THE ROYAL FAMILY continued on to Paris, making what we may call the journey of sorrow.
They advanced slowly, for the horses could not walk but as fast as the escort, which was in chief composed of men armed with scythes, forks, guns, sabres, pikes and flails, the whole number being completed by an indefinite number of women and children. The women lifted their children above their heads to show them the king who was being brought back by force to his capital, and whom none had ever expected to see so situated.
They reached Clermont without seeing, though the distance was four leagues, any diminution in the terrible escort, those of the men who composed it whose occupations called them homeward being replaced by others in the environs, who wished to enjoy a spectacle with which others had been satisfied.
Among all the captives of this travelling prison, two were most exposed to the anger of the crowd, and more completely the butts of its menaces—these were the unfortunate guardsmen on the box. Every moment, and this was one way to strike at the royal family, their persons having been declared by the National Assembly invincible, at every moment bayonets were directed against their breasts, or some scythe, which might well have been that of death, was elevated above their heads, or else some lance glided like a serpent between the intervals to prick them, and was brought back quick as lightning to gratify its master, by showing by its point that it had not been misdirected.
All at once they saw, with surprise, a man bare-headed, without a hat, without arms and with his dress all mud-stained, pierce the crowd, after having simply spoken respectfully to the king and queen, rush towards the box of the carriage, and take his place between the guardsmen.
The queen uttered a cry of joy. She had recognised Charny.
They reached St. Menehould at about two in the afternoon. The loss of sleep during the night of their departure, and the excitement they had gone through, had its effect on all, especially on the dauphin, who, at that place, had a violent fever. The king ordered a halt.
Perhaps of all the cities on the road St. Menehould was the one most excited against the unfortunate family of prisoners. No attention was paid to the king's order, which was superseded by one from Billot to put horses to the carriage. He was obeyed.
The passage through the city was cruel. The enthusiasm excited by the appearance of Drouet, to whom the apprehension of the prisoners was due, would have been a terrible lesson to Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, if kings could learn anything; but in these cries they only saw a blind fury, and in these patriots anxious to save France they only saw rebels.
At the entrance into St. Menehould, the crowd, like an inundation, covered the whole plain, and could not cross the narrow street.
It burst around the two sides of the city, following the exterior contour; but as they only stopped at St. Menehould long enough to change the horses, at the other side of the city it crowded around the carriages more orderly than ever.
The king had fancied, and this idea, perhaps, alone had excited him to adopt a wrong course, that the people of Paris alone were enraged, and had relied on the provinces. He had not only alienated the country, but it was perfectly pitiless towards him. The country people had terrified De Choiseul at the bridge of Someville, had imprisoned Dandoins at St. Menehould, had tired on Damas at Clermont, and had killed Isidor beneath the king's eyes. All protested against his flight, even the priest whom the Count de Bouille had kicked into the dust.
They reached Chalons at a late hour. The carriage drove into the court-yard of the intendant, where preparations had been ordered by a courier.
The court-yard was filled by the National Guard of the city, and by spectators.
At the door where the tumultuous cortege had paused, cries had ceased, and a kind of murmur of compassion was heard when the royal family left the carriage. They found a supper as sumptuous as possible, and served with an elegance which astonished them. Servants were in attendance, but Charny claimed the privilege for himself and the guardsmen to wait at table. Such a humiliation, which to-day would seem strange, was an excuse for Charny not to lose sight of the king and to be prepared for any conjuncture. The queen understood, though she had not even looked towards him, nor thanked him with her hand, eyes, or mouth.
Charny knew the state of feeling in every village. Now, Chalons was an old commercial town, with a population of bourgeoisie, land-holders, and nobles. It was aristocratic.
The result was, that while at the table their host, the intendant of the department, bowed to the queen, who, expecting nothing favourable, looked anxiously at him.
“Madame,” said he, “the young girls of Chalons wish to offer your majesty flowers.” The queen, in surprise, looked towards Madame Elizabeth and the king.
“Madame,” said the intendant, “if the hour be inconvenient and badly chosen, I will order that they be not admitted.”
“No, no! do not say so! Girls—flowers—let them come!”
The intendant withdrew, and a moment after, twelve girls, of from fourteen to sixteen years of age, the most beautiful that could be found, passed the ante-chamber and stopped at the door.
“Come in! come in, my children!” said the queen, extending her arms to them.
One of the young girls, the interpreter, not only of her companions, but of their parents and the city, had committed to memory an address. She was about to repeat it, but when the queen offered her arms, and she saw the emotion of the royal family, she could but weep, and utter these words, which came from her lips in the deepest distress:
“Ah, your majesty, what a misfortune!”
The queen took the bouquet, and kissed the young girl.
Charny whispered in the king's ear:
“Perhaps, your majesty, this city may be turned to advantage. Perhaps all is not lost, and with your leave given, I will descend, and will report to you what I have seen and perhaps done.”
“Go,” said the king, “but be prudent. Did anything happen to you, I should never be consoled. Two deaths in one family, alas! are more than enough.”
“Sire, my life, like the lives of my brothers, is your own!”
He left; but as he did so he wiped away a tear.
The presence of the royal family alone retained the apparent calmness of this firm-hearted man, and made him seem so much a stoic. “Poor Isidor!” said he. He placed his hand on his breast to see if he had still in his pocket the papers which De Choiseul had found on his brother, and which he purposed to read, at the first quiet moment, religiously, as if they had been a will.
Behind the young girls, whom Madame Royale kissed like sisters, were the parents, almost all of whom were bourgeois or nobles. They came humbly and timidly to salute their sovereign.
In about half an hour Charny returned.
Tim queen had seen him go out and return, and her eye could not possibly read the reasons.
“Well?” asked the king, leaning towards Charny.
“All, sire, is well. The National Guard offers, to-morrow, to escort your majesty to Montmedy.”
“Then you have decided on something?”
“Yes, sire—with the principal men. Tomorrow, before leaving, the king will ask to hear mass, and they cannot refuse permission. It is a festival day. The king will find his carriage at the door of the church, and will enter it. Vivats will be heard, and the king will then order the carriage to be driven to Montmedy.”
“It is well,” said Louis XVI., “and if the state of things does not change, all will be as you say; only do you and your companions go to sleep, for you will additionally need it to-morrow,”
The reception of the young girls and their parents was not prolonged, and the king and royal family retired at nine o'clock.
When they retired, the sentinel at the door recalled to them that they were yet prisoners.
An hour afterwards, having been relieved, the sentinel asked leave to speak to the chief of the escort, Billot.
He was supping in the street with the men who had come from the different villages on the route, and sought to induce them to remain until morning.
