the next day, or rather the same morning, for our last chapter brought us to two o’clock, the king louis xvi., in a violet-colored morning dress, in some disorder, and with no powder in his hair, knocked at the door of the queen’s ante-chamber.
it was opened by one of her women.
“the queen?” asked louis, in a brusque manner.
“her majesty is asleep, sire.”
the king made a movement, as though to pass in but the woman did not move.
“do you not see,” he said, “that i wish to come in.”
“but the queen is asleep, sire,” again she said timidly.
“i told you to let me pass,” answered the king, going in as he spoke.
when he reached the door of the bedroom, the king saw madame de misery, the first lady-in-waiting, who was sitting reading from her mass book.
she rose on seeing him. “sire,” she said, in a low voice, and with a profound reverence, “her majesty has not yet called for me.”
“really?” said the king, in an ironical tone.
“but, sire, it is only half-past six, and her majesty never rings before seven.”
“and you are sure that her majesty is asleep in bed?”
“i cannot affirm that she is asleep, sire, but i can that she is in bed.”
the king could contain himself no longer, but went straight to the door, which he opened with some noise. the room was in complete darkness, the shutters closed, and the curtains drawn. a night lamp burned on a bracket, but it only gave a dim and feeble light.
the king walked rapidly towards the bed.
“oh, madame de misery,” said the queen, “how noisy you are—you have disturbed me!”
the king remained stupefied. “it is not madame de misery,” he murmured.
“what, is it you, sire?” said marie antoinette, raising herself up.
“good morning, madame,” said the king, in a surly tone.
“what good wind blows you here, sire? madame de misery, come and open the shutters.”
she came in instantly, as usual, opened all the doors and windows, to let in light and fresh air.
“you sleep well, madame,” said the king, seating himself, and casting scrutinizing glances round the room.
“yes, sire, i read late, and had your majesty not disturbed me, might have slept for some time longer.”
“how was it that you did not receive visitors yesterday?” asked the king.
“whom do you mean?—m. de provence,” said the queen, with great presence of mind.
“yes, exactly; he wished to pay his respects to you, and was refused.”
“well!”
“they said you were out.”
“did they say that?” asked the queen carelessly. “madame de misery——”
the lady appeared, bringing in with her a number of letters on a gold salver. “did your majesty call?” she asked.
“yes. did they tell m. de provence yesterday that i was out? will you tell the king, for really i forget.”
“sire,” said madame de misery, while the queen took her letters and began to read, “i told monseigneur le comte de provence that her majesty did not receive.”
“and by whose orders?”
“by the queen’s, sire.”
meanwhile, the queen had opened one of the letters, and read these lines: “you returned from paris yesterday, and entered the château at eight o’clock in the evening; laurent saw you.”
madame de misery left the room.
“pardon, sire,” said the queen, “but will you answer me one question?”
“what, madame?”
“am i, or am i not, at liberty to see m. de provence only when it pleases me?”
“oh, perfectly at liberty, madame, but——”
“well, his conversation wearies me; besides, he does not love me, and i like him no better. i expected his visit, and went to bed at eight o’clock to avoid it. but you look disturbed, sire.”
“i believed you to be in paris yesterday.”
“at what time?”
“at the time at which you pretend to have gone to bed.”
“doubtless, i went to paris; but what of that?”
“all, madame, depends on what time you returned.”
“oh, you wish to know at what time exactly i returned?”
“yes.”
“it is easy. madame de misery——”
the lady reappeared.
“what time was it when i returned from paris yesterday?”
“about eight o’clock, your majesty.”
“i do not believe it,” said the king, “you make a mistake, madame de misery.”
the lady walked to the door, and called, “madame dural!”
“yes, madame,” replied a voice.
“at what time did her majesty return from paris yesterday?”
“about eight o’clock, madame,” replied the other.
“the king thinks we are mistaken.”
madame dural put her head out of the window, and cried, “laurent!”
“who is laurent?” asked the king.
“the porter at the gate where her majesty entered,” said madame de misery.
“laurent,” said madame dural, “what time was it when her majesty came home last evening?”
“about eight o’clock,” answered laurent.
madame de misery then left the room, and the king and queen remained alone.
he felt ashamed of his suspicions.
the queen, however, only said coldly, “well, sire, is there anything else you wish to know?”
“oh, nothing!” cried he, taking her hands in his; “forgive me; i do not know what came into my head—my joy is as great as my repentance. you will not be angry, will you? i am in despair at having annoyed you.”
the queen withdrew her hand, and said; “sire, a queen of france must not tell a falsehood.”
“what do you mean?”
“i mean that i did not return at eight o’clock last evening.”
the king drew back in surprise.
“i mean,” continued the queen in the same cold manner, “that i only returned at six o’clock this morning.”
“madame!”
“and that, but for the kindness of m. le comte d’artois, who gave me an asylum, and lodged me out of pity in one of his houses, i should have been left all night at the door of the château like a beggar.”
“ah! you had not then returned?” said the king, gloomily; “then i was right.”
“sire, you have not behaved towards me as a gentleman should.”
