Part 41 (1/2)
”No, do not sing it!” roared the others; ”we will not hear the air.”
And suddenly, above the cries of the contestants, rose a loud, yelling voice:
”I forbid the singer Clairval ever again singing this air. I forbid it in the name of the people!”
It was Marat who spoke these words. Standing on the arm-chair of the Princess de Lamballe, and raising his long arms, and directing them threateningly toward the stage, he turned his face, aglow with hate and evil, toward the queen.
Marie Antoinette, who had turned her head in alarm in the direction whence the voice proceeded, met with her searching looks the eyes of Marat, which were fixed upon her with an expression equally stern and contemptuous. She shrank back, and, as if in deadly pain, put her hand to her heart.
”0 G.o.d!” she whispered to herself, ”that is no man, that is an infernal demon, who has risen there to take the place of my dear, sweet Lamballe. Ah, the good spirit is gone, and the demon takes its place--the demon which will destroy us all!”
”Long live Marat!” roared Santerre, and his comrades. ”Long live Marat, the great friend of the people, the true patriot!”
Marat bowed on all sides, stepped down from the easy-chair, and seated himself comfortably in it.
Clairval had stopped in the air; pale, confused, and terrified, he had withdrawn, and the director whispered to the orchestra and the singers to begin the next number.
The opera went on, and the public again appeared to give itself during some scenes to the enjoyment of the music. But soon this short quiet was to be disturbed again. One of the singers, Madame Dugazont, a zealous royalist, wanted to give the queen a little triumph, and show her that, although Clairval had been silenced, the love and veneration of Dugazont were still alive and ready to display themselves.
Singing as the attendant of Alceste, Dugazont had these words to give in her part: ”Ah! comme faime la reine, comme faime ma maitresse!”
She advanced close to the footlights, and turning her looks toward the royal box, and bowing low, sang the words: ”Comme faime la reine, comme j'aime ma maitresse!”
And now, as if this had been the battle-cry of a new contest, a fearful din, a raging torrent of sound began through the whole house. At first it was a mixed and confused ma.s.s of cries, roars, hisses, and applause. Now and then single voices could be heard above the horrid chaos of sounds. ”We want no queen!” shouted some.
”We want no mistress!” roared others; and mingled with those was the contrary cry, ”Long live the queen! Long live our mistress!”
”Hi!” said Marat, full of delight, twisting his bony form up into all kinds of knots--” hi! this is the way they shout in h.e.l.l. Satan himself would like this!”
More and more horrible, more and more wild became the cries of the rival partisans. Already embittered and exasperated faces were confronting each other, and here and there clinched fists were seen, threatening to bring a shouting neighbor to silence by the use of violence.
The queen, trembling in every limb, had let her head fall powerlessly on her breast, in order that no one might see the tears which ran from her eyes over her death-like cheeks.
”0 G.o.d,” whispered she, ”we are lost, hopelessly lost, for not merely our enemies injure us, and bring us into danger, but our friends still more. Why must that woman turn to me and direct her words to me? She wanted to give me a triumph, and yet she has brought me a new humiliation.” Suddenly she shrank back and raised her head. She had caught the first tones of that sharp, mocking voice, which had already pierced her heart, the voice of that evil demon who now occupied the place of the good Princess Lamballe.
The voice cried: ”The people of Paris are right. We want no queen!
And more than all other things, no mistress! Only slaves acknowledge masters over them. If the Dugazont ventures to sing again, 'I love my queen, I love my mistress,' she will be punished as slaves are punished--that is, she will be flogged!”
”Bravo, Marat, bravo!” roared Santerre, with his savage rabble.
”Bravo, Marat, bravo!” cried his friends in the boxes; ”she shall be flogged!”
Marat bowed on all sides, and turned his eyes, gleaming with scorn and hatred, toward the royal box, and menaced it with his clinched fists.
”But not alone shall the singer be flogged,” cried he, with a voice louder and sharper than before--”no, not alone shall the singer be flogged, but greater punishment have they deserved who urge on to such deeds. If the Austrian woman comes here again to turn the heads of sympathizing souls with her martyr looks, if she undertakes again to move us with her tears and her face, we will serve her as she deserves, we will go whip in hand into her box!” [Footnote: Goneourt's ”Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 365.]
The queen rose from her chair like an exasperated lioness, and advanced to the front of the box. Standing erect, with flaming looks of anger, with cheeks like purple, she confronted them there--the true heir of the Caesars, the courageous daughter of Maria Theresa-- and had already opened her lips to speak and overwhelm the traitor with her wrath, when another voice was heard giving answer to Marat.
It cried: ”Be silent, Marat, be silent. Whoever dares to insult a woman, be she queen or beggar, dishonors himself, his mother, his wife, and his daughter. I call on you all, I call on the whole public, to take the part of a defenceless woman, whom Marat ventures to mortally insult.
You all have mothers and wives; you may, perhaps, some day have daughters. Defend the honor of woman! Do not permit it to be degraded in your presence. Marat has insulted a woman; we owe her satisfaction for it. Join with me in the cry, 'Long live the queen!