The queen made no reply. Quietly she followed the king into the hall, in which Lafayette, surrounded by the ministers and gentlemen, was standing. On the entrance of the royal couple, the general advanced to meet them with a reverential salutation.
"Sire," said Lafayette, with cheerful confidence—" sire, I have come to protect your majesties and the National Assembly against all those who shall venture to threaten you."
"Are you assured of the fidelity and trustworthiness of your troops?" asked the queen, whose flaming eyes rested upon Lafayette's countenance as if she wanted to read his utmost thoughts.
But these eyes did not confuse the cheerful calmness of the general.
"I know, madame, that I can rely upon the fidelity of my soldiers," answered he, confidently. "They are devoted to me to the death, and as I shall command them, they will watch over the security of the king and queen, and keep all injury from them."
The queen detected the touch of scorn in these loud-sounding words, but she pretended to believe them. At last she really did believe them, for Lafayette repeated emphatically that from this time nothing more was to be feared for the royal family, and that all danger was past. The guard should be chosen this night from his own troops; the Paris National Guard should restore peace again in Versailles, and keep an eye upon the crowds which had encamped upon the great square before the palace.
Lafayette promised well for his army, for the howling, shrieking women, for the cursing, raging men.
And the king was satisfied with these assurances of General
Lafayette, and so, too, was Marie Antoinette at last.
Louis ordered the garde du corps to march to Rambouillet, and reserved only the necessary sentinels in the palace. In the immediate neighborhood the soldiers of Lafayette were stationed. The general once more made the rounds, and then, as if every thing was in a position of the greatest security, he went into the palace to spend the night there, and in peaceful slumbers to refresh himself for the labors of the day.
The king, too, had retired to his apartments, and the valets who had assisted his majesty to undress had not left the sleeping-room, when the loud, uniform breathing which issued from the silken curtains of the bed told them that the king had already fallen asleep. The queen, too, had gone to rest, and while laying her wearied and heavy head upon the cushions, she tenderly besought both her maids to lie down too. All was quiet now in the dark palace of Versailles. The king and the queen slept.
But through the dark, deserted halls which that day had witnessed so much pain and anxiety, resounded now the clang of the raging, howling voices which came up from the square, and hurled their curses against the queen.
In the palace of Versailles they were asleep, but without, before the palace, Uproar and Hate kept guard, and with wild thoughts of murder stalked around the palace of the Kings of France.
How soon were these thoughts to become fact! Sleep, Marie
Antoinette, sleep! One last hour of peace and security!
One last hour! Before the morning dawns Hate will awaken thee, and Murder's terrible voice will resound through the halls of the Kings of France!
CHAPTER XIII.
THE NIGHT OF HORROR.
Marie Antoinette slept! The fearful excitement of the past day and of the stormy evening, crowded with its events, had exhausted the powers of the queen, and she had fallen into that deep, dreamless sleep which sympathetic and gracious Nature sometimes sends to those whom Fate pursues with suffering and peril.
Marie Antoinette slept! In the interior of the palace a deep calm reigned, and Lafayette had withdrawn from the court in order to sleep too. But below, upon this court, Revolution kept her vigils, and glared with looks of hatred and vengeance to the dark walls behind which the queen was sleeping.
The crown of France had for centuries sinned so much, and proved false so much, that the love of the people had at last been transformed into hate. The crown had so long sown the wind, that it could not wonder if it had to reap the whirlwind. The crimes and innovations which Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had sown upon the soil of France, had created an abyss between the crown and the people, out of which revolution must arise to avenge those crimes and sins of the past upon the present. The sins of the fathers had to be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.
Marie Antoinette did not know it; she did not see the abyss which had opened between the crown and the people; the courtiers and flatterers had covered it with flowers, and with the sounds of festivity the cries of a distressed people had been drowned.
Now the flowers were torn away, the festive sounds had ceased, and Marie Antoinette saw the abyss between the crown and the people; she heard the curses, the raging cries of these exasperated men, who had been changed from weak, obedient subjects into threatening, domineering rebels. She looked with steady eye down into the abyss, and saw the monster rise from the depths to destroy herself and her whole house; but she would not draw back, she would not yield. She would rather be dragged down and destroyed than meekly and miserably to make her way to the camp of her enemies, to take refuge with them.
Better to die with the crown on her head than to live robbed of her crown in lowliness and in a, subject condition. Thus thought Marie Antoinette, as at the close of that dreadful day she went to rest; this was her prayer as she sank upon her couch:
"Give me power, O God, to die as a queen, if I can no longer live as a queen! And strengthen my husband, that he may not only be a good man, but a king too!"
With this prayer on her trembling lips, she had fallen asleep. But when Campan stole on tiptoe to the queen's bed to watch her mistress while she slept, Marie Antoinette opened her eyes again, and spoke in her friendly way to her devoted servant.
"Go to bed, Campan," said she, "and the second maid must lie down too. You all need rest after this evil day, and sleep is so refreshing. Go, Campan, good-night!"
Madame de Campan had to obey, and stepped out into the antechamber, where were the two other maids.
"The queen is asleep," she said, "and she has commanded us to go to rest too. Shall we do so?"
The two women answered only with a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders.
"I know very well that we are agreed," said Madame de Campan, reaching her hand to them. "For us there must be no sleep to-night, for we must watch the queen. Come, my friends, let us go into the antechamber. We shall find Mr. Varicourt, who will tell us what is going on outside."
On tiptoe the three women stole out into the second ante-chamber, which was lighted only with a couple of glimmering wax tapers, and in its desolate disorder, with the confusion of chairs, divans, and tables, brought back sad recollections of the wild women who had on the day before pressed into this apartment in their desire to speak with the queen. Somebody had told them that this was the antechamber of the queen, and they had withdrawn in order to go to the antechamber of the king. But they now knew the way that led to the apartments of the queen; they knew now that if one turned to the left side of the palace, he would come at once into the apartments occupied by the royal family, and that the queen occupied the adjacent rooms, directly behind the hall of the Swiss Guard.
Madame de Campan thought of this, as she cast her glance over this antechamber which adjoined the Swiss hall, and this thought filled her with horror.
Varicourt had not yet come in; nothing disturbed the silence around her, except the dreadful shouting and singing outside of the palace.
"Let us go back into the waiting-room," whispered her companions, "it is too gloomy here. Only hear how they shout and laugh! O God, it is a fearful night!"
"Yes, a fearful night," sighed Madame de Campan, "and the day that follows it may be yet more fearful. But we must not lose our courage. All depends upon our having decision, upon our defying danger, and defending our mistress. And see, there comes Mr. Varicourt," she continued, earnestly, as the door quickly opened, and an officer of the Swiss guard came in with great haste.
"Tell us, my friend, what news do you bring us?"
