"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 compassion 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 noble 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 assuring her of the love of her faithful adherents.
Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated passage 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.
"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 God!" 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 mass 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 hell. Satan himself would like this!"
