“Well said!” exclaimed the queen, grasping the marshal’s hand.
“Well said!” cried Monsieur de Besenval.
The Prince de Lambesq was the only person present who shook his head.
“Well! and after that?” said the king.
“Command: march!” cried the old marshal.
“Yes—march!” cried the queen.
“Well, then, since you all wish it, march!” said the king.
At that moment a note was handed to the queen; its contents were as follows:—
“In the name of Heaven, Madame, no rashness! I await an audience of your Majesty.”
“His writing!” murmured the queen.
Then, turning round, she said in a low tone to the woman who had brought the note:—
“Is Monsieur de Charny in my room?”
“He has just arrived, completely covered with dust, and I even think with blood,” answered the confidant.
“One moment, gentlemen!” exclaimed the queen, to Monsieur de Besenval and Monsieur de Broglie; “wait for me here; I shall return!”
And she passed into her own apartment in great haste.
The king did not even move his head.
Chapter XXVII
Olivier de Charny
ON entering her dressing-room, the queen found the person there who had written the note brought by her waiting-woman.
He was a man thirty-five years of age, of lofty stature, with a countenance which indicated strength and resolution; his grayish-blue eye, sharp and piercing as that of the eagle, his straight nose, his prominent chin, gave a martial character to his physiognomy, which was enhanced by the elegance with which he wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the body-guards.
His hands were still trembling under his torn and ruffled cambric cuffs.
His sword had been bent, and could hardly be replaced in the scabbard.
On the arrival of the queen, he was pacing hurriedly up and down the dressing-room, absorbed by a thousand feverish and agitated thoughts.
Marie Antoinette advanced straight towards him.
“Monsieur de Charny!” she exclaimed, “Monsieur de Charny, you here?”
And seeing that the person whom she thus addressed bowed respectfully according to etiquette, she made a sign to her waiting-woman, who withdrew and closed the doors.
The queen scarcely waited for the door to be closed, when, seizing the hand of Monsieur de Charny with vehemence,—
“Count,” cried she, “why are you here?”
“Because I considered it my duty to come, Madame,” said the count.
“No; your duty was to fly Versailles; it was to do what we had agreed,—to obey me; it is, in fact, to do as all my friends are doing who fear to share my fate. Your duty is to sacrifice nothing to my destiny; your duty is to flee far from me!”
“To flee from you?” said he.
“Yes; to flee from me.”
“And who, then, flies from you, Madame?”
“Those who are prudent.”
“I think myself very prudent, Madame, and that is why I now come to Versailles.”
“And from where do you come?”
“From Paris.”
“From revolted Paris?”
“From boiling, intoxicated, and ensanguined Paris.” The queen covered her face with her hands.
“Oh,” said she, “no one, not even you, will then come to bring me good news.”
“Madame, in the present circumstances, ask your messengers to tell you but one thing,—the truth.”
“And is it the truth you have just told me?”
“I always tell you the truth, Madame.”
“You have an honest soul, sir, and a stout heart.”
“I am a faithful subject, Madame, that is all.”
“Well, then, spare me for the moment, my friend; do not tell me a single word. You have arrived at a moment when my heart is breaking. My friends, to-day, for the first time overwhelm me with that truth which you have always told me. Oh, it is this truth, Count, which it was impossible for them to withhold from me any longer. It bursts forth everywhere: in the heavens which are red; in the air, which is filled with sinister noises; in the faces of the courtiers, who are pale and serious. No, no, Count; for the first time in your life, tell me not the truth.”
The count looked at the queen with amazement.
“Yes, yes,” said she; “you who know me to be courageous, you are astonished, are you not? Oh, you are not yet at the end of your astonishment!”
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