"Bad news," sighed Varicourt. "The crowd is increasing every moment. New columns have arrived from Paris, and not only the common people, but the speakers and agitators are here. Everywhere are groups listening to the dreadful speeches which urge on to regicide and revolution. It is a dreadful, horrible night. Treachery, hatred, wickedness around the palace, and cowardice and desertion pass out from the palace to them, and open the doors. Many of the royal soldiers have made common cause with the people, and walk arm in arm with them around the square."
"And what do these dreadful men want?" asked Campan. "Why do they encamp around the palace? What is their object?"
Mr. Varicourt sadly bowed his head, and a loud sigh came from his courageous breast. "They want what they shall never have while I am alive," he then said, with a decided look. "I have sworn fidelity to the king and queen, and I shall keep it to death. My duty calls me, for the hour of changing guards is near, and my post is below at the great staircase which leads up here. We shall meet at daylight, if I am then alive. But till then we shall do our duty. I shall guard the grand staircase, do you guard the sleeping-room of the queen."
"Yes, we will do our duty," answered Madame de Campan, extending her hand to him. "We will watch over those to whom we have devoted ourselves, and to whom we have vowed fidelity. No one shall pass into the chamber of the queen while we are alive, shall there?"
"Never," replied both of the women, with courageous decision.
"And no one shall ascend the great staircase so long as I live," said Varicourt. "Adieu now, ladies, and listen carefully to every sound. If a voice calls to you, 'It is time,' wake the queen and save her, for danger will then be right upon her. Hark, it is striking three, that is the hour of changing guard. Farewell!"
He went quickly to the door, but there he stood still, and turned once more around. His glance encountered that of his friend, and Madame de Campan understood its silent language well, for she hastened to him.
"You have something to say to me?"
"Yes," he whispered softly, "I have a presentiment that I shall not survive the horrors of this night. I have one whom I love, who, as you know, is betrothed to me. If I fall in the service of the king, I ask you to see my Cecilia, and tell her that I died with her name upon my lips! Tell her not to weep for me, but at the same time not to forget me. Farewell."
He hurriedly opened the door and hastened away. Madame de Campan repressed the tears which would fill her eyes, and turned to the two maids.
"Now," said she, with decisive tones, "let us return to the waiting- room and watch the door of the queen's chamber."
With a firm step she walked on, and the ladies followed. Without any noise they entered the little hall, where in the mornings those ladies of the court used to gather who had the right to be present while the queen dressed herself. Madame de Campan locked the door through which they had entered, behind her, drew out the key and hid it in her pocket.
"No one will enter here with my will," said she. "Now we will place chairs before the door of the sleeping-room, and sit there. We shall then have erected a barricade before our queen, a wall which will be as strong as any other, for there beat three courageous hearts within it."
They sat down upon the chairs, whose high backs leaned against the door of the queen's room, and, taking one another's hands, began their hallowed watch.
All was still and desolate around them. No one of the women could break the silence with a word or a remark. With dumb lips, with open eyes, the three watchers sat and hearkened to the sounds of the night. At times, when the roaring without was uncommonly loud and wild, they pressed one another's hands, and spoke to one another in looks; but when the sounds died away, they turned their eyes once more to the windows and listened.
Slowly, dreadfully slowly moved the fingers of the great clock above on the chimney. Madame de Campan often fixed her gaze upon it, and it seemed to her as if time must have ceased to go on, for it appeared to be an eternity since Varicourt had taken leave of her, and yet the two longer fingers on the dial had not indicated the fourth hour after midnight. But the pendulum still continued its regular, even swinging; the time went forward; only every moment made the horror, the fear of unknown danger seem like an eternity!
At last, slowly, with calm stroke, the hour began to strike four o'clock. And amid the dreadful sounds outside the palace, the women could recognize the deep tones of the great clock on the Swiss hall. Four o'clock! One solitary, dreadful hour is passed! Three hours more, three eternities before daylight comes!
But hark! what new, fearful noise without? That is no more the sound of singing and shouting, and crying—that is the battle-cry-that is the rattle and clatter of muskets. The three women sprang up, moved as if by one thought, animated by one purpose. They moved the chairs back from the door, ready, as soon as danger should approach, to go into the chamber of the queen and awaken her. Campan then slipped across the room to the door of the antechamber, which she had looked before. She laid her ear to the key-hole, and listened. All was still and quiet in the next room; no one was in the antechamber. There was no immediate danger near, for Varicourt's voice had not yet uttered the cry of warning.
But more fearful grew the noise outside. The crackle of musketry was more noticeable, and every now and then there seemed to be heavy strokes as if directed against the palace, sounding as if the people were attempting to force the iron gate of the front court.
"I must know what is going on," whispered Campan, and with cool decision she put the key into the door, turned it, entered the antechamber, and flew to the window, where there was a view of the whole court; and a fearful sight met her there. The crowd had broken the gate, pressed into the court, and was surging in great masses toward the palace doors. Here and there torches threw their glare over these masses, disclosing men with angry gestures, and women with streaming hair, swinging their arms savagely, and seeming like a picture of hell, not to be surpassed in horror even by the phantasms of Dante. Women changed to furies and bacchanalians, roaring and shouting in their murderous desires; men, like blood- thirsty tigers, preparing to spring upon their prey, and give it the death-stroke; swinging pikes and guns, which gleamed horribly in the glare of the torches; arms and fists bearing threatening daggers and knives! All this was pressing on upon the palace—all these clinched fists would soon be engaged in hammering upon the walls which separated the king and queen from the people—the executioner from his victim!
All at once there rang out a fearful, thundering cry, which made the windows rattle, and called forth a terrible echo above in the deserted hall; for through all these shrieks and howls, there resounded now a piercing cry, such as only the greatest pain or the most instant need can extort from human lips.
"That was a death-cry," whispered Madame de Campan, trembling, and drawing back from the window. "They have certainly killed the Swiss guards, who are keeping the door; they will now pour into the palace. O God! what will become of Varicourt? I must know what is going on!"
She flew through the antechamber and opened the door of the Swiss hall. It was empty, but outside of it could be heard a confused, mixed mass of sounds, cries, and the tramping as of hundreds and hundreds of men coming on. Nearer and nearer came the sound, more distinct every moment. All at once the door was flung open on the other side of the Swiss hall, the door which led out, and Varicourt appeared in it, pushed backward by the raging, howling mass. He still sought to resist the oncoming tramp of these savage men, and, with a movement like lightning, putting his weapon across the door, he was able for one minute to hold the place against the tide—just so long as the arms which held the weapon had in them the pulse of life! Varicourt looked like a dying man; his uniform was torn and cut, his face deathly pale, and on one side disfigured by the blood which was streaming down from a broad wound in his forehead.
