While these events were passing in Paris and in Versailles, the king, tranquil1 as usual, sat in his study, surrounded by maps and plans, and traced new paths for the vessels2 of La Pérouse.
A slight knock at his door roused him from his study, and a voice said, “May I come in, brother?”
“The Comte de Provence,” growled3 the king, discontentedly. “Enter.”
A short person came in.
“You did not expect me, brother?” he said.
“No, indeed.”
“Do I disturb you?”
“Have you anything particular to say?”
“Such a strange report——”
“Oh, some scandal?”
“Yes, brother.”
“Which has amused you?”
“Because it is so strange.”
“Something against me?”
“Should I laugh if it were?”
“Then against the queen?”
“Sire, imagine that I was told quite seriously that the queen slept out the other night.”
“That would be very sad if it were true,” replied the king.
“But it is not true, is it?”
“No.”
“Nor that the queen was seen waiting outside the gate at the reservoirs?”
“No.”
“The day, you know, that you ordered the gates to be shut at eleven o’clock?”
“I do not remember.”
“Well, brother, they pretend that the queen was seen arm-in-arm with M. d’Artois at half-past twelve that night.”
“Where?”
“Going to a house which he possesses behind the stables. Has not your majesty4 heard this report?”
“Yes, you took care of that.”
“How, sire?—what have I done?”
“Some verses which were printed in the Mercury.”
“Some verses!” said the count, growing red.
“Oh, yes; you are a favorite of the Muses5.”
“Not I, sire.”
“Oh, do not deny it; I have the manuscript in your writing! Now, if you had informed yourself of what the queen really did that day, instead of writing these lines against her, and consequently against me, you would have written an ode in her favor. Perhaps the subject does not inspire you; but I should have liked a bad ode better than a good satire6.”
“Sire, you overwhelm me; but I trust you will believe I was deceived, and did not mean harm.”
“Perhaps.”
“Besides, I did not say I believed it; and then, a few verses are nothing. Now, a pamphlet like one I have just seen——”
“A pamphlet?”
“Yes, sire; and I want an order for the Bastile for the author of it.”
The king rose. “Let me see it,” he said.
“I do not know if I ought.”
“Certainly you ought. Have you got it with you?”
“Yes, sire;” and he drew from his pocket “The History of the Queen Etteniotna,” one of the fatal numbers which had escaped from Philippe and Charny.
The king glanced over it rapidly. “Infamous7!” he cried.
“You see, sire, they pretend the queen went to M. Mesmer’s.”
“Well, she did go.”
“She went?”
“Authorized by me.”
“Oh, sire!”
“That is nothing against her; I gave my consent.”
“Did your majesty intend that she should experimentalize on herself?”
The king stamped with rage as the count said this; he was reading one of the most insulting passages—the history of her contortions8, voluptuous9 disorder10, and the attention she had excited.
“Impossible!” he cried, g............