SOME DAYS after the execution which we have narrated, a horseman slowly paced the avenue of St. Cloud.
This slowness could be attributed to neither the fatigue of the rider nor the weariness of the horse; both had taken it gently. The foam made by the champing of the bit showed that the horse had been restrained.
The deep thought into which the rider had fallen seemed to retard him, or else he was taking care to arrive only at a certain hour, which had not yet struck.
He was a man of about forty, whose powerful lineaments did not want character: his head was large, his cheeks were puffed out, his face was covered with little wrinkles, he had two quick sharp eyes, and a mouth always ready to express satire. Such was the man who, at first sight, one felt must occupy a high position and make a great noise in the world.
Arrived at the top of the avenue, he leaped without any hesitation over the gate leading to the court of the palace.
Betwixt two buildings to the right another man was waiting. He made a sign to the cavalier to come on. A door was opened, and the cavalier, following the other, found himself in a secret court. There the man stopped. He was dressed in black. Then, looking round him, and observing that the court was empty, he approached the cavalier hat in hand.
The cavalier, by leaning over the neck of his horse, brought himself in some measure opposite him.
“M. Weber,” said he, in a low tone.
“M. le Comte de Mirabeau,” answered the latter.
“The same,” said the cavalier; and more lightly than one could have supposed, he alighted on the ground.
“Enter,” said Weber; “but will you wait a moment until I myself put the horse into a stable.”
At the same time he opened the door of a saloon whose windows and other door opened upon the park.
Mirabeau entered into the saloon, and employed the few moments he was left alone by Weber in taking off the large boots which had preserved him from the mud during his ride.
Weber, as he promised, entered in the course of five minutes. “Come, M. le Comte,” said he, “the queen expects you.”
Weber opened a door opening on the garden, and plunged into a labyrinth of alleys, which led to the most solitary part of the park. There, in the midst of gloomy trees, appeared a pavilion, known by the name of the kiosque. The Venetian blinds of this pavilion were closed, with the exception of two, which, just resting one against the other, allowed a small quantity of light to illumine the interior. A great fire was burning on the hearth, and two branches were lit on the chimney-piece.
“M. le Comte Riquetti de Mirabeau,” said Weber, on opening the door of the kiosque, and then drew aside to allow his companion to enter the chamber.
If he had listened, as the count passed him, he might have heard the beating of his heart against his large chest.
When the presence of the count was announced, a woman in the most distant corner of the kiosque rose, and advanced tow aids him with some hesitation and even terror.
Her heart also beat violently. She had before her this hated, decried, fatal man; this man who was accused of having caused the 5th and 6th of October; this man towards whom they had turned for a moment, but who had been repulsed by the court, and who, since then, had made them feel the necessity of treating with him again, by two flashes of lightning, as it were, which had even approached the sublime.
The first was his apostrophe to the clergy.
The second was the speech in which he explained how it was that the representatives of the people had constituted themselves into a National Assembly.
Having advanced a few paces, he bowed and waited.
The queen spoke, and said, “M. de Mirabeau, M. Gilbert assured us you were disposed to join us.”
The queen continued: “Then an overture was made, to which you replied by proposing a ministry.”
Mirabeau again bowed assentingly.
The queen continued: “It is not our fault if this do not succeed.”
“I think so, madame, especially your majesty's. It may, however, be the fault of the people who say they are devoted to the monarchy.”
“Alas! count, that is one of the perils of our position. We can choose neither our friends nor our foes, and we are often forced to accept these unfortunate friendships. We are surrounded by men who wish to serve, but who ruin us. Their conduct in keeping members of the present from the next legislature is a fair instance. Shall I name one? You would scarcely believe it, but one of our most devoted friends, a man whom I am sure would die for us, took to our public dinner the widow and children of M. de Favras, all in mourning. My first emotion, when I saw them, was to rise, hurry to them, and place the family of a man who died for us by my side, for I am not one of those who forget their friends. Every eye was fixed on me, all waited to see what we would do. Know you who stood behind my chair? Sauterre, the man of the Faubourg. I sank back weeping with rage, and did not dare to look at the widow and orphans. The royalists will blame me for not having noticed the widow and children, the revolutionists will be furious because they will think they came with my permission. Monsieur,” said the queen, shaking her head sadly, “one can but perish when one is attacked by men of genius, and defended by people who certainly are very estimable, but who have no idea of our position.”
