The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty
“If, during this journey, that happens me which befel poor Valence,
all my measures are taken for you, my lady, to be _the first_ to
know of the misfortune visiting me and the liberty restored to you.
Then, only, will you learn what profound admiration was born in my
heart from your sublime devotion, so poorly recompensed by her to
whom you sacrificed youth, beauty and bliss.
“All I beseech of heaven and you is your according me a remembrance
for having too late perceived the treasure he possessed.
“With all the respect in my heart,
“GEORGE OLIVER DE CHARNY.”
The reader returned the letter to Andrea, and let her hand fall inert by
her side, with a sigh.
“Have I betrayed you,” murmured the countess: “have I failed in the
faith you put me in, for I made no promises?”
“Forgive me, for I have suffered so much,” faltered Marie.
“You, suffered,” exclaimed the ex-lady of honor, “do you dare to talk to
me of suffering? what has happened me, then? Oh, I shall not say that I
suffered, for I would not use the word another did for painting the same
idea. I need a new one to sum up all griefs, pangs and pains,--you
suffer? but you have not seen the man you loved indifferent to that
love, and paying court on his bended knees to another woman! you have
not seen your brother, jealous of this other woman whom he adored in
silence as a pagan does his goddess, fight with the man you loved! you
have not heard this man, wounded it was thought mortally, call out in
his delirium for this other woman, whose confidential friend you were:
you have not seen this other prowling in the lobbies, where you were
wandering to hear the revelations of fever which prove that if a mad
passion does not outlive life it may follow one to the grave-brink! you
have not seen this beloved one, returning to life by a miracle of nature
and science, rising from his couch to fall at the rival’s feet.---- I
say, rival, and one, from the standard of love being the measure of
greatness of ranks. In your despair you have not gone into the nunnery
at the age of twenty-five, trying to quiet at the cold crucifix your
scorching love: then, one day when you hoped to have damped with tears
if not extinguished the flame consuming you, you have not had this
rival, once your friend, come to you in the name of the former
friendship to ask you to be the wife of this very man whom you had
worshipped for three years--for the sake of her salvation as a wife, her
royal Majesty endangered----!
“She was to be a wife without a husband, a mere veil thrown between the
crowd and another’s happiness, like the shroud between the corpse and
the common eye: overruled by the compulsory duty, not by mercy, for
jealous love knows no pity--you sacrificed me--you accepted my immense
devotion. You did not have to hear the priest ask if you took for
helpmate the man who was not to be your husband: you did not feel him
pass the ring over your finger as the pledge of eternal love, while it
was a vain and meaningless symbol; you did not see your husband quit you
at the church door within an hour of the wedding, to be the gallant of
your rival! oh, madam, these three years has been of torture!”
The Queen lifted her failing hand to seek the speaker’s but it was
shunned.
“I promised nothing, but see what I have done,” said she. “But you
promised two things--not to see Count Charny, the more sacred as I had
not asked it; and, by writing, to treat me as a sister, also the more
sacred as I never solicited it.
“Must I recall the terms of that pledge? I burnt the paper but I
remember the words; and thus you wrote:
“'Andrea: You have saved me! my honor and my life are saved by you.
In the name of that reputation which costs you so dear, I vow that
you may call me sister; do it, and you will not see me blush. I
place this writing in your hands as pledge of my gratitude and the
dower I owe you. Your heart is the noblest of boons and it will
value aright the present I offer.
‘MARIE ANTOINETTE.'”
“Forgive me, Andrea, I thought that he loved you.”
“Did you believe it the law of the affections that when one loves a
woman less he loves another woman more?”
She had undergone so much that she became cruel in her turn.
“So you too perceive his love falling off?” questioned the Queen
dolefully.
Without replying Andrea watched the despairing sovereign and something
like a smile was defined on her lips.
“Oh heaven, what must I do to retain this fleeting love? my life that
ebbs? Oh, if you know the way, Andrea, my friend and sister, tell me, I
supplicate you!” She held out both hands from which the other receded
one step.
“How am I to know, who have never loved?”
“Yes, but he may love you. Some day he will come to your arms for
forgiveness and to make amends for the past, asking your pardon for all
he has made you suffer: suffering is quickly forgotten, God be thanked!
in loving arms, pardon is soon granted to the beloved who gave pain.”
“This misfortune coming--and it would be that for both of us, madam, do
you forget the secret which I confided in you, how--before I became the
wife of Count Charny--I was mother of a son?”
The Queen took breath.
“You mean you will do nothing to bring Charny back to you?” she asked.
“Nothing; no more in the future than in the past.”
“You will not tell him--will not let him suspect that you love him?”
“No, unless he comes to tell me that he loves me.”
“But, if he should----“
“Oh, madam,” interrupted Andrea.
“Yes, you are right, Andrea, my sister and friend; and I am unjust,
exacting and cruel. But when all falls away from me, friends, power and
fame, I may wish that at least this passion to which I have sacrificed
friendship, power and reputation, should be left to me.”
“And, now,” went on the lady of honor, with the glacial coldness she had
laid aside only for a moment, when she spoke of the torments she had
undergone, “have you anything more to ask me--or fresh orders to
transmit?”
