“Yes, M. de Rohan, whom they call your lover—whom they say lent the money—and whom an unhappy man, called Charny, saw in the park in Versailles, kneeling before the queen, and kissing her hand.”
“Monsieur,” cried Marie Antoinette, “if you believe these things when you leave me, you do not love me.”
“Oh!” cried the young man, “the danger presses. I come to beg you to do me a favor.”
“What danger?”
“Oh, madame! the cardinal paying for the queen dishonors her. I do not speak now of the grief such a confidence in him causes to me. No; of these things one dies, but does not complain.”
“You are mad!” cried Marie Antoinette, in anger.
“I am not mad, madame, but you are unhappy and lost. I saw you in the park—I told you so—I was not deceived. To-day all the horrible truth has burst out. M. de Rohan boasts, perhaps——”
The queen seized his arm. “You are mad,” repeated she, with inexpressible anguish. “Believe anything—believe the impossible—but, in the name of heaven, after all I have said to you, do not believe me guilty. I, who never even thought of you without praying to God to pardon me for my fault. Oh, M. de Charny! if you do not wish to kill me, do not tell me that you think me guilty.”
Charny wrung his hands with anguish. “Listen,” said he, “if you wish me to serve you efficaciously.”
“A service from you?—from you, more cruel than my enemies? A service from a man who despises me? Never, sir—never.”