The queen sighed, and placed her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Madame,” said Mirabeau, touched by this great misfortune, which he was not ignorant of, and which, either by the shrewd skill of the queen, or from her womanly weakness, exhibited to him her tears and sufferings, “when you speak of men who attack you, I trust you do not refer to me. I professed monarchical principles when I saw nothing but weakness in the court, and when I knew nothing of the heart and feelings of the august daughter of Maria Theresa; I fought for the rights of the throne when my every step excited suspicion, and every act was misrepresented and maligned; I served the king when I knew that, just and august as he was, I had from him to expect neither honour nor reward; what will I not do now, madame, when confidence sustains my courage, and gratitude for your majesty's reception makes obedience a duty? It is late, madame, I know, very late,” said Mirabeau, shaking his head; “perhaps, in proposing to me to save monarchy, you propose to me to perish with it. Had I reflected, I would perhaps have chosen another time than one immediately preceding that on which his majesty is about to deliver the famous red book, that is the honour of his friends, to the Chamber.”
“Ah, sir,” said the queen, “think you the king is an accomplice of this treason, and are you ignorant how that occurred? The red book was surrendered to the committee by the king, only on condition that they would keep it strictly secret. The committee caused it to be printed, thus breaking their word. They, not the king, are guilty.”
“Alas, madame, you know what made them determine on the publication of that, which, as a man of honour, I disapprove. At the very moment when the king was swearing fidelity to the constitution, he had a permanent agent at Turin, amid the mortal enemies of the constitution. At the hour he spoke of pecuniary reforms, and seemed disposed to accept those proposed to him by the Assembly, there was, at Treves, paid and sustained by him, his grand and petty stable, under the orders of the Prince de Lambesq, a person so peculiarly obnoxious to the Parisians, that every day they demand that he be hung in effigy. To the Count d'Artois, to the Prince de Conde, to all the emigres, vast pensions are paid, in violation of a decree, passed several months since, suppressing pensions. True, the king forgot to sanction this decree. For two months, madame, there has been an attempt to discover what became of 60,000,000 of money; yet none can tell. The king was begged, besought to explain what had been done with it; he refused to reply, and the committee felt itself relieved of its promise and printed the book. Why does the king put arms into the hands of others to be used so dangerously against him?”
“Ah, sir!” said the queen, “were you of the king's counsel, you would not recommend him to adopt these follies with which—I must speak the word—he dishonours himself!”
“Had I, madame, the honour of being the king's counsellor, I would be the defender of royal powers regulated by law, and the apostle of liberty guaranteed by monarchical power. This liberty, madame, has three enemies—the clergy, the nobility, and the parliament. The clergy does not belong to parliament. The clergy does not belong to this century, and was crushed by Talleyrand; the nobility belongs to all centuries, and I think we must put up with it, for there can be no monarchy without a nobility—it must, however, be repressed, and this can only be done by making it a link of union between the people and royalty. Royalty can never coalesce with the people, so long as parliaments exist, for the latter keep the nobility in hope that the old order of things will be restored. Then it is necessary, after the annihilation of the clergy, the destruction of parliaments, to revive the executive, to regenerate royal power, and make it accord with liberty. That, madame, is the sum of my politics. If it is that of the king, let him adopt it; if not, let him reject it.”
“Count,” said the queen, amazed by the light shed at once over the past, present and future by the radiation of the mind of Mirabeau, “I do not know if the king will agree with you, but had I the power it would be my course. Tell me then, count, what means are to be adopted to attain this course? I listen, I do not say with attention, but with thanks.”
Mirabeau glanced rapidly at the queen; his eagle eye sounded her very heart, and he saw that if he had not convinced her he had at least made an impression on her.
This triumph over so superior a woman as Marie Antoinette flattered in the highest degree Mirabeau's vanity.
“Madame,” said he, “we have nearly lost Paris; we yet have in the country, however, vast masses disposed to serve us, of whom we can make fascines. I advise, madame, that the king leave Paris, not France—that he join the army at Rouen, and thence publish orders more popular than the Assembly's decrees; then there will be no civil war, for the king will have surpassed the revolution.”
