BETWIXT the two apartments a man waited for the queen.
This man was De Charny, covered with blood.
“The king!” cried Marie Antoinette, on seeing the blood on the dress of the young man; “the king! Monsieur, you promised to save the king!”
“The king is saved, Madame,” replied De Charny.
And looking towards the doors which the queen had left open, in order to reach the il de Buf, where at this time were assembled the queen, Madame Royale, the dauphin, and a few guards, De Charny was about to ask what had become of Andrée, when his eyes met those of the queen.
This look stopped the question which about to issue from his lips.
But the queen's look pierced into the recesses of Charny's heart.
There was no need for his speaking. Marie Antoinette had divined his thought.
“She is coming,” said the queen; “you need not be uneasy.”
And she ran to the dauphin, and clasped him in her arms.
Andrée immediately after this closed the last door, and in her turn entered the room called the il de Buf.
Andrée and De Charny did not exchange a word.
The smile of the one replied to the smile of the other, and that was all.
Strange to say, these two hearts, which had so long been severed, began to entertain feelings which responded to each other.
During this time the queen looked around her; and as if she felt delight in finding De Charny in fault:—
“The king,” she inquired, “where is the king?”
“The king is seeking for you, Madame,” tranquilly replied De Charny; “he went to your apartment by one corridor, while you were coming here by another.”
At the same instant loud cries were heard in the adjoining room.
They were the assassins, who were vociferating, “Down with the Austrian woman! Down with the Messalina! Down with the Veto! She must be strangled! She must be hanged!”
At the same time two pistol-shots were heard, and two balls pierced through the door at different heights.
One of these balls passed only a quarter of an inch above the head or the dauphin, and then buried itself in the opposite wainscoting.
“Oh, my God! my God!” cried the queen, falling upon her knees, “we shall all be killed!”
The five or six guards, upon a sign made to them by De Charny, then placed themselves before the queen and the two royal children, thus forming a rampart for them with their bodies.
At that moment the king appeared, his eyes full of tears, his face pale as death; he was calling for the queen as the queen had called for him.
He perceived her, and threw himself into her arms.
“Saved! saved!” exclaimed the queen.
“By him, Madame,” cried the king, pointing to De Charny; “and you are saved by him also, are you not?”
“By his brother,” replied the queen.
“Sir,” said Louis XVI. to the count, “we owe much to your family, so much that we shall never be able to repay the debt.”
The queen's eyes met those of Andrdée, and she turned away her head, blushing deeply.
The blows of the assailants were heard endeavoring to destroy the door.
“Come, gentlemen,” said De Charny, “we must defend our position here for another hour. There are seven of us, and it will take them full an hour to kill us if we defend ourselves resolutely. Before an hour elapses a reinforcement must have arrived to the assistance of their Majesties.”
Saying these words, De Charny seized a large press which was standing in one of the corners of the royal room.
His example was instantly followed, and a heap of furniture was piled up against the door, between which the guards took care to leave loopholes, through which they could fire on the assailants.
The queen took her two children in her arms, and raising her hands above their heads, she prayed.
The children restrained their cries and tears.
The king went into the cabinet contiguous to the il de Buf, in order to burn some valuable papers which he did not wish to fall into the hands of the assassins.
The latter were attacking the door more desperately than ever. At every instant, splinters were seen flying before the blows given by a sharp hatchet, or wrenched out by large pincers.
By the openings which had been thus made, pikes with reddened points, bayonets reeking with blood were forced through, attempting to hurl death on those within.
At the same time, the balls pierced the framework above the barricades, and left long traces on the gilded plaster of the ceiling.
At length a bench rolls from the top of the press; the press itself was partly damaged. One whole panel of the door, which formed the front of the press, gave way, and they could see, in the place of the bayonets and pikes, arms covered with blood pass through it and grasp the sides of the opening, which every moment became wider.
The guards had discharged their last cartridge, and this they had not done uselessly, for through this increasing opening could be seen the floor of the gallery covered with the wounded and dead bodies.
