The queen made a step to withdraw, but a suspicion was gnawing at her heart.
She stopped, and half turning her head:—
“And—the countess,” she inquired, “what has be come of her?”
“The countess, Madame, came in about ten minutes since; and she has ordered a bed to be prepared for her in your Majesty’s antechamber.”
The queen bit her lips.
Whenever she had occasion to make inquiry with regard to any of the De Charny family, she was always sure to find that they were rigidly attending to their duties, be they what they might.
“Thanks, sir,” said the queen, with a charming gesture of the head and hand at the same time, “thanks for your watching so carefully over the queen. You will, in my name, thank your brother for watching over the king so carefully.”
And after saying this, she went to her own room. In the antechamber she found Andrée, not lying down, but still sitting up and respectfully awaiting her return.
She could not prevent herself from holding out her hand to her.
“I have just been thanking your brother-in-law, George, Countess,” she said, “and I told him to thank your husband; and I now thank you, in turn.”
Andrée made a low courtesy, and stood aside to allow the queen to pass, who then went into her bedroom.
The queen did not tell her to follow her. This devotedness, from which she felt affection was withdrawn, and which, however icy cold it might be, she knew would exist till death, weighed heavily upon her feelings.
As we have before said, at three in the morning everything was quiet in the palace at Versailles.
Gilbert had left it with Monsieur de Lafayette, who had been on horseback for twelve hours, and who was so much fatigued that he could scarcely stand. On leaving the palace, he met Billot, who had accompanied the National Guards. He had seen Gilbert set off; he had thought that Gilbert might have occasion for him at Versailles, and he had therefore followed him like the dog who runs to rejoin his master who had left the house without him.
At three o’clock all was tranquil at Versailles. The Assembly, reassured by the report of its officers, had retired. It was believed that this tranquillity would not be troubled. This belief was ill-founded.
In almost all popular movements which prepare the way for great revolutions, there is a period of stagnation, during which it seems as if everything was finished, and the world might sleep in peace. These appearances are deceptive.
Behind the men who make the first movements there are others who wait till the first movements are over, when those who have taken the first steps rest themselves, either from fatigue or satisfaction, not wishing, either in one case or the other, to take a step farther.
Then it is that these unknown men take their turn,—these mysterious agents of fatal passions,—gliding through the darkness, taking up the cause where it has been abandoned, pushing it to the utmost limits, and appalling, in the outburst, those who have opened the way, and who, believing the end attained, the task accomplished, have retreated to their couches in the very middle of the race.
During this terrible night, very different effects had been produced by the arrival of two troops who had arrived at Versailles,—the one in the evening, the other during the night.
The first had come because it was hungry, and it asked for bread.
The second had come from hatred, and asked for vengeance.
We know who it was led on the first,—Maillard and Lafayette.
But now who was it that led on the second? History mentions not their names; but as history has failed in this, tradition names—
MARAT.
We already know him; we have seen him at the fetes given at the marriage of Marie Antoinette, cutting off legs and arms on the Place Louis XV.; we have seen him in the square before the Hôtel de Ville, urging on the citizens.
At length we see him gliding along in the night, like those wolves who prowl along the sheepfolds, waiting until the shepherds shall be asleep, To venture on thier sanguinary work.