"Oh, sir, sir!" cried Marie Antoinette.
"This march to Paris will be a triumph, Madame."
"But, Sire, you do not reply."
"It is because I agree somewhat with the doctor, Madame."
"And you are impatient, are you not, to enjoy this great triumph?"
"And the king, in this case, would be right," said Gilbert, "for this impatience would be a further proof of the profoundly just discrimination with which his Majesty judges men and things. The more his Majesty shall hasten to accomplish this, the greater will his triumph be."
"Yes, you believe that, sir?"
"I am positive it will be so. For the king, by delaying it, would lose all the advantage to be derived from its spontaneousness. But reflect, Madame, reflect, that the initiative of this measure may proceed from another quarter, and such a request would change, in the eyes of the Parisians, the position of his Majesty, and would give him, in some measure, the appearance of acceding to an order."
"There, hear you that?" exclaimed the queen. "The doctor acknowledges it—they would order you. Oh, Sire, think of that."
"The doctor does not say that they have ordered, Madame."
"Patience—patience! only delay a little, Sire, and the request, or rather the order, will arrive."
Gilbert slightly compressed his lips with a feeling of vexation, which the queen instantly caught, although it was almost as evanescent as the lightning.
"What have I said?" murmured she. "Poor simpleton! I have been arguing against myself."
"And in what, Madame?" inquired the king.
"In this,—that by a delay I should make you lose the advantage of your initiative; and, nevertheless, I have to ask for a delay."
"Ah, Madame, ask everything, exact anything, excepting that."
"Antoinette," said the king, taking her hand, "you have sworn to ruin me."
"Oh, Sire!" exclaimed the queen, in a tone of reproach, which revealed all the anguish of her heart. "And can you speak thus to me?"
"Why, then, do you attempt to delay this journey?" asked the king.
"Consider truly, Madame, that under such circumstances the fitting moment is everything; reflect on the importance of the hours which are flying past us at such a period, when an enraged and furious people are counting them anxiously as they strike."
"Not to-day, Monsieur Gilbert; to-morrow, Sire, oh, to-morrow! Grant me till to-morrow, and I swear to you I will no longer oppose this journey."
"A day lost," murmured the king.
"Twenty-four long hours," said Gilbert; "reflect on that, Madame."
"Sire, it must be so," rejoined the queen, in a supplicating tone.
"A reason—a reason!" cried the king.
"None, but my despair, Sire; none, but my tears; none, but my entreaties."
"But between this and to-morrow what may happen? Who can tell this?" said the king, completely overcome by seeing the queen's despair.
"And what is there that could happen?" said the queen, at the same time looking at Gilbert with an air of entreaty.
"Oh," said Gilbert, "out yonder—nothing yet. A hope, were it even as vague as a cloud, would suffice to make them wait patiently till to-morrow; but—"
"But it is here, is it not?" said the king.
"Yes, Sire, it is here that we have to apprehend."
"It is the Assembly?"
Gilbert gave an affirmative nod.
"The Assembly," continued the king, "with such men as Monsieur Monnier, Monsieur Mirabeau, and Monsieur Siéyès, is capable of sending me some address which would deprive me of all the advantage of my good intentions."
"Well, then," exclaimed the queen, with gloomy fury, "so much the better, because you would then refuse—because then you would maintain your dignity as a king—because then you would not go to Paris, and if we must here sustain a war, well, here will we sustain it—because, if we must die, we will die here, but as illustrious and unshrinking monarchs, which we are, as kings, as masters, as Christians who put their trust in God, from whom we hold the crown."
On perceiving this feverish excitement of the queen, Louis XVI. saw that there was nothing to be done but to yield to it.
He made a sign to Gilbert, and advancing to Marie Antoinette, whose hand he took:—
"Tranquillize yourself, Madame," said he to her; "all shall be done as you desire. You know, my dear wife, that I would not do anything which would be displeasing to you, for I have the most unbounded affection for a woman of your merit, and above all, of your virtue."
And Louis XVI. accentuated these last words with inexpressible nobleness; thus exalting with all his power the so-much calumniated queen, and that in the presence of a witness capable, should it be requisite, of properly reporting all he had heard and seen.
This delicacy profoundly moved Marie Antoinette, who, grasping with both hands the hand which the king held out to her, said:—
"Well, then, only till to-morrow, Sire, no later; that shall be the last delay; but I ask you that as a favor on my knees. To-morrow, at the hour which may please you, I swear to you, you shall set out for Paris."
"Take care, Madame, the doctor is a witness," said the king, smiling.
"Sire, you have never known me to forfeit my word," replied the queen.
"No; but there is only one thing I acknowledge—"
"What is that?"
"It is, that I am anxious, resigned as you appear to be, to know why you have asked me for this delay of twenty-four hours. Do you expect some news from Paris,—some intelligence from Germany? Is there anything—"
"Do not question me, Sire."
The king was as inquisitive as Figaro was lazy; anything that excited his curiosity delighted him.
"Is there any question as to the arrival of troops,—of a reinforcement,—of any political combination?"