"It is time, it is time!" he cried, with a loud tremulous voice, and, as he saw for an instant the face of Campan at the opposite door, a flash of joy passed over his face.
"Save the queen! They will murder her!" [Varicourt's last words.—
See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., p. 77. ]
Madame de Campan hastily closed the door, drew the great bolt, and then sprang through the antechamber into the waiting-room, and bolted its door too. Then, after she had done that—after she had raised this double wall between the sleeping queen and the raging mob—she sank upon her knees like one who was utterly crushed, and raised her folded hands to heaven.
"Have mercy on his soul, O God! take him graciously to heaven!" whispered she, with trembling lips.
"For whom are you praying?" asked the two women, in low voices, hurrying up to her. "Who is dead?"
"Mr. Varicourt," answered Campan, with a sigh. "I heard his death- cry, as I was bolting the door of the antechamber. But we cannot stop to weep and lament. We must save the queen!"
And she sprang up from her knees, flew through the room, and opened the door leading to the queen's chamber.
At that moment a fearful crash was heard, then a loud shout of triumph in the outer antechamber.
"The queen! We want the heart of the queen!"
"They have broken down the door of the antechamber—they are in the waiting-room!" whispered Campan. "There is no time to be lost. Come, friends, come!"
And she hastened to the bed of the queen, who was still lying in that heavy, unrefreshing sleep which usually follows exhaustion and intense excitement.
"Your majesty, your majesty, wake!"
"What is it, Campan?" asked Marie Antoinette, opening her eyes, and hastily sitting up in bed. "Why do you waken me? What has happened?"
The fearful sounds without, the crashing of the door of the little waiting-room, gave answer. The rough, hard voices of the exasperated women, separated now from the queen by only one thin door, quickly told all that had happened.
Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed. "Dress me quick, quick!"
"Impossible! There is no time. Only hear how the gunstocks beat against the door! They will break it down, and then your majesty is lost! The clothes on without stopping to fasten them! Now fly, your majesty, fly! Through the side-door-through the OEil de Boeuf!"
Madame de Campan went in advance; the two women supported the queen and carried her loose clothes, and then they flew on through the still and deserted corridors to the sleeping-room of the king.
It was empty—no one there!
"O God! Campan, where is the king? I must go to him. My place is by his side! Where is the king?"
"Here I am, Marie, here!" cried the king, who just then entered and saw the eager, anxious face of his wife. "I hurried to save our most costly possessions!"
He laid the dauphin, only half awake, and lying on his breast, in the arms which Marie Antoinette extended to him, and then led her little daughter to her, who had been brought in by Madame Tourzel.
"Now," said the king, calmly, "now that I have collected my dearest treasures, I will go and see what is going on."
But Marie Antoinette held him back. "There is destruction, treachery, and murder outside. Crime may break in here and overwhelm us, but we ought not to go out and seek it."
"Well," said the king, "we will remain here and await what comes."
And turning to his valet, who was then entering, Louis continued:
"Bring me my chocolate, I want to take advantage of the time to
breakfast, for I am hungry!"
"Sire, now? shall we breakfast now?" asked the queen, amazed.
"Why not?" answered Louis calmly. "If the body is strengthened, we look at every thing more composedly and confidently. You must take breakfast too, Marie, for who knows whether we shall find time for some hours after this?"
"I! oh, I need no breakfast," cried Marie Antoinette; and as she saw Louis eagerly taking a cup of chocolate from the hands of a valet, and was going to enjoy it, she turned away to repress the tears of anger and pain which in spite of herself pressed into her eyes.
"Mamma queen," cried the dauphin, who was yet in her arms, "I should like my breakfast too. My chocolate—I should like my chocolate too!"
The queen compelled herself to smile, carried the child to its father, and softly set him down on the king's knee.
"Sire," said she, "will the King of France teach his son to take breakfast, while revolution is thundering without, and breaking down, with treasonable hands, the doors of the royal palace? Campan, come here—help me arrange my toilet; I want to prepare myself to give audience to revolution!"
And withdrawing to a corner of the room, the queen finished her toilet, for which her women fortunately had in their flight brought the materials.
While the queen was dressing and the king breakfasting with the children, the cabinet of the king began to fill. All Louis's faithful servants, then the ministers and some of the deputies, had hurried to the palace to be at the side of the king and queen at the hour of danger.
Every one of them brought new tidings of horror. St. Priest told how he, entering the Swiss room, at the door leading into the antechamber of the queen, had seen the body of Varicourt covered with wounds. The Duke de Liancourt had seen a dreadful man, of gigantic size, with heavy beard, the arms of his blouse rolled up high, and bearing a heavy hatchet-knife in his hand, springing upon the person of the faithful Swiss, in order to sever his head from his body. The Count de Borennes had seen the corpse of the Swiss officer, Baron de Deshuttes, who guarded the iron gate, and whom the people murdered as they entered. The Marquis de Croissy told of the heroism with which another Swiss, Miomandre of St. Marie, had defended the door between the suites of the king and queen, and had gained time to draw the bolt and barricade the door. And during all these reports, and while the cabinet was filling more and more with pale men and women, the king went composedly on dispatching his breakfast.
The queen, who had long before completed her toilet, now went up to him, and with gentle, tremulous voice conjured him to declare what should be done—to come at last out of this silence, and to speak and act worthy of a king.
Louis shrugged his shoulders and set the replenished cup which he was just lifting to his mouth, on the silver waiter. At once the queen beckoned to the valet Hue to come up.
"Sir," said she, commandingly, "take these things out. The king has finished his breakfast."
Louis sighed, and with his eye followed the valet, who was carrying the breakfast into the garde-robe.
"Now, sire," whispered Marie Antoinette, "show yourself a king."
"My love," replied the king, quietly, "it is very hard to show myself a king when the people do not choose to regard me as one. Only hear that shouting and yelling, and then tell me what I can do as a king to bring these mad men to peace and reason?"
"Sire, raise your voice as king; tell them that you will avenge the crimes of this night, take the sword in your hand and defend the throne of your fathers and the throne of your son, and then you will see these rebels retire, and you will collect around you men who will be animated with fresh courage, and who will take new fire from your example. Oh, sire, disregard now the pleadings of your noble, gentle heart; show yourself firm and decided. Have no leniency for traitors and rebels!"
"Tell me what I shall do," murmured the king, with a sigh.
Marie Antoinette stooped down to his ear. "Sire," whispered she, "send at once to Vincennes, and the other neighboring places. Order the troops to come hither, collect an army, put yourself at its head, march on Paris, declare war on the rebellious capital, and you will march as conqueror into your recaptured city. Oh, only no yielding, no submission! Only give the order, sire; say that you will do so, and I will summon one of my faithful ones to give him orders to hasten to Vincennes."