The majority of these men had seen what they wished—that is, the king—and each wished to keep the approaching holiday (Fete Dieu) in his own village. Billot sought to retain them, for he was uneasy at the feeling displayed by the aristocratic city.
They replied: “If we do not return tomorrow, who will make preparations for the festivals, and place hangings before our houses?”
The sentinel surprised him in the midst of this conversation. They talked together in au animated manner. Billot sent for Drouet. The same whispered conversation was continued. Billot and Drouet then went together to the post-house, the master of which was a friend to the latter. Two horses were at once saddled, and ten minutes after, Billot galloped towards Rheims, and Drouet to Vitry-le-Francais.
Day came, and not more than six hundred men remained of the escort. Those who did remain were the most furious, or the meanest. They had slept in the street on bales of straw, which had been brought to them, and when morning came, they saw half a dozen men in uniform enter the intendancy, and immediately after leave in haste.
There was a station of the Guards of Villeroy in Chalons, and about a dozen of those gentlemen were in the city. They came for orders to Charny.
Charny bade them put on their uniforms and be at the church when the king should leave it. They went to prepare themselves.
As we have said, some of the peasants who the previous evening had escorted the king had not retired at night because they were worn out: in the morning, however, they began to reckon up the leagues. Some were ten, others fifteen from home. Two or three hundred set out, in spite of the persuasion of their comrades.
Now they might rely on at least an equal number of National Guards devoted to the king, leaving out the officers, who were to be united into a kind of sacred battalion, ready to set an example of exposure to all dangers.
At six in the morning, the inhabitants who were most zealous were out and in the courtyard of the intendancy. Charny and the guardsmen were with them. The king arose at seven, and said that he wished to attend mass. Nothing seemed to oppose the accomplishment of the wish.
The king seemed pleased; Charny, though, shook his head. Though he did not know Dronet, he knew Billot.
All seemed favourable, however. The streets were crowded, but it was easy to see that the population sympathised with the king. While the blinds of the room of the king and queen were closed, the crowd, not to disturb them, had moved about quietly and calmly, lifting up its hands to heaven, and the four or five hundred peasants of the escort, who would not return home, were scarcely observable in its masses.
As soon, though, as the blinds of the royal chambers were opened, cries of “Vive le roi!” and “Vive la reine!” were uttered so energetically, that the king and queen appeared at the balcony.
The cries were then unanimous, and for a last time the captive sovereigns seemed condemned to disappointment.
“Well,” said Louis XVI. to Marie Antoinette, “all goes well.”
She lifted her eyes to heaven, but made no reply.
Just then the ringing of the clock was heard. Charny tapped lightly at the door.
“Very well,” said the king; “I am ready.”
Charny glanced at the king, who seemed calm, and almost firm. He had suffered so much, that by suffering he seemed to have lost his irresolution.
The carriage was at the door. The king and queen were surrounded by a crowd at, least as considerable as that of the previous evening. Instead, however, of insults, it demanded no favour but a word, a glance, or permission to touch the apparel of the king, or leave to kiss the queen's hand.
The three officers got on the box; the driver was ordered to proceed to the church, and did not hesitate. Who was to give a counter-order?—the chiefs were absent. Charny looked round, and saw neither Drouet nor Billot. They reached the church.
Every moment the number of National Guards increased at the corner of every street: they joined the cortege by companies. At the church-door Charny saw that he had six hundred men.
Places had been kept for the royal family beneath a kind of dais, and though but eight o'clock, the priests began high mass. Charny saw it. He feared nothing so much as delay, which might be fatal to his hopes. He sent word to the priest that mass must last but a quarter of an hour. “I understand,” said the minister, “and I shall pray God to grant his majesty a prosperous journey.”
The mass lasted just a quarter, and yet Charny more than twenty times looked at his watch. The king could not hide his impatience, whilst the queen leaned her head on the prie-Dieu. At length the priest turned and said, “Ite, missa est.”
As he left the altar, he turned and blessed the royal family, who bowed and answered, in response to the formula used by the priest, “ Amen.”
They went to the door; those who had come to hear mass knelt and moved their lips, though no audible sound was uttered. It was easy to guess the prayers that trembled on their mute lips.
At the door were ten or a dozen mounted guardsmen. The royal escort had begun to assume colossal proportions; yet it was evident that the peasants, with their rude will, with their arms, less mortal, perhaps, than those of the citizens, but more terrible in appearance—a third had guns, and the rest pikes and scythes—might be a dangerous enemy.
Not without something of fear did Charny lean towards the king, and ask his orders, saying, to encourage him: “Let us on, sire.”
The king was decided. He looked out of the window, and speaking to those who surrounded him, said:
“Gentlemen, yesterday, at Varennes, I was seized. I ordered them to take me to Montmedy, yet I was dragged towards a revolted capital. I was then amid rebels; to-day, faithful subjects surround me, and I order you to escort me to Montmedy.”
“To Montmedy!” said the guardsmen of Villeroy.
“To Montmedy!” shouted the National Guards of Chalons, with one voice. A chorus of “Vive le Roi!” was heard. Charny looked at the peasants, who seemed, in the absence of Drouet and Billot, to be commanded by the Garde Francaise who had been on guard at the king's door. He followed, and made his men silently seem to obey, suffering the whole National Guard to pass, and forming his rude masses in the rear. Charny became uneasy, but, situated as he was, he could not prevent it, nor ask for any explanation.
The explanation was soon given. As they advanced towards the gate of the city, it seemed to him that in spite of the sound of the wheels and the murmurs of the crowd, a dull murmur was heard in the distance. He placed his hand on the knee of the guardsman by his side, and said: “All is lost!”
Just then they turned the angle of the wall. Two roads ended there, one of which led to Vitry-le-Francais, and the other to Rheims. Down each of these roads, with drums beating and colours flying, advanced large bodies of the National Guards. One seemed to be composed of eighteen hundred, and the other of twenty-five hundred or three thousand men. Each seemed commanded by a mounted man. These horsemen were Billot and Drouet.
Charny had but to glance at them to see all. The absence of Billot and Drouet, hitherto inexplicable, was now plain enough.
They must have learned what was going on at Chalons, and had set out to Rheims and Vitry-le-Francais to bring up the National Guards of those cities. Their measures had been so well arranged that they both arrived at once. They halted their men on the square, closing it entirely. The cortege paused.
The king looked out of the window; he saw Charny standing, pale and with his teeth clenched, in the road.
“What is the matter?” asked the king.
“Our enemies, sire, have obtained a reinforcement, and now load their arms, while behind the National Guards of Chalons, the peasants stand already loaded.”
“What think you of that, M. de Charny?”
