The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic / A Tale of The French Revolution

"I wish to inform the Assembly that Louis Capet is at the door. Citizen Representatives, you are about to exercise the right of justice; the Republic expects of you firm and deliberate action; Europe's eyes are turned upon you; history will record your actions; posterity will judge you. The dignity of your session should correspond to the majesty of the French people; the latter is about, through your instrumentality, to give a lesson to Kings and a fruitful example for the emancipation of nations. Citizens in the galleries, forget not that justice presides only over calm deliberations."

Then, addressing the ushers:

"Bring in the accused."

The bustle caused in the chamber and galleries by Louis XVI's entry, died out little by little, and Defermont, president of the Convention, took up the examination of the accused on the facts charged against him.

Night had fallen. Half an hour after his return from the Temple, John Lebrenn was awaiting in silence the result of his sister's consideration of the letter written him by advocate Desmarais the previous evening, and also one from Charlotte received during the day.

Seated at her work table, which was lighted by a small lamp, Victoria hung thoughtfully over the two letters.

"Sister," at last said John, "are you more keen-sighted than I in solving the reason for the condition set by Desmarais upon my marriage?"

"Nay, I also am at a loss for an explanation," replied Victoria; "but I suspect some cowardice in the mystery. You often see Billaud-Varenne, he never told you, so far as I know, that he was in close connection with Charlotte's father. And yet I read in Desmarais's letter that he begs you to keep from Billaud-Varenne the secret of your love for his daughter. Doubtless you could easily clear up the matter by seeing Billaud-Varenne and asking him about his relations with Desmarais."

"Not at all. He asks you to keep from his colleague the secret of your love for his daughter. Nothing more. On that subject, my dear brother, you can still be as reserved in your talk with Billaud-Varenne as you have been in the past."

"That is so. I shall go and see him this very evening; I am certain to find him at home. At any rate, does not the condition, placed by Charlotte's father upon our marriage, seem to you, as it does to her and me, acceptable on the score of honor?"

"Surely, brother. And moreover, have you not always guarded with delicacy this secret which Desmarais now asks you to keep? How will it embarrass you to engage yourself upon your honor to continue holding it a secret? In no wise. As to the motive for the condition, what matters it? Go at once to Monsieur Desmarais's; Charlotte, poor child, is counting the hours, the minutes till you come."

"Ah, Victoria," cried John, his breast heaving and his eyes filled with tears, "I can hardly believe my good fortune! To marry Charlotte! To live with her and my beloved sister!"

"Me! To live with you and your wife? It is impossible! Think of the past."

"I admit that your sweetheart's spirit is sufficiently lofty to rise above prejudice. But will it be the same with her family?"

"I answer to that, dearest sister, that there is nothing else for you to do but what I have just indicated. Have you not lived with our parents and with me since the day the Bastille was taken, when you came home to us? Have I not many a time spoken of you to Billaud-Varenne? If he is on intimate terms with Citizen Desmarais, is it not likely that he has spoken to him? In fine, for a last reason, the gravest of all, is it not known in the neighborhood that we live together? Charlotte's father, our neighbor, must be aware of the circumstance. Shall I resign myself to a falsehood, and say that you are not my sister? What would Charlotte and her father think then? What would that young and beautiful woman who shared my lodgings then be in their eyes?"

Victoria remained silent. She found, and, in fact, there was, no answer to John's arguments. The latter, triumphing in his brotherly love, rose, tenderly embraced his sister, and said:

"You see you are convinced of the necessity of my confidence to Charlotte. Now tell me, darling sister, which do you prefer, to live alone or with us?"

The young woman did not answer. Instead, her pale visage was bathed in tears, always so rare in her. After a moment, she pressed her brother to her heart, and murmured in a voice broken with sobs:

John tenderly embraced his sister, and set out for Billaud-Varenne's, whom he wished to see before his interview with advocate Desmarais.

Upon being left alone, Victoria pondered long the recent conversation with her brother. Then, lending an ear mechanically to the whistling of the winter's wind without, she bent over the little stove that warmed their humble quarters, and resumed her sewing. Suddenly the young woman uttered a cry of surprise, and jumped to her feet. One of the panes of the dormer window which looked out upon the roof fell with a crash, and as the fragments of glass jangled to the floor, a hand passing through the opening left by the broken pane forcibly shoved the lower sash of the window up in the casing. A great gust of wind filled the room, blew out the lamp, and out of the darkness a muffled, suppliant voice called to Victoria:

"Have pity on me. I am an Emigrant; they are searching for me. I have a hundred louis on me; they are yours if you save me!"

