When he arrived at the Hall of the Œil-de-Bœuf, he was stopped by one of the body-guards. Gilbert drew from his pocket the letter of Monsieur de Necker, whose signature he showed.
The guard cast his eyes over it. The instructions he had received were very strict; and as the strictest instructions are precisely those which most need to be interpreted, the guard said to Gilbert:—
“The order, sir, to allow no one to visit the king is positive; but as the case of a person sent by Monsieur de Necker was evidently not foreseen, and as, according to all probability, you are the bearer of important information to his Majesty, go in. I will take the responsibility upon myself.”
Gilbert entered.
The king was not in his apartments, but in the council-room. He was just receiving a deputation from the National Guard of Paris, which had come to request the dismissal of the troops, the formation of a guard of citizens, and his presence in the capital.
Louis had listened coldly; then he had replied that the situation of affairs required investigation; and that, moreover, he was about to deliberate on the subject with his council.
And, accordingly, he deliberated.
During this time the deputies were waiting in the gallery; and through the ground-glass windows of the doors they could observe the shadows of the royal councillors and the threatening attitude which they assumed.
By the study of this species of phantasmagoria they could foresee that the answer would be unfavorable.
In fact, the king contented himself with saying that he would appoint some officers for the national militia, and would order the troops at the Champ-de-Mars to fall back.
As to his presence in Paris, he would only show this favor when the rebellious city had completely submitted.
The deputation begged, insisted, and conjured. The king replied that his heart was grieved, but that he could do nothing more.
And satisfied with this momentary triumph and this manifestation of a power which he no longer possessed, the king returned to his apartment.
He there found Gilbert. The guard was standing near him.
“What is wanted of me?” asked the king.
The body-guard approached him, and while he was apologizing to the king for having disobeyed his orders, Gilbert, who for many years had not seen the king, was silently examining the man whom God had given to France as her pilot during the most violent tempest the country had ever experienced.
That stout, short body, in which there was neither elasticity nor majesty; that inexpressive and low-formed brow; that pallid youthfulness contending against premature old age; the unequal struggle between a powerful physical organization, and a mediocre intelligence, to which the haughtiness of rank alone gave a fitful importance,—all these to the physiognomist who had studied with Lavater, to the magnetizer who had read the future with Balsamo, to the philosopher who had dreamed with Jean Jacques, to the traveller, in short, who had passed all the human races in review,—all these implied degeneracy, dwindling, impotence, and ruin.
Gilbert was therefore struck dumb, not from a feeling of respect, but from grief, while contemplating this mournful spectacle.
The king advanced towards him.
“It is you,” said he, “who bring me a letter from Monsieur de Necker?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Ah!” cried he, as if he had doubted it; “give it to me quickly.”
And he pronounced these words in the tone of a drowning man who cries, “A rope!”
Gilbert presented the letter to the king.
Louis immediately grasped it, read it hurriedly, then, with a gesture which was not altogether wanting in nobleness of manner:—
“Leave us, Monsieur de Varicourt,” said he to the body-guard.
Gilbert remained alone with the king. The room was lighted but by a single lamp. It might have been thought that the king had diminished the quantity of light, in order that no one should perceive on his wearied rather than careworn brow the anxious thoughts which crowded there.
“Sir,” said he, fixing upon Gilbert a clearer and more penetrating gaze than the latter would have thought him capable of,—”Sir, is it true that you are the author of the memoirs which have so much struck me?”