Part 40 (2/2)

”The civil war has begun!” cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.

The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, ”Vive la reine!”

Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling.

Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there.

At once they began to cry, ”The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'”

”Very well,” said Marat. ”I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry.”

”Sing, sing!” shouted the men to the performers on the stage--”sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'”

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, ”Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'”

”No,” roared Santerre, ”no, they shall not sing that!”

”No,” cried Simon, ”we will not hear the monkey-song!”

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, ”No, we will not hear the monkey-song!”

”The thing works well!” said Marat. ”I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show.”

The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, ”Chantons, celebrons notre reine!” The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, ”We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey- song!”

”Oh, would I had never come here!” whispered the queen, with tearful eyes, as she sank back in her armchair, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

Perhaps because the real royalists saw the agitation of the queen, and out of compa.s.sion for her were willing to give up the controversy--perhaps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists that they had had enough of shouting and confusion--at all events the cry ”Vive la reine” and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing was left to them but to be silent too.

”The first little skirmish is over!” said Marat, resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet arm-chair. ”Now we will listen to the music a little, and look at the pretty theatre girls.”

And in fact the opera had now begun; the director of the orchestra had taken advantage of the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate presence of mind his command was obeyed.

The public, wearied it may be with the shouting and noise, remained silent, and seemed to give its attention exclusively to the stage, the development of the plot, and the n.o.ble music.

Marie Antoinette breathed freely again; her pale cheeks began to have color once more, her eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in her armchair, she allowed the music to flow into her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of her childhood: she saw herself again in Schonbrunn; she saw her teacher Gluck enter the blue music-room, in which she with her sisters used to wait for him; she saw the glowing countenance of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her high regard, and to announce to him herself that Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her new and brilliant career.

A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen from her reveries; she raised herself up and leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible voice, the great aria in which the friend comes to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen Alceste, and to dry her tears by a.s.suring her of the love of her faithful adherents.

Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated pa.s.sage which had given to Marie Antoinette a half year before her last great triumph. It ran:

”Reine infortunee, ah! que ton coeur Ne soit plus navre de douleur!

Il vous reste encore des amis!”

But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe when the thundering voice of Santerre called, ”None of that, we will not hear the air!”

”No, we will not hear the air!” shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices.

”Poor Gluck,” whispered Marie Antoinette, with tears in her eyes, ”because they hate me, they will not even hear your music!”

”Sing it, sing it!” shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices from all parts of the house.

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