“That, sire, we are between two fires. This is no reason why, however, you cannot pass, if you wish to do so; but, sire, whither your majesty will go, I know not.”
“Well,” said the king, “let us return.”
The young men on the seat sprang to the door, around which the Guards of Villeroy collected. These brave and gallant officers asked nothing better than an opportunity to enter into a contest with their opponents.
The king, however, repeated more positively the order he had given before.
“Gentlemen,” said Charny, “let us return—the king will have it so,” and taking one of the horses by the bridle, he turned the heavy carriage round.
The royal carriage was driven sadly enough towards Paris, under the surveillance of those two men who had forced it to resume its direction, until, when between Stenay and Dormans, Charny—thanks to his stature and the elevation of his seat—saw a carriage, drawn by four post-horses, advancing rapidly. He perceived at once that this carriage either brought some important news or some distinguished individual.
When it had joined the advance guard of the escort, after the exchange of a few words, the ranks of the advance guard opened, and the men who composed it respectfully presented arms.
Three men descended from the carriage.
Two of them were utter strangers to the royal escort and prisoners.
The third had scarcely put his foot on the ground, when the queen whispered to the king:
“Latour-Maubourg—the scapegoat of Lafayette!”
Shaking her head, she said: “This presages nothing good!”
The oldest of the three men advanced, and, opening the door of the carriage, rudely said:
“I am Petion, and those two gentlemen are Barnave and Latour-Maubourg. We are sent by the National Assembly to escort the king, and to prevent popular anger from anticipating justice. Sit closer together, and make room for us.”
The queen cast on the deputy from Chartres and his two companions one of those disdainful glances of which the daughter of Maria Theresa was so prodigal.
Latour-Maubourg, a courtier of the school of Lafayette, could not support her eye.
“Their majesties,” said he, “are much crowded, and I will get into the next carriage.”
“Go where you please,” said Petion; “my place is in the queen's carriage, and thither I will go.”
The king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth occupied the back seat. Petion looked at them and said:
“As delegate of the National Assembly, the post of honour belongs to me. Be pleased to sit on the other side.”
Madame Elizabeth arose and gave her seat, to Petion, casting a look of perfect resignation on the king and queen.
Barnave stood outside, hesitating to enter a carriage in which seven persons were already crowded.
“Well, Barnave,” said Petion, “will you get in?”
“Where shall I sit?” said Barnave, evidently much annoyed.
“Do you wish a seat?” said the queen, bitterly.
“I thank you, madame, but I will find a place with those gentlemen on the box.”
Madame Elizabeth drew Madame Royale close to her, and the queen took the dauphin on her knees. Thus room was made for Barnave, who sat opposite to the queen, with his knees close to her.
“Forward!” said Petion, without asking the king's consent.
The procession started amid loud cries of “Long live the National Assembly!”
As soon as Barnave took his place opposite the queen, the king said:
“Gentlemen, I assure you I never intended to leave the kingdom!”
Barnave, who was seated, arose and said to the king:
“Monsieur, is that so? That word will preserve France.”
Then something strange passed between that man, sprung from the bourgeoisie of a provincial city, and that woman, descended from one of the greatest thrones of the world.
They sought to read the hearts of each other, not as two political enemies who wish to search out state secrets, but like a man and woman who would penetrate the mysteries of love. Whence arose in the heart of Barnave that sentiment which the piercing eye of Marie Antoinette discovered, after the lapse of a few minutes?
Barnave claimed to be the successor of Mirabeau. In his opinion he had already occupied his place in the tribune. There was one thing besides, however. In the opinion of all—we know how—Mirabeau had seemed to enjoy the confidence of the king and the favours of the queen. The one and only conference Mirabeau had ever enjoyed had been exaggerated into many, and from the known audacity of the great tribune, the queen had been represented as having yielded even to weakness. At this time it was the fashion not only to slander Marie Antoinette, but to also believe the slanders.
Barnave was anxious to be the complete successor of Mirabeau; that was his reason for being so anxious to be one of the envoys. He was appointed, and went with the assurance of a man who knows that if he cannot win a woman's love, he has the power at least to make himself hated.
All this the queen, with one rapid glance, at once saw. She also saw that Barnave paid! great attention to her. Five or six times during the quarter of an hour, when Barnave sat in front of her, the young deputy looked carefully on the three men who were on the seat of the carriage, and from it he looked each time more bitterly at the queen.
Barnave knew that one of the three, he did not know which, was the Count de Charny, whom public rumour represented as the queen's lover. The queen saw this. At once she acquired great power. She had detected the weak point in the cuirass of her adversary: she had only to strike, and strike firmly.
“Monsieur,” said she, to the king, “you heard what the leader of our guard said?”
Barnave trembled. The queen did not fail to notice this tremor, for his knee touched hers.
“Did he not say that he was responsible for the life of the count?” said the king.
“Yes, sire; to the countess, too.”
“Well, sir, the Countess de Charny is my old friend. Do you not think that on my return to Paris I had best give De Charny a leave, so that he may visit his wife! He has run great risk, and his brother has been killed for us. I think to ask him to continue his services would be cruel.”
“You are right, madame,” said the king, “but I doubt if the count will consent.”
“Well then, each of us will have done what is right; we will have offered, and De Charny refused. We have additional reasons to congratulate ourselves, as we did not bring the count with us. I fancied him safe in Paris, when all at once I saw him at the carriage door.”
“True!” said the king, “but it proves that the count needs a stimulus to induce him to do his duty.”
Barnave was in one of those states of mind, when to contend with an attractive woman one would undertake an Herculean task with the certainty of being overcome. He asked the Supreme Being (in 1791 people did not ask God) to grant him some opportunity to attract the eyes of the royal scorner on him; and all at once, as if the Supreme Being had heard the prayer addressed him, a poor priest who had watched by the roadside drew near to obtain a better view, and lifting his eyes to heaven, said:
“Sire! God bless your majesties!” The bearing of the old man, the prayer he pronounced, was replied to by the people with a roar, and before Barnave had aroused himself from his reverie, the old priest was thrown down and would have been murdered, had not the queen in terror said:
“Monsieur! see you not what is going on?”
Barnave looked up, and at once saw the ocean beneath which the old man had disappeared, and which in tumultuous waves rolled around the coach.
“Wretches!” said he. He threw himself against the door, burst it open, and would have fallen, had not Madame Elizabeth, by one of those motions of the heart, which were to her so prompt, seized his skirts.
“Tigers!'' said he; “you are not Frenchmen, or France, the home of the brave, has become the abode of murderers.”
The people fell back, and the old man was saved.
“You are right to save me, young man; I will pray for you.”
Making the sign of the cross, he withdrew.