And while the queen whispered eagerly to the king, her flashing glance sped across to Toulan, who, in the tumult, had found means to come in, and now looked straight at the queen. Now, as her glance came to him as an unspoken command, he made his way irresistibly forward through the crowd of courtiers, ministers, and ladies, and now stood directly behind the queen.
"Has your majesty orders for me?" he asked, softly. She looked anxiously at the king, waiting for an answer, an order. But the king was dumb; in order not to answer his wife, he drew the dauphin closer to him and caressed him.
"Has your majesty commands for me?" asked Toulan once more.
Marie Antoinette turned to him, her eyes suffused with tears, and let Toulan see her face darkened with grief and despair.
"No," she whispered, "I have only to obey; I have no commands to give!"
"Lafayette," was now heard in the corridor—"General Lafayette is coming!"
The queen advanced with hasty steps toward the entering general.
"Sir," she cried, "is this the peace and security that you promised us, and for which you pledged your word? Hear that shouting without, see us as if beleaguered here, and then tell me how it agrees with the assurances which you made to me!"
"Madame, I have been myself deceived," answered Lafayette. "The most sacred promises were made to me; all my requests and propositions were yielded to. I succeeded in pacifying the crowd, and I really believed and hoped that they would continue quiet; that—
"Sir," interrupted the queen, impatiently, "Whom do you mean by 'they?' Of whom are you speaking in such tones of respect?"
"Madame, I am speaking of the people, with whom I came to an understanding, and who promised me to keep the peace, and to respect the slumbers of your majesty."
"You are not speaking of the people, but of the rebels, the agitators," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing eyes. "You speak of high traitors, who break violently into the palace of the king; of murderers, who have destroyed two of our faithful subjects. Sir, it is of such crime that you speak with respect; it is with such a rabble that you have dealt, instead of ordering your soldiers to cut them down."
"Madame," said Lafayette, turning pale, "had I attempted to do that, your majesty would not have found refuge in this chamber. For the anger of the mob is like the lightning and thunder of the tempest, it heeds neither door nor bolt, and if it has once broken loose, nothing can restrain or stop it."
"Oh," cried the queen, with a mocking laugh, "it is plain that Mr. Lafayette has been pursuing his studies in America, at the university of revolutions. He speaks of the people with a deference as if it were another majesty to bow to."
"And in that Lafayette is right," said the king, rising and approaching them. "Hear the yell, madame! it sounds like the roaring of lions, and you know, Marie, that the lion is called the king of beasts. Tell us, general, what does the lion want, and what does his roaring mean?"
"Sire, the enemies of the royal family, the agitators and rebels, who have within these last hours come from Paris, have urged on the people afresh, and kindled them with senseless calumnies. They have persuaded the people that your majesty has summoned hither the regiments from all the neighboring stations; that you are collecting an army to put yourself at its head and march against Paris."
Louis cast a significant look at his wife, which was answered with a proud toss of her head.
"I have sought in vain," continued Lafayette, "to make the poor, misguided men conscious of the impossibility of such a plan."
"Yet, sir," broke in Marie Antoinette, fiercely, "the execution of this plan would save the crown from dishonor and humiliation!"
"Only, madame, that it is exactly the execution of it which is impossible," answered Lafayette, gently bowing.
"If you could give wings to the soldiers of the various garrisons away from here, the plan might be good, and the army might save the country! But as, unfortunately, this cannot be, we must think of other means of help, for your majesty hears the danger knocking now at the door, and we must do with pacificatory measures what we cannot do with force."
"How will you use pacificatory measures, sir?" asked Marie
Antoinette, angrily.
Lafayette cast upon her a sad, pained look, and turned to the king. "Sire," said he, with loud, solemn voice, "sire, the people are frightfully carried away. Stimulating speeches have driven them to despair and to madness. It is only with difficulty that we have succeeded in keeping the mob out of the palace, and closing the door again. 'Paris shall be laid in ashes!' is the horrible cry which drives all these hearts to rage, and to which they give unconditional belief!"
"I will show myself to the people," said Louis. "I will tell them that they have been deceived. I will give them my royal word that I have no hostile designs whatever against Paris."
General Lafayette sighed, and dropped his head heavily upon his breast.
"Do you counsel me not to do this?" asked the king, timidly.
"Sire," answered the general, with a shrug, "the people are now in such an excited, unreasonable state, that words will no longer be sufficient to satisfy them. Your majesty might assure them ever so solemnly that you entertain no hostile intentions whatever against Paris, and that you will not call outside help to your assistance, and the exasperated people would mistrust your assurances! For in all their rage the people have a distinct consciousness of the crimes they are engaged in committing in creating this rebellion against the crown, and they know that it were not human, that it were divine, for your majesty to forgive such crimes, and therefore they would not credit such forgiveness."
"How well General Lafayette knows how to interpret the thoughts of this fanatical rabble, whom he calls 'the people!' "ejaculated the queen, with a scornful laugh. At this instant a loud, thundering cry was heard below, and thousands upon thousands of voices shouted, "The king! We want to see the king!"
Louis's face lighted up. With quick step he hurried to the window and raised it. The people did not see him at once, but the king saw. He saw the immense square in front of the palace, which had been devoted to the rich equipages of the nobility, occupied by the humbler classes—the troops of his staff marching up in their gala uniforms—he saw it filled with a dense mass of men whom Lafayette had called "the people," whom the queen had termed a "riotous rabble," surging up and down, head pressed to head, here and there faces distorted with rage, eyes blazing, fists clinched, arms bare, and pikes glistening in the morning light, while a great roar, like that which comes from the sea in a tempest, filled the air.
"You are right, Lafayette," said the king, who looked calmly at this black sea of human life—"you are right, this is the people; there are here probably twenty thousand men, and Heaven defend me from regarding all as criminals and rabble! I believe—"
A tremendous shout now filled the air. The king had been seen, some one had noticed him at the open window, and now all heads and all looks were directed to this window, and twenty thousand voices cried, "Long live the king! Long live the king!"
Louis turned with a proud, happy look to the gentlemen and ministers who stood near him, Marie Antoinette having withdrawn to the farthest corner of the room, where, throwing her arms around both of the children, and drawing them to her bosom, she had sunk into a chair.
"What do you say now, gentlemen?" asked the king.
"Did they not want to make me believe that my good people hate their king, and wish him ill? But when I show myself to them, hear how they shout to greet me!"
"To Paris!" was now the roar of the mob below. "We want the king should go to Paris!"
"What do they say? What do they want?" asked Louis, turning to
Lafayette, who now stood close beside him.
"Sire, they are shouting their wishes to you, that you and the royal family should go to Paris."
"And you, general, what do you say?" asked the king.
"Sire, I have taken the liberty already to say that words and promises are of no more avail to quiet this raving, maddened people, and to make them believe that you have no hostile designs against Paris."