At the same time that the words were pronounced, Victoria heard on the floor the foot-fall of the fugitive, who had introduced himself by the window.

At the sound of the first words Victoria believed she recognized the voice that came from out the shadows. The young woman was frozen with astonishment.

"I am an Emigrant. You have a hundred louis to win by saving me. You have no interest in turning me over to my pursuers."

Victoria replied in a low voice, as she approached the lighted match to a candle on the bureau, "Draw the curtain before the window, lest the wind blow out my light."

The Emigrant hastened to execute the order. Victoria lighted the candle. Its light flooded the garret; and when the Count of Plouernel—for it was that self-same gentleman—turned around once more, he stood petrified at the sight of the woman he beheld before him. In spite of the poverty of her costume, he recognized—Marchioness Aldini! Her black eyes flashed; hatred contributed to her face so fearsome an expression that Plouernel shuddered as he gasped to himself:

"I am lost! Abbot Morlet told me that the Lebrenns dwelt near my refuge. Let me flee!"

He dashed to the door, expecting to open it and reach the stairway, but found it locked. In vain he tried to beat it down.

"Count," coldly said Victoria, in mocking accents, "know that this house is occupied by good patriots. The noise you yourself are making will give the alarm, and you will be arrested on the instant."

"Be that as it may," replied the young woman, as she leveled her pistol at the Count's breast. The latter recoiled in terror. Still keeping Plouernel covered, Victoria went up to one of the partitions, struck it with her hand, and called out aloud:

"Neighbor Jerome, are you there?"

"Aye, citizeness," responded Jerome from the other side of the wall, "we are here, my son and I, at your service. We have just come in, and are getting supper."

"My watch is stopped. Do you know what time it is, neighbor?"

"Ten has just sounded from the ex-parish of the Assumption. It is late, neighbor. We wish you a good night."

Plouernel was fairly cornered. He could not think of escaping by the window and the roof—one movement by Victoria would send him rolling to the street below. To break down the door was no less perilous; the two speakers in the garret, and soon all the inhabitants of the house, would run to the young woman's call. And, finally, to attempt to kill her was an expedient as fraught with danger as the other two. He would have to brave two shots at close range and by a sure hand.

Victoria sat down in such a manner as to place her worktable between herself and the Count, and keeping the pistol still in her hand, said:

Victoria was uttering these words in a voice of fierce exaltation when her brother John, who had another key to the door, suddenly entered. His sister's last words to Plouernel fell upon his ear. The Count, at the unexpected apparition of the young artisan, fell back defiantly, and involuntarily clapped his hand again to his dagger.

"John, lock the door," cried Victoria quickly. "This man's name is Neroweg, Count of Plouernel!"

The Count put on a bold front, and said, in an attempt to brazen it out with the young workman, who, he knew, shared the sentiments of his sister with regard to the sons of Neroweg: "Go on, citizen, do your business as purveyor of the scaffold."

Unmoved by the insult, John cast a cold look in the Emigrant's direction and said to his sister:

"How comes the fellow here?"

"He was evidently fleeing from the men sent to arrest him. He climbed to the roof of the next house, and forced his way in by breaking the window."

"So," said John to the Count, "you are an Emigrant, and denounced? They want you for judgment?"

"The marauder has the impudence to question me!" answered the Count with a burst of sardonic laughter. "A switch for the rascal!"

"Blood of God!" exclaimed Plouernel, "the beggar has the insolence to grant me grace in the name of the people!"

"Count of Plouernel, your judges and not I will grant you grace, if you merit it," answered John, controlling himself under the goading flings of the Emigrant. "If it were for me to say, you would remain in France unmolested, like so many other ex-nobles. I would leave you in peace, I swear it before God! in spite of all the wrong your family has heaped upon mine. I would have pardoned you, Count of Plouernel, and I shall tell you why I would have shown myself thus clement: A century or more ago, one of my forefathers, Nominoë, said to Bertha of Plouernel, who loved him with a love as passionate as his own, 'I experience I know not what emotions at once sad and tender, in loving in you a descendant of that race which, from infancy, I have been taught to execrate. You are in my eyes, Bertha, an angel of pardon and concord. In you, I absolve your ancestors; instead of making you party to their iniquities, I transfer to them your virtues. You ransom the evil ones of your race, as Christ, they say, ransomed the world by his divine grace.'