“But is not this revolution, whether exceeded or followed, a thing to be feared?” asked the queen.
“Alas, madame! better than any one else I know something must be thrown to it. I have already told the queen that it surpasses human power to rebuild the monarchy on the basis this revolution has shattered. All Prance has consented to this revolution, from the king to the peasant, either by act or by omission. I do not, madame, seek to defend the ancient monarchy, but to modify and regenerate it; to establish a form of government more or less like that of England, which led that country to its apogee of power and glory. After having, as Gilbert tells me, beheld and studied the prison and scaffold of Charles I., will not the king be satisfied with a throne like that of William III. or George I.?”
“Oh, count,” said the queen, to whom what Mirabeau had said recalled with shuddering horror the vision of the castle of Taverney, and the design of Guillotin's instrument, “restore us the monarchy, and you will see that we are not so ungrateful as they call us.”
“Well,” cried Mirabeau, “that, madame, is what I will do! Let the king sustain and the queen encourage me, and here at your feet I swear, as a gentleman, to keep the promise I make your majesty or die!”
“Count, count! do not forget that not a mere woman, but a dynasty of five centuries, hears your oath. Seventy kings of France, from Pharamont to Louis XV., sleep in their tombs, and will he dethroned with us when we fall!”
“I know the engagement I take, madame; it is immense, I know, though it is not greater than my will, or stronger than my devotion. Let me but be sure of the confidence of my king and queen, and I will accept the task.”
“If that be all, M. de Mirabeau, I promise you both the one and the other.”
And the queen bowed to Mirabeau with that serene smile which seemed to conquer every heart.
Mirabeau saw that the audience was over.
The pride of the politician was satisfied, but something was needed to satisfy the vanity of the noble.
“Madame,” said he, with a respectful and bold courtesy, “when your august mother, Maria Theresa, admitted one of the nobles to her presence, he never left her without having had the honour of kissing her hand.”
The queen looked at the chained lion, who asked only to be permitted to cast himself at her feet, and with a smile of triumph on her lips gave him slowly her beautiful hand, which was white as alabaster, and almost as transparent.
Mirabeau knelt, kissed her hand, and looking up proudly, said:
“Madame, this kiss has saved the monarchy!”
He left the room, moved, excited, and joyous, thinking to himself, poor man! that his genius would enable him to maintain and to fulfil the prophecy he had made.
Mirabeau had commenced the struggle trusting in his own powers, not ever dreaming that after so many imprudences and three intercepted plots the struggle had become impossible.
Had Mirabeau—and this would have been more prudent—been able to have worked beneath a mask for some time longer, it might have been different, but the day after he had been to the queen, on entering the Assembly, he saw groups of people and heard cries.
He approached these groups, and listened to the cries.
They handed little pamphlets about.
From time to time some one cried: “The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau! The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau!”
“Ah, ah!” said he, drawing a piece of money from his pocket, “methinks this concerns me. My friend,” continued he, to the one distributing the pamphlet, and who had several in his baskets, which an ass carried quietly wherever he wished him to go, “how much for '“ The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau '?”
The seller looked Mirabeau in the face. “M. le Comte, I give it away for nothing.” And then he added, in a lower tone, “And the pamphlet has already reached a hundred thousand.”
Mirabeau withdrew thoughtfully.
“This pamphlet had reached a hundred thousand! This pamphlet they gave for nothing! This colporteur, who knew him?”
But without doubt this pamphlet was one of those stupid publications of which such numbers appeared at this time.
Mirabeau cast his eye on the first page and turned pale.
The first page contained a list of the debts of Mirabeau, and strange! the list was correct. Two hundred and eight thousand francs!
Below this list was the date of the day when these sums had been paid to the different creditors of Mirabeau by the almoner of the queen. M. de Fontanges.
Then came the amount of the sum paid him monthly by the court—six thousand francs.
And lastly, an account of his interview with the queen.
This was difficult to be understood; the anonymous pamphleteer had not mistaken a single sum, one might also say he had not mistaken a single word.
What terrible enemy, skilled in his secrets, could follow him thus, and through him the monarchy?
