THE QUESTION
More through an effort of her strong will than because of the efficaciousness of the smelling salts, the Duchess sat upright and fixed upon the Duke her keen eyes.
"Why," she asked, "does the King desire that; I should be so minutely informed? Why not settle the matter in those departments wherein the governmental thunderbolts are forged, since it is a question pertaining to statecraft? Can I not be left in peace, I the desolate survivor of the shipwreck?—I who ask only for solitude in which to pray."
"It is natural that we should consult you when THE PRINCIPLE is involved. Moreover, we depend upon your firmness and energy. You can offer us valuable suggestions, for no one has so imposing a conception of the royal dignity."
"That is because no one else has endured so much for the royal cause. I am the unhappiest woman on earth—" and her tears fell. "I wrote so upon the walls of my prison and it is still the truth."
"Thérèse, what memories! What a tragedy!"
"In that prison," she exclaimed, "in that horrible prison, while we underwent the Via Crucis of outrages, there arose like a beautiful star, illuminating even the prisons and scaffolds,—there arose the PRINCIPLE. Only the PRINCIPLE is of moment; individuals are as nothing. What matter our sufferings or the blood that was spilled, or all the heads that fell if the principle remain the centre of life? But one head fell which incarnated the PRINCIPLE and it has cried for vengeance to God."
A fire glowed in her faded eyes, her heart beat so rapidly that the paper beneath the dress rustled. The Duke drew closer but made no effort to touch even her hands. No sweet transport had united these souls.
"I rejoice to see you thus, Thérèse," he murmured. "What has made the King fear your attitude on this question?"
"As the King has not suffered, he has no comprehension of the PRINCIPLE. I pray much for the King. He is a weakling."