CHAPTER VIII.
THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN’S LAST DAY’S SPORT.
For a long time, reports of hidden dungeons and forgotten prisoners agitated Paris. Paris had had a mountain on its breast, and could not accustom itself to the deliverance from it.
To pity succeeded fear. Had they really escaped from that calamity with which De Launay had threatened them? They reported that there were underground passages from the Bastille to Vincennes; and that in those passages the powder was concealed just under the Faubourg St. Antoine, which would one day blow up from one end to the other.
These fears had a good effect. They, for a time, dissipated the feeling of famine which was gradually creeping over Paris.
Foulon said, “The French have no bread; why should they not eat hay? My horses eat it.”
True or not, he expiated this sneer with his life, and they carried his head about with a mouthful of hay stuffed between his teeth.
But, alas! it seemed that the French people had nothing to do but to eat what Foulon recommended.
From Paris, the fear of famine was dispersed among the provinces.
“Foulon,” said all, “had predicted it.”
They must mow all France.
All said that his ghost appeared to execute the menace.
Then report went about that bands of robbers had been seen mowing the green wheat.
The municipality of Soissons wrote to the Assembly a letter full of fears. “The robbers had cut,” they said, “all the wheat for miles around, and were now marching on the city.”
Soissons demanded help.
The Assembly sent a thousand men, who searched on all sides, twelve miles a-day. They could not find the robbers.
No matter, ten, twenty, a hundred people had seen them.
In the midst of this disputed news, other transpired which was but too true.
A certain lord having heard that De Launay had wished to blow up the Bastille, resolved, if it were in his power, to complete that which the Governor had been unable to do.
He announced that, in honor of the taking of the Bastille, he would give a grand entertainment, to which all were invited—workmen, artisans, tradesmen, countrymen, soldiers, women, old men, and children.
In this time of famine, when all lived on an ounce or two of bread per diem, a good dinner was a public service. Everybody—about 5,000 persons, that is to say—rushed to the fête. In the midst of it, an explosion was heard, and the surrounding plain was covered with dissevered limbs.
The gentleman, whose name was Mennay de Quincy, escaped to Switzerland, and avoided punishment.
Later on, he returned; and, as he was a member of Parliament, he was arraigned before it, and acquitted.
But the breach between the nobles and the people was now opened. The poor Count de Haus, who was incapable of committing such a crime, was accused of abetting M. de Quincy.
Some days afterwards, being at Neuville le Pont, he was insulted by the people, who proceeded to extremities; and he had but just time to spring on his horse, and gallop off to a place of safety.
Fear had now seized upon us, as well as every one else.
On the 18th of July, four days after the taking of the Bastille, the Prince Condé, the Duke d’Enghien, M. Vaudrevil, and M. de Broglie were announced.
Their arrival astonished my uncle, as it was not the hunting season; the wood being very thick, the shooting was difficult.
The Prince de Condé replied that he only wished to hunt a stag, the King having commanded him, in the possibility of a war, to examine into the condition of the defences of Verdun.
The courier was ordered to procure horses from Clermont, and to command the two carriages punctually at five o’clock.
So, taking this view of the matter, there was nothing extraordinary in it at all.
The Princes, mindful of the sport they had had, were determined to enjoy another day of it, although it was not the proper season; but they could surely do as they liked.
The Duke d’Enghien commanded me to accompany them.
I said good-bye to my books for the day, took the gun which the Duke had given me, and followed them.
The Prince was then eighteen years of age—not much older than I was. It was probably on account of the similarity of our ages, that I was favored by so much of his notice.
I remarked that, though courteous as usual, he was profoundly sorrowful.
He asked me what progress I was making in my education.
I told him. When I mentioned M. Drouet, he asked if he were not the postmaster at St. Menehould.
On my response in the affirmative, “A hot Republican, if I mistake not?” he said.
I replied that, through him, this part of the country had been apprized of the capture of the Bastille.
He asked me some questions about the general disposition of the country—as much of the nobles as of the lower classes.
I told him that the love of the people for their King was great, and that they equally hated the nobles, which was true.
He covered his face with his handkerchief, and sighed.
I looked at him with astonishment.
“Pardon me, Duke,” said I; “but I heard the Prince de Condé say that he was going to inspect the fortifications of Verdun, in case of war.”
He looked at me to see what I was driving at.
“Excuse my question, Duke,” said I, “but do you think it probable that we shall have war?”
“Very probable,” said he, looking at me in his turn. “But why that question?”
“Because, in that event, your Grace, I shall not have lost my time.”
“What would you do if there were war?”
“If France be menaced, every one capable of bearing a musket should fly to its defence.”
He looked at my gun. It was the one which he had given me.
“So you can not only carry a gun, but you know how to use it.”
“In fact, your Grace,” said I, laughing, “thanks to your noble gift, I am such a capital shot, that if I had a Prussian or Austrian at the end of it, I fancy they would pass an uncomfortable quarter of an hour.”
“You think so?”
“I am certain of it. A Prussian or an Austrian would be bigger than that pigeon you see there.”
And I pointed to one perched about three hundred paces off, on the dry branch of a tree.
“You are mad,” said the Prince. “That bird is three times out of range.”
“Certainly, your Grace, for shot; but not for ball?”
“Your gun is loaded, then, with ball?”
“Yes, your Grace; I seldom use anything else.”
“What are you doing, Henri?” the Prince de Condé said, as he appeared in view.
“Nothing, father,” replied the Duke; “I am only saying a few words to this boy here.”
He then bade me farewell, saying that he hoped I would always “think of him kindly.” And waving his hand, he resumed his seat by his father’s side, and disappeared.
I stood almost heart-broken on the spot where the Prince addressed his last words to me.
One would have thought that I had a presentiment of the awful circumstances under which I should meet him again.
All the towns had organized national guards, after the example of Paris. Châlons had set the example; St. Menehould had followed it. M. Drouet was captain. He came to ask Bertrand to be his lieutenant, and to see how many men he could recruit at Islettes.
It was the report of bandits having been seen about which induced them to organize the National Guard.
In eight days, all France was armed. Each day the National Assembly gave audiences to ten couriers. It had at its disposal a million of men.
Drouet and Bertrand took a stroll in the village of Islettes.
They enrolled twenty men.
The keepers of the Forest of Argonne enlisted themselves and formed that part of the brigade of which Father Descharmes was chief.
I wished to be one of M. Bertrand’s detachment, consequently in M. Drouet’s company.
He accompanied me as far as Father Descharmes’ cottage, and asked me about the visit of the evening before.
He also asked if the Princes had not returned.
“No; because they have gone to Verdun,” said I.
“Why did they not send to hire their horses from my place?”
“Because they preferred to have them from Clermont.”
“Hum!” said M. Jean Baptiste. “Do you know who they were who accompanied the Duke d’Enghien and the Prince de Condé?”
“I heard them mention M. Vandreul and M. Broglie.”
“Exactly,” said he. “Réné, they come not to inspect Verdun. They have abandoned the King, and quitted France. They have gone to intrigue with strangers.”
Then I remembered the sadness of the Duke d’Enghien; and I called to mind his peculiar look, when I said that an Austrian or Prussian were easier to shoot than a pigeon. I also remembered his last words before leaving—“I hope that you will always think of me with kindness.”
Poor Prince! He had left France, and that was the cause of his sorrow.
“Would that all would follow his example,” murmured M. Drouet, “from the first to the last! But,” continued he, grinding his teeth, “I fancy that if the King or Queen were to try that move, they would not escape so easily.”