“in what, madame?”
“in this—that if you wish to know whether i return late or early, you have no need to close the gates, with orders not to open them, but simply to come to me and ask, ‘madame, at what time did you return?’ you have no more reason to doubt, sire. your spies have been deceived, your precautions nullified, and your suspicions dissipated. i saw you ashamed of the part you had played, and i might have continued to triumph in my victory, but i think your proceedings shameful for a king, and unworthy of a gentleman; and i would not refuse myself the satisfaction of telling you so.
“it is useless, sire,” she continued, seeing the king about to speak; “nothing can excuse your conduct towards me.”
“on the contrary, madame,” replied he, “nothing is more easy. not a single person in the château suspected that you had not already returned; therefore no one could think that my orders referred to you. probably they were attributed to the dissipations of m. le comte d’artois—for that i care nothing. therefore, madame, appearances were saved, as far as you were concerned. i wished simply to give you a secret lesson, from which the amount of irritation you show leads me to hope you will profit. therefore, i still think i was in the right, and do not repent what i have done.”
the queen listened, and seemed to calm herself, by an effort, to prepare for the approaching contest. “then, sire,” she said, “you think you need no excuse for keeping at the door of your castle the daughter of maria theresa, your wife, and the mother of your children? no! it is in your eyes a pleasantry worthy of a king, and of which the morality doubles the value. it is nothing to you, to have forced the queen of france to pass the night in this ‘petite maison,’ where the comte d’artois receives the ladies of the opera and the ‘femmes galantes’ of your court. oh no! that is nothing. a philosopher king is above all such considerations. only, on this occasion, i have reason to thank heaven that my brother-in-law is a dissipated man, as his dissipation has saved me from disgrace, and his vices have sheltered my honor.”
the king colored, and moved uneasily on his chair.
“oh yes!” continued the queen, with a bitter laugh, “i know that you are a moral king, but your morality produces strange effects. you say that no one knew that i was out. will you tell me that m. de provence, your instigator, did not know it; or m. le comte d’artois—or my women? who, by my orders, told you falsehoods this morning; or laurent—bought by m. d’artois and by me? let us continue this habit, sire; you, to set spies and swiss guards; and i, to buy them over and cheat you; and in a month we will calculate together how much the dignity of the throne and our marriage has gained by it.”
it was evident that her words had made a great impression on him to whom they were addressed.
“you know,” said he, in an altered voice, “that i am always sincere, and willing to acknowledge if i have been wrong. will you prove to me that you were right to go into paris in sledges, accompanied by a gay party, which, in the present unhappy state of things, is likely to give offense? will you prove to me, that you were right to disappear in paris, like maskers at a ball, and only to reappear scandalously late at night, when every one else was asleep? you have spoken of the dignity of the throne, and of marriage; think you that it befits a queen, a wife, and a mother, to act thus?”
“i will reply in a few words, sire; for it seems to me, that such accusations merit nothing but contempt. i left versailles in a sledge, because it is the quickest way of getting to paris at present. i went with madlle. de taverney, whose reputation is certainly one of the purest in our court. i went to paris, i repeat, to verify the fact that the king of france, the great upholder of morality—he who takes care of poor strangers, warms the beggars, and earns the gratitude of the people by his charities, leaves dying of hunger, exposed to every attack of vice and misery, one of his own family—one who is as much as himself a descendant of the kings who have reigned in france.”
“what!” cried the king in surprise.
“i mounted,” continued the queen, “into a garret, and there saw, without fire, almost without light, and without money, the granddaughter of a great prince, and i gave one hundred louis to this victim of royal forgetfulness and neglect. then, as i was detained late there, and as the frost was severe, and horses go slowly over ice, particularly hackney-coach horses——”
“hackney-coach horses!” cried the king. “you returned in a hackney-coach?”
“yes, sire—no. 107.”
“oh, oh!” said the king, with every sign of vexation.
“yes, and only too happy to get it,” said the queen.
“madame!” interrupted he, “you are full of noble feelings; but this impetuous generosity becomes a fault. remember,” continued he, “that i never suspected you of anything that was not perfectly pure and honest: it is only your mode of acting and adventurous spirit that displease me. you have, as usual, been doing good, but the way you set about it makes it injurious to yourself. this is what i reproach you with. you say that i have faults to repair—that i have failed in my duty to a member of my own family. tell me who the unfortunate is, and he shall no longer have reason to complain.”
“the name of valois, sire, is sufficiently illustrious not to have escaped your memory.”
“ah!” cried louis, with a shout of laughter, “i know now whom you mean. la petite valois, is it not?—a countess of something or other.”
“de la motte, sire.”
“precisely, de la motte; her husband is a gendarme.”
“yes, sire.”
“and his wife is an intrigante. oh! you need not trouble yourself about her: she is moving heaven and earth; she worries my ministers, she teases my aunts, and overwhelms me with supplications, memorials, and genealogies.”
“and all this uselessly, sire.”
“i must confess it.”
“is she, or is she not, a valois?”
“i believe she is.”
