“National Guards!” said the queen,” what are they?”
“Ah! Madame, do not speak lightly of that body; it will some day become a power; it will bind and loosen.”
“Twenty thousand men!” exclaimed the king.
“Well, sir,” replied the queen, in her turn, “you have here ten thousand men that are worth a hundred thousand rebels; call them, call them, I tell you; the twenty thousand wretches will here find their punishment, and the example needed by all this revolutionary slime which I would sweep away, ay, in a week, were I but listened to for an hour.”
Gilbert shook his head sorrowfully.
“Oh, Madame,” said he, “how you deceive yourself, or rather how you have been deceived! Alas! alas! Have you reflected on it?—a civil war, provoked by a queen. One only has done this, and she carried with her to the tomb a terrible epithet: she was called the foreigner.'”
“Provoked by me, sir How do you understand that? Was it I who fired upon the Bastille without provocation?”
“Ah! Madame,” cried the king, “instead of advocating violent measures, listen to reason.”
“To weakness!”
“Come, now, Antoinette, listen to the doctor,” said the king, austerely. “The arrival of twenty thousand men is not a trifling matter, particularly if we should have to fire grape-shot upon them.”
Then, turning towards Gilbert:—
“Go on, sir,” said he; “go on.”
“All these hatreds, which become more inveterate from estrangement—all these boastings, which become courage when opportunity is afforded for their realization—all the confusion of a battle, of which the issue is uncertain—oh! spare the king, spare yourself, Madame, the grief of witnessing them,” said the doctor; “you can perhaps by gentleness disperse the crowd which is advancing. The crowd wishes to come to the king,—let us forestall it; let the king go to the crowd; let him, though now surrounded by his army, give proof to-morrow of audacity and political genius. Those twenty thousand men of whom we are speaking might, perhaps, conquer the king and his army. Let the king go alone and conquer these twenty thousand men, Madame; they are the people.”
The king could not refrain from giving a gesture of assent, which Marie Antoinette at once observed.
“Wretched man!” cried she to Gilbert; “but you do not then perceive what the king’s presence in Paris would betoken under the conditions you require?”
“Speak, Madame.”
“It would be saying, ‘I approve;’ it would be saying, ‘You did right to kill my Swiss;’ it would be saying, ‘You have acted rightly in murdering my officers, in setting fire to and making my capital stream with blood; you have done rightly in dethroning me. I thank you, gentlemen, I thank you!”
And a disdainful smile rose to the lips of Marie Antoinette.
“No, Madame, your Majesty is mistaken.”
“Sir!”
“It would be saying, ‘There has been some justice in the grief of the people. I am come to pardon. It is I who am the chief of the nation, and the king. It is I who am at the head of the French Revolution, as in former days Henry III. placed himself at the head of the League. Your generals are my officers, your National Guards my soldiers, your magistrates are my men of business. Instead of urging me onward, follow me if you are able to do so. The greatness of my stride will prove to you once more that I am the king of France, the successor of Charlemagne.'”
“He is right,” said the king, in a sorrowful tone.
“Oh!” exclaimed the queen, “for mercy’s sake listen not to this man!—this man is your enemy.”
“Madame,” said Gilbert, “his Majesty himself is about to tell you what he thinks of the words I have spoken.”
“I think, sir, that you are the first who up to this moment has dared to speak the truth to me.”
“The truth!” cried the queen. “Gracious Heaven! what is it you are saying.”
“Yes, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, “and impress yourself fully with this fact, that truth is the only torch which can point out and save royalty from the dark abyss into which it is now being hurried.”
And while uttering, these words, Gilbert bowed humbly, as low as even to the knees of Marie Antoinette.