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.
He pitied Andrée.
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.