Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  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?"

  "I have meditated."

  "Upon yourself?"

  "Yes, upon myself, Madame."

  "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!'"

  "Really—you speak of God?"

  "Yes."

  "You?"

  "Why not?"

  "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?"

  "No, Madame, I remain."

  "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."

  "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 slu
mber, 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?"

  "But—"

  "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."

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  Chapter III

  The Council

  THE king entered the room quickly and heavily, as was his custom. He had a busy, inquisitive air, that contrasted strangely with the icy rigidity of the queen's demeanor.

  The fresh complexion of the king had not abandoned him. Having risen early, and feeling quite proud of the sound health he enjoyed by inhaling the morning air, he was breathing noisily, and stepped out vigorously on the floor.

  "The doctor," said he,—"what has become of the doctor?"

  "Good-morning, Sire. How do you do this morning? Do you feel much fatigued?"

  "I have slept six hours: that is my allowance. I am very well. My mind is clear. You look rather pale, Madame. I was told that you had sent for the doctor."

  "Here is Doctor Gilbert," said the queen, stepping from before the recess of a window, in which the doctor had concealed himself till that moment.

  The king's brow at once cleared up. Then:—

  "Ah! I forgot," said he. "You sent for the doctor. Have you been unwell?"

  The queen blushed.

  "You blush!" exclaimed Louis XVI.

  She turned crimson.

  "Another secret," said the king.

  What secret, Sire?" exclaimed the queen haughtily.

  "You do not understand me. I tell you that you, who have your own favorite physicians,—you would not have sent for Doctor Gilbert, unless you felt the desire, which I know—"

  "What desire?"

  "You always have to conceal your sufferings from me."

  "Ah!" exclaimed the queen, regaining courage.

  "Yes," continued Louis XVI., "but take good care. Monsieur Gilbert is one of my confidential friends; and if you tell him anything he will be sure to tell it me."

  Gilbert smiled.

  "As for that, no, Sire," said he.

  "Well, then, the queen is corrupting my people!"

  Marie Antoinette gave one of those little stifled laughs which imply merely a wish to interrupt a conversation, or that the conversation is very tedious.

  Gilbert understood her; but the king did not.

  "Let us see, doctor," said he; "as it seems to amuse the queen, tell me what she has been saying to you."

  "I was asking the doctor," said Marie Antoinette, in her turn, "why you had sent for him so early. I must, indeed, confess that his presence at Versailles, at so unusual an hour perplexes me and makes me uneasy."

  "I was waiting for the doctor," replied the king, looking gloomy, "to speak on politics with him."

  "Ah! very well," said the queen.

  And she seated herself as if to listen.

  "Come, Doctor," rejoined the king, taking a step towards the door.

  Gilbert made a profound bow to the queen, and was about to follow Louis XVI.

  "Where are you going?" exclaimed the queen. "What! are you going to leave me?"

  "We are not going to talk on gay subjects, Madame. It would be as well for us to spare you so much care."

  "Do you call my sorrow care?" exclaimed the queen, majestically.

  "A still better reason for doing so
, my dear."

  "Remain here; I wish it," said she. "Monsieur Gilbert, I imagine you will not disobey me."

  "Monsieur Gilbert I Monsieur Gilbert!" exclaimed the king, much vexed.

  "Well, then, what is the matter?"

  "Why, Monsieur Gilbert, who was to give me some advice, who was to talk freely to me according to his conscience,—Monsieur Gilbert will now no longer do so."

  "And why not?" exclaimed the queen.

  "Because you will be present, Madame."

  Gilbert made a sort of gesture, to which the queen immediately attributed some important meaning.

  "In what manner," said she, to second it, "will Monsieur Gilbert risk displeasing me, if he speaks according to his conscience?"

  "It is easily understood, Madame," said the king. "You have a political system of your own. It is not always ours; so that—"

  "So that Monsieur Gilbert, you clearly say, differs essentially from me in my line of politics."

  "That must be the case, Madame," replied Gilbert, "judging from the ideas which your Majesty knows me to entertain. Only your Majesty may rest assured that I shall tell the truth as freely in your presence as to the king alone."

  "Ah! that is already something," exclaimed Marie Antoinette.

  "The truth is not always agreeable," hastily murmured Louis XVI.

  "But if it is useful?" observed Gilbert.

  "Or even uttered with good intention," added the queen.

  "In that view of the case, I agree with you," interposed Louis XVI. "But if you were wise, Madame, you would leave the doctor entire freedom of speech, and which I need—"

  "Sire," replied' Gilbert, "since the queen herself calls for the truth, and as I know her Majesty's mind is sufficiently noble and powerful not to fear it, I prefer to speak in presence of both my sovereigns."