ON THIS SAME morning of the second of April, an hour perhaps before Mirabeau breathed his last, a superior naval officer, clothed in the full uniform of a captain, and coming from the Rue Saint Honore, hastened towards the Tuileries.
Arrived there, he ascended, like a man who was familiar with the way, a little staircase which communicated by a long winding corridor with the apartments of the king.
On perceiving him, the valet de chambre uttered a cry of surprise, almost of joy, but he, putting a finger on his mouth, asked:
“Can the king receive me at once?”
“The king is with General Lafayette, to whom he is giving the orders of the day,” answered the valet, “but as soon as the general has gone—
“You will announce me,” said the officer.
“Oh! that is useless. His majesty expects you; since yesterday evening orders were that you should be introduced as soon as you arrived.”
At this moment a bell rung in the cabinet of the king. “There!” said the valet de chambre, “the king is probably ringing to inquire about you.”
“Go, then, M. Huet, and do not lose any time if the king is at liberty to see me.”
The valet de chambre opened the door, and almost immediately—proof that the king was alone—announced, “M. le Comte de Charny.”
“Oh, let him come in! let him come in! I have waited for him since yesterday.”
Charny advanced quickly, and approaching the king, “Sire,” said he, “I am, as it seems, late by some hours, but I hope that when I have informed your majesty of the causes of this delay you will pardon me.”
“Come, come, M. de Charny. I was expecting you with impatience, it is true, but I acknowledged at once that it could only be something of importance that could make your journey less rapid than it has been—so now you are welcome.” And he gave the count his hand, which the latter kissed respectfully.
“Sire,” continued Charny, who saw the impatience of the king, “I received your order the day before yesterday, in the middle of the night, and I left Montmedy yesterday, at three o'clock in the morning.”
“That explains the few hours you are late,” said the king, smiling.
“Sire,” said Charny, “I could have come back on horseback, it is true, and in this way I should have been here by ten or eleven o'clock in the evening, and even sooner, by taking the direct route; but I wanted to know the chances, good and bad, of the route your majesty has chosen—what posts were well or badly served. I wished to know, too, the time to a minute, almost to a second, it took to go from Montmedy to Paris, and consequently from Paris to Montmedy. I have noted all, and am now able to answer all your questions.”
“Bravo, M. de Charny!” said the king, “you are an admirable servant; only let me tell you how we are here, and then you shall tell me how you get on down there at Montmedy.”
“Oh, sire!” said Charny, “if I may judge by what I have already seen, things go on very badly.”
“To such a point that I am a prisoner in the Tuileries, my dear count. I just now said to this dear M. Lafayette, my jailer, 'I should like better to be King of Metz than King of France'; but happily you see me!”
“His majesty will do me honour by putting me au courant with the situation things are in.”
“Yes, in two words. You have heard of the flight of my aunts?”
“Like all the world, sire; but without any details.”
“Ah, mon Dieu! it is very simple. You know that the Assembly would only allow us sworn priests. Well, the poor women got frightened at the approach of Easter. They believed they were risking their souls by confessing to a priest of the constitution, and—on my advice, I admit—they started for Rome. There was no law against this journey, and they could not be afraid that two poor old women could strengthen the party of emigrants much. Narbonne arranged the whole matter, but I do not know how he managed; everything was ready, when they were visited on the evening of their departure, at Bellevue, in the same way that we were at Versailles on the 5th of October. Fortunately, they got out of one door while all the canaille arrived by another. Do you understand? No carriage was ready! Three ought to have been there, near the stables. They were obliged to go to Meudon on foot; there they found carriages at last, and started. Three hours afterwards, there was a great uproar in Paris. Those who had wished to stop this flight had found the nest warm, but empty. The press was very fierce next day. Marat declared they had run off with millions, Desmoulins that they had taken the dauphin away. Nothing of all this was true; the poor women had some three or four hundred thousand francs in their purse, and they were troubled enough with this, without having to take care of a child that would have at once betrayed them. As it was, they were recognised: first at Moret—they let them pass; then at Arnay le Due, where they were stopped. I wrote of this to the Assembly, and in spite of my letter they were discussing the matter the whole day. At last, however, they were permitted to proceed, but on the condition that a committee presented a law against all such emigration.”
“Yes,” said Charny, “but I thought that, owing to a magnificent speech of M. de Mirabeau, the Assembly had rejected the law proposed by the committee?”
“Without doubt it was rejected. But along with this little triumph there was a great humiliation. Some devoted friends—and I have more than I thought, my dear count—when they saw the racket which the departure of the two ladies made, hastened to the Tuileries and offered me their lives. Soon a rumour spread that there was a plot on foot to carry me off. Lafayette, whom they had sent to the Faubourg Saint Antoine, under the pretence that the Bastille would be attacked, furious at being duped, returned to the Tuileries, entered it with sword and bayonet, and arresting our poor friends, disarmed them. Some had pistols, some small swords. Each had taken whatever he could lay his hands on. Good; the day will be known in history under a new name—it will be called 'La Journee des Chevaliers du Poinard' ('The Day of the Knights of the Dagger ').”
