CHAPTER XXX.
TRUE WOMANLY POWER.
The king, who was listening intently to Marguerite, looked toward his queen as the light, musical laugh rippled by him, and frowning a little, drew the young girl further down the room, for his interest in her story was becoming painful.
“And this Dr. Gosner was not a native of France, you say?”
“No, sire, he was born subject to the great Empress Maria Therese, and at one time had frequent access to her highness. His name, I think, must have reached the queen, for she seemed to remember it.”
“And you have no knowledge of the charges made against him?”
“Sire, we did not know that he was in prison for many years after he left us.”
The king looked grave and distressed. The very name of the Bastille had become a subject of solicitude to him. This prison had been, century after century, so completely a portion of his kingly prerogatives, that he could not hear of a cruelty practiced there without disturbance. “What,” he argued to himself, “will the people say when I let this wronged man out among them. His very presence will create a tempest of vituperation.”
Marguerite saw the cloud gathering slowly on his face, and her heart fell.
“Oh, sire! have compassion on him. Think what it is to live, year after year, without a glimpse of the blessed sunshine, without knowing of anything once beloved, without occupation, buried, but not dead.”
The poor girl spoke with some vehemence. She was losing all hope; this hesitation in the king terrified her.
“There is little need to remind us of all this,” answered the king; “but it is sometimes very difficult to redress wrongs for which others are alone responsible. This is an act of which we knew nothing; but when it once becomes public, great blame may be cast upon the throne for an injustice for which no living man is answerable.”
“Nay, sire, the people are not so unreasonable.”
Louis shook his head, and smiled gloomily.
“They will rather rejoice, sire, that present mercy is strong enough to undo the cruelty of the past.”
Louis hesitated. He was never a man of prompt speech, and the difficulties which this question of mercy brought to his mind were strong and numerous.
Marie Antoinette, having recovered from the impulse of merriment that had seized upon her, turned her attention once more toward the king. She saw that the young girl had become fearfully anxious, and that a look of sullen thought was creeping over her husband’s face. She arose from her chair, and walking across the room, drew near the window to which Louis had retreated.
“Sire,” she said, laying her hand on the king’s arm, “is it that you hesitate? Can the price be too heavy which you pay this brave girl for Marie Antoinette’s life—for she saved it? But for her intrepid act, that stout man, yonder, would never have sprung upon that beast as he did.”
“Can we refuse her? No—a thousand times, no!” answered the king. “But how to accomplish it. When we release this poor gentleman, it will be to assail ourselves. The people clamor over every new revelation of wrong done by our grandfather as if we were directly in fault.”
“But his release is right in itself, sire.”
“It is impossible to suppose otherwise; but sometimes the most difficult thing in the world is to redress a long-standing injustice.”
Marie pressed her white hand still more caressingly on that arm, and the sweet persuasiveness of her speech was enforced by the expression of her face.
“Ah, Louis! I have promised. Remember, it was your wife who was saved.”
The heavy features of the king brightened; he took the white hand from his arm and kissed it tenderly.
“It was only of your future safety I was thinking,” he said. “The people are so ready to clamor against us, and this will be a new excuse. But it shall be done. This day I will speak to the minister.”
“To the minister, sire! Ah, no! Write it yourself. I must see this young creature made happy before she leaves the palace. Step to my cabinet, Louis, and write the order with your own hand.”
She drew him gently with her while speaking, and they entered a little cabinet, or boudoir, in which the queen usually spent her hours of retirement. Drawing her husband up to the ebony desk, she gently forced him into the chair that stood before it, arranged some paper, and put the pen in his hand.
“Now,” she said, leaning over his chair, and bending her cheek almost to a level with his, “now write the order, if you would not have me kneeling at your feet.”
Louis dipped the pen in the crystal inkstand, which stood upon golden supporters just before him, and began to write. A sunbeam struck the single, large diamond that flamed on the handle, and quivered over the signature as it was formed. The queen smiled; it seemed to her like a good omen.
“Ah!” she whispered, “how pleasant it is to make others happy; but, alas! our lives must be spent in atoning for the wrongs that were perpetrated before we were born. This poor man now was imprisoned by your grandfather.”
“Worse than that,” answered Louis gravely. “This wicked act belongs to Madame Du Berry. My grandfather probably never knew of it.”
“That horrible woman!” exclaimed the queen. “How much misery has she brought upon France!”
The king, who had signed the pardon, laid down his pen.
“Let us be merciful, my friend, even to this woman; some good there may be in her. Since the people we love so well have begun to say harsh things about us, we should be careful not to join them in reviling others. Let us bury the sins of that old man in his tomb. Our Lady forbid that we should be called upon to excuse, though it is our misfortune to answer for them.”
“But this woman—oh! I remember her so well! She was my enemy! She hated me from the moment I entered France an inexperienced girl. My cheek warms even now when I remember how she was forced upon me before I could understand her position, or protect myself from her society.”
The queen spoke with angry vehemence; she had of late been subject to these sudden outbursts of feeling. The hard throes of life accumulated on her so heavily, that her sweet temper was sometimes submerged in a sea of troubles. The king took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
“Be calm, my angel, be calm! It grieves me that reminiscences of this woman can disturb you so. Remember, my own, it was by your advice that we left her in undisturbed possession of the estates she had gathered together.”
“The estates? Why—yes! Let her keep them. They could not again become appendages to the crown without disgracing it. Besides, at the last, she was humble enough; and you know, my good friend, the daughter of Maria Theresa never does battle with a fallen foe?”
“Well, let this woman pass,” said Louis. “Pleasanter things await us in the next room. At least, we can give happiness to this young girl.”
“And I had forgotten her; let us go! Every moment is a year to her; let us go!”
There had been nothing but whispers in the reception-room since the royal personages left it. Marguerite stood where the king had left her, near the window, growing paler and more hopeless every moment. The darkened countenance of the monarch had struck her to the heart. After that one night of hope the reaction was terrible.
Louis and the queen entered the room together, but so quietly that the poor girl was ignorant of their presence until they stood close by her. Then she looked up with sudden affright. A mist came before her eyes, and through it she saw a paper in the king’s hand.
“Take it,” said the queen. “It is an order for your father’s release. Take it, and remember that now and always the Queen of France is your friend——”
She broke off suddenly, and uttered a sudden cry. Marguerite, in reaching out her hand for the paper, had dropped like a dead creature at her feet.