"Prepare the equipages," said she; "the king and I are going to Rambouillet."
During this time poor Madeleine Chambry was recovering her senses, and finding herself in the king's arms, who was making her inhale the salts he held in his hand, she uttered a cry of shame, and wished to kiss his hand.
But the king prevented her.
"My lovely child," said he, "allow me to embrace you; you are well worth the trouble."
"Oh, Sire, Sire! since you are so kind," said the young girl, "give an order—"
"What order?" inquired the king.
"An order to have wheat sent to Paris, so that famine may cease."
"My dear child," said the king, "I will willingly sign the order you request, but in truth I am afraid it will not be of much service to you."
The king seated himself at a table and began to write, when suddenly a single musket-shot was heard, followed by a tolerably brisk fire of musketry.
"Ah, good God! good God!" exclaimed the king, "what can have happened? See what it is, Monsieur Gilbert."
A second charge upon another group of women had been made; and this charge had brought about the isolated musket-shot and the volley which had been heard.
The isolated musket-shot had been fired by a man in the crowd, and had broken the arm of Monsieur de Savonnière, a lieutenant in the guards, at the moment when that arm was raised to strike a young soldier, who was behind a sentry-box, and who, with uplifted and unarmed hands, was protecting a woman who was on her knees behind him.
This musket-shot was replied to on the part of the guards by five or six shots from their carbines.
Two of the shots told. A woman fell dead.
Another was carried off seriously wounded.
The people became irritated; and in their turn two of the body-guards fell from their horses.
At the same instant, cries of "Room! room!" are heard; they were the men from the Faubourg St. Antoine, who were arriving, dragging with them three pieces of artillery, with they formed a battery opposite to the principal gate of the palace.
Fortunately the rain was falling in torrents; the match is uselessly applied to the touch-holes of these guns; the priming, completely sodden by the rain, does not ignite.
At this moment a voice whispers into the ear of Gilbert:—
"Monsieur de Lafayette is coming; he cannot be more than half a league from Versailles."
Gilbert in vain attempts to discover who has given him this information; but from whomsoever it might come, it was valuable.
He looks around him, and sees a horse without a rider; it belonged to one of the two guards who had just been killed.
He leaps into the saddle, and sets off at a gallop on the road towards Paris.
The second horse without a rider follows him; but he has scarcely gone twenty paces over the square when he is stopped by the bridle. Gilbert believes his intention has been divined, and that some one wishes to pursue him; he casts a look behind him as he rides off.
They were not thinking of him at all; but they were hungry. They think of nothing but obtaining food, and the poor horse is instantly butchered by a hundred knives.
In a moment it is cut into a hundred pieces.
During this time the king had been informed, as Gilbert had been, that General de Lafayette was about to arrive.
He had signed, at the request of Mounier, his acceptance of the Rights of Man.
He had signed, at the request of Madeleine Chambry, the order for corn to be sent to Paris.
Furnished with this decree and this order, which it was thought would have tranquillized all minds, Maillard, Madeleine Chambry, and a thousand of the women had set out on their return to Paris.
Just beyond the first houses of Versailles they met Lafayette, who, pressed by Gilbert, was riding at full speed, having ordered the National Guards to follow him as quickly as possible.
"Long live the king! "cried Maillard and the women, waving the decrees above their heads.
"What was it, then, you were saying to me of the dangers to which his Majesty is exposed?" said Lafayette, with astonishment.
"Come on, General, come on!" cried Gilbert, continuing to urge him onwards; "you shall yourself judge of them."
And Lafayette spurred on his horse.
The National Guards entered Versailles with drums beating and colors flying.
At the first sounds of the drum which penetrated the palace, the king felt that some one was respectfully touching his arm.
He turned round; it was Andrée.
"Ah! is it you, Madame de Charny?" said he, "What is the queen doing?"
"Sire, the queen sends to entreat that you will leave Versailles, that you will not wait for the Parisians. At the head of your guards and the soldiers of the Flanders regiment, you can go anywhere."
"Are you of that opinion, Monsieur de Charny?" inquired the king.
"Yes, Sire, if you at once determine on passing the frontier; but if not—"
"If not?"
"It would be better to remain here.
"The king shook his head.
His Majesty remains, not because he has the courage to remain, but because he has not firmness to decide on going.
He murmured in a low tone:—
"A fugitive king! a fugitive king!"
Then, turning to Andrée:—
"Go and tell the queen to set out alone."
Andrée left the room to execute her mission.
Ten minutes afterwards, the queen came in and seated herself by the king's side.
"For what purpose have you come here, Madame?" asked Louis XVI.
"To die with you, Sire," replied the queen.
"Ah!" murmured De Charny, "it is now that she is truly beautiful."
The queen shuddered; she had heard him.
"I believe, indeed, it would be better that I should die than live," said she, looking at him.
At that moment the march of the National Guards was heard under the windows of the palace.
Gilbert rapidly entered the room.
