THE LAST ACCUSATION.
As soon as the king left the room, the queen ran towards the boudoir,
and opened the door; then, as if her strength failed her, sank down on
a chair, waiting for the decision of M. de Charny, her last and most
formidable judge.
He came out more sad and pale than ever.
“Well?” said she.
“Madame,” replied he, “you see, everything opposes our friendship.
There can be no peace for me while such scandalous reports circulate in
public, putting my private convictions aside.”
“Then,” said the queen, “all I have done, this perilous aggression,
this public defiance of one of the greatest nobles in the kingdom, and
my conduct being exposed to the test of public opinion, does not
satisfy you?”
“Oh!” cried Charny, “you are noble and generous, I know——”
“But you believe me guilty—you believe the cardinal. I command you to
tell me what you think.”
“I must say, then, madame, that he is neither mad nor wicked, as you
called him, but a man thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he
said—a man who loves you, and the victim of an error which will bring
him to ruin, and you——”
“Well?”
“To dishonor.”
“Mon Dieu!”
“This odious woman, this Madame de la Motte, disappearing just when her
testimony might have restored you to repose and honor—she is the evil
genius, the curse, of your reign; she whom you have, unfortunately,
admitted to partake of your intimacy and your secrets.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Yes, madame, it is clear that you combined with her and the cardinal
to buy this necklace. Pardon if I offend you.”
“Stay, sir,” replied the queen, with a pride not unmixed with anger;
“what the king believes, others might believe, and my friends not be
harder than my husband. It seems to me that it can give no pleasure to
any man to see a woman whom he does not esteem. I do not speak of you,
sir; to you I am not a woman, but a queen; as you are to me, not a man,
but a subject. I had advised you to remain in the country, and it was
wise; far from the court, you might have judged me more truly. Too
ready to condescend, I have neglected to keep up, with those whom I
thought loved me, the prestige of royalty. I should have been a queen,
and content to govern, and not have wished to be loved.”
“I cannot express,” replied Charny, “how much your severity wounds me.
I may have forgotten that you were a queen, but never that you were the
woman most in the world worthy of my respect and love.”
“Sir, I think your absence is necessary; something tells me that it
will end by your name being mixed up in all this.”
“Impossible, madame!”
“You say ‘impossible’; reflect on the power of those who have for so
long played with my reputation. You say that M. de Rohan is convinced
of what he asserts; those who cause such convictions would not be long
in proving you a disloyal subject to the king, and a disgraceful friend
for me. Those who invent so easily what is false will not be long in
discovering the truth. Lose no time, therefore; the peril is great.
Retire, and fly from the scandal which will ensue from the approaching
trial; I do not wish that my destiny should involve yours, or your
future be ruined. I, who am, thank God, innocent, and without a stain
on my life—I, who would lay bare my heart to my enemies, could they
thus read its purity, will resist to the last. For you might come ruin,
defamation, and perhaps imprisonment. Take away the money you so nobly
offered me, and the assurance that not one movement of your generous
heart has escaped me, and that your doubts, though they have wounded,
have not estranged me. Go, I say, and seek elsewhere what the Queen of
France can no longer give you—hope and happiness. From this time to the
convocation of Parliament, and the production of witnesses must be a
fortnight; your uncle has vessels ready to sail—go and leave me; I
bring misfortunes on my friends.” Saying this, the queen rose, and
seemed to give Charny his congé.
He approached quickly, but respectfully. “Your majesty,” cried he, in a
moved voice, “shows me my duty. It is here that danger awaits you, here
that you are to be judged, and, that you may have one loyal witness on
your side, I remain here. Perhaps we may still make your enemies
tremble before the majesty of an innocent queen, and the courage of a
devoted man. And if you wish it, madame, I will be equally hidden and
unseen as though I went. During a fortnight that I lived within a
hundred yards of you, watching your every movement, counting your
steps, living in your life, no one saw me; I can do so again, if it
please you.”
“As you please,” replied she; “I am no coquette, M. de Charny, and to
say what I please is the true privilege of a queen. One day, sir, I
chose you from every one. I do not know what drew my heart towards you,
but I had need of a strong and pure friendship, and I allowed you to
perceive that need; but now I see that your soul does not respond to
mine, and I tell you so frankly.”
“Oh, madame,” cried Charny, “I cannot let you take away your heart from
me! If you have once given it to me, I will keep it with my life; I
cannot lose you. You reproached me with my doubts—oh, do not doubt me!”
“Ah,” said she, “but you are weak, and I, alas, am so also.”
“You are all I love you to be.”
“What!” cried she, passionately, “this abused queen, this woman about
to be publicly judged, that the world condemns, and that her king and
husband may, perhaps, also in turn condemn, has she found one heart to
love her?”
“A slave, who venerates her, and offers her his heart’s blood in
exchange for every pang he has caused her!”
“Then,” cried she, “this woman is blessed and happy, and complains of
nothing!”
Charny fell at her feet, and kissed her hands in transport. At that
moment the door opened, and the king surprised, at the feet of his
wife, the man whom he had just heard accused by the Comte de Provence.