THE STANZAS OF M. DE PROVENCE.
While these events were passing in Paris and in Versailles, the king,
tranquil as usual, sat in his study, surrounded by maps and plans, and
traced new paths for the vessels 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,” growled 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
majesty 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 Muses.”
“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 satire.”
“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. “Infamous!” 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 contortions,
voluptuous disorder, and the attention she had excited.
“Impossible!” he cried, growing pale; and he rang the bell. “Oh, the
police shall deal with this! Fetch M. de Crosne.”
“Sire, it is his day for coming here, and he is now waiting.”
“Let him come in.”
“Shall I go, brother?” said the count.
“No; remain. If the queen be guilty, you are one of the family, and
must know it; if innocent, you, who have suspected her, must hear it.”
M. de Crosne entered, and bowed, saying, “The report is ready, sire.”
“First, sir,” said the king, “explain how you allow such infamous
publications against the queen.”
“Etteniotna?” asked M. de Crosne.
“Yes.”
“Well, sire, it is a man called Reteau.”
“You know his name, and have not arrested him!”
“Sire, nothing is more easy. I have an order already prepared in my
portfolio.”
“Then why is it not done?”
M. de Crosne looked at the count.
“I see, M. de Crosne wishes me to leave,” said he.
“No,” replied the king, “remain. And you, M. de Crosne, speak freely.”
“Well, sire, I wished first to consult your majesty whether you would
not rather give him some money, and send him away to be hanged
elsewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because, sire, if these men tell lies, the people are glad enough to
see them whipped, or even hanged; but if they chance upon a truth——”
“A truth! It is true that the queen went to M. Mesmer’s, but I gave her
permission.”
“Oh, sire!” cried M. de Crosne.
His tone of sincerity struck the king more than anything M. de Provence
had said; and he answered, “I suppose, sir, that was no harm.”
“No, sire; but her majesty has compromised herself.”
“M. de Crosne, what have your police told you?”
“Sire, many things, which, with all possible respect for her majesty,
agree in many points with this pamphlet.”
“Let me hear.”
“That the queen went in a common dress, in the middle of this crowd,
and alone.”
“Alone!” cried the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“You are deceived, M. de Crosne.”
“I do not think so, sire.”
“You have bad reporters, sir.”
“So exact, that I can give your majesty a description of her dress, of
all her movements, of her cries——”
“Her cries!”
“Even her sighs were observed, sire.”
“It is impossible she could have so far forgotten what is due to me and
to herself.”
“Oh, yes,” said the Comte de Provence; “her majesty is surely
incapable——”
Louis XVI. interrupted him. “Sir,” said he, to M. de Crosne, “you
maintain what you have said?”
“Unhappily, yes, sire.”
“I will examine into it further,” said the king, passing his
handkerchief over his forehead, on which the drops hung from anxiety
and vexation. “I did permit the queen to go, but I ordered her to take
with her a person safe, irreproachable, and even holy.”
“Ah,” said M. de Crosne, “if she had but done so——”
“Yes,” said the count; “if a lady like Madame de Lamballe for
instance——”
“It was precisely she whom the queen promised to take.”
“Unhappily, sire, she did not do so.”
“Well,” said the king, with agitation; “if she has disobeyed me so
openly I ought to punish, and I will punish; only some doubts still
remain on my mind; these doubts you do not share; that is natural; you
are not the king, husband, and friend of her whom they accuse. However,
I will proceed to clear the affair up.” He rang. “Let some one see,”
said he to the person who came, “where Madame de Lamballe is.”
“Sire, she is walking in the garden with her majesty and another lady.”
“Beg her to come to me. Now, gentlemen, in ten minutes we shall know
the truth.”
All were silent.
M. de Crosne was really sad, and the count put on an affectation of it
which might have solemnized Momus himself.