"Sire, Sire!" murmured the queen, in a reproachful tone.
"Is it a question of—"
"There is no question in the matter," replied the queen.
"Then it is a secret?"
"Well, then, yes! the secret of an anxious woman, that is all."
"A caprice, is it not?"
"Caprice, if you will."
"The supreme law."
"That is true. Why does it not exist in politics as in philosophy? Why are kings not permitted to make their political caprices supreme laws?"
"It will come to that, you may rest assured. As to myself, it is already done," said the king, in a jocose tone. "Therefore, till to-morrow."
"Till to-morrow!" sorrowfully rejoined the queen.
"Do you keep the doctor with you?" asked the king.
"Oh, no, no!" cried the queen, with a sort of eagerness which made Gilbert smile.
"I will take him with me, then."
Gilbert bowed a third time to the Queen Marie Antoinette, who this time returned his salutation more as a woman than a queen.
Then, as the king was going towards the door, he followed the king.
"It appears to me," said the king, as they proceeded along the gallery, "that you are on good terms with the queen, Monsieur Gilbert."
"Sire," replied the doctor, "it is a favor for which I am indebted to your Majesty."
"Long live the king!" cried the courtiers who already thronged the antechambers.
"Long live the king!" repeated a crowd of officers and foreign soldiers in the courtyard, who were eagerly hastening towards the palace doors.
These acclamations, which became louder as the crowd increased, gave greater delight to the heart of Louis XVI. than any he had before received, although he had so frequently been greeted in the same manner.
As to the queen, still seated where the king had left her, near the window, and where she had just passed such agonizing moments, when she heard the cries of devotedness and love which welcomed the king as he passed by, and which gradually died away in the distance under the porticos, or beneath the thickets of the park:—
"Long live the king!"
cried she; "yes, long live the king! The king will live, and that in despite of thee, infamous Paris! Thou odious gulf, thou sanguinary abyss, thou shalt not swallow up this victim! I will drag him from thee, and that with this little, this weak arm. It threatens thee at this moment,—it devotes thee to the execration of the world and to the vengeance of God!"
And pronouncing these words with a violence of hatred which would have terrified the most furious friends of the Revolution, could they have seen and heard her, the queen stretched forth towards Paris her weak arm, which shone from beneath the lace which surrounded it, like a sword starting from its scabbard.
Then she called Madame Campan, the lady-in-waiting in whom she placed the most confidence, and shutting herself up with her in her cabinet, ordered that no one should be admitted to her presence.
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Chapter V
The Shirt of Mail
THE following morning the sun rose brilliant and pure as on the preceding day. Its bright rays gilded the marble and the gravel walks of Versailles. The birds, grouped in thousands on the first trees of the park, saluted, with their deafening songs, the new and balmy day of joy thus promised to their love.
The queen had risen at five o'clock. She had given orders that the king should be requested to go to her apartment as soon as he should wake.
Louis XVI., somewhat fatigued from having received a deputation of the Assembly, which had come to the palace the preceding evening, and to which he had been obliged to reply,—this was the commencement of speechmaking,—Louis XVI. had slept somewhat later than usual to recover from his fatigue, and that it might not be said that he was not as vigorous as ever.
Therefore, he was scarcely dressed when the queen's message was delivered to him; he was at that moment putting on his sword. He slightly knit his brow.
"What!" said he, "is the queen already up?"
"Oh, a long time ago, Sire."
"Is she again ill?"
"No, Sire."
"And what can the queen want at so early an hour in the morning?"
"Her Majesty did not say."
The king took his first breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of soup and a little wine, and then went to the queen's apartment.
He found the queen full dressed, as for a ceremonious reception, beautiful, pale, imposing. She welcomed her husband with that cold smile which shone like a winter's sun upon the cheeks of the queen, as when in the grand receptions at court it was necessary she should cast some rays upon the crowd.
The king could not comprehend the sorrow which pervaded that smile and look. He was already preparing himself for one thing; that is to say, the resistance of Marie Antoinette to the project which had been proposed the day before.
"Again some new caprice," thought he.
And this was the reason for his frowning. The queen did not fail, by the first words she uttered, to strengthen this opinion.
"Sire," said she, "since yesterday I have been reflecting much—"
"There now! now it is coming!" cried the king.
"Dismiss, if you please, all who are not our intimate friends," said the queen.
The king, though much annoyed, ordered his officers to leave the room. One only of the queen's women remained; it was Madame Campan.
Then the queen, laying both her beautiful hands on the king's arm, said to him:—
"Why, are you dressed already? That is wrong."
"How wrong? and why?"
"Did I not send word to you not to dress yourself until you had been here? I see you have already your coat on and your sword. I had hoped you would have come in your dressing-gown."
The king looked at her, much surprised. This fantasy of the queen awakened in his mind a crowd of strange ideas, the novelty of which only rendered the improbability still stronger. His first gesture was one of mistrust and uneasiness.
"What is it that you wish?" said he. "Do you pretend to retard or prevent that which we had yesterday agreed upon?"
"In no way, Sire."
