Ange Pitou by Alexandre Dumas part two

Andrée again looked at her husband and the queen, but did not answer.

“Why, certainly that is the reason, Count,—why should you doubt it?” answered Marie Antoinette. “The Countess de Charny is not a queen; she has the right to be alarmed for her husband’s safety.”

Charny could detect jealousy in the queen’s language.

“Oh, Madame,” said he, “I am quite certain that the countess fears still more for her sovereign’s safety than for mine.”

“But, in fine,” asked Marie Antoinette, “why and how is it that we found you in a swoon in this room, Countess?”

“Oh, it would be impossible for me to tell you that, Madame; I cannot myself account for it; but in this life of fatigue, of terror, and painful emotions, which we have led for the last three days, nothing can be more natural, it seems to me, than the fainting of a woman.”

“This is true,” murmured the queen, who perceived that Andrée did not wish to be compelled to speak out.

“But,” rejoined Andrée, in her turn, with that extraordinary degree of calmness which never abandoned her after she had once become the mistress of her will, and which was so much the more embarrassing in difficult circumstances that it could easily be discerned to be mere affectation, and concealed feelings altogether human; “but even your Majesty’s eyes are at this moment in tears.”

And the count thought he could perceive in the words of his wife that ironical accent he had remarked but a few moments previously in the language of the queen.

“Madame,” said he to Andrée, with a degree of severity to which his voice was evidently not accustomed, “it is not astonishing that the queen’s eyes should be suffused with tears, for the queen loves her people, and the blood of the people has been shed.”

“Fortunately, God has spared yours, sir,” said Andrée, who was still no less cold and impenetrable.

“Yes; but it is not of her Majesty that we are speaking, Madame, but of you; let us then return to our subject; the queen permits us to do so.”

Marie Antoinette made an affirmative gesture with her head.

“You were alarmed, then, were you not?”

“Who, I?”

“You have been suffering; do not deny it; some accident has happened to you—what was it?—I know not what it can have been, but you will tell us.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“Have you had any reason to complain of any one-of a man?” Andrée turned pale.

“I have had no reason to complain of any one, sir; I have just come from the king’s apartment.”

“Did you come direct from there?”

“Yes, direct. Her Majesty can easily ascertain that fact.”

“If such be the case,” said Marie Antoinette, “the countess must be right. The king loves her too well, and knows that my own affection for her is too strong, for him to disoblige her in any way whatever.”

“But you mentioned a name,” said Charny, still persisting.

“A name?”

“Yes; when you were recovering your senses.”

Andrée looked at the queen as if to ask her for assistance; but either because the queen did not understand her, or did not wish to do so:—

“Yes,” said she, “you pronounced the name Gilbert.”

“Gilbert! did I pronounce the name of Gilbert?” exclaimed Andrée, in a tone so full of terror that the count was more affected by this cry than he had been by her fainting.

“Yes!” exclaimed he, “you pronounced that name.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Andrée, “that is singular.”

And by degrees, as the clouds close again after having been rent asunder by the lightning, the countenance of the young woman, so violently agitated at the sound of that fatal name, recovered its serenity, and but a few muscles of her lovely face continued to tremble almost imperceptibly, like the last flashes of the tempest which vanish in the horizon.

“Gilbert!” she repeated; “I do not know that name.”

“Yes, Gilbert,” repeated the queen; “come, try to recollect, my dear Andrée.”

“But, Madame,” said the count to Marie Antoinette, “perhaps it is mere chance, and this name may be unknown to the countess.”

“No,” said Andrée, “no; it is not unknown to me. It is that of a learned man, of a skilful physician who has just arrived from America, I believe, and who became intimate while there with Monsieur de Lafayette.”

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