The people suffered him to pass, overcome by the bearing and glance of Barnave, who seemed the statue of command.
When the old man had gone, the young deputy sat down simply and naturally, without showing any evidence that he believed he had saved a life.
“Monsieur,” said the queen, “I thank you.”
These words awakened an emotion in all Barnave's body. Beyond all doubt, never since he knew Marie Antoinette, had she been so attractive and beautiful.
He was ready to fall at her feet, but the young dauphin uttered a cry of pain. The child had annoyed the virtuous Petion by some trick, and the patriot had pulled his ear very sharply.
The king grew red with rage, the queen grew pale with shame. She reached out her arms and took the child from Petion's knees, and placed him on Barnave's.
Marie Antoinette wished to take him herself. “No!” said the dauphin, “I am very comfortable here.”
Barnave had changed his position, so as to enable the queen to take the child if she pleased, but either from coquetry or policy, she suffered him to remain where he was.
Just then there passed through Barnave's mind something untranslatable: he was at once proud and happy.
The child began to play with Barnave's ruffles, with his sash and the buttons of his coat as a deputy. The buttons bore an engraved device, and occupied the dauphin's attention. He called the letters one by one, and then, uniting them, read these four words: “Live free or die.”
“What, monsieur, does that mean?”
“It means, my fine fellow, that Frenchmen have sworn to have a master no longer. Do you understand that?”
“Well,” said Petion, as naturally as possible, “give another explanation, of the device if you can.”
Barnave was silent. The device on the night before seemed sublime—now it was cruel.
The queen wiped a tear from her eyes.
The carriage continued to roll through the crowd. They soon came to the city of Dormans.
Nothing had been prepared for the royal family. It was forced to descend at an inn.
Either by order of Petion, or because the inn was really full, meagre accommodations were found for the royal family, who were installed in three garrets.
When he left the carriage, Charny, according to custom, wished to approach the king and queen to receive their orders. A glance of the queen, however, bade him keep away. Though he did not understand the motive, the count obeyed it.
Petion had gone into the inn, and taken charge of the arrangements. He did not take the trouble to come downstairs again, and a waiter came to say that the rooms of the royal family were ready.
Barnave was in a terrible state; he felt the greatest anxiety to offer the queen his arm, but he feared lest she who had so insisted on etiquette in the case of Madame de Noailles would apply the same ideas to him. He waited therefore.
The king got out first, leaning on the arms of the two guardsmen, De Maiden and De Valory.
The queen got out and reached her arms for the dauphin, but as if the poor child felt how necessary the flattery was to his mother, he said:
“No, I will remain with my friend Barnave.”
Marie Antoinette made a sign of assent, accompanied by a sweet smile. Barnave suffered Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth to get out, and then followed with the dauphin in his arms.
The queen ascended the tortuous and difficult stairway, leaning on her husband's arm. At the first story she paused, thinking that twenty steps were high enough. The voice of the waiter, however, was heard, saying: “Higher! higher!”
The sweat of shame hung on Barnave's brow. “What, higher?” said he.
“Yes,” said the waiter. “This story contains the dining room and the rooms of the gentlemen of the Assembly.”
Barnave became dizzy. Petion had taken rooms for himself and his colleague on the first story, and had sent the royal family to the garret. The young deputy, however, said nothing; hearing, however, without doubt, the first outbreak of the queen when she saw the rooms of the second story had been occupied by Petion, while she had been sent to the third, he placed the dauphin on the landing.
“Mother,” said the young prince to his mother, “my friend Barnave is going.”
“He is right,” said the queen, glancing around the room.
A moment after, they announced to their majesties that dinner was served. The king came down, and saw six covers on the table. He asked why there were six.
“One,” said the waiter, “is for the king, one for the queen, one for Madame Elizabeth, one for Madame Royale, one for the dauphin, and another for M. Petion.”
“Why not for MM. Barnave and de Latour-Maubourg?”
“They were prepared, sir, but M. Barnave ordered them to be removed.”
At this moment the grave, more than grave—austere—face of the deputy of Chartres appeared at the door.
The king acted as if he were not there, and said to the boy: “I sit at the table only with my family, and with those we invite. We will not sit down.”
“1 was aware,” said Petion, “that your majesty had forgotten the first article of the rights of man. I thought, though, you would pretend to remember it.”
The king seemed not to hear Petion, as he had not to see him, and bade the boy takeaway the plate. The servant obeyed, and Petion left in a perfect rage.
“M. de Maiden,” said the king, “close the door, that we may be alone.” De Maiden obeyed, and Petion heard the door closed behind him.
The king thus dined en famille. The two guardsmen served as usual.
When the supper was over, and the king was about to rise from his chair, the door of the room opened, and their majesties were requested by Barnave to take the rooms on the first floor instead of their own.
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette looked at each other. They thought to assume dignity and repulse courtesy from one of the delegates was the best way to punish the insolence of the other. That would have been the king's wish, but the dauphin ran forward and cried:
The queen followed the dauphin, and the king the queen. Barnave was not there.
Twice or thrice on the road the queen had remarked the profusion of flowers in the garden. The room of the queen was filled with the most magnificent spring flowers, and at the same time the open windows brought perfumes too strong to escape. The mousseline curtains only prevented any indiscreet eye from watching the august prisoners. This was Barnave's work.
In the meantime, what had become of Charny?
Charny, we have seen, in obedience to a sign from the queen, had withdrawn, and had not reappeared.
Charny, whose duty bound him to the king and queen, was pleased to receive this order, the cause of which he did not ask, for it gave him time to think. For three days he had lived so rapidly, he had, so to say, lived so much for others, that he was not sorry to leave their griefs and think of himself.
Charny was a noble of other days. He was, above all things, a man of family. He worshipped his brothers, the lather of whom he really was. When George died, his grief had been intense; he had, however, been able to kneel by his body in the dark and sombre court-yard of Versailles, and expend his grief in tears; at least he had another brother, Isidor, to whom all his affection took wing—Isidor, who, if possible, had become dearer to him than ever, during the three or four months which preceded his departure, and since he had been the means of communication between himself and Andree.
We have sought, if not to explain, at least to describe, the singular mystery of the separation of certain hearts which absence seems to animate rather than cool, and which, in separation, find a new aliment to sustain them. The less Charny saw of Andree, the more he thought of her, and to think of Andree was to love her.
When he saw Andree—when he was by her—he seemed to be by a statue of ice, which the least ray would melt, and which, when in the shade, feared, as a statue really of ice might, the approach of a ray. He was in contact with her cold icy bearing—with her grave and veiled words, beyond which he saw nothing.