"You lie," cried the Count of Plouernel, furiously. "Never did woman or maid of the house of Plouernel dishonor herself with love for a vassal! As to Colonel Plouernel, a turn-coat and a Protestant, he is the shame of our family; as such, he may, indeed, have played the part of friend to a base plebeian."

"Accordingly, I would have pardoned, Count, the evil done by your family to mine," John Lebrenn continued unperturbed. "But though I have the right to show myself generous to my personal enemy, my duty as a citizen forbids me to furnish asylum to an enemy of the nation and the Republic, to a monarchist conspirator."

"O, the hypocrite!" exclaimed the Count. "All the while pretending a generosity which would be an insult to me, the clown wants to gratify his hatred by sending me to the scaffold!"

"Ah, miserable vassal," replied Plouernel, pale with rage. "You dare to threaten me!" And suddenly throwing himself upon Lebrenn, he dealt him a blow that crimsoned the side of his face.

"The fellow now belongs to me," grimly muttered John. He went to the corner where his tools lay, and arming himself with a bar of iron which he found there, tossed to the Count a sword which hung on the wall, saying, as he did so:

"Come, Count of Plouernel; take the weapon, and guard yourself!"

"John," shrieked Victoria in terror, "your bar is no match for his saber. You shall not expose your life so!"

Plouernel drew the sword from its sheath and prepared to defend himself, while Victoria, unable to intervene, shudderingly followed the duel.

"Son of the Nerowegs," cried John, brandishing his bar of iron, "my avenging arm is about to fall upon you."

"I await it," coolly replied the Count, putting himself on his guard. The robust iron-worker advanced upon his adversary, describing with his weapon a figure-of-eight so lusty, so rapid, and to which the vigor of his wrist lent such force that, encountering the sword at the moment when the ex-colonel was about to lunge, the iron bar broke down the latter's guard, and descended heavily upon his skull. Almost without losing a drop of blood, and without a single cry, the Count dropped in his tracks, and rolled upon the floor like an ox smitten with a sledge.

The porter had barely uttered these words when John and his sister heard a low moan from the Count of Plouernel. At the same moment the porter called still more loudly, once more knocking at the door.

"The wretch is not dead, and we can not give him up," said the workman to his sister, looking at Plouernel.

"Citizen John, awake!" it was the porter's voice as he redoubled his knocks. "Here is the commissioner of the Section."

"Who is knocking? Who's there?" answered the artisan, with a meaning gesture to his sister, and saying to her, softly: "I'll feign to be waking from a deep sleep. Help me carry the wounded man to your room; for it would be an infamous deed to give up a suffering enemy. I shall say that you are ill in bed, and they will not intrude upon you."

"It is I, James," replied the porter. "You sleep a sound sleep, Citizen John. This is the third time I have pounded at your door."

"Ah, 'tis you, Father James. I slept so hard I did not hear you. What do you wish?"

"Alright, Father James. I'll slip on my trousers and open the door in an instant."

While speaking, John had hustled off his cravat, his vest, and his cloak of municipal officership. He kept on only his pantaloons, and feigning to be but half dressed in his haste to get out of bed, opened the door at the moment that the commissioner of the Section, the same who the evening before had carried on the search at Desmarais's, appeared on the landing, followed by his agents and several gendarmes. The magistrate, a friend of Marat's, knew Lebrenn, and greeted him cordially:

"I regret, Citizen Lebrenn, that you have been awakened. You are one of those in whose abodes there is no reason for searches and seizures."

"No matter, citizen; come in, do your duty. I ask you only not to go into my sister's room. She is ill."

"I shall go neither into your sister's room nor yours, Citizen Lebrenn."

"Who is it you seek?"

