O holy friendship, thou sacred chain which can link together the hearts of even a sovereign and her subject in indissoluble bonds! O holy friendship, thou engenderest more heroism than even love or ambition, those two noble maladies of the human heart! But thou canst not brook deceit. The queen at once shattered to atoms the adored altar she had raised to thee in her heart; she required but a look, one only look, to reveal to her that which during ten years she had not perceived, she had not even surmised,—coldness and interested calculation, excusable, justifiable, legitimate perhaps; but what can excuse, justify, or legitimize, in the eyes of one who still fondly loves, the abandonment of the one who has ceased to love?
Marie Antoinette’s only revenge for the pain which was thus inflicted on her, was the icy coldness with which she gazed upon her friend.
“Ah, Duchess Diana! this, then, is your opinion?” cried she, compressing with her feverish hand the agitated pulsation of her heart.
“Alas! Madame,” answered the latter, “it is not my choice, it is not my will which dictates to me what I am to do: it is the law of destiny!”
“Yes, Duchess,” said Marie Antoinette. And turning to the Countess Jules: “And you, Countess: what say you to this?”
The countess replied by a burning tear, as if from a pang of remorse; but she had exhausted all her strength in the effort she had made.
“Well,” said the queen, “well, it is gratifying to my feelings to see how much I am beloved. Thank you, my dear Countess; yes, you incur great danger here; the anger of the people no longer knows any bounds; yes, you are all in the right, and I alone was foolish. You ask to remain,—that is pure devotedness; but I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”
The Countess Jules raised her beautiful eyes and looked at the queen. But the queen, instead of reading the devotedness of a friend in them, could only perceive the weakness of the woman.
“Thus, Duchess,” replied the queen, “you are resolved to leave me.” And she emphasized the word “you.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Doubtless for some one of your estates—a distant—a very distant one?”
“Madame, in going away, in leaving you, it would be as painful to travel fifty leagues as one hundred and fifty.”
“But do you, then, intend to go abroad?”
“Alas, yes, Madame!”
A suppressed sigh tore the very depths of the queen’s heart, but it did not escape her lips.
“And where are you going?”
“To reside on the banks of the Rhine, Madame.”
“Well, you speak German, Duchess,” said the queen, with a look of indescribable sadness, “and it was I who taught it you. The friendship of your queen will at least have been useful to you to that extent, and I rejoice at it.”
Then, turning to the Countess Jules:—
“I do not wish to dismiss you, my dear Countess,” said she. “You desire to remain here, and I deeply appreciate that desire. But I—I, who fear for you-I insist on your departure; I order you to leave me.”
And having said these words, she suddenly stopped, overcome by emotions which, in spite of her heroism, she would perhaps not have had the power to control, had not she heard at that moment the voice of the king who had taken no part whatever in what we have just been relating.
The king was at his dessert.
“Madame,” said the king, “there is somebody in your apartment; they are seeking you.”
“But, Sire,” exclaimed the queen, throwing aside every other feeling but that of royal dignity, “in the first place, you have orders to give! Only three persons remain here; but they are those with whom you have to deal: Monsieur de Lambesq, Monsieur de Besenval, and Monsieur de Broglie. Give your orders, Sire; give your orders.”
The king raised his heavy eyes and appeared to hesitate.
“What do you think of all this, Monsieur de Broglie?” said he.
“Sire,” replied the old marshal, “if you withdraw your army from the sight of the Parisians, it will be said that it was beaten by them. If you leave it in their presence, your army must beat them.”