"But if I go to Paris and reside there for a time, it is your opinion, as I understand it, that the people would be convinced that I have no evil intentions against the city—that I should not undertake to destroy the city in which I might live. That is your meaning, is it not?"
"Yes, sire, that is what I wanted to say."
"To Paris, to Paris!" thundered up from below. "The king shall go to
Paris!"
Louis withdrew from the window and joined the circle of his ministers, who, with their pale faces, surrounded him.
"Gentlemen," said the king, "you are my counsellors. Well, give me your counsel. Tell me now what I shall do to restore peace and quiet."
But no one replied. Perplexed and confused they looked down to the ground, and only Necker found courage to answer the king after a long pause.
"Sire," he said, "it is a question that might be considered for days which your majesty has submitted to us, and on its answer depends, perhaps, the whole fate of the monarchy. But, as you wish to know the opinions of your ministers, I will venture to give mine: that it would be the safest and most expedient course for your majesty to comply with the wishes of the people, and go to Paris!"
"I supposed so," whispered the king, dropping his head.
"To Paris!" cried the queen, raising her head. "It is impossible.
You cannot be in earnest in being willing to go of your own accord
down into the abyss of revolution, in order to be destroyed there!
To Paris!"
"To Paris!" was the thundering cry from below, as if the words of the queen had awakened a fearful, thousand-voiced echo. "To Paris! The king and the queen shall go to Paris!"
"And never come from there!" cried the queen, with, bursting tears.
"Speak, Lafayette!" cried the king. "What do you think?"
"Sire, I think that there is only one way to restore peace and to quiet the people, and that is, for your majesty to go to-day with the royal family to Paris."
"It is my view, too," said Louis, calmly. "Then go, Lafayette, tell the people that the king and queen, together with the dauphin and the princess, will journey today to Paris."
The simple and easily spoken words had two very different effects in the cabinet on those who heard them. Some faces lightened up with joy, some grew pale with alarm; there were sighs of despair, and cries of fresh hope. Every one felt that this was a crisis in the fate of the royal family—some thinking that it would bring disaster, others deliverance.
The queen alone put on now a grave, decided look; a lofty pride lighted up her high brow, and with an almost joyful expression she looked at her husband, who had been induced to do something—at least, to take a decisive step.
"The king has spoken," she said, amid the profoundest silence, "and it becomes us to obey the will of the king, and to be subject to it. Madame de Campan, make all the preparations for my departure, and do it in view of a long stay in Paris!"
"Now, Lafayette," asked the king, as the general still delayed in the room, "why do you not hasten to announce my will to the people?"
"Sire," answered Lafayette, solemnly, "there are moments when a people can only be pacified by the voice either of God or of its king, and where every other human voice is overwhelmed by the thunder of the storm!"
"And you think that this is such a moment?" asked the king. "You think that I ought myself to announce to the people what I mean to do?"
Lafayette bowed and pointed to the window, which shook even then with the threatening cry, "The king! We will see the king! He shall go to Paris! The king, the king!"
Louis listened awhile in thoughtful silence to this thundering shout, which was at once so full of majesty and horror; then he quickly raised his head.
"I will follow your advice, general," said he, calmly. "I will announce my decision to the people. Give me your hand, madame, we will go into the balcony-room. And you, gentlemen, follow me!"
The queen took the hand of her husband without a word, and gave the other to the little dauphin, who timidly clung to her, while her daughter Therese quietly and composedly walked near them.
BOOK III
CHAPTER XIV.
TO PARIS.
Without speaking a word, and with hasty steps, the royal couple, followed by the ministers and courtiers, traversed the two adjoining apartments, and entered the balcony-room, which, situated at the centre of the main building, commanded a wide view of the inner court and the square in front of it.
The valet Hue hastened, at a motion from the king, to throw open the great folding doors, and the king, parting with a smile from Marie Antoinette, stepped out upon the balcony. In an instant, as if the arm of God had been extended and laid upon this raging sea, the roaring ceased; then, as soon as the king was recognized, a multitudinous shout went up, increasing every moment, and sending its waves beyond the square, out into the adjoining streets.
"The king! Long live the king!"
Louis, pale with emotion and with tears in his eyes, went forward to the very edge of the balcony, and, as a sign that he was going to speak, raised both hands. The motion was understood, and the loud cries were hushed which now and then burst from the mighty mass of people. Then above the heads of the thousands there who gazed breathlessly up, sounded the loud, powerful voice of the king.
"I will give my dear people the proof that my fatherly heart is distrusted without reason. I will journey to-day with the queen and my children to Paris, and there take up my residence. Return thither, my children, I shall follow you in a few hours and come to Paris!"
Then, while the people were breaking out into a cry of joy, and were throwing arms, caps, and clothes up into the air, Louis stepped back from the balcony into the hall.
Instantly there arose a new cry below. "The queen shall show herself! We want to see the queen! The queen! the queen! the queen!"
And in tones louder, and more commanding, and more terrible every moment, the summons came in through the balcony door.
The queen took her two children by the hand and advanced a step or two, but the king held her back.
"Do not go, Marie," he cried, with trembling voice and anxious look. "No, do not go. It is such a fearful sight, this raging mass at one's feet, it confuses one's senses. Do not go, Marie!"
But the cry below had now expanded into the volume of a hurricane, and made the very walls of the palace shake.
"You hear plainly, sire," cried Marie Antoinette; "there is just as much danger whether we see or do not see it. Let me do, therefore, what you have done! Come, children!"
And walking between the two little ones, the queen stepped out upon the balcony with a firm step and raised head, followed by the king, who placed himself behind Marie Antoinette, as if he were a sentinel charged with the duty of protecting her life.
But the appearance of the whole royal family did not produce the effect which Louis had, perhaps, anticipated. The crowd did not now break out into snouts of joy.
They cried and roared and howled: "The queen alone! No children! We want no one but the queen! Away with the children!"
It was all in vain that Louis advanced to the edge of the platform; in vain that he raised his arms as if commanding silence. The sound of his voice was lost in the roar of the mob, who, with their clinched fists, their pikes and other weapons, their horrid cry, so frightened the dauphin that he could not restrain his tears.
The royal family drew back and entered the apartment again, where they were received by the pale, trembling, speechless, weeping courtiers and servants.
But the mob below were not pacified. They appeared as though they were determined to give laws to the king and queen, and demand obedience from them.
"The queen! we will see the queen!" was the cry again and again.
"The queen shall show herself!"
"Well, be it so!" cried Marie Antoinette, with cool decision, and, pressing through the courtiers, who wanted to restrain her, and even impatiently thrusting back the king, who implored her not to go, she stepped out upon the balcony. Alone, without any one to accompany her, and having only the protection which the lion-tamer has when he enters the cage of the fierce monsters—the look of the eye and the commanding mien!