"Let me entreat you not to jest on a matter of so serious a nature. I ought and I will go to Paris. I can no longer avoid it. My household troops are prepared. The persons who are to accompany me were summoned last night to be ready."
"Sire, I have no pretensions of that nature, but—"
"Reflect," said the king, working himself up by degrees to gain courage,—"reflect that the intelligence of my intended journey must have already reached the Parisians; that they have prepared themselves; that they are expecting me; that the very favorable feelings, as was predicted to us, that this journey has excited in the public mind, may be changed into dangerous hostility. Reflect, in fine—"
"But, Sire, I do not at all contest what you have done me the honor to say to me. I resigned myself to it yesterday; this morning I am still resigned."
"Then, Madame; why all this preamble?"
"I do not make any."
"Pardon me, pardon me! then why all these questions regarding my dress, my projects?"
"As to your dress, that I admit," answered the queen, endeavoring again to smile; but that smile, from so frequently fading away, became more and more funereal.
"What observation have you to make upon my dress?"
"I wish, Sire, that you would take off your coat."
"Do you not think it becoming? It is a silk coat, of a violet color. The Parisians are accustomed to see me dressed thus; they like to see me in this, with which moreover, the blue ribbon harmonizes well. You have often told me so yourself."
"I have, Sire, no objection to offer to the color of your coat."
"Well, then?"
"But to the lining."
"In truth, you puzzle me with that eternal smile. The lining—what jest—"
"Alas! I no longer jest."
"There! now you are feeling my waistcoat; does that displease you too? White taffeta and silver, the embroidery worked by your own hand,—it is one of my favorite waistcoats."
"I have nothing to say against the waistcoat, either."
"How singular you are! Is it, then, the frill or the embroidered cambric shirt that offends you? Why must I not appear in full dress when I am going to visit my good city of Paris?"
A bitter smile contracted the queen's lips,—the nether lip particularly, that which the "Austrian" was so much reproached for; it became thicker, and advanced as if it were swelled by all the venom of hatred and of anger.
"No," said she, "I do not reproach you for being so well dressed, Sire; but it is the lining,—the lining, I say again and again."
"The lining of my embroidered shirt! Ah, will you at least explain yourself?"
"Well, then, I will explain. The king, hated, considered an encumbrance, who is about to throw himself into the midst of seven hundred thousand Parisians, inebriated with their triumph and their revolutionary ideas,—the king is not a prince of the Middle Ages, and yet he ought to make his entry this day into Paris in a good iron cuirass, in a hemlet of good Milan steel; he should protect himself in such a way that no ball, no arrow, no stone, no knife, could reach his person."
"That is in fact true," said Louis XVI., pensively. "But, my good friend, as I do not call myself either Charles VIII., or Francis I., or even Henry IV.; as the monarchy of my day is one of velvet and of silk,—I shall go naked under my silken coat, or to speak more correctly, I shall go with a good mark at which they may aim their balls, for I wear the jewel of my orders just over my heart."
The queen uttered a stifled groan.
"Sire," said she, "we begin to understand each other. You shall see,—you shall see that your wife jests no longer."
She made a sign to Madame Campan, who had remained at the farther end of the room, and the latter took from a drawer of the queen's chiffonnier a wide oblong flat parcel, wrapped up in a silken cover.
"Sire," said the queen, "the heart of the king belongs, in the first place, to France,—that is true; but I fully believe that it belongs to his wife and ch
ildren. For my part, I will not consent that this heart should be exposed to the balls of the enemy; I have adopted measures to save from every danger my husband, my king, the father of my children."
While saying this, she unfolded the silk which covered it, and displayed a waistcoat of fine steel mail, crossed with such marvellous art that it might have been thought an Arabian watered stuff, so supple and elastic was its tissue, so admirable the play of its whole surface.
"What is that?" said the king.
"Look at it, Sire."
"A waistcoat, it appears to me."
"Why, yes, Sire."
"A waistcoat that closes up to the neck."
"With a small collar, intended, as you see, to line the collar of the waistcoat or the cravat."
The king took the waistcoat in his hands and examined it very minutely.
The queen, on observing this eagerness, was perfectly transported.
The king, on his part, appeared delighted, counting the rings of this fairy net which undulated beneath his fingers with all the flexibility of knitted wool.
"Why," exclaimed he, "this is admirable steel!"
"Is it not, Sire?"
"It is a perfect miracle of art."
"Is it not?"
"I really cannot imagine where you can have procured this."
I bought it last night, Sire, of a man who long since wished me to purchase it of him, in the event of your going out on a campaign."
"It is admirable! admirable!" repeated the king, examining it as an artist.
"And it will fit you as well as a waistcoat made by your tailor, Sire."
"Oh, do you believe that?"
"Try it on."
The king said not a word, but took off his violet-colored coat. The queen trembled with joy; she assisted Louis XVI. in taking off his orders, and Madame Campan the rest. The king, however, unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table.
If any one at that moment had contemplated the face of the queen, they would have seen it lit up by one of those triumphant smiles which supreme felicity alone bestows.
Ange Pitou (Volume 1) Page 43