"I mean, that, as during the day your majesty can never speak with the king without witnesses, we must call the night to our assistance, if you wish to speak confidentially to his majesty. Your majesty has heard, that during the night the watch is withdrawn from the corridor, and your majesty is free to leave your room and go to the chamber of the king."
A flash of joy passed over the countenance of the queen. "I thank you, sir--I thank you to-day as a wife; perhaps the day may come when I can thank you as a queen; I accept your magnanimous kindness.
Yes, I will turn the night into day, and, thanks to you, I shall be able to spend several hours undisturbed with my husband and my children. And do you say that you shall be here quite often?"
"Yes, your majesty, I shall be here once every week at your majesty's order."
"Oh! I have lost the habit of ordering," said Marie Antoinette, with a pained look. "You see that the Queen of France is powerless, but she is not wholly unfortunate, for she has friends still. You belong to these friends, sir; and that we may both retain the memory of this day, I will always call you my faithful one."
No, the queen is not wholly unfortunate; she has friends who are ready, with her, to suffer; with her, if it must be, to die. The Polignacs are gone, but Princess Lamballe, whom the queen had sent to London, to negotiate with Pitt, has returned, in spite of the warnings and pleadings of the queen. Marie Antoinette, when she learned that the princess was on the point of leaving England, had written to her: "Do not come back at a moment so critical. You would have to weep too much for us. I feel deeply, believe me, how good you are, and what a true friend you are. But, with all my love, I enjoin you not to come here. Believe me, my tender friendship for you will cease only with death."
The warning of her royal friend had, meanwhile, not restrained Princess Lamballe from doing what friendship commanded. She had returned to France, and Marie Antoinette had, at least, the comfort of having a tender friend at her side.
No, the queen was not wholly unfortunate. Besides this friend, she had her children, too--her sweet, blooming little daughter, and the dauphin, the pride and joy of her heart.
The dauphin had no suspicion of the woes and misfortunes which were threatening them. Like flowers that grow luxuriantly and blossom upon graves, so grew and blossomed this beautiful boy in the Tuileries, which was nothing more than the grave of the old kingly glory. But the dauphin was like sunshine in this dark, sad palace, and Marie Antoinette's countenance lightened when her eye fell upon her son, looking up to her with his tender, beaming face. From the fresh, merry smile of her darling, she herself learned to smile again, and be happy.
Gradually, after the first rage of the people was appeased, the chains with which she was bound were relaxed. The royal family was at least permitted to leave the close, hot rooms, and go down into the gardens, although still watched and accompanied by the National Guard. They were permitted to close the doors of their rooms again, although armed sentries still stood before them.
There were even some weeks and months in this year 1791, when it appeared as if the exasperated spirits would be pacified, and the throne be reestablished with a portion of its old dignity. The king had, in a certain manner, received forgiveness from the National Assembly, while accepting the constitution and swearing--as indeed he could but swear, all power having been taken from him, and he being a mere lay-figure--that would control all his actions, and govern according to the expressed will of the National Assembly.
But the king, in order to make peace with his people, had even made this sacrifice, and accepted the constitution. The people seemed grateful to him for this, and appeared to be willing to return to more friendly relations. The queen was no longer insulted with contemptuous cries when she appeared in the garden of the Tuileries, or in the Bois de Boulogne, and it even began to be the fashion to speak about the dauphin as a miracle of loveliness and beauty, and to go to the Tuileries to see him working in his garden.
This garden of the dauphin was in the immediate neighborhood of the palace, at the end of the terrace on the river-side; it was surrounded with a high wire fence, and close by stood the little pavilion where dwelt Abbe Davout, the teacher of the dauphin. The dauphin had had in Versailles a little garden of his own, which he himself worked, planted, and digged, and from whose flowers he picked a bouquet every morning, to bring it with beaming countenance to his mamma queen.