As soon, however, as he left her, distance produced its ordinary effect, by extinguishing the two rare tints, and dimming the outlines, which were too defined. Then the cold bearing of Andree became animated—her regular, measured voice became sonorous and animated—the drooping eye was uplifted, and shed a humid and devouring flame—a secret fire seemed to animate the statue, and through her alabaster bosom he saw the circulation of the blood and the beating of the heart.
Ah, in these moments of absence and solitude Andree was really the queen's rival! In the darkness of those nights Charny fancied that the door of his room opened, and the tapestry uplifted, while, with murmuring lips, she approached his door with opened arms. Charny then opened his arms, and called to the sweet vision. Charny then sought to press the phantom to his heart, but, alas! it escaped him. He embraced only a void, and from his dream sank back into cold and sad reality!
Isidor then became dearer than George had ever been. Both had died for that fatal woman, for a cause full of abysses. For the same woman, into the same abyss, Charny, too, would certainly fall.
Well, for two days since the death of his brother—since the last embrace of his bloodstained arms—since he had pressed his pale lips, warm with his last sigh—M. de Choiseul had given him the papers he had found on Isidor's person, yet he had scarcely had time to think of his own sorrow.
The signal of the queen to keep away he had received as a favour, and accepted with pleasure. He at once sought for some place aside, where, in reach of the royal family, if they should will, he might yet be alone with his sorrow and isolated with his tears. He found a garret vacant near the stairway, where De Maiden and De Valory watched.
There he eat alone. He took the bloody papers from his pocket, the only relics of his brother. With his head resting on his hands—with his eyes fixed on the letters in which the thoughts of one no more continued to live—he suffered, for a long time, silent tears to course down his cheeks. He sighed, looked up, shook his head, and opened a letter. It was from Catherine.
For several months Charny had suspected a liaison between Isidor and the farmer's daughter. When at Varennes Billot undertook to tell him all the details. Not until that time did he suffer it to assume its due importance in his mind. This importance was increased by reading the letter. Then he saw the mistress' claim was sanctified by that of the mother, and Catherine expressed her love in such simple terms, that the whole life of the woman could not be but an expiation of the fault of the girl.
He opened a second and a third, all of which spoke of the future—of happiness—of maternal joy—of the fears of a loving heart—of the same regrets, griefs, and contrition.
All at once, amid these letters, one struck him. The writing was Andree's. It was addressed to him. To the letter, a sheet of paper, folded square, was fastened by a wax seal, which bore Isidor's arms.
This letter of Andree's, addressed to him, and found among Isidor de Charny's papers, appeared so strange that he opened the note before he touched the letter itself. The note had been written by Isidor in pencil, on some inn table while his horse was being saddled, beyond doubt, and was as follows:—
“This letter is addressed, not to me, but to my brother Count Olivier de Charny. It is from his wife, the countess. Should any misfortune befall me, the person who finds this paper is requested either to send it to the count, or return it to the countess.
“I received it from her with the request that, if in the enterprise he was engaged in no accident should befall him, I would restore the letter to her.
“If he were wounded severely, but without danger, to beg him to permit his wife to join him.
“If he were mortally wounded, to give him the letter, if he could read it, or, if not, to read it myself to him, that he might know the secret it contained.
“If this letter be sent to my brother, as doubtless it will be, he will act as his sense of propriety directs.
“I bequeath to his care Catherine Billot, who is living with my child in the Ville d'Avray.
At first the count seemed entirely absorbed by the letter. His tears, checked for a moment, began to flow again, until at last he looked at the letter of his wife. He looked long at it—kissed and placed it to his heart, as if it could thus communicate the secret it contained. He then read, twice or thrice, his brother's letter.
He shook his head, and said in a low tone:
“Have I the right to read it? I will, however, ask her to permit me to do so.”
As if to encourage himself in this resolution, he said, two or three times, “No, I will not.”
He did not; but day found him seated at the table devouring with his eyes that letter, which was quite humid, so often had he pressed it to his lips.
All at once, amid the noise which always precedes a departure, he heard the voice of Do Maiden calling for the Count de Charny.
Placing the letter of poor Isidor in his pocket, he kissed the sealed one, again placed it on his heart, and descended rapidly. He met Barnave on the stairway, who asked after the queen, and who was looking for De Valory to obtain orders in relation to the departure.
It was easy to see that Barnave had not slept any more than Charny had.
As they entered the carriage, the king and queen saw that they had around them only the population of the city come to see them set out, and an escort of cavalry.
For this they were indebted to Barnave. He knew that on the previous day, the queen, forced to travel slowly, had suffered with heat, with dust, and been annoyed by the menaces uttered against the guardsmen and the faithful subjects who came to pay their respects to her. He pretended to have received news of an invasion, that De Bouille had entered France with fifty thousand Austrians, and that every man with a gun, pike, scythe, or other weapon should march against him. The whole population heard this and retraced its steps.
In France, at that time, foreigners were really hated so intensely, that all this animosity was transferred to the queen merely because she was a stranger.
Marie Antoinette guessed whence came this new kindness; we use the word kindness, and there is no exaggeration in doing so. She glanced her thanks at Barnave.
Just as she was about to take her seat, she looked around for Charny. He was already in his seat; but instead of sitting as he had done between the guardsmen, he insisted on yielding to De Maiden the less dangerous place he had previously occupied. Charny longed for a wound to permit him to open the letter of Andree. He did not see that the queen sought to catch his eye.
The queen sighed deeply. Barnave heard her. Anxious to know why, he paused on the steps.
“Madame,” said he. “I observed yesterday that you were crowded in this berlin. One less will accommodate you. If you wish, madame, I will get into the next carriage with Latour-Maubourg, or accompany you on horseback.”
When Barnave made this offer, he would have given half of his life, and it was not long, to have it refused. It was.
“No,” said the queen, “remain where you are.”
The dauphin just then reached out his little hand to the young deputy.
“My friend, Barnave! Barnave! You must not go.”
Barnave, perfectly delighted, resumed his seat. When in the carriage, the dauphin went from the queen's knees to his.
As the queen put him down she kissed his cheeks. The humid touch of her lips yet remained on the velvet cheek of the child. Barnave looked at them as Tantalus did at the fruits which hung before him.
“Madame,” said he to the queen, “will your majesty deign to permit me to kiss the cheek of the prince, who, guided by the instinct of childhood, deigns to call me his friend?”
The queen smiled, and nodded an assent. The lips of Barnave were then so ardently imprinted on the trace which the lips of the queen had left that the child uttered a cry.
The queen did not lose one item of all this.
Thanks to Barnave, the carriage now travelled two leagues an hour.
They paused at Chateau-Thierry for dinner.