And the lion appeared to be subdued; his fearful roar suddenly ceased, and in astonishment all these thousands gazed up at the queen, the daughter of the Caesars, standing above in proud composure, her arms folded upon her breast, and looking down with steady eye into the yawning and raging abyss.
The people, overcome by this royal composure, broke into loud shouts of applause, and, during the continuance of these thousand-voiced bravos, the queen, with a proud smile upon her lips, stepped back from the balcony into the chamber.
The dauphin flew to her with open arms and climbed up her knee. "Mamma queen, my dear mamma queen," cried he, "stay with me, don't go out again to these dreadful men, I am afraid of them—oh, I am afraid!"
Marie Antoinette took the little boy in her arms, and with her cold, pale lips pressed a kiss upon his forehead. For one instant it seemed as if she felt herself overcome by the fearful scene through which she had just passed—as if the tears which were confined in her heart would force themselves into her eyes. But Marie Antoinette overcame this weakness of the woman, for she felt that at this hour she could only be a queen.
With the dauphin in her arms, and pressing him closely to her heart, she advanced to the king, who, in order not to let his wife see the tears which flooded his face, had withdrawn to the adjoining apartment and was leaning against the door.
"Sire," said Marie Antoinette, entering the room, and presenting the dauphin to him, "sire, I conjure you that, in this fearful hour, you will make one promise to me."
"What is it, Marie?" asked the king, "what do you desire?"
"Sire, by all that is dear to you and me," continued the queen, "by the welfare and safety of France, by your own and by the safety of this dear child, your successor, I conjure you to promise me that, if we ever must witness such a scene of horror again, and if you have the means to escape it, you will not let the opportunity pass," [Footnote: The very words of the queen.—See Beauchesne, "Louis XVI., sa Vie," etc., p 145.]
The king, deeply moved by the noble and glowing face of the queen, by the tones of her voice, and by her whole expression, turned away. He wanted to speak, but could not; tears choked his utterance; and, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, he pushed the queen and the dauphin back from him, hastened through the room, and disappeared through the door on the opposite side.
Marie Antoinette looked with a long, sad face after him, and then returned to the balcony-room. A shudder passed through her soul, and a dark, dreadful presentiment made her heart for an instant stop beating. She remembered that this chamber in which she had that day suffered such immeasurable pain—that this chamber, which now echoed the cries of a mob that had this day for the first time prescribed laws to a queen, had been the dying-chamber of Louis XIV. [Footnote: Historical.—See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," p. 195.] A dreadful presentiment told her that this day the room had become the dying- chamber of royalty.
Like a pale, bloody corpse, the Future passed before her eyes, and, with that lightning speed which accompanies moments of the greatest excitement, all the old dark warnings came back to her which she had previously encountered. She thought of the picture of the slaughter of the babes at Bethlehem, which decorated the walls of the room in which the dauphin passed his first night on French soil; then of that dreadful prophecy which Count do Cagliostro had made to her on her journey to Paris, and of the scaffold which he showed her. She thought of the hurricane which had made the earth shake and turn up trees by their roots, on the first night which the dauphin had passed in Versailles. She thought too of the dreadful misfortune which on the next day happened to hundreds of men at the fireworks in Paris, and cost them their lives. She recalled the moment at the coronation when the king caught up the crown which the papal nuncio was just on the point of placing on his head, and said at the same time,
"It pricks me." [Footnote: Historical.]And now it seemed to her to be a new, dreadful reason for alarm, that the scene of horror, which she had just passed through, should take place in the dying-chamber of that king to whom France owed her glory and her greatness.
"We are lost, lost!" she whispered to herself. "Nothing can save us.
There is the scaffold!"
"With a silent gesture, and a gentle inclination of her head, the queen took her leave of all present, and returned to her own apartments, which were now guarded by Lafayette's soldiers, and which now conveyed no hint of the scene of horror which had transpired there a few hours before.
Some hours later two cannon were discharged upon the great square before the palace. They announced to the city of Versailles that the king, the queen, and their children, had just left the proud palace- -were then leaving the solitary residence at Versailles—never to return!
From the lofty tower of the church of St. Louis, in which recently the opening of the States-General had been celebrated, the bell was just then striking the first hour after mid-day, when the carriage drove out of the great gate through which the royal family must pass on its way to Paris. A row of other carriages formed the escort of the royal equipage. They were intended for the members of the States-General. For as soon as the journey of the king to Paris was announced, the National Assembly decreed that it regarded itself as inseparably connected with the person of the king, and that it would follow him to Paris. A deputation had instantly repaired to the palace, to communicate this decree to the king, and had been received by Louis with cordial expressions of thanks.
Marie Antoinette, however, had received the tidings of these resolves of the National Assembly with, a suspicious smile, and an angry flash darted into her eyes.
"And so, the gentlemen of the Third Estate have gained their point!" cried she, in wrath. "They alone have produced this revolt, in order that the National Assembly may have a pretext for going to Paris. Now, they have reached their goal! Yet do not tell me that the revolution is ended here. On the contrary, the hydra will now put forth all its heads, and will tear us in pieces. But, very well! I would rather be torn to pieces by them than bend before them!"
And, with a lofty air and calm bearing, Marie Antoinette entered the great coach in which the royal family was to make the journey to Paris. Near her sat the king, between them the dauphin. Opposite to them, on the broad, front seat, were their daughter Therese, the Princess Elizabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, governess of the royal children. Behind them, in a procession, whose end could not be seen, followed an artillery train; then the mob, armed with pikes, and other weapons-men covered with blood and dust, women with dishevelled hair and torn garments, the most of them drunken with wine, exhausted by watching during the night, shouting and yelling, and singing low songs, or mocking the royal family with scornful words. Behind these wild masses came two hundred gardes du corps without weapons, hats, and shoulder-straps, every one escorted by two grenadiers, and they were followed by some soldiers of the Swiss guard and the Flanders regiment. In the midst of this train rattled loaded cannon, each one accompanied by two soldiers. But still more fearful than the retinue of the royal equipage were the heralds who preceded it—heralds consisting of the most daring and defiant of these men and women, impatiently longing for the moment when they could announce to the city of Paris that the revolution in Versailles had humiliated the king, and given the people victory. They carried with them the bloody tokens of this victory, the heads of Varicourt and Deshuttes, the faithful Swiss guards, who had died in the service of their king. They had hoisted both these heads upon pikes, which two men of the mob carried before the procession. Between them strode, with proud, triumphant mien, a gigantic figure, with long, black beard, with naked blood-flecked arms, with flashing eyes, his face and hands wet with the blood with which he had imbued himself, and in his right hand a slaughter-knife which still dripped blood. This was Jourdan, who, from his cutting off the heads of both the Swiss guards, had won the name of the executioner—a name which he understood how to keep during the whole revolution.[Footnote: Jourdan, the executioner, had, until that time, been a model in the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture.]