The colporteur who had spoken to him, who had recognized and addressed him as M. le Comte, struck Mirabeau as if he had seen him before. He retraced his steps. The ass with his basket three parts empty was still there, but the first colporteur had disappeared, and another had taken his place. This one was wholly unknown to Mirabeau, but he did not follow up the distribution with less eagerness.
It so happened that at this moment Doctor Gilbert, who went nearly every day to listen to the debates in the Assembly, above all when the debates were likely to be of any importance, passed by the place where the colporteur was stationed.
Preoccupied, as he generally was, he would not, perhaps, have stopped, but Mirabeau, with his usual audacity, went straight to him, took him by the arm, and led him to the distributor of the pamphlets, who did the same to Gilbert as he had done to the others—that is, he stretched out his hands towards him, saying: “'The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau,' citizen?”
But at the sight of Gilbert his tongue and arms stopped as if paralyzed. Gilbert looked at him in his turn, and letting the pamphlet fall with disgust, turned away, saying: “This is villainous work you are at, M. de Beausire!” And taking the arm of Mirabeau, he continued his way to the Assembly, which had removed from the Episcopal Palace to the Manege.
“Do you know this man, then?” asked Mirabeau.
“I know him as I know such people,” said Gilbert; “he is a gamester—everything; he is ready as a calumniator, or anything.”
“Ah!” murmured Mirabeau, putting hi hand where his heart had been, but where there was now only the pocket-book containing the money of the chateau; and the great orator went on his way gloomily.
“What?” said Gilbert; “are you so little of a philosopher as to let such a little attack as this dash you?”
“I?” cried Mirabeau. “Ah, doctor, you do not know me! They say I am bought, when they should simply say I am paid! Well, to-morrow I purchase an hotel; tomorrow I have a carriage, horses, servants; to-morrow I have a cook and well covered table. And how do the popularity of yesterday and the unpopularity of to-day concern me? Is there not the future? No, doctor; what dashes me is that I have promised what I may not probably be able to keep; these are the faults, I had better say treacheries, of the court on my account. I have seen the queen, have I not? She seemed full of confidence in me. For a moment I dreamed—a mad dream with such a woman—for a moment I dreamed, not of being minister to the king, as Richelieu was, but let us say better—and the policy of the world would not have been worse conducted—the lover of the queen, like Mazarin. Well, what did she do? On the very day of our interview, after I had left her, I have proof that she wrote thus to her agent in Germany, M. de Flachlanden: 'Tell my brother Leopold I am of his opinion—that I make use of M. de Mirabeau, but there is nothing serious in my relation with him.'”
“Are you sure?” asked Gilbert.
“Positive. But this is not all: you know what the discussion is about to-day in the Chamber?”
“I know it is on a question of war, but I am badly informed on the cause of this war.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” said Mirabeau, “it is very simple. The whole of Europe is split into two parties: Austria and Russia on one side, England and Prussia on the other, swayed by the same hatred—hatred of revolutions. For Russia and Austria the manifestation is not difficult—it is their own true opinion; but it requires time for liberal England and philosophic Prussia to pass from one pole to the other, and to avow themselves what they are in reality—enemies to liberty. For her part, England has seen Brabant stretch out her hand to France; this has hastened her decision. Our revolution, my dear doctor, is contagious; it is more than a national revolution—it is a revolution of mankind. Burke, a pupil of the Jesuits of Saint Ouen, a bitter enemy of Pitt, is about to attack France in a work which he has been paid for in good gold by Pitt. England will not make war on France. “No, she dare not yet; but she abandons Belgium to the Emperor Leopold, and she is going to the end of the world to pick a quarrel with our ally, Spain. Louis XVI. made known to the Assembly yesterday that he was arming fourteen vessels on this account; there will be a great discussion today. To whom does the initiative of the war belong? This is the question. The king has already lost the Ministry of the Interior, the king has already lost Justice; if he loses War, what will become of him? On the other side, let us frankly, between you and me, doctor, touch on what we dare not mention in the Chamber. On the other side the king is mistrusted; the revolution can only be completed—and I have contributed to this more than any one—the revolution can only now be completed by breaking the sword in the hands of the king; of all powers, the most dangerous to leave in his hands is that of making war. Well, faithful to the promise I have made, I must go and ask them to leave him this power. I risk my popularity, my life perhaps, in supporting this demand. I am about to ask them to adopt a decree which will make the king victorious, triumphant! And now, what has the king done? He has caused the whole formulas of protestation to be fetched from the archives of the Parliament, doubtless to issue a secret protestation against the Assembly. See the evil, my dear doctor, of doing so many things secretly, instead of frankly, openly, publicly; and learn why I wish—I, Mirabeau, do you hear—that they should know what I am to the queen, to the king, since I am so. You told me that this infamy against me vexed and troubled me—not so, doctor, it assists me; with me, as with the storms, it is necessary there should be dark clouds and contrary winds. Come, come, doctor! and you shall see a good sitting, I promise you!”
