ENEMIES RECONCILED.
The Queen of France reached the summer-house just as the sun was pouring
a flood of crimson and gold into the violet shadows that lay among the
trees which sheltered the little temple. The windows, where they were
visible through the clustering ivy and flowers, blazed with the arrowy
light that broke against them, and the soft grass that lay around grew
ruddy in the rich glow.
This seemed a good omen to the queen, who stepped lightly over the turf
and entered the temple where Mirabeau was standing, so swiftly that he
had hardly time to turn from the window, where he had been watching for
her, before she stood face to face with him.
Marie Antoinette had never been within speaking distance of this
magnificent demagogue before. She was astonished by the wonderful power
that lay in supreme ugliness. His face had the fascination which some
wild animals possess, and his large eyes dwelt upon her with the
half-sleepy, half-pleading look which these animals have when but half
aroused.
She came forward, radiant from her walk, fresh from the soft breeze that
had swept over her, but with some shyness, real or apparent, such as a
woman of sensitive modesty feels in meeting a stranger. When Mirabeau
saw her face, and the light that shone in those splendid eyes, he sunk
upon one knee, and bent his head, but not so low as to conceal the smile
that transfigured all his face.
“Ah, madame! how long I have pined and prayed for this hour,” he said,
lifting his eyes to her face with an expression that made her breath
come fast, for it changed the whole aspect of that face like a miracle,
and drew her toward him with irresistible fascination. This troubled
her; for hatred of the man had been to her a sure safeguard, and she
began to tremble lest it should pass away. She expected audacity, but
looked down upon a strong, powerful man, who had thrown himself at her
feet with the docility of a Newfoundland dog.
“Arise, Monsieur Count,” she said, smiling upon him; and she was
astonished to find how naturally the smile came to her lips. “If we have
not been friends before, it is rather our misfortune than yours.”
“Ah! if your highness could have thought so! But my enemies prevailed
against me until it is now almost too late.”
“Nothing is too late for a man like Mirabeau,” said the queen again,
motioning that he should arise. “You, who have taught the people of
France to hate their king, can, with the same powers of eloquence,
convince them that he is their best friend.”
Mirabeau arose to his feet, and again that smile flashed upon the woman,
who could not turn her eyes from the marvelous brightness that
transfigured his face.
“Ah! if I had the power your highness awards me, and you would deign to
use it, no slave of the thousands who have knelt at your feet would be
so grateful as Mirabeau.”
The queen seated herself on a divan that curved in with the walls of the
temple. Mirabeau followed, and stood near her; but she swept the folds
of her dress together, and motioned that he should take the place by her
side.
“This is honor, better still, happiness,” he said, accepting the seat.
“How often, fair queen, have I wondered why you kept me from you. Never
in the world had sovereign a more devoted subject.”
Marie Antoinette sighed heavily; she began to comprehend how much power
had been flung away in keeping this man from the court. She could
appreciate now the wonderful influence he possessed with the people.
She answered him graciously, “cannot the past, with its mistakes, be
forgotten? Of all people in the world, a sovereign is most likely to be
deceived with regard to those who surround him. We were led——”
Mirabeau forgot that it was the queen who spoke, and with the same
impetuous roughness which made his popularity with the people, broke in
upon her half-finished sentence.
“You were led to believe me wild, unprincipled, selfish; a man who
belonged to the people only because he was rejected by his own class.
Part of this is true, but more false. Had you deigned to call me to your
aid, madame, a more devoted slave would not have lived.”
Marie Antoinette sat in supreme astonishment. How was she to reach this
man—through his greatness or through his sins?
For the first time in her queenly life this woman doubted herself. In
Mirabeau she saw the two contending elements which already distracted
France—the refinements of the court and the fierce strength of its
antagonists, inordinate self-love and ready self-abasement. She knew at
once that her intellect, clear and acute as it was, could not cope with
his; but in those soft flatteries of look and speech, that undermine and
persuade, she was more than a match for any man or woman of France. Men
who do not like to be convinced are the most easily persuaded.
“They have, indeed misled us,” she answered, leaning gently toward the
man, who turned upon her for the instant with the gleam of a wild beast
in his eyes; but the look softened beneath her glance, and the upright
form bent imperceptibly toward her. “I will not say how many cruel
things have poisoned the ear of my august husband, or wounded my own
self-love.”
Here Mirabeau started to his feet.
“Have they dared to hint that I ever whispered one word against your
highness as a queen, and the loveliest woman in Europe?”
“Perhaps I have heard worse than that.”
“Worse than that? Nay, then, I should have been the brute they call me.
Tell me, your highness, who my traducers are?”
“Forgive me if I withhold all such knowledge. If Count Mirabeau is to be
our friend, he must not exhaust himself in private quarrels.”
“If I am to be your friend, madame? Who ever knew Mirabeau war against a
woman?”
“But when that woman is a queen, the wife of a king, and the daughter of
an empress, the weight of her royalty may overpower every thing else.”
Marie Antoinette said this in a tone of apology, as if she longed to
make some excuse for the thrice regal power that might weigh against her
loveliness.
Mirabeau was struck by this sweet humility; a soft protesting smile
stole over his face. The queen lifted her eyes to his, and held his gaze
in fascination.
“Madame, turn those eyes away. Ah! I was told truly; a man must be brave
to audacity who could refuse anything to that glance. Mirabeau is your
slave already, only tell me how I can best begin my service.”
The heart of Marie Antoinette leaped to her lips, but, no look of the
triumph she felt came to her eyes, they were moist with sweet
thankfulness, nothing more.
“It is not for me to say how you can best serve us. The genius that has
struck us so deeply will know how to reassert itself. In the Assembly,
no voice has been so eloquent against royalty as that of Count
Mirabeau.”
“I know it! I know it! But how am I to unsay that which the people have
accepted as gospel?”
“Tell them that they are mistaken in their belief about the king. Oh,
monsieur! you have no true knowledge of that brave and good man. You
heap the sins of all the previous kings of France upon his head. You
have made him odious with the people, when they have no better friend on
earth. Tell the people this; as you alone can express a noble truth.
Wing it with your eloquence. Enforce it by the profound respect which
you must feel when the heart of Louis the Sixteenth is really known to
you. I say to you, Count Mirabeau, there is not a man in all France who
has the good of his people so close at heart. Has he not forgiven
much—granted more? Do the people who malign him never think of the great
outrages that have been perpetrated against him? Are not the ruins of
the Bastille before their eyes? A kingly fortress so completely
identified with the royalty of France, that it was like tearing out the
jewels of her crown when the people razed it to the ground. Yet no man
has been punished for the traitorous deed. The king forgave what was an
insult to his power and a wrong against himself. Nay, since then, has he
not heaped concession on concession to the people—opened the very
barriers of royalty, that they might rush in; changed his ministers, and
disgraced his best friends at their insolent bidding——”