The house at which they stopped was near the river, in a charming position, and belonged to a wealthy female dealer in wood, who on the previous night had sent one of her clerks, on horseback, to offer hospitality to the delegates of the National Assembly, and to the king and queen.
The moment the carriage stopped, a crowd of eager servants pointed out to the august prisoners an altogether different reception from that they experienced at Dormans. The king, queen, Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth, were each conducted to different rooms, as also were the dauphin and Madame de Tourzel, and every arrangement was made for all to be able to pay the most minute attention to their toilet.
Since she left Paris, the queen had met with nothing like this. The most delicate habits of the women were caressed by this aristocratic attention, and Marie Antoinette, who appreciated such cares, asked to be permitted to thank her hostess.
About four o'clock in the afternoon they reached Meaux, and stopped in front of an episcopal palace, which was occupied by a constitutional bishop who had taken the oaths. This they saw later from the manner in which he received the royal family.
At first the queen was surprised at the sombre appearance of the building she was about to enter. Nowhere could a princely or religious palace be found, from its melancholy appearance, more calculated to afford a shelter for the misery that sought for a refuge in it.
She glanced across this lugubrious place, and finding it attuned to her own feelings, looked around for some arm to lean on while she visited the palace.
“Give me your arm, monsieur, and deign to be my guide through you old palace.”
Barnave approached rapidly, and gave his arm to the queen, with mingled respect and anxiety.
She hurried Barnave through the rooms of the palace. One who looked after her floating form might imagine that she fled, for she looked neither to the right nor to the left. Almost panting, she at last paused in the chamber of the great preacher, and saw, to her surprise, a female picture before her.
She looked up mechanically, and read these words, “Madame Henriette.”
Barnave felt her tremble, though he did not know why.
“Does your majesty suffer?” asked he.
“No!” said the queen; “but that picture, Madame Henriette.”
Barnave saw what passed in the poor woman's heart.
“Yes,” said he; “poor Madame Henriette of England, not the widow of the unfortunate Charles I., but the wife of the careless Duke of Orleans. Not she who nearly died of cold in the Louvre, but the one who died at Saint Cloud and sent Bossuet this picture.”
After a moment of hesitation, he said:
“I wish it were the portrait of the other.”
“And why so?” asked the queen.
“Because certain mouths alone can give certain advice, and those mouths are those which death has closed.”
“Can you not tell me, sir, what the mouth of the widow of Charles I. would advise?” asked the queen.
“If your majesty order, I will try.”
“'Ah! sister,' that mouth would say, 'see you not the resemblance between our fates? I come from France, you from Austria. To the English, I was a stranger, as you are to France; I might have given my husband good advice; but I kept silence or advised him wrongly; instead of uniting the people, I urged him to war, and besought him to march on London with the Irish Protestants; I not only kept up a correspondence with the enemy of England, but went twice into France to bring foreign soldiers into the kingdom. At last—'”
“Go oil,” said the queen, with a dark brow and compressed lip.
“Why should I continue, madame?” said he, shaking his head sadly. “You know the end of that bloody story as well as I do. Yes; I will continue, and tell you what this portrait of Madame Henriette says to me, and you shall tell me if I am mistaken. 'The Scotch betrayed their king; the king was seized as he was about to cross to Paris. A tailor took him, a butcher conducted him to prison, and a publican presided at the court of justice, and that nothing might be wanting, a disguised hangman struck off the head of the victim before the judge who reviewed the whole trial.' This is what the portrait of Madame Henriette says to me; am I right? My God, I know that as well as any one; I know more, I know that nothing is wanting in the resemblance. We have our seller of beer of the Faubourgs, only instead of calling him Cromwell, we call him Sauterre; we have our butcher, instead of Hamilton, he is called what... Legendre, I believe; instead of calling him Pridge, they call him... that I do not know! The man is so insignificant that I do not eve a know his name, nor do you either, I am sure; but ask him, he will tell you—the man I mean, who conducted our escort—a peasant, a villein. This, this is what Madame Henriette tells me. And what is your answer?”
“I answer, 'Poor dear princess, it is not advice you give me, it is history, a history completed. Now, now, let me hear your advice.'”
“Oh! this advice, madame,” said Barnave, “if you will only not refuse to follow, it shall be given by the living as well as the dead.”
“Living or dead, let those speak who ought to speak. Who says if the advice is good we shall refuse to follow it?”
“Eh, mon Dieu! living or dead have but one advice to give.”
“And it is an easy thing to make the people love you!”
“Ah! madame, this people are more yours than mine; as a proof, when you first came to France they adored you.”
“Oh! monsieur, you are speaking of that very fragile thing—popularity!”
“Madame, madame!” said Barnave, “if I, unknown, leaving an obscure sphere, have obtained this popularity, how much easier must it have been for you to preserve it, how much easier to reconquer it! But no!'' continued Barnave, growing animated, “no; to what have you trusted your cause, the cause of monarchy, the most holy, the most beautiful of causes? What voice, what arm, has defended it? Never was seen such ignorance of the times, never such complete forgetfulness of the genius of France. I! I who have solicited the mission of going before you on your return, I whom you see, I who speak to you, how many times, mon Dieu! how many times have I been on the point of opening myself to you, to devote myself to...”
“Silence,” said the queen, “some one comes; we will talk of all this some other time, M. Barnave. I am ready to see you, to hear you, and follow your counsels.”
“Ah! madame! madame!” cried Barnave, transported.
“Silence!” repeated the queen.
“Your majesty is served,” said the domestic whose step they had heard, appearing on the threshold.
They passed into the salle a manger. The king had arrived there by another door. He had conversed with Petion during the time Barnave had been speaking to the queen, and he seemed in better spirits. The two guards waited, claiming, as always, the privilege of attending on their majesties. Charny, the most distant of all, was in the embrasure of a window.
The king looked round, and making good use of the time he was alone with his family, the two guards and the count, “Gentlemen,” said he to the latter, “after supper I wish to speak with you. You will follow me, if you please, to my apartment.”
The dinner commenced as usual. But though dressed, this time, in the palace of one of the first bishops of the kingdom, the table was as badly served this evening at Meaux as it had been well served in the morning at the Chateau Thierry.
The king, as usual, had a good appetite, and eat a good dinner, in spite of the poorness of the fare. The queen only took two fresh eggs. The dauphin, who had been ill since the evening, had asked for some strawberries. Since the evening, all those to whom he had addressed himself had answered, “There are none!” or “We cannot find any!”
And yet, on the road, he had seen the children of the peasants eating quantities which they had gathered in the woods.
