After having watched them for a moment, Roger said, “I can only plead my ignorance of affairs here as an excuse for appearing to doubt your alarming prediction, but is it not possible that under pressure from the mob the King will run true to form? He has always succeeded in restoring tranquillity by giving way before, and I see no reason why he should not do so again. He has only to rescind his veto on the two decrees to remove the cause of this fresh hostility towards him.”
“That is not its cause: the decrees are no more than a pretext and were put forward as a trap into which he has fallen.”
“I pray you then enlighten me as to what lies at the heart of the matter.”
“There is no heart to it, but a liver. A woman’s liver that distils more bile than other people possess blood. That jaundiced hell-cat, Manon Roland, has sworn to have the Queen’s head that she may spit in the eyes that once passed her over with indifference. The King has consistently alienated all those best situated to help him, and still maintains his childish belief that he can trust in the affections of his people. Last March, believing that the Girondins represented the greater part of the nation, he was mad enough to appoint Roland his principal minister; but even that was not sufficient to appease the vanity of Roland’s wife, and it is she who has been the directing brain behind the Girondin ministry. Nothing less than the destruction of the Monarchy will satisfy her, and she has worked for that with venomous insistence.
“It was she who jockeyed France into declaring war, hoping that the King might be caught out corresponding with his brothers and so shown up as a traitor to the nation. Since that scheme has so far failed to bear fruit, she conceived the idea of the decrees, knowing that the one concerning the priests would prove so abhorrent to the conscience of the King that he would in desperation resort to the expedient of using his veto. He is constitutionally within his right in having done so, but it has enabled her to raise the mob with the cry that the monarch is defying the will of the people, and that he should therefore now be deprived of the veto altogether. That is the real question at issue. And as the veto is the last remaining remnant of the royal authority, without it there would no longer be any point in having a King at all.”
“I see now the true gravity of the situation,” Roger nodded. “If the veto goes, the Monarchy must soon follow it. Perhaps then, having been forced into this last ditch, the King for once may make a stand.”
“Madame Roland undoubtedly hopes so, as that would crown her vicious intrigues with triumph even more swiftly.”
Roger gave a quick glance out of the window. The mutter of the crowd had increased to a roar. The mob was now pouring across the bridge and its leading elements had turned left along the Quai du Louvre below him. Ragged, dirty, fierce-looking, hundreds of men and women, carrying pikes, scythes and muskets, jostled and shouted in a broad living stream as they tramped determinedly towards the Tuileries.
“You mean,” he said, “that if the King resists, mobs like this will force the Assembly to decree an end to the Monarchy before the moderates can concert measures by which, given a little time and a quieter atmosphere, they might yet save it?”
“I mean,” declared Gouverneur Morris, “that in ’89 we witnessed only the rising storm. ’Tis now that we are about to feel the full blast of the tempest. It is my opinion that if the King resists he and his family will be dead before morning.”
CHAPTER III
THE TEMPEST BREAKS
Roger Swung round and stared at the American. “You really think that this mob is on its way to murder the King and Queen?”
Gouverneur Morris nodded. “My agents report that they will be incited to do so, as will others like them coming from the eastern Faubourgs.”
“I see. They are at present unaware of the purpose for which they are to be used, but later Danton, Marat and their other idols mean to goad them into an attack on the Tuileries?”
“No, no! This horrible business is to be managed much more subtly. Like Madame Roland, Danton and the other brains of the conspiracy will remain behind the scenes, so that should some unforeseen hitch cause their plan to miscarry they cannot afterwards be accused of complicity. They are employing the Duc d’Orléans’ old gang of assassins, St. Huruge, Fournier, Rotondo and the rest, to do their devilish work. The excuse by which the mobs are being collected is no more than to plant a Tree of Liberty in the Palace gardens, and to present a petition to the Assembly asking for the withdrawal of the veto on the two decrees and the reinstatement of the Girondin ministers.”
“But the Assembly has no power to grant such requests; they are entirely a matter for the King.”