“No, nothing, I thank you. I wished to restore you my friendship but you
will not accept it. Farewell; at least take my gratitude with you.”
Andrea waved away this second feeling as she had the former, and making
a cold and deep reverence, stole forth silently and slowly as a ghost.
“Oh, body of ice, heart of diamond and soul of fire, you are right not
to wish either my friendship or my gratitude; for I feel--though the
Lord forgive me! that I hate you as I never hated any one--for if he
does not love you now, I foresee that he will love you some day.”
She called Weber to ask if Dr. Gilbert was coming next day.
“At ten in the morning.”
Pleading that she was ailing and wearied, she forbade her ladies to
disturb her before ten, the only person she intended to see being
Gilbert.
CHAPTER XXI.
WHAT A CUT-OFF HEAD MAY COUNSEL.
When Gilbert appeared before the Queen, she uttered a scream, for his
ruffles and part of his coat were torn and drops of blood stained his
shirt.
“I ask pardon for presenting myself to your Majesty in this attire,” he
said, “but your trusty servant who came to learn why I was late to the
appointment, will tell you that he found me in the midst of a mob,
trying to save a baker who was done to death for withholding bread. They
cut the poor fellow to pieces: and to make matters worse, in parading
his head on a pike it was shown to his wife who fell down and alas! has
been prematurely confined.”
“Poor woman,” cried the Queen, “if she does not die I will see her
to-morrow and, any way, her child shall be maintained out of my private
purse.”
“Ah, madam,” exclaimed Gilbert, “why cannot all France see these tears
in your eyes and hear these words from your lips!”
But almost instantly the monarch returned to master the woman. She said
with a change of tone:
“And are these, sir, the fruits of your revolution? after slaying the
great lords, the officials and the soldiery, the people are killing one
another; is there no means of dealing out justice to these cutthroats?”
“We will try to do so; but it would be better to prevent the murders
than wait and punish the murderers.”
“How? the King and I ask nothing more fervently.”
“All these woes come from the people having lost confidence in those set
above them. Nothing of the kind would occur if they were ruled by men
with the public confidence.”
“You allude to this Mirabeau and Lafayette?”
“I hoped that your Majesty had sent to tell me that the King was no
longer hostile to the Cabinet I proposed.”
“In the first place, doctor,” replied the royal lady, “you fall into a
grave error shared with many more, I admit: you think that I have
influence over the King. You believe that he follows my inspirations?
You mistake: if any body has a sway over him, it is Lady Elizabeth; the
proof is that she yesterday sent one of my servitors, Count Charny, on
an errand without my knowing whither he goes or what is its aim.”
“Still, if your Majesty will surmount her repugnance to Mirabeau, I can
answer for bringing the King round to my views.”
“Is not such repugnance based on a motive, tell me?” counterqueried the
lady.
“In politics, there should be neither sympathy nor antipathy; only the
meetings of principles and combinations of gains, and I ought to say
that gains are surer than principles.”
“Do you believe that this man who has publicly insulted me, would
consent to join us?”
“He is entirely yours: when a Mirabeau turns from monarchy, it is like a
horse that shies; reminded of his allegiance by whip or spur, he will
resume his place in the right road.”
“But he is for the Duke of Orleans?”
“So far from him is he, that on hearing of the duke going over to
England when Lafayette threatened him, he said: ‘They say I am in his
pay! I would not have him for my lackey.'”
“That reconciles him some with me,” said the lady, trying to smile: “if
I could believe he might be relied on----“
“Well?”
“Perhaps I should be nearer him than the King.”
“Madam, I saw him at Versailles when the mob stormed the palace: then he
thought the Royal Family ought to flee but I have had a note from him
this day.”
He took out a slip of rough paper.
“Excuse the writing--it is on paper found in a wine saloon and written
on the counter.”
“Never mind that: it is in keeping with the present style of politics.”
Taking the paper, the Queen read:
“This bread riot changes the face of things. A great deal can be
drawn from this cut-off head. The Assembly will be frightened and
call for martial law. If there be a Mirabeau-Lafayette Cabinet,
Mirabeau will answer for all?”
“It is not signed,” objected the Queen.
“He handed it to me himself. My advice is that he is perfectly right and
that this alliance alone can save France.”
“Be it so, let the gentleman put the project on paper and I will lay it
before the King, as well as support it.”
“Then I will go to the Assembly and see him. In two hours I shall
return.”
The Queen waited in impatience, always fond of plotting and agitation as
she was. His answer was that Mirabeau had become the spokesman of the
court.
In fact, after a hot discussion, martial law was voted by the Assembly.
The crime of treason was to be tried at the Chatelet Royal Court, which
meant that royalty still held three fourths of the active power.
Gilbert did not go near the Queen until the cases were tried here which
would test the alliance.
The triumph was great to have them tried under the Royal party’s thumb.
The first trial was of three men who had killed the baker of the
Assemblymen, François; two of whom were hanged on the mere accusation
and public notoriety; the third was tried and sent to the gallows