This desire, which the queen was unable to satisfy, had made her sad, so that when the child, refusing everything that was offered to him, asked again for strawberries, the powerless mother's eyes filled with tears.
But at this moment the door opened, and Barnave appeared with a plate of fresh strawberries in his hand.
“The queen will excuse me,” said he, “if I enter thus, and the king will also be so good as to pardon me, I hope, but many times during the journey I have heard M. le Dauphin ask for strawberries. I found this plateful on the bishop's table, and brought them for him.”
“Thanks, my dear Barnave,” said the young dauphin.
“M. Barnave,” said the king, “our dinner is not very tempting, but if you will take some, you will give both the queen and myself great pleasure.”
“Sire,” said Barnave, “the invitation of the king is an order; where does your majesty wish me to sit?”
“Between the queen and the dauphin,” said the king.
Barnave sat himself down, mad at the same time with love and pride.
Charny looked on this scene without the least jealousy rising in his heart; looking at the poor butterfly that was about to burn his wings at the royal light, he said:
“Another one lost! it is a pity! he is worth more than the rest.”
And then, reverting to his incessant thought:
“This letter! this letter!” murmured he, “what can there be in this letter?”
After supper the three officers, according to the orders they had received, ascended to the chamber of the king.
When the young men had entered: “M. de Charny,” said the king, “will you shut the door, so that we may not be disturbed? I have something of the utmost importance to communicate to you. Here, gentlemen, at Dormans, M. Pet ion has proposed to me to let you escape in disguise; but the queen and I are both opposed to it, fearing lest it be a trap, and that they would only separate you from us in order to assassinate you, or deliver you up to some military commission which would condemn you to be shot. We, the queen and I, have taken upon ourselves to reject this proposal, but to-day M. Petion has returned to the charge, pledging his honour as a deputy, and I thought it best to let you know what he fears and what he proposes.
“Here are the words of M. Petion: 'Sire, there is not, at the time of your re-entrance into Paris, any security for the three officers who accompany you. Neither I, M. Barnave, nor M. de Latour-Maubourg, can answer for their safety, even at the risk of our lives.'”
Charny looked at his two companions; a smile of contempt passed over their lips.
“Afterwards,” said the king, “hear what M. Petion proposes. He proposes to procure for you three dresses as National Guards, to cause the doors to be left open for you to-night, and give each of you an opportunity to fly.”
Charny consulted his companions again, but the same smile was the response.
“Sire,” said he, addressing the king, “our days have been consecrated to your majesties; you have accepted them, and it will be easier for us to die for you than to be separated; do us the honour, then, to treat us to-morrow as you did yesterday, neither more nor less. Of all your court, of all your army, of all your guards, you still have three faithful hearts left; do not take away the only glory of their ambition, that of being faithful to the end.”
“It is well, gentlemen,” said the queen; “we agree; only you understand from this moment that all is common with us; you are no longer servants, but friends. I will not ask you to give your names—I know them—but,” she drew her tablets from her pocket, “but give me those of your fathers, your mothers, your brothers, and your sisters; it may happen that we may have the misfortune to lose you without sinking ourselves; then it shall be my duty to tell their misfortune to these cherished beings, and to offer, at the same time, to relieve it as much as lies in my power. Allons, M. de Maiden, aliens, M. de Valory, say boldly, in case of death, and we are all so near the reality that we ought not to shudder at the word, who are the relations, who are the friends, whom you would recommend to my care?”
M. de Maiden mentioned his mother, an elderly infirm dame, dwelling on a small property in the neighbourhood of Blois; M. de Valory recommended his sister, a young orphan, who was a pupil in a convent at Soissons.
Certainly the hearts of these two men were strong and full of courage, and yet, while the queen was writing down the addresses of Madame de Maiden and Mademoiselle de Valory, neither could restrain his tears.
The queen, also, was obliged to stop writing, and draw out her handkerchief and dry her eyes.
Then, when she had written the addresses down, she turned to Charny.
“Alas, M. le Comte!” said she, “I know that you have no one to recommend to my care; your father, your mother, are dead, and your two brothers.”
“My two brothers have had the good fortune to die for your majesty, madame,” added Charny, “but the last one who died left a poor child, whom he confided to me by a testament I found upon him. This young girl he took from her own family, whence she can expect no pardon. As long as I live neither she, nor her child, shall want for anything; but your majesty has said, with an admirable courage, that we are all confronting death, and if death should strike me, the poor-girl and her child would be without resources. Madame, deign to put on your tablets the name of an unfortunate peasant, and if I have, like my two brothers, the happiness to die for my august master and noble mistress, bestow your gratitude on Catherine Billot and her child. They will both be found in the little village of Ville d'Avray.”
Without doubt, the picture of Charny dying in his turn, as had already died his two brothers, was a spectacle too terrible for the imagination of Marie Antoinette, for she turned back with a feeble cry, let her tablets fall, and went tottering towards a chair.
The two guards started towards her, while Charny, taking up the royal tablets, wrote on them the name and address of Catherine Billot, and placed them on the chimney-piece.
The queen made an effort to recover herself.
The young men, then, knowing the necessity there was for her being alone after such emotion, drew back in order to leave the room.
But she, stretching her hand towards them:
“Gentlemen,” said she, “you will not leave me without kissing my hand.”
The two guards advanced in the same order that they had given their names and addresses. M. de Maiden first, then M. de Valory. Charny approached her last.
The hand of the queen trembled as she awaited the kiss for which certainly she had offered the two others.
Next day, at the very moment of departure, M. de Latour-Maubourg and Barnave, ignorant, without doubt, of what had passed the previous evening betwixt the young men and the king, renewed their arguments in favour of dressing these two young men as National Guards; but they refused, saying that their place was on the seat of his majesty's carriage, and that they could put on no other dress than that which they had dressed themselves in at his command.
Then Barnave wished that a plank, passing from the right to the left of the seat of the carriage, should be attached to that seat, so that two grenadiers could sit on this plank and guarantee, so far as in them lay, the safety of these two obstinate servants of the king.
At ten in the morning they quitted Means; they were about to enter Paris, from which they had been absent five days.
Five days! what a great deal had passed in these five days.
They were scarcely a league from Means, when the cortege assumed an aspect more terrible that it had ever had before. All the population of the neighbourhood of Paris joined it; Barnave had wished to make the postilions go at a trot, but the National Guard of Claye barred the road, presenting the points of their bayonets.
Soon the crowd was such that the carriage could hardly move. The insolent curiosity of the people followed the king and queen even into the corners of the carriage, where they had retreated. Men mounted up the steps, and thrust their heads into the carriage: some hung on in front, and others behind.