On hearing the shrieks of the women, who believed that through this opening death was advancing upon them, the king returned.
“Sire,” said De Charny, “shut yourself up with the queen in the farthest room from this; close every door after you; place two of us behind the doors. I demand to be the last, and to guard the last door. I will answer for it that we hold out two hours; they have been more than forty minutes in breaking through this one.”
The king hesitated; it appeared to him to be humiliating to fly thus from room to room, to intrench himself thus behind every partition.
If the queen had not been there, he would not have retreated a single step.
If the queen had not her children with her, she would have remained as firmly as the king.
But alas! poor human beings, kings or subjects, we have always in our hearts some secret opening by which courage escapes and terror enters.
The king was about to give the order to fly to the remotest room, when suddenly the arms were withdrawn, the pikes and bayonets disappeared, the shouts and threats at once ceased.
A general silence ensued, every one remaining with distended lips, eagerly listening ears, and suppressed respiration.
They then heard the measured steps of regular troops advancing.
“They are the National Guards!” cried De Charny.
“Monsieur de Charny!” cried a voice, and at the same time the well-known face of Billot appeared at the opening.
“Billot!” cried De Charny, “is it you, my friend?”
“Yes, yes, 'tis I,” replied the honest farmer; “and the king and queen, where are they?”
“May God be praised! This way, Monsieur Gilbert, this way!” cried he, in his stentorian voice.
At the name of Gilbert, the hearts of two women bounded with very different feelings.
The heart of the queen and the heart of Andrée.
De Charny turned round instinctively. He saw both Andrée and the queen turn pale at this name.
“Open the door, gentlemen,” said the king.
The guards hastened to obey his orders, throwing aside the remains of the barricade.
During this time the voice of Lafayette was heard crying:—
“Gentlemen of the National Guard of Paris, I last night pledged my word to the king that no injury should be done to any one belonging to his Majesty. If you allow his guards to be massacred, you will make me forfeit my word of honor, and I shall no longer be worthy to be your chief.”
When the door was opened, the two persons first perceived were General de Lafayette and Gilbert; while a little to their left Billot was standing, perfectly delighted at the share which he had taken in his Majesty's deliverance.
It was Billot who had gone to awaken Lafayette.
Behind Lafayette, Gilbert, and Billot, was Captain Gondran, commanding the company of the centre St. Philippe de Roule.
Madame Adelaide was the first who rushed forward to greet Lafayette, and throwing her arms round his neck with all the gratitude of terror:—
“Ah, sir!” she exclaimed, “it is you who have saved us!”
Lafayette advanced respectfully, and was about crossing the threshold of the il de Buf, when an officer stopped his progress.
“Your pardon, sir,” said he to him; “but have you the right of admission?”
“If he has not,” said the king, holding out his hand to Lafayette, “I give it to him.”
“Long live the king! long live the queen!” cried Billot.
“That is a voice I know,” said he, smiling.
“You are very kind, Sire,” replied the worthy farmer. “Yes, yes; you heard that voice on the journey to Paris. Ah, had you but remained in Paris instead of returning here!”
“Yes,” she said, “since you Parisians are so very amiable.”
“Well, sir?” said the king to Monsieur de Lafayette, as if he had been asking him the question, “In your opinion, what ought now to be done?”
“Sire,” respectfully replied Monsieur de Lafayette, “I think it would be well that your Majesty should show yourself on the balcony.”
The king asked Gilbert for his opinion, but merely by a look.
Louis XVI. then went straight to the window, and without hesitation opened it himself and appeared upon the balcony.
A tremendous shout, a unanimous shout, burst from the people, of:—
Then a second cry followed the first:—
Between these two cries, and sometimes overwhelming them, some formidable voices shouted:—
At this cry everybody shuddered; the king turned pale, De Charny turned pale, even Gilbert himself turned pale.