"An ex-noble, the Count of Plouernel, formerly a colonel in the Guards. He was installed in a house next to this, in the rooms of an old huntsman of Louis Capet's; but warned, no doubt, of our approach, our ex-noble took to his heels. I first thought he might have escaped by the roofs; but after an inspection of them, I recognized that only a roofer, and an intrepid one at that, would have dared to risk his life on such a slope. To acquit my conscience I came, nevertheless, to inspect the attic of this house. So, good night, Citizen Lebrenn."

The day following these events in the lodgings of John Lebrenn, Charlotte Desmarais was again talking with her mother in the parlor of their apartment. The latter, pale and downcast, and her eyes red with weeping, still trembled for the life of her brother, who, scenting the snare in the commissioner's advice to leave Paris by the St. Victor barrier, had remained snug in his refuge. The lawyer's wife was saying to her daughter:

"And so you are happy, very happy at your coming marriage, my child?"

"Oh, mother!" echoed the young girl, covering Madam Desmarais's hand with kisses, "nothing is now wanting to my happiness but to see you no longer sad."

"You know the reason for my sadness."

"Has not, perhaps, my marriage, to which you consented only reluctantly, added to the other causes of your sorrow?"

"What delight I feel, good mother, to hear you say so," responded Charlotte clasping Madam Desmarais around the neck. "John will be to you the tenderest of sons."

"He will, I doubt not, but—" added Madam Desmarais sorrowfully, "I can never share your happiness, dear child. I know the uprightness of your spirit, the strength of your character; and I am going to make to you a serious and painful avowal: Your father has wounded me to the heart, he has lost my esteem and affection. It is impossible for me to live longer with him. You witnessed his conduct toward me, you heard his repeated denunciations."

"Alas," replied Charlotte, forcing herself to make excuses for her father, "it was only a shameful role he was driven to by necessity; be assured of that, good mother."

"No, it was not a role," answered the injured wife. "You must know the whole truth. Last night, after Monsieur Lebrenn's departure, when we were alone, your father said to me:

"'Madam, take this once for all, you and your miserable brother; you almost sent me to the guillotine to-day. God grant that the perils which I dread be fended off in the future by this marriage of my daughter to this—this Lebrenn.

"In these words your father wound up. Such, my child, was his language," concluded Madam Desmarais, burying her tear-bedewed face in her handkerchief.

Charlotte answered not. She was torn with inward struggle against the sad flood of ideas borne upon her by her father's hypocrisy. Brought up in an atmosphere of filial affection and respect, the young girl suffered at being compelled to lower her estimate of her paternal parent. But this last conversation of the lawyer with his wife left no more room for doubt as to his true character.

Having somewhat calmed her tears, Madam Desmarais went on:

"I have now, dear child, too much knowledge of your father's innermost nature. His presence is hateful to me. It would be impossible for me to live with him. Hence, my poor girl, we must part."

"We part!" cried Charlotte, passionately embracing Madam Desmarais and mingling her tears with her mother's: "And where will you go?"

"I shall go back to Lyons, to my cousin's; I have resolved upon that, since I can do nothing here, alas, to add either to your happiness or my brother's safety."

"No doubt your father hoped, in marrying you to St. Just—"

"To build himself a powerful bulwark against possible danger. But Monsieur St. Just not having accepted the alliance, and Monsieur Billaud-Varenne proposing John, father feared to seem to despise a workingman should he refuse him my hand."

"And what opinion did John Lebrenn express of your father?"

"Gertrude was speaking to me yesterday about Mademoiselle Lebrenn, and assured me that during the four years she has lived in our quarter, all agree in praising her conduct. My husband used this as a pretext for giving Monsieur Lebrenn to believe that if he formerly refused him your hand on the ground that his sister had been Louis XV's mistress, that obstacle no longer intervened, as by her virtuous conduct Mademoiselle Lebrenn had redeemed the past. Would not such deceit, without, alas, the other grievances I have against my husband, suffice to estrange us? Such is our situation."

"Dear child," answered Madam Desmarais, embracing her daughter in tears, "you grant my wish before I utter it. Much as I longed for it, I did not dare make the request of you for our living together; and even now I do not know whether I ought to accept. To live with you would be my most cherished desire; but Monsieur Lebrenn knows that I have constantly opposed his marriage, and perhaps it would not please him to see me in his home."

"Here comes John, mother," cried her daughter as Gertrude led the young man into the parlor. "He will take upon himself the task of reassuring you."