“well, then, i ask an honorable pension for her and a regiment for her husband. in fact, a decent position for this branch of the royal family.”
“an honorable pension? mon dieu! how you run on, madame. do you know what a terrible hole this winter has made in my funds? a regiment for this little gendarme, who speculated in marrying a valois? why, i have no regiments to give, even to those who deserve them, or who can pay for them. an income befitting a valois for these people? when we, monarch as we are, have not one befitting a rich gentleman. why, m. d’orleans has sent his horses and mules to england for sale, and has cut off a third of his establishment. i have put down my wolf-hounds, and given up many other things. we are all on the privation list, great and small.”
“but these valois must not die of hunger.”
“have you not just given them one hundred louis?”
“and what is that?”
“a royal gift.”
“then give such another.”
“yours will do for us both.”
“no, i want a pension for them.”
“no, i will not bind myself to anything fixed; they will not let me forget them, and i will give when i have money to spare. i do not think much of this little valois.”
saying these words, louis held out his hand to the queen, who, however, turned from him and said, “no, you are not good to me, and i am angry.”
“you bear malice,” said the king “and i——”
“oh, you shut the gates against me; you come at half-past six to my room, and force open the door in a passion.”
“i was not in a passion,” said the king.
“you are not now, you mean.”
“what will you give me if i prove that i was not, even when i came in?”
“let me see the proof.”
“oh, it is very easy; i have it in my pocket.”
“bah!” said the queen; but adding, with curiosity, “you have brought something to give me, but i warn you i shall not believe you, unless you show it me at once.”
then, with a smile full of kindness, the king began searching in his pockets, with that slowness which makes the child doubly impatient for his toy, the animal for his food, and the woman for her present: at last he drew out a box of red morocco leather, artistically ornamented in gold.
“a jewel box!” cried the queen.
the king laid it on the bed.
she opened it impatiently, and then called out, “oh, mon dieu! how beautiful!”
the king smiled with delight. “do you think so?” said he.
the queen could not answer—she was breathless with admiration. then she drew out of the box a necklace of diamonds, so large, so pure, so glittering, and so even, that, with sparkling eyes, she cried again, “oh! it is magnificent.”
“then you are content?” said the king.
“enchanted, sire; you make me too happy.”
“really?”
“see this first row; the diamonds are as large as filberts, and so even, you could not tell one from the other; then how beautifully the gradation of the rows is managed; the jeweler who made this necklace is an artist.”
“they are two.”
“then i wager it is bœhmer and bossange.”
“you have guessed right.”
“indeed, no one but they would risk making such a thing.”
“madame, take care,” said the king; “you will have to pay too dear for this necklace.”
“oh, sire!” cried the queen, all the delight fading from her countenance.
“you must pay the price of letting me be the first to put it on:” and he approached her, holding in his hands the two ends of the magnificent necklace, of which the clasp was one great diamond.
she stopped him, saying, “but, sire, is it very dear?”
“have i not told you the price?”
“ah, louis, we must not jest. put the necklace back again.”
“you refuse to allow me to put it on?”
“oh no, sire, if i were going to wear it.”
“what?” said the king, surprised.
“no,” she said; “no one shall see a necklace of this price round my neck.”
“you will not wear it?”
“never.”
“you refuse me.”
“i refuse to wear a million or a million and a half of francs round my neck, for this necklace must cost that.”
“i do not deny it,” said the king.
“then i do refuse to wear such a necklace while the king’s coffers are empty, when he is forced to stint his charities, and to say to the poor, ‘god help you, for i have no more to give.’”
“are you serious in saying this?”
“listen, sire; m. de sartines told me a short time since that with that sum we could build a ship of the line; and in truth, sire, the king has more need of a ship than the queen of a necklace.”
“oh!” cried the king, joyfully, and with his eyes full of tears, “what you do is sublime. thanks, antoinette; you are a good wife!” and he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her. “oh! how france will bless you,” continued he; “and it shall hear what you have done.”
the queen sighed.
“you regret,” said he: “it is not too late.”
“no, sire; shut this case, and return it to the jewelers.”
“but listen, first; i have arranged the terms of payment, and i have the money.”
“no, i have decided. i will not have the necklace; but i want something else.”
“diable! then my 1,600,000 francs are gone, after all.”
“what! it would have cost that?”
“indeed it would.”
“reassure yourself; what i ask is much cheaper.”
“what do you wish for?”
“to go to paris once more.”
“oh! that is easy enough, and not dear.”
“but wait——”
“diable!”
“to the place vendôme, to see m. mesmer.”
“diable!” again said the king; but added: “well, as you have denied yourself the necklace, i suppose i must let you go; but, on one condition.”
“what?”
“you must be accompanied by a princess of the blood.”
“shall it be madame de lamballe?”
“yes, if you like.”
“i promise.”
“then i consent.”
“thanks, sire.”
“and, now,” said the king, “i shall order my ship of the line, and call it the ‘queen’s necklace.’ you shall stand godmother, and then i will send it out to la pérouse;” and, kissing his wife’s hand, he went away quite joyful.