Like storm-birds, desirous to be the first to announce to Paris the triumph of the populace, and impatient of the slow progress of the royal train, these heralds of victory, bearing their bloody banner, hastened on in advance of the procession to Paris. In Sevres they made a halt—not to rest, or wait for the oncoming train—but to have the hair of the two heads dressed by friseurs, in order, as Jourdan announced with fiendish laughter to the yelling mob, that they might make their entrance into the city as fine gentlemen.
While before them and behind them these awful cries, loud singing and laughing resounded, within the carriage that conveyed the royal family there was unbroken silence. The king sat leaning back in the corner, with his eyes closed, in order not to see the horrid forms which from time to time approached the window of the carriage, to stare in with curious looks, or with mocking laughter and equivoques, to heap misery on the unfortunate family.
The queen, however, sat erect, with proud, dignified bearing, courageously looking the horrors of the day in the face, and not a quiver of the eyelids, nor a sigh, betraying the pain that tortured her soul.
"No, better die than grant to this triumphing rabble the pleasure of seeing what I suffer! Better sink with exhaustion than complain."
Not a murmur, not a sigh, came from her lips; and yet, when the dauphin, after four hours of this sad journey, turned with a supplicatory expression to his mother, and said to her with his sweet voice, "Mamma queen, I am hungry," the proud expression withdrew from the features of the queen, and two great tears slowly ran down over her cheeks.
At last, after a ride of eight hours, the frightful train reached Paris. Not a window in all the streets through which the royal procession went was empty. In amazement and terror the people of the middle class gazed at this hitherto unseen spectacle—the King and the Queen of France brought in triumph to the capital by the lowest people in the city! A dumb fear took possession of those who hitherto had tried to ignore the revolution, and supposed that every thing would subside again into the old, wonted forms. Now, no one could entertain this hope longer; now, the most timid must confess that a revolution had indeed come, and that people must accustom themselves to look at it eye to eye.
Slowly the train moved forward—slowly down the quay which extends along by the garden of the Tuileries. The loungers who were in the garden hurried to the fence, which then bordered the park on the side of the quay, in order to watch this frightful procession from this point: to see an unbridled populace dash in pieces the prescriptive royalty of ages.
Scorn and the love of destruction were written on most of the faces of these observers, but many were pale, and many quivered with anger and grief. In the front ranks of the spectators stood two young men, one of them in simple civilian's costume, the other in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. The face of the young officer was pale, but it lightened up with rare energy; and with his noble, antique profile, and flaming eyes, it enchanted every look, and fixed the attention of every one who observed him.
As the howling, roaring mob passed him, the young officer turned to his companion with an expression of fiery indignation. "0 God," he cried, "how is this possible? Has the king no cannon to destroy this canaille? " [Footnote: His own words.—See Beauchesne, vol. i.,p. 85.]
"My friend," answered the young man, smiling, "remember the words of our great poet Corneille: 'The people give the king his purple and take it back when they please. The beggar, king only by the people's grace, simply gives back his purple to the people.' "
"Ah!" cried the young lieutenant, smiling, "what once has been received should be firmly held. I, at least, if I had once received the purple by the people's grace, would not give it back. But come, let us go on, it angers me to see this canaille, upon which you bestow the fine name of 'the people.'" He hastily grasped the arm of his friend, and turned to a more solitary part of the garden of the Tuileries.
This young sub-lieutenant, who saw with such indignation this revolutionary procession pass him, and whom destiny had appointed one day to bring this revolution to an end—this young lieutenant's name was Napoleon Bonaparte.
The young man who walked at his side, and whom, too, destiny had appointed to work a revolution, although only in the theatrical world, to recreate the drama—this young man's name was Talma.
CHAPTER XV.
MAMMA QUEEN.
"Every thing passes over, every thing has an end; one must only have courage and think of that," said Marie Antoinette, with a gentle smile, as on the morning after her arrival in Paris, she had risen from her bed and drunk her chocolate in the improvised sitting-room. "Here we are installed in the Tuileries, and have slept, while we yesterday were thinking we were lost, and that only death could give us rest and peace again."
"It was a fearful day," said Madame de Campan, with a sigh, "but your majesty went through it like a heroine."
"Ah, Campan," said the queen, sadly, "I have not the ambition to want to be a heroine, and I should be very thankful if it were allowed me from this time on to be a wife and mother, if it is no longer allowed me to be a queen."
At this instant the door opened; the little dauphin, followed by his teacher, the Abbe Davout, ran in and flew with extended arms to Marie Antoinette.
"Oh, mamma queen!" cried he, with winning voice, "let us go back again to our beautiful palace; it is dreadful here in this great, dark house."
"Hush, my child, hush!" said the queen, pressing the boy close to her. "You must not say so; you must accustom yourself to be contented everywhere."
"Mamma queen," whispered the child, tenderly nestling close to his mother, "it is true it is dreadful here, but I will always say it so low that nobody except you can hear. But tell me, who owns this hateful house? And why do we want to stay here, when we have such a fine palace and a beautiful garden in Versailles?"
"My son," answered the queen with a sigh, "this house belongs to us, and it is a beautiful and famous palace. You ought not to say that it does not please you, for your renowned great-grandfather, the great Louis XIV., lived here, and made this palace celebrated all over Europe."
"Yet I wish that we were away from here," whispered the dauphin, casting his large blue eyes with a prolonged and timid glance through the wide, desolate room, which was decorated sparingly with old-fashioned, faded furniture.
"I wish so, too," sighed Marie Antoinette, to herself; but softly as she had spoken the words, the sensitive ear of the child had caught them.
"You, too, want to go?" asked Louis Charles, in amazement. "Are you not queen now, and can you not do what you want to?"
The queen, pierced to the very heart by the innocent question of the child, burst into tears.
"My prince," said the Abbe Davout, turning to the dauphin, "you see that you trouble the queen, and her majesty needs rest. Come, we will take a walk."
But Marie Antoinette put both her arms around the child and pressed its head with its light locks to her breast.
"No," she said, "no, he does not trouble me. Let me weep. Tears do me good. One is only unfortunate when she can no longer weep; when— but what is that?" she eagerly asked, rising from her easy-chair. "What does that noise mean?"
And in very fact in the street there were loud shouting and crying, and intermingled curses and threats.
"Mamma," cried the dauphin, nestling close up to the queen, "is to- day going to be just like yesterday?" [Footnote: The very words of the dauphin.—See Beauchesne, vol. i.]
The door was hastily opened, and the king entered.
"Sire," asked Marie, eagerly advancing toward him, "are they going to renew the dreadful scenes of yesterday?"