“Exactly! And when the Assembly tell that to the mob, Santerre, the big brewer who is the political boss of the St. Antoine district, and that Belgian harlot, Théroigne de Méricourt, who has made herself Queen of the slums, will raise the cry, ‘To the Palace, then! To the Palace! Let us convey the will of the People to the King ourselves!’ That is the plot, and you can see where it must lead. Once inside the Palace it will need only one shot to start a massacre. Rotondo or one of the others will see to it that during the killing the Royal Family perish.”
“Mon Dieu! What a ghastly picture you paint! But surely the authorities will intervene? Many members of the Assembly are still loyal to the King; when they see the way things are moving they will take measures to disperse the mob?”
“They may wish to do so, but they will find themselves helpless. Individually they have no authority, and the most powerful party in the Assembly are the Girondins—the very men whom Madame Roland has made the cat’s-paw of her hate. It is certain that they will obstruct any attempts to use the authority of the Assembly to restore order.”
“Who is responsible for the normal maintenance of it?”
“The Mayor of Paris, Pétion. He is another Girondin, and a smooth-tongued hypocrite. No doubt he will have thought out a way to cover himself for remaining inactive. I’ll wager a hundred dollars against a sackful of this worthless paper money the French are printing, that he’ll not lift a finger to prevent the mob breaking into the palace.”
“Are there no guards or gendarmerie to defend it?”
Mr. Morris pursed up his mouth. “When I passed just now several companies of National Guards were being paraded on the garden side, but they will not act without an order. I greatly doubt if they would fire on the mob, even if one of their officers had the courage to bid them to do so. As part of Manon Roland’s plot, the King has already been trapped into dispensing with the constitutional guard which should defend his person. Apart from a few Swiss, the only troops now remaining inside the Palace are the National Guards who act as jailers to the Royal Family.”
“Has the King any idea how desperate is his situation?”
“Indeed he has! From the beginning of this month, when the decrees were first mooted, he has been repeatedly warned that they would be made a pretext to bring about his downfall. Since then he has been furnished with full particulars of the plot from a dozen sources.”
“But does he realise that it is not only his throne, but also his life, that is now threatened?”
“Yes. On leaving my house this morning I ran into the old Marshal de Malesherbes. He told me that yesterday the King wrote to his confessor asking him to come to him, and saying, ‘Never have I had such great need of your consolations. I have done with men, it is towards Heaven that I turn my eyes. Great disasters are announced for tomorrow, but I shall have courage.’ Then he came over to the Marshal, who was standing at a window, and as they watched the sun sink behind the trees of the Champs Elyseés, he said, ‘Who knows whether I shall see the sun set tomorrow?’
“When I met M. de Malesherbes he was on his way to the Tuileries. He is over seventy, and I did my utmost to persuade the dear old man to return home, but he would not hear of it. He said, ‘In happier days His Majesty honoured me by making me one of his ministers. Had I counselled him more wisely he might not now be in such a grievous pa
ss; the least I can do is to go and die with him.’”
“How splendid!” Roger’s blue eyes lit up. “It is something to know that at least one of the King’s old advisers shows such loyalty, and has the courage to face the consequences of his past actions.”
The American shrugged. “ ’Tis not his actions nor those of any particular minister that are to blame, but the King’s own abysmal stupidity. Your Ambassador, Lord Gower, summed up matters when he said to me last year, after the abortive flight to Varennes, ‘If this country ceases to be a Monarchy it will be entirely the fault of Louis XVI. Blunder upon blunder, inconsequence upon inconsequence, a total want of energy of mind accompanied by a personal cowardice, have been the destruction of his reign; and in this last affair he should have either forced his way through those who sought to prevent his reaching the frontier or perished in the attempt.’ Should he die today he will do no more than pay the penalty of his folly; the real ghastliness of the tragedy is that by his weakness he has brought ruin and may now bring death to so many others. It is to his poor, courageous Queen and her helpless children that all my prayers go out at this grim moment.”
