CHAPTER LXXXII.
A DEAD HEART.
“Andrée,” continued the queen, “it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life, is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb.”
“Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your majesty.”
“That was never my wish,” said the queen; “tell me truly, Andrée, had you to complain of me when you were at court?”
“Your majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then as now, no, madame.”
“But often,” said the queen, “a grief hurts us which is not personal; have I injured any one belonging to you? Andrée, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such.”
Andrée felt touched. “Your majesty knows,” said she, “that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies.”
“I understand,” replied the queen; “you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and, perhaps, he himself accuses me of caprice.”
“My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen,” said Andrée, coldly.
The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andrée on this subject; so she said only, “Well, at least, I am ever your friend.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with your goodness.”
“Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend?”
“I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world.” She colored as she spoke.
“You have loved me; then you love me no more? Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance? if so, it is a cursed place.”
“Do not accuse my heart, madame, it is dead.”
“Your heart dead, Andrée? you, so young and beautiful.”
“I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower, alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day.”
“Then you like the convent?”
“I embrace with pleasure a solitary life.”
“Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world?”
“Nothing!”
“Mon dieu!” thought the queen; “shall I fail? If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties; to beg her to accept M. de Charny—heavens, how unhappy I am!—Andrée,” she said, “what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived.”
“What hope, madame?”
“Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak.”
“If your majesty would explain——”
“You never regret what you have done?”
“Never, madame.”
“Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations.”
“Still, if your majesty would tell me——”
“Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court.”
“Never!”
“You refuse me?”
“Oh, madame, why should you wish me?—sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present.”
“But,” said the queen, “what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain. A marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies.”
“A marriage?” stammered Andrée.
“Yes.”
“Oh, I refuse, I refuse!”
“Andrée!” cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.
“Ah, no, I refuse!”
Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully-palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andrée said, “But, madame, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life.”
“M. de Charny,” said the queen, with an effort.
“M. de Charny?”——
“Yes, the nephew of M. de Suffren.”
“It is he!” cried Andrée, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; “he consents——”
“He asks you in marriage.”
“Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him.”
The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andrée kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. “Oh, I am ready,” murmured she.
“Come, then!” cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.
Andrée left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, “Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering? and yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame?”