"Sire," said he to the king, "you have nothing further to apprehend; Monsieur de Lafayette is below."
The king did not like Monsieur de Lafayette; but he did not carry his feelings farther than dislike.
With regard to the queen, it was a very different matter. She frankly hated him, and took no pains to conceal her hatred.
The result of this was that Gilbert received no reply, although he had believed that the intelligence he had communicated was the most favorable he could have brought at such a moment.
But Gilbert was not a man to allow himself to be intimidated by royal silence.
"Your Majesty has heard?" cried he to the king, in a firm tone. "Monsieur de Lafayette is below, and places himself at your Majesty's orders."
The queen continued silent.
The king made an effort to restrain his feelings.
"Let some one go and tell him that I thank him, and invite him, in my name, to come upstairs."
An officer bowed and left the room.
The queen drew back a step or two.
But the king, with a gesture that was almost imperative, made her resume her position.
The courtiers formed themselves into two groups.
De Charny and Gilbert, with two or three others, remained near the king.
All the rest retreated behind the queen's chair, and arranged themselves in a half-circle round her.
The footsteps of a man, ascending the staircase alone, were heard, and Monsieur de Lafayette appeared in the doorway.
In the midst of the silence which his appearance produced, a voice, issuing from the group surrounding the queen, pronounced these words:—
"There is Cromwell!"
Lafayette smiled.
"Cromwell would not have presented himself alone to Charles I.," said he.
Louis XVI. turned frowningly towards these terrible friends who wished to make an enemy of a man who had hastened to his assistance.
Then, addressing De Charny:—
"Count," said he, "I shall remain. Monsieur de Lafayette being here, I have nothing more to fear. Order the troops to withdraw to Rambouillet. The National Guards will be posted at the exterior ditches, the body-guards at those immediately near the palace."
Then, turning to Lafayette:—
"Come with me, General; I have to speak with you."
And as Gilbert was taking a step towards the door:
"No, Doctor," cried the king, "you will not be one too many; come with us."
And showing the way to Lafayette and Gilbert, he went into a cabinet, into which they both followed him.
The queen followed them with her eyes, and when the door had closed behind them:—
"Ah!" cried she, "it was to-day that we ought to have escaped from this. To-day there was still time. To-morrow, perhaps, it will be too late."
And she, in her turn, left the room, to withdraw to her own apartments.
A great light, similar to that of an extensive conflagration, illuminated the windows of the palace.
It was an immense bonfire, at which the Parisians were roasting the different joints of the horse they had killed.
| Go to Contents |
Chapter XXIV
The Night of the Fifth and Sixth of October
THE night was tolerably tranquil. The Assembly continued its sittings till three o'clock in the morning.
At three o'clock, and before the members separated, they sent two of their ushers, who took a round through Versailles, visited the environs of the palace, and then went round the park.
All was, or all appeared to be, quiet.
The queen had wished to leave the palace by the gate which communicated with Trianon; but the National Guards had refused to allow her to pass.
She had alleged her fears, and she had been answered that she was safer at Versailles than she could be elsewhere.
She had, in consequence, retired to her apartments; and she, in fact, felt reassured when she saw that she was protected by the most faithful of her guards.
At her door she had found George de Charny. He was armed, and leaning upon the small musketoon used by the guards as well as the dragoons. This was unusual; the guards in the interior of the palace stood sentry with their sabres only.
On perceiving him, the queen went up to him:—
"Ah! it is you, Baron," she said.
"Yes, Madame."
"Always faithful."
"Am I not at my post?"
"Who placed you here?"
"My brother, Madame."
"And where is your brother?"
"He is with the king."
"And why with the king?"
"Because he is the head of the family," he said; "and in that capacity has the right to die for the king, who is the head of the State."
"Yes," said Marie Antoinette, with a certain degree of bitterness, "while you have only the right of dying for the queen."
"That would be a great honor for me," said the young man, bowing, "should God ever permit me to fulfil that duty."
The queen made a step to withdraw, but a suspicion was gnawing at her heart.
She stopped, and half turning her head:—
"And—the countess," she inquired, "what has be come of her?"
"The countess, Madame, came in about ten minutes since; and she has ordered a bed to be prepared for her in your Majesty's antechamber."
The queen bit her lips.
Whenever she had occasion to make inquiry with regard to any of the De Charny family, she was always sure to find that they were rigidly attending to their duties, be they what they might.
"Thanks, sir," said the queen, with a charming gesture of the head and hand at the same time, "thanks for your watching so carefully over the queen. You will, in my name, thank your brother for watching over the king so carefully."
And after saying this, she went to her own room. In the antechamber she found Andrée, not lying down, but still sitting up and respectfully awaiting her return.
She could not prevent herself from holding out her hand to her.
"I have just been thanking your brother-in-law, George, Countess," she said, "and I told him to thank your husband; and I now thank you, in turn."
Andrée made a low courtesy, and stood aside to allow the queen to pass, who then went into her bedroom.