Instantly Mr. Morris’s reference to the Queen and her children switched Roger’s mind from the alarming general situation to his own mission. Mr. Pitt and Talleyrand had both informed him that in Paris a new crisis of real gravity was imminent, but on his arrival the peaceful aspect of the city and the apathy of its ordinary citizens had caused him to discount such fears.
Now, it was suddenly thrust upon him that events had marched too quickly for him to have the least chance of carrying out his instructions. He had not yet thought out any story to explain away his participation in Don Diego’s death. He had intended, when he had done so, to try it out on several of his old acquaintances, before approaching the Princesse de Lamballe with the request that she should secure him a secret interview with the Queen. All attempts at such finesse had now to be abandoned. Before nightfall Marie Antoinette might be dead. Even if some freak of fortune enabled him to reach her, it would be both laughable and cruel calmly to propose that she should plan a flight to Brittany while a mob surrounded the palace howling for her blood.
Yet, even if the onrush of the crisis had cut the ground from beneath his feet for that project, there remained the other that Mr. Pitt had put forward only as a possibility almost too remote to hope for, but pregnant with golden dividends for the man who could accomplish it. Moreover, in speaking of it he had said, “Should you have reason to believe the King’s life is in imminent peril you have my permission to stop at nothing which may enable you to remove the Dauphin from his parents.” Now, if ever, the King’s life was in imminent peril.
“I am going to the Tuileries,” declared Roger suddenly.
Mr. Morris’s plump face showed amazement and his small mouth opened in instant protest. “You must be mad even to think of such a thing! If you did your curiosity would be like to cost you your life. The mob will give short shrift to any aristos that it encounters this afternoon, and it could hardly mistake you for aught else.”
“ ’Tis not curiosity but duty that impels me to attempt to reach the royal apartments.”
“Duty be damned!” the American burst out. “Unlike M. de Malesherbes you have no cause to immolate yourself, and it’s no part of an Englishman’s duty to defend the King of France.”
Roger smiled. “I know it, and unless the King is set upon in my presence I have no intention of aiding his defence. My business is with the Queen.”
“Still worse! It is popularly believed that she is in constant correspondence with France’s enemies. One of the cries that will be raised today is, ‘Death to the Austrian woman and the committee of traitors who help her to betray us!’ Théroigne de Méricourt has long since sworn to make herself a parasol out of Marie Antoinette’s intestines. Your life will not be worth a ducat if they find you with her.”
“God knows I have no wish to die! But I have been in tight corners before, and in this matter I feel impelled to take the hazard.”
In a last attempt to dissuade Roger, Mr. Morris seized him by the arm and drew him back to the window. “Look!” he cried. “Look at the hydra-headed monster that you presume to challenge! Once their tempers are aroused those wild beasts down there are capable of tearing limb from limb anyone like yourself.”
“I know it,” replied Roger, “and for that reason I must ask your help. There is no time for me to go elsewhere and obtain other clothes—old, dirty clothes, the more tattered the better. Yet if I could procure them I could enter the Palace, not as myself but as one of the canaille, and thus have little to fear from them. Seeing that my need is so urgent, I pray you ask Madame de Flahaut’s aid, and do your utmost to help disguise me.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the banker. “That sounds more sensible. Wait here a moment and I will see what can be done.”
As he stumped away, his wooden leg tapping sharply on the parquet, Roger endeavoured to co-ordinate his whirling thoughts. A moment’s reflection was enough to convince him that an immediate abduction of the Dauphin must enormously increase the chances of the Queen’s death. If she were able to remain with the boy at her side while the mob were in the Palace there was a hope that their rough hearts would be touched, and that they would refrain from striking her down in his presence; but if she were deprived of him nothing could save her from their hatred.
Another moment’s thought decided Roger that, the fate of the Queen apart, his chances of securing the Dauphin would be far from good. Yet in spite of the obvious dangers and obstacles to the success of such an attempt, he knew that it was his duty to make it; for if he did not Fate might deprive him of all future opportunities. Unless something was done during the present emergency the child might be killed by accident or murdered with his mother, and Mr. Pitt had shown a most positive conviction that the possession of the Dauphin would give England the ace of trumps in future international affairs.
