I can understand that you like cowardice."

  "Well, let us understand each other; you are doing them justice at last."

  "They are not dismissed; they are deserting."

  "No matter, so that they take themselves off!"

  "And to think that it is your family who have advised such despicable conduct!"

  "My family advised your favorites to go away! I never gave my family credit for so much sense. And tell me which members of my family have done me this service, that I may thank them."

  "Your aunt Adelaide; your brother D'Artois."

  "My brother D'Artois! Do you believe he will follow the advice he gives? Do you think that he also will go away?"

  "Why not?" exclaimed Marie Antoinette, trying to vex the king.

  "Heaven grant it!" exclaimed Louis; "let Monsieur d'Artois take his departure; I should say to him what I have said to the others: A good journey to you, brother d'Artois! I wish you a very pleasant journey!"

  "Ah! your brother!" exclaimed Marie Antoinette. "True; but what quality has he to make his presence desirable? A good little fellow enough, who lacks neither wit nor courage, I grant you; but who has no brains; who acts the French prince like a fop of the time of Louis XII.,—a blundering blockhead, who has compromised even you, the wife of Cæsar."

  "Cæsar!" muttered the queen, with cutting irony.

  "Or Claudius, if you like it better," answered the king; "for you know, Madame, that Claudius, as well as Nero, was a Cæsar."
>
  The queen looked down. This historical coolness confused her not a little.

  "Claudius," continued the king,—"since you prefer the name of Claudius to that of Cæsar,—Claudius was obliged one evening, as you are aware, to shut the gate of Versailles, in order to give you a lesson when you stayed out too late. It was Monsieur d'Artois who got you that lesson. I shall not miss, therefore, the Count d'Artois. As for my aunt, ah, well! we know what we know about her. She is another who deserves to be enrolled in the family of the Cæsars. But I say no more; she is my aunt. Let her go in peace; I shall not miss her a whit more than I shall the others. Then, there is Monsieur de Provence; do you think I should feel sorry at his leaving? A good journey to him!"

  "Oh, he does not speak of going!"

  "So much the worse! You see, my dear, Monsieur de Provence knows Latin too well for me. I am obliged to speak English to be even with him. It was Monsieur de Provence who put Beaumarchais on our shoulders, thrusting him in at Bicêtre, For-Lévêque and I know not where, on his own private authority, and a fine return has been made us for all this by this same Monsieur de Beaumarchais. Ah, Monsieur de Provence will remain, will he? So much the worse, so much the worse! There is one thing of which I should like you to be aware, Madame, and it is this,—in your whole household, I know but one honest man, Monsieur de Charny."

  The queen blushed and turned away.

  "We were talking about the Bastille," continued the king, after a short silence, "and you were lamenting that it was taken."

  "Be seated at least, Sire," replied the queen, "since it would appear that you have still many things to tell me."

  "No, thank you, I like better to walk while speaking; by thus walking, I attend to my health, about which nobody else seems to take the slightest concern; for though my appetite is good, my digestion is bad. Do you know what they are saying at this moment? They are saying: 'The king has supped; the king sleeps.' Now you see how I sleep,—bolt upright, trying to aid my digestion while I talk on politics with my wife. Ah, Madame, I am expiating,—expiating!"

  "Expiating what, if you please?"