But the less Gilbert was provoking in his demeanor, the more did the queen feel her anger increase. She had figured him to herself as a type of an odious class of men; she had considered him instinctively, though almost involuntarily, as one of those impudent heroes of whom she had so many around her. The author of the sufferings of Andrée, the bastard pupil of Rousseau, that miserable abortion who had grown up to manhood, that pruner of trees who had become a philosopher and a subduer of souls,—Marie Antoinette, in spite of herself, depicted him in her mind as having the features of Mirabeau; that is to say, of the man she most hated, after the Cardinal de Rohan and Lafayette.
It had seemed to her, before she saw Gilbert, that it required a gigantic physical development to contain so colossal a mind.
But when she saw a young, upright, and slender man, of elegant and graceful form, of sweet and amiable countenance, he appeared to her as having committed the new crime of belying himself by his exterior. Gilbert, a man of the people, of obscure and unknown birth!—Gilbert, the peasant, the clown, and the serf!—Gilbert was guilty, in the eyes of the queen, of having usurped the external appearance of a gentleman and a man of honor. The proud Austrian, the sworn enemy of lying and deception in others, became indignant, and immediately conceived a violent hatred for the unfortunate atom whom so many different motives combined to induce her to abhor.
For those who were intimate with her nature, for those who were accustomed to read in her eyes either serenity of temper or indications of an approaching storm, it was easy to discern that a tempest, full of thunder-claps and flashes of lightning, was raging in the depths of her heart.
But how was it possible for a human being, even a woman, to follow, in the midst of this hurricane of passions and anger, the succession of strange and contrasting feelings which clashed together in the queen’s brain, and filled her breast with all the mortal poisons described by Homer!
The queen with a single look dismissed all her attendants, even Madame de Misery.
They immediately left the room.
The queen waited till the door had been closed on the last person; then, casting her eyes upon Gilbert, she perceived that he had not ceased to gaze at her.
So much audacity offended her. The doctor’s look was apparently inoffensive; but as it was continual, and was full of meaning, it weighed so heavily upon her that Marie Antoinette felt compelled to repress its importunity.
“Well, then, sir,” said she, with the abruptness of a pistol-shot, “what are you doing there, standing before me and gazing at me, instead of telling me with what complaint I am suffering?”
This furious apostrophe, rendered more forcible by the flashing of her eyes, would have annihilated any of the queen’s courtiers; it would even have compelled a marshal of France, a hero, or a demi-god, to fall on his knees before her.
But Gilbert tranquilly replied:—
“It is by means of the eyes, Madame, that the physician must first examine his patient. By looking at your Majesty, who sent for me, I do not satisfy an idle curiosity; I exercise my profession: I obey your orders.”
“Then you must have studied me sufficiently.”
“As much as lay in my power, Madame.”
“Am I ill?”
“Not in the strict sense of the word. But your Majesty is suffering from great over-excitement.”
“Ah! ah!” said Marie Antoinette, ironically, “why do you not say at once that I am in a passion?”
“Let your Majesty allow me, since you have ordered the attendance of a physician, to express myself in medical terms.”
“Be it so. But what is the cause of my over-excitement?”
“Your Majesty has too much knowledge not to be aware that the physician discovers the sufferings of the body, thanks to his experience and the traditions of his studies; but he is not a sorcerer, who can discover at first sight the depths of the human soul.”
“By this you mean to imply, that the second or third time you could tell me not only from what I am suffering, but also what are my thoughts?”