The king stepped forward to meet her.
“You were just going out, Countess, I was told.”
“In truth, Sire,” replied the countess, “I was on the point of stepping into my carriage when I received your Majesty’s order.”
On hearing this firm-toned voice, the ears of Gilbert were suddenly assailed as with a rushing sound. The blood instantly suffused his cheeks, and a thousand shudders appeared to thrill through his whole system.
Despite himself, he made a step from the curtain, behind which he had secreted himself.
“She!” stammered he; “she—Andrée—”
“Madame,” continued the king, who, as well as the countess, had not observed the emotion of Gilbert, who was hidden in the shade, “I requested you to visit me, for the purpose of obtaining some information from you.”
“I am ready to comply with your Majesty’s wishes.”
The king leaned in the direction of Gilbert as if to warn him.
The latter, perceiving that the moment to show himself had not yet arrived, gradually withdrew himself again behind the curtain.
“Madame,” said the king, “it is now eight or ten days since a warrant of imprisonment was requested of Monsieur de Necker—”
Gilbert, through the almost imperceptible opening between the curtains, fastened his gaze upon Andrée. The young woman was pale, feverish, and anxious, and appeared borne down by the weight of a secret prepossession, for which even she herself could not account.
“You hear me, do you not, Countess?” asked Louis XVI., seeing that Madame de Charny hesitated before answering.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well, do you understand me, and can you answer my question?”
“I am endeavoring to remember,” said Andrée.
“Permit me to assist your memory, Countess. The warrant of imprisonment was demanded by you, and the demand was countersigned by the queen.”
The countess, instead of answering, appeared to abandon herself more and more to that feverish abstraction which seemed to lead her beyond the limits of real life.
“But answer me, then, Madame,” said the king, who began to grow impatient.
“It is true,” said she, trembling, “it is true. I wrote the letter, and her Majesty, the queen, countersigned it.”
“Then,” asked Louis, “tell me the crime which had been committed by the person against whom such a document was required.”
“Sire,” said Andrée, “I cannot tell you what crime he had committed; but what I can tell you is, that the crime was great.”
“Oh, can you not confide that even to me?”
“No, Sire.”
“Not to the king?”
“No. I hope your Majesty will forgive me; but I cannot.”
“Then you shall tell it to him in person, Madame,” said the king;” for what you have refused to King Louis XVI., you cannot refuse to Doctor Gilbert.”
“To Doctor Gilbert!” exclaimed Andrée. “Great God! where is he then?”
The king stepped aside to allow Gilbert to advance; the curtains were thrown apart, and the doctor appeared, almost as pale as Andrée.
“Here he is, Madame,” said he.
At the sight of Gilbert, the countess staggered. Her limbs shook beneath her. She fell backwards, as does a person who is about to faint, and only maintained a standing position with the assistance of an arm-chair, on which she leaned in the sorrowful, motionless, and almost unconscious attitude of Eurydice at the moment when the serpent’s venom reaches her heart.
“Madame,” said Gilbert, bowing to her with mock politeness, “allow me to repeat the question which has just been put to you by his Majesty.”
The lips of Andrée could be seen to move, but no sound issued from them.
“What offence had I committed, Madame, that an order from you should have caused me to be thrown into a loathsome dungeon?”
On hearing this voice, Andrée bounded as if she had felt the tearing asunder of the fibres of her heart.
Then, on a sudden, casting upon Gilbert an icy look, like that of a serpent:—
“Me, sir?” said she. “I do not know you.”
But while she pronounced these words, Gilbert, on his side, had looked at her with such intentness, he had loaded the brightness of his gaze with so much invincible audacity, that the countess cast down her eyes, completely overpowered.
“Countess,” said the king, in a mild tone of reproach, “see where the abuse of a signature may lead you. Here is a gentleman whom you do not know, and you yourself confess it; a man who is a great practitioner, a profound physician, a man who can be reproached for nothing.”