As soon as the maid had withdrawn, Charlotte said to her betrothed, who bowed respectfully to Madam Desmarais:

"My dear John, in case, after our marriage, it should not please me to live in my father's house, would it be agreeable to you for mother to come with us?"

"I shall answer you, Charlotte, in all sincerity," responded the young artisan. "I should be happy to have Madam Desmarais with us; all the more, seeing that since what passed between her husband and her after Monsieur Hubert's escape, it seems to me almost impossible that she could resign herself to inhabit any longer the home of her marriage." And he continued, to Madam Desmarais: "Believe me, madam; by my respect, by my filial attachment, I shall strive to make you forget what you have suffered; moreover, I promise to try to call a halt to the pursuit of your brother."

"I have some hope, due to my political relations, of success in what concerns your brother's safety."

"Ah, John!" said Charlotte, "you have divined my thoughts, anticipated my wishes; for just now, in trying to reassure mother on the score of uncle's fate, I dreamt of asking your assistance."

"And I, Monsieur Lebrenn, am doubly grateful for your generosity towards my brother, especially since you are not unaware that, even as I, he was ever obstinately opposed to your marriage with my daughter," added Madam Desmarais, with tears of happiness standing in her eyes. "Ah, whatever the result of your efforts, my gratitude towards you will be eternal, Monsieur Lebrenn. But, alas! how can you save my brother?"

"Write, madam, to Monsieur Hubert, that if he will promise, on his word of honor, to abstain henceforth from all intrigue, and to live quietly in Paris, I hope, due to my relations with the procurator of the Commune and several members of the Committee of General Safety, to be able to secure a suspension of the searches against him. I ask of him nothing which a man of honor can not accede to; I ask nothing which looks toward his dropping his opinions, nothing that engages him towards the Republic, except that he respect the established laws."

"Ah, uncle is saved, mother. This proposal is too straightforward for him not to accept. Let your heart rejoice."

"Ah, Monsieur Lebrenn, what generosity, what grandeur of heart! Will you pardon me for having so long misprised you?"

"Aye, aye, you will hereafter be for me the best of sons," replied she. "I owe to you forgetfulness from my sorrows, perhaps the life of my brother, and assuredly the happiness of my Charlotte."

"And now let us talk of our plans," resumed the young girl. "It is understood, mother, that when we are married, you are to live with us? We need not go back to that."

"That is my dearest wish."

"Since we are speaking of plans, Charlotte," put in John, "I should acquaint your mother and you of my intention to continue my trade of ironsmith. My employer, Master Gervais, has long proposed to turn his establishment over to me, for which I was to reimburse him by yearly payments to be agreed on by us. I am not of an age to enter upon another career from that I have so far lived by."

"But, my dear John," began Madam Desmarais, "as you speak of continuing your trade, I should tell you that my daughter has a dower—of considerable importance."

"But, my dear John, my daughter's dower is more than 120,000 livres in good gold louis, snugly stowed underground in our cellar; not to speak of my personal fortune."

"Dear mother, permit me to interrupt you," returned John. "Your private fortune is yours, and Charlotte's dowry is hers; she and you may dispose of them as you will, and in acts of benevolence. I wish only to prove to you that my labor will suffice for the maintenance of our household, apart from your resources."

"I have always given you credit for delicacy, my dear John," replied Madam Desmarais.

"For which I thank you, dear mother. You now know that I wish to continue to live by my trade. For the rest, be easy," added the young workingman, smiling. "Neither Charlotte nor you will be deafened by the clang of my anvil. Master Gervais's shop is on Anjou Street, and a great courtyard separates it from a pretty house in the midst of a garden. The dwelling is at present occupied by Master Gervais, but as he purposes to go to live in the country, he will rent it to me. We shall be, my dear mother—you, Charlotte, my sister, and I—comfortably established in our little nest, which smiles in the shade of the garden about it. These are my plans, subject to your and Charlotte's approval; except, I repeat, my firm resolve to continue to live by the work of my forge."

"I say that our John is honor, probity and delicacy itself," replied Madam Desmarais with welling emotion. "I say that I would live, if need be, in a garret, rather than be parted from you, my children. I say that now I am ashamed of the prejudices in which I have heretofore lived in regard to the men of the people. John teaches me to value them as they truly deserve."