"On the contrary, Marie, they are going to bring to their reckoning those who occasioned the scenes of yesterday," answered the king. "A deputation from the Court of Chatelet have come to the Tuileries, and desire of me an authorization to bring to trial those who are guilty, and of you any information which you can give about what has taken place. The mob have accompanied the deputation hither, and hence arise these cries. I am come to ask you, Marie, to receive the deputation of Chatelet."
"As if there were any choice left us to refuse to see them," answered Marie Antoinette, sighing. "The populace who are howling and crying without are now the master of the men who come to us with a sneer, and ask us whether we will grant them an audience. We must submit!"
The king did not answer, but shrugged his shoulders, and opened the door of the antechamber. "Let them enter," he said to the chamberlains there.
The two folding doors were now thrown open, and the loud voice of an officer announced, "The honorable judges of Chatelet!"
Slowly, with respectful mien and bowed head, the gentlemen, arrayed in their long black robes, entered the room, and remained humbly standing near the door.
Marie Antoinette had advanced a few steps. Not a trace of grief and disquiet was longer to be seen in her face. Her figure was erect, her glance was proud and full of fire, and the expression of her countenance noble and majestic. She was still the queen, though not surrounded by the solemn pomp which attended the public audiences at Versailles. She did not stand on the purple-carpeted step of the throne, no gold-embroidered canopy arched over her, no crowd of brilliant courtiers surrounded her, only her husband stood near her; her son clung to her side, and his teacher, the Abbe Davout, timidly withdrew into the background. These formed all her suite. But Marie Antoinette did not need external pomp to be a queen; she was so in her bearing, in every look, in every gesture. With commanding dignity she allowed the deputation to approach her, and to speak with her. She listened with calm attention to the words of the speaker, who, in the name of the court, gave utterance to the deep horror with which the treasonable actions of the day before had filled him. He then humbly begged the queen to give such names of the rioters as might be known to her, that they might be arrested, but Marie Antoinette interrupted him in his address.
"No, sir," she cried, "no, never will I be an informer against the subjects of the king." [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words.—See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," pp. 196, 197.]
The speaker bowed respectfully. "Then let me at least beg of you, in the name of the High-Court of the Chatelet, to give us your order to bring the guilty parties to trial, for without such a charge we cannot prosecute the criminals who have been engaged in these acts."
"Nor do I wish you to bring any one to trial," cried the queen, with dignity. "I have seen all, known all, and forgotten all! Go, gentlemen, go! My heart knows no vengeance; it has forgiven all those who have wounded me. Go!" [Footnote: Ibid]
With a commanding gesture of her hand, and a gentle nod of her head, she dismissed the deputation, who silently withdrew.
"Marie," said the king, grasping the hand of his wife with unwonted eagerness, and pressing it tenderly to his lips, "Marie, I thank you in the name of all my subjects. You have acted this hour not only as a queen, but as the mother of my people."
"Ah, sir," replied the queen, with a sad smile, "only that the children will not believe in the love of their mother—only that your subjects do not consider me their mother, but their enemy."
"They have been misguided," said the king. "Evil-minded men have deceived them, but I hope we shall succeed in bringing the people back from their error."
"Sire," sighed Marie Antoinette, "I hope for nothing more; but," added she, with still firmer voice, "I also fear nothing more. The worst may break over me—it shall find me armed!"
The side-door now opened, and Madame de Campan entered.
"Your majesty," said she, bowing low, "a great number of ladies from the Faubourg St. Germain are in the small reception-room. They wish to testily their devotion to your majesty."
"I will receive them at once," cried Marie Antoinette, with an almost joyful tone. "Ah, only see, husband, the consolations which misfortune brings. These ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain formerly cut me; they could not forget that I was an Austrian. To-day they feel that I am the Queen of France, and that I belong to them. Pardon me, sire, for leaving you."
She hastened away with a rapid step. The king looked after her with an expression of pain. "Poor queen," he whispered to himself, "how much she is misjudged, how wrongly she is calumniated! And I cannot change it, and must let it be."
He sank with a deep sigh, which seemed much like a groan, into an arm-chair, and was lost in painful recollections. A gentle touch on his hand, which rested on the side-arm of the chair, restored him to consciousness. Before him stood the dauphin, and looked gravely and thoughtfully out of his large blue eyes up into his father's face.
"Ah, is it you, my little Louis Charles?" said the king, nodding to him. "What do you want of me, my child?"
"Papa king," answered the boy, timidly, "I should like to ask you something—something really serious!"
"Something really serious!" replied the king. "Well, what is it? Let me hear!"
"Sire," replied the dauphin, with a weighty and thoughtful air, "sire, Madame de Tourzel has always told me that I must love the people of France very much, and treat every one very friendly, because the people of France love my papa and my mamma so much, and I ought to be very grateful for it. How comes it then, sire, that the French people are now so bad to you, and that they do not love mamma any longer? What have you both done to make the people so angry, because I have been told that the people are subject to your majesty, and that they owe you obedience and respect? But they were not obedient yesterday, and not at all respectful, your subjects, were they? How is this, papa?"
The king drew the little prince to his knee, and put his arm around the slight form of the boy. "I will explain it to you, my son," he said, "and listen carefully to what I say to you."
"I will, sire," answered the boy eagerly, "I at least am an obedient subject of my king, for the Abbe Davout has told me that I am nothing but a subject of your majesty, and that, as a son and a subject, I must give a good example to the French people, how to love and obey the king. And I love you very much, papa, and I am just as obedient as I can be. But it seems as though my good example had made no difference with the other subjects. How comes that about, papa king?"
"My son," answered Louis, "that comes because there are bad men who have told the people that I do not love them. We have had to have great wars, and wars cost a deal of money. And so I asked money of my people—just as my ancestors always did."
"But, papa," cried the dauphin, "why did you do that? Why did you not take my purse, and pay out of that? You know that I receive every day my purse all filled with new francs, and—but then," he interrupted himself, "there would be nothing left for the poor children, to whom I always give money on my walks. And, oh! there are so many poor children, so very many, that my purse is empty every day, when I return from my walk, and yet I give to each child only one poor franc-piece. So your people have money, more money than you yourself?"
"My child, kings receive all that they have from their people, but they give it all back to the people again; the king is the one appointed by God to govern his people, and the people owe respect and obedience to the king, and have to pay taxes to him. And so, if he needs money, he is justified in asking his subjects for it, and so does what is called 'laying taxes' upon them. Do you understand me?"
"Oh! yes, papa," cried the child, who had listened with open eyes and breathless attention, "I understand all very well. But I don't like it. It seems to me that if a man is king, every thing belongs to him, and that the king ought to have all the money so as to give it to the people. They ought to ask HIM, and not he THEM!"