“Conclude,” said the king.
“But I thought that I had concluded, Sire.”
“They will kill me?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well?”
“And my children!” exclaimed the queen.
Gilbert thought it time that he should interfere.
“Madame,” said he, “the king will be so much respected at Paris, and his presence will cause such transports, that if I have a fear, it is not for the king, but for those fanatics who will throw themselves to be crushed beneath his horse’s feet, like the Indian Fakirs beneath the car of their idol.”
“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.”