She was also pale, but with compressed lips and frowning brow, she was standing near the window. Madame Royale was leaning against her. Before her was the dauphin, and on the fair head of the child reclined her convulsively clinched hand, white as the purest marble.
“The queen! the queen!” reiterated the voices, becoming more and more formidable.
“The people desire to see you, Madame,” said General de Lafayette.
“Oh, do not go, my mother!” said Madame Royale, in great agony, and throwing her arms round the queen's neck.
The queen looked at Lafayette.
“Fear nothing, Madame,” said he to her.
“What!” she exclaimed, “and quite alone?”
Lafayette smiled; and respectfully, and with the delightful manner which he retained even to his latest days, he took the two children from their mother and made them first ascend the balcony.
Then offering his hand to the queen:—
“If your Majesty will deign to confide in me,” said he, “I will be responsible for all.”
And he conducted the queen on to the balcony.
It was a terrible spectacle, and one likely to cause the vertigo; for the marble courtyard was transformed into a human sea, full of roaring waves.
At the sight of the queen, an immense cry was uttered by the whole of this crowd; and no one could have been positive whether it was a cry of menace or of joy.
Lafayette kissed the queen's hand; then loud applause burst forth.
In the noble French nation there is, even in the veins of the lowest-born, chivalric blood.
The queen breathed more freely.
“What a strange people!” she exclaimed.
“And my guards, sir,” said she, “my guards, who have saved my life? Can you do nothing for them?”
“Let me have one of them, Madame,” said Lafayette.
“Monsieur de Charny! Monsieur de Charny!” cried the queen.
But De Charny withdrew a step or two; he had understood what was required of him.
He did not wish to make an apology for the evening of the 1st of October.
Not having been guilty, he required no amnesty.
Andrée, on her side, was impressed with the same feeling. She had stretched out her hand to De Charny for the purpose of preventing him. Her hand met the hand of the count, and these two hands were pressed within each other.
The queen had observed this, notwithstanding she had so much to observe at that moment.
Her eyes flashed fire, and with a palpitating heart and broken accents:—
“Sir,” said she to another guard,—“sir, come here, I command you.”
He had not, moreover, the same motives for hesitating as De Charny had.
Monsieur de Lafayette drew the guard on to the balcony, and taking his own tricolored cockade from his hat, placed it in that of the guard, after which he embraced him.
“Long live Lafayette! long live the body-guard!” shouted fifty thousand voices.
Some few wished to utter some hollow growling, the last threat of the disappearing tempest.
But these malcontents were overwhelmed by the universal acclamation.
“Come,” said Lafayette, “all is ended, and fine weather has returned.”
Then, stepping into the room:—
“But that it should not again be overcast, Sire, there still remains a sacrifice for you to make.”
“Yes,” said the king, pensively, “to leave Versailles, is it not?”
“And come to Paris,—yes, Sire.”
“Sir,” said the king, “you may announce to the people that at one o'clock I, the queen, and my children will set out for Paris.”
“Madame,” said he, “you had better retire to your own apartment, and prepare yourself.”
This order of the king appeared to remind De Charny of an event of importance which he had forgotten.
He rushed from the room, preceding the queen.
“Why are you going to my apartment, sir?” said the queen, harshly, to him; “you have no need to go there.”
“I earnestly trust it may be so, Madame,” replied De Charny. “But be not uneasy; if really I am not needed there, I shall not remain long enough to cause my presence to be displeasing to your Majesty.”
The queen followed him; traces of blood stained the floor, and the queen saw them. She closed her eyes, and seeking an arm to guide her, she took that of De Charny, and walked some steps in this way as a blind person.
Suddenly she felt that every nerve in De Charny's body shuddered.
“What is the matter, sir?” she said, opening her eyes.
“A dead body! a dead body!” she exclaimed.
“Your Majesty will excuse my withdrawing my arm,” said he. “I have found that which I came to seek in your apartment,—the dead body of my brother George.”
It was in fact the dead body of the unfortunate young man, whom his brother had ordered to allow himself to be killed rather than that the queen should be approached!
