M. de Charny entered, a little pale, but upright, and not apparently1 suffering.
“Take care, sister,” said the Comte d’Artois; “what is the use of asking so many people?”
“Brother, I will ask the whole world, till I meet some one who will tell you you are deceived.”
Charny and Philippe bowed courteously2 to each other, and Philippe said in a low voice, “You are surely mad to come out wounded; one would say you wished to die.”
“One does not die from the scratch of a thorn in the Bois de Boulogne,” replied Charny.
The queen approached, and put an end to this conversation. “M. de Charny,” said she, “these gentlemen say that you were at the ball at the Opera?”
“Yes, your majesty3.”
“Tell us what you saw there.”
“Does your majesty mean whom I saw there?”
“Precisely; and no complaisant4 reserve, M. de Charny.”
“Must I say, madame?”
The cheeks of the queen assumed once more that deadly paleness, which had many times that morning alternated with a burning red.
“Did you see me?” she asked.
“Yes, your majesty, at the moment when your mask unhappily fell off.”
Marie Antoinette clasped her hands.
“Monsieur,” said she, almost sobbing5, “look at me well; are you sure of what you say?”
“Madame, your features are engraved6 in the hearts of your subjects; to see your majesty once is to see you forever.”
“But, monsieur,” said she, “I assure you I was not at the ball at the Opera.”
“Oh, madame,” said the young man, bowing low, “has not your majesty the right to go where you please?”
“I do not ask you to find excuses for me; I only ask you to believe.”
“I will believe all your majesty wishes me to believe,” cried he.
“Sister, sister, it is too much,” murmured the count.
“No one believes me!” cried she, throwing herself on the sofa, with tears in her eyes.
“Sister, pardon me,” said the count tenderly, “you are surrounded by devoted7 friends; this secret, which terrifies you so, we alone know. It is confined to our hearts, and no one shall drag it from us while we have life.”
“This secret! oh, I want nothing but to prove the truth.”
“Madame,” said Andrée, “some one approaches.”
The king was announced.
“The king! oh, so much the better. He is my only friend; he would not believe me guilty even if he thought he saw me.”
The king entered with an air of calmness, in strange contrast to the disturbed countenances8 of those present.
“Sire,” said the queen, “you come àpropos; there is yet another calumny9, another insult to combat.”
“What is it?” said Louis, advancing.
“An infamous10 report. Aid me, sire, for now it is no longer my enemies that accuse me, but my friends.”
“Your friends!”
“Yes, sire; M. le Comte d’Artois, M. de Taverney, and M. de Charny affirm that they saw me at the ball at the Opera.”
“At the ball at the Opera!” cried the king.
A terrible silence ensued.
Madame de la Motte saw the mortal paleness of the queen, the terrible disquietude of the king and of all the others, and with one word she could have put an end to all this, and saved the queen, not only now, but in the future, from much distress11. But she said to herself that it was too late; that they would see, if she spoke12 now, that she had deceived them before when the simple truth would have been of such advantage to the queen, and she should forfeit13 her newly-acquired favor. So she remained silent.
The king repeated, with an air of anguish14, “At the ball at the Opera! Does M. de Provence know this?”
“But, sire, it is not true. M. le Comte d’Artois is deceived; M. de Taverney is deceived; M. de Charny, you are deceived, one may be mistaken.”
All bowed.
“Come,” continued she, “call all my people, ask every one. You say it was Saturday?”
“Yes, sister.”
“Well, what did I do on Saturday? Let some one tell me, for I think I am going mad, and shall begin at last to believe that I did go to this infamous ball. But, gentlemen, if I had been there I would have confessed it.”
At this moment the king approached her, every cloud gone from his brow. “Well, Marie,” said he, “if it was Saturday, there is no need to call your women, or only to ask them at what hour I came to your room. I believe it was past eleven.”
“Oh!” cried the queen, joyfully15, “you are right, sire.” And she threw herself into his arms; then, blushing and confused, she hid her face on his shoulder, while he kissed her tenderly.
“Well,” said the Comte d’Artois, full of both surprise and joy, “I will certainly buy spectacles. But on my word, I would not have lost this scene for a million of money. Would you, gentlemen?”
Philippe was leaning against the wainscot as pale as death. Charny wiped the burning drops from his forehead.
“Therefore, gentlemen,” said the king, turning towards them, “I know it to be impossible that the queen was that night at the ball at the Opera. Believe it or not, as you please. Th............