“Oh, sire, sire! what dreadful times we live in!” said Charny, shaking his head.
“But listen. We go every year to Saint Cloud. The day before yesterday we ordered the carriages, descended, and found fifteen hundred persons around the carriages. We got in; it was impossible: the people, seizing the reins, declared that I wished to fly. After trying uselessly for an hour, we were obliged to return. The queen wept with anger.”
“But was not General Lafayette there to maintain order, and make them respect your majesty?”
“Lafayette! Do you know what he did? He caused the tocsin at Saint Roch to be rung; he ran to the Hotel de Ville, and asked for the red flag to declare the country in danger! The country in danger, forsooth, because the king and queen wished to go to Saint Cloud! Do you know who refused to give him the red flag? who tore it from his hands?—Danton; he then pretended that Danton was bought—that I had given him a hundred thousand francs. You see now, my dear count, how we are fixed, letting alone that Mirabeau is dying, nay, at this very moment may be dead.”
“so much the more reason that we should quicken our movements, sire.”
“That is what we will do. Let us see what you have determined with Bouille? The affair at Nancy has given me the opportunity of increasing his command and putting new troops under his orders.”
“Yes, sire; but unfortunately the orders of the Minister of War have run counter to yours. He has withdrawn a regiment of hussars, and he has refused to allow any of the Swiss guards to go there. It has been only with great trouble that Bouille has been able to keep the regiment of Bouillon infantry.”
“No, sire; there are a few chances less, but no matter! In such enterprises we must always stand the hazard of the die, and we have still, if the enterprise is well conducted, ninety chances out of the hundred.”
“Sire, your majesty is still determined to follow the route through Chalons, Sainte Menehould, Clermont, and Stenay, although this route is at least twenty leagues further than the other, and there is no post at Varennes?”
“I have already told M. de Bouille the reason why I prefer this road.”
“Yes, sire, and on this subject he has transmitted us the orders of your majesty. After these orders the route was thoroughly examined by me, bush by bush, stone by stone; the result ought to be in the hands of your majesty.”
“And it is a model of clearness. I know the road as well as if I had made it myself.”
“Now, sire, see what the researches of my last journey have added to the rest.”
“Speak, M. de Charny, I listen; and for greater clearness, here is the map drawn by yourself.” And saying these words, the king drew a map from a portfolio and spread it out on the table. This map was not traced, but designed by the hand, and as Charny had said, scarce a tree, a stone was wanting; it was the result of more than eight months' labour.
Charny and the king leant over the map. “Sire,” said Charny, “the real danger will commence at Sainte Menehould, and terminate at Stenay. It is over these eighteen leagues that we must station our detachment.”
“Could we not let them come nearer Paris, M. de Charny? As far as Chalons, for instance?”
“Sire,” said Charny, “that would be difficult. Chalons is too strong a town for forty, fifty, a hundred men even, to effect anything for your majesty's safety, if that safety were menaced; and besides, all that M. de Bouille can do is to place a detachment at Pont de Someville, here, your majesty, at the first post after Chalons.” And Charny pointed with his finger to the place on the map.
“Let it be so,” said the king; “in ten or eleven hours we can be at Chalons. How many hours has it taken you to come the eighty-six leagues?”
“But in a light carriage, where there were only you and a single servant.”
“Sire, I lost three hours in examining whereabouts at Varennes the relay should be placed, whether on this side of the town, near Sante Menehould, or on the other, near Dun. These three hours will compensate for the extra weight of the carriage. My opinion is that your majesty can go from Paris to Montmedy in thirty-five or thirty-six hours.”
“And what have you decided about the relay at Varennes? It is an important point—we must never want horses.”
“Yes, sire, and my advice is that the relay ought to be placed beyond the town, near Dun.”
“On what do you found your opinion?”
“Upon the situation of the town itself, sire.”
“Explain to me this situation, count.”
“The thing is very easy, sire. I have passed five or six times through Varennes since I left Paris, and yesterday I was there three hours. Varennes is a little town of about six hundred inhabitants, divided by a river into two parts; one the High Town, the other the Low Town; these communicate with each other by a bridge over the river Aire. This bridge is commanded by a high tower. There the least thing could stop the passage. It would be better, then, to cross the bridge with the horses coming from Clermont, than to run the risk of your majesty being recognised while we changed. The bridge could be burred by three or four men.”
“You are right, count,” said the king; “besides, in case of hesitation, you will be there.”
“This will be at once a duty and an honour, if the king should deem me worthy.”
The king again stretched his hand toward Charny.
“So,” said the king, “M. de Bouille has already marked the stages and chosen the men to superintend my route?”
“If your majesty approves, yes, sire.”
“Have you made any note on the subject?”
Charny took a folded paper from his pocket and presented it to the king.
