MONSIEUR JACQUES PLEADS BEFORE ROYALTY.
Louis made a motion with his hand. A door was opened, and he led the
queen from her presence-chamber into a small cabinet, to which he was
followed by Monsieur Jacques. Here the king seated himself after first
conducting the queen to a chair. He was very grave, and seemed to be
dreading that some unpleasant subject might be forced upon them; but
Jacques stood in the presence, modest, grave, and unpresuming as a
child. The king could hardly recognize in that still face the man who
had almost terrified him the day before.
“Now speak freely,” said Marie Antoinette, who had no idea that this
person was not an entire stranger to her husband, “speak out your
wishes. It is our desire to gratify them.”
“Lady, I but ask the privilege of free speech.”
The king moved uneasily in his seat. He had grave fears that even
gratitude would not make Marie Antoinette tolerant of such bold language
as he had listened to the day before; but the lady answered,
“But a moment since we desired you to speak freely.”
“Then I will ask his majesty to remember all that I said to him
yesterday.”
“Yesterday!” exclaimed the queen; “and you saw his highness yesterday?”
“Yes, madame. I intruded myself upon him, rudely, perhaps, for I am but
one of the people; and I said things that would have cost me life or
liberty had they been uttered to his grandfather; but they were honestly
said, and our good king forgave their roughness because of the truth
that was in them.”
Monsieur Jacques bent his large, earnest eyes upon the king as he spoke,
and, spite of himself, the monarch bent his head in grave assent.
“Madame, this is what I said to the king: ‘The people of France and the
nobility of France are at variance; light has broken in upon the
ignorance of the masses. They begin to look up to heaven and ask if they
are not men? If they are to be downtrodden forever and ever by the
dominant nobility? They look at your nobles, and measuring them by the
standard of real manhood, find that their strength lies in traditions,
that their privileges are hedged in by benefits wrested from the labor
and strength of the people they despise. Strip them of their jewels and
their laces, and sometimes they are found less than men.’”
“Be still!” cried the queen, rising from her chair, scarlet with
indignation. “It is men like you who teach these heresies to the people.
I wonder if, in truth, you have dared to be so bold, that the king did
not place you under arrest. But for the service which I cannot forget;
but for that, sirrah, you should only leave this cabinet for the
Bastille.”
“Still his majesty will not send me there for better reasons than that I
chanced to seize an infuriated beast by the horns, when he might not
even have been dangerous—pray mention the ridiculous feat no more. I
claim no gratitude for that, and only remember it because it has been
the means of bringing me here. If so poor an act can induce you to
listen with charity, the reward will be too much.”
Marie Antoinette seated herself again.
“We have promised that you should speak freely, and will be patient,”
she said, fairly biting her lip to keep back the haughty words that
crowded to them.
“Madame, I have offended you, when it was my desire to be of service.
Forgive me!”
“What is this service?” inquired the king.
“There lives a man in Paris, sire, who would be a firm friend to the
King and Queen of France, were his friendship desired. This man was born
a noble, but his quick intellect, burning genius, and indomitable will,
carried him out from them into the great masses of the people. Still he
possesses the instincts of his race, its power of command, its love of
true royalty. Above all, he adores France as the people adore him.”
“Go on,” said Marie Antoinette, in a cold, almost harsh tone, “let us
have all the noble qualities of this wonderful man.”
The voice cut through Monsieur Jacques’ enthusiasm like a knife. He
stopped, caught his breath, and looked into the proud beauty of her face
with a glance of reproach, which was absolutely pathetic from its
intensity.
“Madame,” he said, at last, “I think you guess who I am speaking of.”
“Perhaps,” answered the queen, with a cold smile. “But go on, the king
listens.”
Monsieur Jacques knew well enough that it was the queen to whom he was
to address himself. When the two royal personages were together, her
energy was sure to prevail. While he looked proud and unyielding, he
seemed anxious, if not distressed.
“This man, lady, can be the friend of royalty, and the friend of the
people; take him into your councils—not publicly, that might not be
prudent—but let him come to you, time by time, fresh from the people;
let him bring the two elements of human power, statesmanship and labor,
into harmony. He can do it—he will do it. It is the work for a great
mind like his.”
“And what is the name of this wonderful personage?” inquired the queen,
speaking in cool and bitter irony.
“The Count de Mirabeau.”
“Enough!” cried the queen, rising from her seat. “When we need the help
of this admirable gentleman, he shall be notified. But the King of
France is not so near his downfall as to require support like that.”
Louis arose, greatly agitated.
“My angel,” he said, kissing her hand, “is not this a rash message? Can
we afford to repulse a man like this?”
“When we cannot, the monarchy of France is no longer worth preserving,”
answered Marie vehemently. “The royalty of a great nation must protect
itself—the trust is too stupendous for demagogues. No, sire, it is not
rash.”
“But we may, perhaps, wish to reconsider,” expostulated the kind
monarch. “Let us send him at least a courteous message.”
“Frame it as you will, sire, only let the rejection be positive. From my
first sight of this man Mirabeau, I detested him.”
“Ah, lady! you could not understand how this great man adored you,” said
Jacques.
Marie Antoinette drew her figure proudly up to its full height, glanced
at the king, and turned upon Monsieur Jacques.
“You have our answer concerning this person. Now say what can be done
for yourself.”
“Nothing! I ask nothing—accept nothing. But the time will come when you
will seek this man—he who is now spurned a second time from your feet.”
Before the queen could answer this audacious speech, Monsieur Jacques
had left the cabinet.