With such a tremendous stake involved Roger would certainly have determined on gambling his luck and wits against all risks, had success meant placing only the life of the futile King in greater jeopardy—but the fate of Marie Antoinette was a very different matter.
Like many another man Roger had first fallen under her spell when she was still a happy woman and in all the glory of her beauty. Later, when he had come to know her personally, his admiration had become veneration; for by that time he had met many royal personages, but none other who combined her kindness, charm, thoughtfulness for others, high ideals and fine courage in adversity. He knew the slanders about her to be infamous lies, and that although married to a gross, unimaginative clot she had proved a model wife and mother. He knew, too, that on coming to France she had accepted it as her own country and done everything in her power to win the love of its people. That she had failed was no fault of hers, but due to the jealous spite of the King’s relatives who, over a long period of years, had consistently put an evil interpretation on her every act and deliberately fostered the belief that she was rapacious, extravagant and wanton. Even if it were true that, more recently, driven to despair by insults, threats, humiliations and imprisonment, she had sought help from her own family, who could blame her?
Roger certainly did not; and he realised now that his impulse to go to the Tuileries had really arisen, not from the long chance of swiftly making a hundred thousand pounds or of serving Mr. Pitt, but because he could not have borne to remain inactive while so fine a woman, who had once given him her friendship, stood in peril of her life.
He had barely got the matter clear in his own mind when Mr. Morris came stumping back into the room, holding a pair of old wooden-soled shoes, some dirty blue cotton overalls and a ragged coat.
“Here you are!” he cried. “These should serve your purpose; Madame’s maid found them for me in the locker of the man who stokes the furnace. But we’ll have to do something about your face and hair. Madame la Comtesse is now out of her bath; when you have put
these on, come into her room. I’ll go and tell her that she must play the part of barber to you.”
Hurriedly Roger stripped off his own things and, with considerable repugnance, put on the smelly garments. Had it been winter he would have shivered from their thinness, but it was a broiling June day, so to exchange his stock for a bare chest, and to feel his naked arms in the loose sleeves of the threadbare jacket, was a relief rather than otherwise. Directly he knocked on the bedroom door Madame de Flahaut called to him to come in.
She was now in a peignoir of flowered muslin, and her curly hair, free of its towel but still undressed, made a frame for her face that greatly enhanced its loveliness; yet her manner no longer held any trace of the sophisticated coquettishness with which she had received Roger. Instead, he was given a glimpse of the generous nature and quick, intelligent mind which had enabled her to enslave her gifted lovers.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I am overwhelmed at hearing of the plot that Monsieur Morris has just revealed to me; and although I have no cause to feel a personal attachment to either of their Majesties, there is nothing I would not do to aid them at this moment. Whatever may be your intentions, if you succeed in penetrating the Tuileries I cannot think that you mean them evil, so I will do my utmost in helping to disguise you. Sit here, please; I ask your forgiveness in advance for the liberties I shall have to take with your person.”
As Roger normally took considerable pride in his appearance, the liberties she took in the next quarter of an hour caused him so much distress that he could have groaned aloud, but he submitted with as good a grace as he could muster. First she chopped off his nice brown hair, until only a bush remained which had ragged ends sticking out in all directions. With a mixture of ashes and soot she dirtied one of her husband’s cotton night-caps and set it on top of his head with the tassel dangling over one ear. Using the same ingredients mixed with a little grease, she rubbed it thoroughly into his face, neck, chest and forearms; then she attended to his hands. Having pared his almond-shaped nails jaggedly with a small penknife, she forced grime under what was left of them with an orange stick. Next she mixed a few drops of purple dye with some kohl from her make-up box and used it to give him a glorious black eye. Lastly, she picked up a needle and, before he could guess her intention, gave him a swift, light stroke with its point from ear to chin.
The Man who Killed the King Page 7