The queen did not tell her to follow her. This devotedness, from which she felt affection was withdrawn, and which, however icy cold it might be, she knew would exist till death, weighed heavily upon her feelings.
As we have before said, at three in the morning everything was quiet in the palace at Versailles.
Gilbert had left it with Monsieur de Lafayette, who had been on horseback for twelve hours, and who was so much fatigued that he could scarcely stand. On leaving the palace, he met Billot, who had accompanied the National Guards. He had seen Gilbert set off; he had thought that Gilbert might have occasion for him at Versailles, and he had therefore followed him like the dog who runs to rejoin his master who had left the house without him.
At three o'clock all was tranquil at Versailles. The Assembly, reassured by the report of its officers, had retired. It was believed that this tranquillity would not be troubled. This belief was ill-founded.
In almost all popular movements which prepare the way for great revolutions, there is a period of stagnation, during which it seems as if everything was finished, and the world might sleep in peace. These appearances are deceptive.
Behind the men who make the first movements there are others who wait till the first movements are over, when those who have taken the first steps rest themselves, either from fatigue or satisfaction, not wishing, either in one case or the other, to take a step farther.
Then it is that these unknown men take their turn,—these mysterious agents of fatal passions,—gliding through the darkness, taking up the cause where it has been abandoned, pushing it to the utmost limits, and appalling, in the outburst, those who have opened the way, and who, believing the end attained, the task accomplished, have retreated to their couches in the very middle of the race.
During this terrible night, very different effects had been produced by the arrival of two troops who had arrived at Versailles,—the one in the evening, the other during the night.
The first had come because it was hungry, and it asked for bread.
The second had come from hatred, and asked for vengeance.
We know who it was led on the first,—Maillard and Lafayette.
But now who was it that led on the second? History mentions not their names; but as history has failed in this, tradition names—
MARAT.
We already know him; we have seen him at the fetes given at the marriage of Marie Antoinette, cutting off legs and arms on the Place Louis XV.; we have seen him in the square before the Hôtel de Ville, urging on the citizens.
At length we see him gliding along in the night, like those wolves who prowl along the sheepfolds, waiting until the shepherds shall be asleep, To venture on thier sanguinary work.
VERRIÈRE.
As to this one, we have mentioned his name for the first time. He was a deformed dwarf, a hideous hunchback, whose legs appeared immeasurably long in proportion to his body, which was a visible representation of the distorted passions which raged within him. At every storm which disturbed the depths of society, this sanguinary monster was seen to rise with the scum and agitate himself upon its surface. Two or three times during the most terrible tumults he was seen passing through Paris, huddled upon a black charger, and similar to one of the figures in the Apocalypse, or to one of those inconceivable demons to which the pencil of Callot has given birth in his picture of the temptations of Saint Anthony.
One day at a club, and mounted on the table, he was attacking, threatening, and accusing Danton. It was at the period when the popularity of the man of the 2d of September was vacillating. Danton felt that this venomous attack
of Verriere would altogether complete his ruin. He felt that he was lost,—lost like the lion who perceives the hideous head of a serpent two inches from his lips.
He looked around him, seeking either a weapon or some one to back him. Fortunately, he caught sight of another little hunchback; he immediately caught him under the arms, raised him, and then placed him upon the table immediately opposite his humpbacked brother, Verrière.
"My friend," said he to him, "reply to that gentleman; I yield the floor to you."
The whole assembly roared with laughter, and Danton was saved,—for that time at least.
There were, then, according to tradition, Marat, Verriere, and besides them,—
THE DUKE D'AIGUILLON.
The Duke d'Aiguillon; that is to say, one of the most inveterate enemies of the queen.
The Duke d'Aiguillon disguised as a woman.
And who was it said this? Everybody.
The Abbé Delille and the Abbé Maury,—these two abbés who so little resemble each other.
To the first was attributed the famous line,—
"As a man, he's a coward, as a woman, an assassin."
As to the Abbé Maury, that is another affair.
A fortnight after the occurrence of the events we are relating, the Duke d'Aiguillon met him on the terrace of the Feuillans, and was about to accost him.
"Keep on your way, strumpet!" said the Abbé Maury; and he majestically left the duke perfectly astounded.
It was therefore said that these three men, Marat, Verrière, and the Duke d'Aiguillon arrived at Versailles at about four o'clock in the morning.
They were leading the second troop of which we have, spoken.
It was composed of men who follow in the wake of those who combat to conquer.
These men, on the contrary; come to pillage and to; assassinate.
They had undoubtedly assassinated a little at the Bastille, but they had not pillaged at all.
Versailles offered a delightful compensation.
About half-past five in the morning the palace was startled from its sleep.
A musket-shot had been fired in the marble courtyard.
Five or six hundred men had suddenly presented themselves at the gate; and exciting, animating, pushing on one another, some or them had climbed over the railings, while the others, by a united effort, at length forced open the gate.
Ange Pitou (Volume 1) Page 58