It was a miracle that Charny and his companions were not killed twenty times. The two grenadiers could not parry all the blows; they begged, they prayed, they commanded even, in the name of the Assembly; but their voices were lost in the midst of the tumult and noise.
An advance-guard of more than two thousand men preceded the carriage; more than four thousand followed it. At its sides the crowd increased at every instant.
The carriage drove along under a burning sun, and through a cloud of dust, of which each particle seemed of glass. Two or three times the queen turned round and cried.
They reached Villette. The sidewalks were covered so thickly that it was impossible to move on them. The doors, the windows, and roofs of houses were crowded with spectators.
The trees bent down under the weight of their living fruit. Every one kept his hat on.
Since the previous evening, the following notice had been placed on the walls of Paris:
“If any one salutes the king he will be beaten.
“If any one insults him he shall be hanged.”
All this was so terrible that the commissioners did not dare to pass through the Faubourg Saint-Martin. They resolved then to enter by the Champs Elysees, and the cortege, going round Paris, passed along the outer Boulevards.
This would make the punishment three hours longer, and this punishment was so insupportable that the queen begged they would take the shortest way, even if it were the most dangerous.
Twice had she attempted to draw down the blinds, and twice had the groanings of the crowd made her raise them.
On arriving at the barrier, the king and queen saw an immense mass of men, stretching as far as the eye could reach, silent, gloomy, threatening, with their hats on their heads. What was more dreadful, certainly more painful, than all this was a double rank of National Guards, with arms reversed in sign of grief, at the gates of the Tuileries.
It was a day of grief, great grief, mourning for a monarchy of seven centuries.
They took an hour to go from the barrier to the Place Louis XV. The horses bent under their burdens—each carried a grenadier.
On debouching into the Place Louis XV., the king perceived that they had bandaged the eyes of his ancestor.
“What do you mean by that?” the king asked Barnave.
“I do not know, sire,” answered the latter.
“I know,” said Petion; “they wish to express the blindness of monarchy.”
During the progress, in spite of the escort, the commissioners, the placards forbidding the king being insulted under pain of being hanged, the people three or four times broke through the line of grenadiers—a feeble barrier to this element, to which God had forgotten to say, as to the sea, “Thus far and no farther shalt thou go!”
Once the crowd pressed so that they broke one of the windows of the carriage.
“Why are you breaking the glass?” cried ten furious voices.
“Look, gentlemen!” said the queen, “look at the state my poor children are in!” and wiping the perspiration from their faces, “We choke,” said she.
“Bah!” replied a voice, “that is nothing: we shall choke you in another way! be quiet!”
And a stone broke the window into shivers.
Yet in the midst of this terrible spectacle, some episodes would have consoled the king and queen if their minds had been as impressible for what was good for them as for that which was evil.
In spite of the placard which forbade the king being saluted, M. Guilhenny, member of the Assembly, uncovered when the king passed, and as they wished to make him put on his hat again, he said, “Who dare reprove what I have done?”
At the entrance of the bridge twenty deputies were assembled to protect the king and royal family. Then came Lafayette and his staff.
“Oh! M. de Lafayette!” cried the queen, as soon as she saw him, “save the guards!” This cry was not useless, for danger was approaching, and the peril was great.
During this time, a scene in which there is some poetry was passing at the doors of the chateau.
Five or six ladies of the queen, who, after the flight of their mistress, had quitted the Tuileries, believing that the queen herself had left them for ever, wished to re-enter to receive her majesty.
“Away!” cried the sentinels, presenting the points of their bayonets at them. “Slaves of the Austrians!” growled some, showing their poniards.
Then, crossing before the bayonets of the soldiers, and braving the threats of the women, the sister of Madame Campau made some steps forward.
“Listen!” said she, “I have been attached to the service of the queen since I was fifteen. I served her while she was powerful: she is unhappy now—should I abandon her?”
“She is right!” cried the people; “soldiers! let her pass!”
And at this order, given by a master whom none could resist, the ranks opened, and the ladies passed. A moment afterwards the queen could see them waving their handkerchiefs from the windows.
And still the carriage went, pushing before it a crowd of people and a cloud of dust, even as a vessel drives through the waves of the ocean and a cloud of foam.
At last the carriage stopped. They had arrived at the steps of the great terrace.
“Oh, gentlemen!” said the queen again, but this time addressing herself to Petion and Barnave, “the guards, the guards!''
“Have you no one, madame, to recommend more particularly to me than these gentlemen?” said Barnave.
The queen looked at him fiercely with her clear eyes.
And she allowed the king and the children to go out first.
The ten minutes which passed next—we do not except even those in going to the scaffold—were certainly the most unhappy of her life.
She was convinced, not that she should be assassinated—to die was nothing to her—but that she should either be delivered up to the people as a laughing-stock, or that she should be shut up in a prison, the door of which would only open through an infamous action.
As she put her foot on the steps of the carriage, protected by the arch of iron that was formed above her head by the order of Barnave, the guns and bayonets of the National Guard dazzled her so that she believed she was about to fall backwards.
But as her eyes were about to close, in that last look of agony when one sees all, she thought she saw immediately in front of her that man, that terrible man, who at the chateau of Taverney had in so mysterious a way raised for her the veil that shrouded the future—that man that she had only seen once since, in returning from Versailles on the 6th of October—that man, finally, who only appeared but to foretell great and sudden catastrophes, or at the very hour when these great catastrophes were accomplished.
After she was perfectly certain that she was not mistaken, she closed her eyes, which as yet had hesitated, strong in opposing realities, but inert and powerless before this sinister vision, and uttered a loud shriek and fell down.
It seemed to her as if the earth had gone from under her feet, and then the crowd, the trees, the burning sky, the immovable chateau, seemed to turn with her; vigorous arms, however, seized her, and she felt herself borne off amid the cries, growlings, and noise. At this moment she believed she heard the voice of the guards, who cried out, trying to turn the anger of the people upon them, hoping thus to turn it aside from its true inclination. For an instant she reopened her eyes and saw the unhappy occupants of the seat of the carriage, Charny pale and beautiful as ever, struggling alone against ten men, the lightning of the martyr in his eyes, the smile of disdain upon his lips. The looks of Charny were fixed upon the man who had raised her up from the midst of the crowd; she recognised with terror the mysterious being of Taverney and of Sevres.
“You, you!” she cried, trying at the same time to repulse him with her rigid hands.
“Yes, I!” he murmured in her ear. “I have need of thee yet to push monarchy down into its last abyss, and so I save thee!”
This time it was more than she really could support; she uttered a piercing cry and fainted.
During this time the crowd was trying to cut MM. de Charny, de Maiden and de Valory in pieces, and to carry Drouet and Billot in triumph.