“It seems good,” said the king, after having read it. “But if these detachments should be obliged to stay three or four days in these towns and villages, what excuse will be made?”
“Sire, the excuse is already formed. They will have to attend on an escort bearing money from the minister to the army of the North.”
“Allons,” said the king, with lively satisfaction, “all is foreseen!”
At that moment the door opened. The king turned round quickly, for the opening of this door was an infraction of the rules of etiquette, which was a great insult if it was not excused by a great necessity.
It was the queen; she was pale, and held a paper in her hand. But, at the sight of the count, she uttered a cry of astonishment.
Charny arose and saluted the queen respectfully, who muttered between her teeth: “M. de Charny! M. de Charny!—here!—with the king!—at the Tuileries!” and then she added, in a low voice: “And I not know it!”
There was so much grief in the eyes of the poor woman, that although Charny had not heard the last words, he guessed them, and advanced two steps towards her.
She held out her hands as if she were going to him, but almost immediately put one on her heart, which doubtless beat violently.
Charny saw all. The king had, in the meanwhile, taken up the paper that had escaped from the queen's hands. He read what was written on this paper, but without being able to understand it.
“What do these three words mean—'Fly! Fly! Fly!'—and this signature half written?”
“Sire,” replied the queen, “they mean that M. de Mirabeau has been dead for the last ten minutes, and that this is the last advice he gives us.”
“Madame,” said the king, “the advice which he gives shall be followed, for it is good, and the moment is approaching when we must-put it into execution.”
Then, turning to Charny; “Count,” he continued, “you can follow the queen to her apartments, and tell her all.”
The queen rose, looking now at the king, now at Charny, and addressed the latter: “Come, M. le Comte,” said she.
And she went out as quickly as possible, for she could not have suppressed the various emotions within her a minute longer. Charny bowed to the king, and followed Marie Antoinette.
The queen entered her apartments, and sank down on a sofa as she made a sign to Charny to fasten the door.
Scarcely was she seated before she sobbed.
She wept for weeping's sake. Her tears would have choked her else. She wept without speaking a word. Was it joy or grief? Something of each, perhaps.
Then, without saying anything, with more love than respect, Charny approached the queen, and drawing one of her hands from her face, covered it with kisses, saying, “Madame, I assure you that since the day I took leave of you, a day has not passed but that I have occupied myself with you one hour.”
“Oh, Charny! Charny!” replied the queen, “there was a time when you were less occupied with me, but thought more.”
“Madame,” said Charny, “a great responsibility was laid on me by the king. This responsibility imposed silence on me until all was completed. It is finished to-day only. To day I can see you again—can halt with you. Until to-day I could not even write to you.”
“It is a great instance of loyalty, this which you have given, but I regret that you have done it at the expense of another sentiment.”
“Madame,” said Charny, “since I have received the permission of the king, allow me to inform you of all I have done for your safety.”
He related all to her; how he had been sent to M. de Bouille; how Count Louis had come to Paris; how he, Charny, had examined the route by which the queen must fly, and finally, how he came to announce to the king that there was nothing to prevent them putting the project at once into execution.
The queen heard Charny with great attention, and at the same time with profound gratitude. It seemed to her that devotion only could go so far. Love, an ardent and burning love, could only overcome these obstacles, and invent the means by which they were surmounted.
She let him speak to the end. Then, when he had finished, looking at him with a profound expression of tenderness, “You will then be very glad to save me, Charny?” she asked.
“Oh!” cried the count, “can you ask me that, madame? It is the dream of my ambition, and if I succeed it shall be the glory of my life.”
“I had rather it should be the recompense of your love,” said the queen sadly. “But n'importe! You wish, do you not, that this great work of saving the king, the queen, and the dauphin of France should be accomplished by you?”
“I only wait your assent to devote myself to it.”
“Yes, I understand, my friend,” said the queen, “this devotion ought to be free from every foreign sentiment, and every material affection. It is impossible that my husband, my children, can be saved by a hand which dare not extend itself to them to sustain them, if they should slip in this route we are about to travel together. I place their life and mine in your hands, my brother; but in your turn, will you not have pity on me?”
“Pity on you, madame?” said Charny.
“Yes, you would not that at this time, when I require all my strength, all my courage, all my presence of mind, you would not, I say, that all this should be lost, perhaps for want of a pledged word? You would not, would you?”
Charny interrupted the queen. “Madame,” said he, “I wish your majesty to be safe; I wish the good of France: I wish the glory of perfecting the work I have commenced; and, I avow it to you, I am grieved to have such a small sacrifice only to offer you: I swear not to see Madame de Charny save with your permission.”
And respectfully and coldly saluting the queen, he withdrew, without the latter, numbed by the accent with which he had pronounced these words, attempting to detain him.
But Charny had scarcely shut the door behind him, than, stretching out her arms, she cried painfully:
“Oh! I had rather it had been I that he had sworn never to see, and that he had loved me as he loves her!”