Mirabeau was not wrong; his courage was tried as soon as he entered the Assembly. Everyone cried out “Treachery!” and one showed him a rope, another a pistol.
Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders and passed on.
The cries followed him to the hall, and seemed to call forth new cries. He had scarcely appeared, when a hundred voices exclaimed, “See, see the traitor!”
Barnave was at the tribune—he was speaking against Mirabeau. Mirabeau looked fixedly at him. “Yes!” said Barnave, “it is you I call a traitor, against you I speak!”
“Then,” said Mirabeau, “if you are speaking about me, I'll take a walk round the Tuileries. I shall be back before you've done.”
And with his head high, and a threatening air, he walked through the midst of the howlings and imprecations, reached the terrace, and descended into the Tuileries.
A third of the way from the great alley, a young woman, holding a sprig of vervain in her hand, was collecting a circle round her. A place on her left was empty; Mirabeau took a chair and sat himself down.
The half of those who surrounded her got up and left. Mirabeau watched them go and smiled. The young woman gave him her hand.
“Ah! baronne,” said he, “you are not afraid of catching the plague?”
“My dear count,” replied the young woman, “they say you have left our side. I draw you to us.”
Mirabeau smiled, and talked three-quarters of an hour with the young woman, who was no other than Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baronne de Stael.
At the end of that time, taking out his watch, “Ah, baronne!” said he, “I ask your pardon; Barnave was speaking against me—he had spoken an hour when I left the Assembly, and for three-quarters of an hour I have had the pleasure of conversing with you; my accuser, consequently, has been talking for nearly two hours—his discourse ought to be near its end. I must answer him.”
“Go!” said the baronne, “answer him, and with good courage.”
“Give me, madame, this sprig of vervain; it shall serve me as a talisman.”
“Take care, my dear count, vervain is worn at funerals.”
“Give it me, nevertheless; it is good to be crowned as a martyr when one descends into the circle.”
“The fact is,” said Madame de Stael, “it is impossible to be more stupid than the Assembly yesterday was.”
“Ah, baronne!” said Mirabeau, “why do you put the date?”
And as he took the sprig of vervain from her hand, which she gave him without doubt for this last speech, Mirabeau saluted her gallantly, mounted the steps which conducted to the terrace, and regained the Assembly.
Barnave descended from the tribune in the midst of acclamation which filled the salle: he had pronounced a discourse of that kind which pleases all parties.
Mirabeau was scarcely in the tribune before a complete hurricane of cries and imprecations was showered upon him.
But, raising his powerful hand, and profiting by one of those intervals of silence which there always are in storms and emeutes:
“I know well,” said he, “that it is but a step from the Capitol to the Tarpeian rock.”
Such is the majesty of genius, that this single sentence made the most irritated silent.
From the moment when Mirabeau had obtained silence, his victory was half gained. He demanded that the initiative of the war should be given to the king; this was asking too much—they refused. Then the struggle commenced on the amendments. The principal motion had been negatived. It was necessary to recover himself by partial changes. He ascended the tribune five times.
Barnave had spoken two hours; during three hours Mirabeau spoke, and at length obtained the following:
That the king had the right to make the preparations and direct the forces as he wished; that he should propose war to the Assembly, and the latter should do nothing until sanctioned by the king.
At the end of the sitting Mirabeau escaped being cut in pieces.
Barnave was carried in triumph by the people.
Poor Barnave! the day is not distant when you shall hear the cries in your turn: “Great treachery of M. Barnave!”
