“Oh!” exclaimed the queen, with a gesture of anger she was unable to suppress.
“You may say what you please, but that is the case,” said Louis, tranquilly.
“Oh, your beloved people! Ah, well! they will not have occasion much longer to hate my friends, for they are going into exile.”
“They are going away!” exclaimed the king.
“Yes, they are going away.”
“Polignac? the women?”
“Yes.”
“So much the better,” exclaimed the king, “so much the better! God be praised!”
“How so much the better? How God be praised? Are you not sorry?”
“No, indeed; far from it. Do they need money to take them away? I will give it them. That money at least will not be ill employed, I will warrant. I wish you a pleasant journey, gentlemen; and you also, ladies,” said the king, all radiant.
“Yes,” said the queen, “I can understand that you like cowardice.”
“Well, let us understand each other; you are doing them justice at last.”
“They are not dismissed; they are deserting.”
“No matter, so that they take themselves off!”
“And to think that it is your family who have advised such despicable conduct!”
“My family advised your favorites to go away! I never gave my family credit for so much sense. And tell me which members of my family have done me this service, that I may thank them.”
“Your aunt Adelaide; your brother D’Artois.”
“My brother D’Artois! Do you believe he will follow the advice he gives? Do you think that he also will go away?”
“Why not?” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, trying to vex the king.
“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Louis; “let Monsieur d’Artois take his departure; I should say to him what I have said to the others: A good journey to you, brother d’Artois! I wish you a very pleasant journey!”
“Ah! your brother!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette. “True; but what quality has he to make his presence desirable? A good little fellow enough, who lacks neither wit nor courage, I grant you; but who has no brains; who acts the French prince like a fop of the time of Louis XII.,—a blundering blockhead, who has compromised even you, the wife of Cæsar.”
“Cæsar!” muttered the queen, with cutting irony.
“Or Claudius, if you like it better,” answered the king; “for you know, Madame, that Claudius, as well as Nero, was a Cæsar.”
The queen looked down. This historical coolness confused her not a little.
“Claudius,” continued the king,—”since you prefer the name of Claudius to that of Cæsar,—Claudius was obliged one evening, as you are aware, to shut the gate of Versailles, in order to give you a lesson when you stayed out too late. It was Monsieur d’Artois who got you that lesson. I shall not miss, therefore, the Count d’Artois. As for my aunt, ah, well! we know what we know about her. She is another who deserves to be enrolled in the family of the Cæsars. But I say no more; she is my aunt. Let her go in peace; I shall not miss her a whit more than I shall the others. Then, there is Monsieur de Provence; do you think I should feel sorry at his leaving? A good journey to him!”
“Oh, he does not speak of going!”
“So much the worse! You see, my dear, Monsieur de Provence knows Latin too well for me. I am obliged to speak English to be even with him. It was Monsieur de Provence who put Beaumarchais on our shoulders, thrusting him in at Bicêtre, For-Lévêque and I know not where, on his own private authority, and a fine return has been made us for all this by this same Monsieur de Beaumarchais. Ah, Monsieur de Provence will remain, will he? So much the worse, so much the worse! There is one thing of which I should like you to be aware, Madame, and it is this,—in your whole household, I know but one honest man, Monsieur de Charny.”
The queen blushed and turned away.
“We were talking about the Bastille,” continued the king, after a short silence, “and you were lamenting that it was taken.”
“Be seated at least, Sire,” replied the queen, “since it would appear that you have still many things to tell me.”