"Ah, count also on my co-operation, my dear John," exclaimed Madam Desmarais, her eyes filling with tears. "I now understand the grandeur, the usefulness, the holiness of the task which you impose upon yourself for the benefit of your apprentices and workmen. You seek to educate them; you charge yourself with the molding of their characters!"

Gertrude, entering at that moment, said to the young workman:

"Monsieur Desmarais knows that you are here, Monsieur Lebrenn. He asks you to wait for him. He will be in directly."

"Mother," said Charlotte sadly, "grievous as is the dissimulation, I believe there is every necessity for us not to inform father as yet of our resolve to live apart from him after my wedding."

"I am not of your opinion, my dear Charlotte," objected John, whose candidness would have suffered under the reticence. "At any rate, we have time to consider the matter. But it is necessary to decide, before Monsieur Desmarais comes in on how to convey to Monsieur Hubert the proposal I made to you, dear mother."

"Dear John," replied Madam Desmarais, "I have a secure means of communication with him. But should my letter indeed be intercepted, and your name be found in it, do you not fear to be compromised?"

"That great seigneur who once so shamefully outraged my husband?" cried Madam Desmarais in surprise.

"Monsieur Plouernel," Charlotte asked, "the descendant of that ancient family of warrior Franks which has done so much injury to your plebeian stock?"

"Precisely. By a strange fatality, he picked a fight with me last night. I thought I had killed him, but he was only stunned. This morning when Monsieur Plouernel had sufficiently regained his senses and strength, I conducted him to the threshold of our house. The porter, recognizing my voice, opened the street door to the Emigrant. Now let the justice of men be done; I can not denounce an enemy defeated and wounded."

At this moment advocate Desmarais stepped into the parlor, cordially tendering his hand to Lebrenn, and saying:

"Good day, my dear friend, my worthy pupil." Then passing to the young artisan a paper he held in his hand, the lawyer added: "Read that aloud, my dear John."

Charlotte's betrothed read as follows:

"That is a copy of the circular letter I have just addressed to my colleagues of the Convention, to invite them to your wedding with my daughter. What do you say to the phrasing of my missive, and especially to the time chosen for your wedding?"

"My God!" thought Madam Desmarais with a shudder, "the fate of Louis XVI aroused my husband's pity, and still he chooses the day of that prince's execution to marry our daughter upon. What abominable hypocrisy!" And Madam Desmarais left the parlor.

"You ask me, Citizen Desmarais, what I think of your letter of invitation, and of the time set for my union with Charlotte; I reply to you, in all sincerity, that I extremely regret that you chose the day of the execution of Louis XVI for our marriage."

"And I, father, hold with John."

"I suspect you, my daughter, of being a little royalist," replied the lawyer in a bitter-sweet tone; "and as to you, my dear pupil, I did not believe it necessary to remind you that the day a King's head falls into the basket is a festive day, a day of joy for all good patriots."

"And what will it be, then, O my pupil? A day of mourning, perhaps?"

"For good patriots there will be neither joy nor mourning, Citizen Desmarais. It will be a day of deep and sober thought. Louis XVI is not a man, but a principle, representing the oldest monarchy in Europe. In striking Louis XVI, it is royalty that is beheaded. It is not a head that will fall to the scaffold, but a crown."

"My faith, my dear pupil, you have indeed out-reasoned your master. The death of the tyrant, in fact, causes patriots more than the delirium of joy, it causes a religious meditation, as you have so aptly said. But what is done is done. I sent off my circular this morning to all our friends in the Mountain; I can not now change the date of your marriage."

"Father," said Charlotte gravely, "John and I have awaited for years the day that would consummate our hopes; we would gladly consent to postpone still further the day that is to unite us, in order not to coincide with that of the death of the King, guilty though he be."

"Enough on that subject, my daughter, time presses. You, my pupil, will come to the notary's with me, if you please, to settle the terms of your marriage contract. Thence we shall hie us to the Convention, where I shall present you to my colleagues of the Mountain as my future son-in-law."

"But you must know, my dear pupil, what dowry I settle upon my daughter!"

"That is a financial question in which I am not in the slightest degree interested."

"Ah, my children," returned the lawyer, in sepulchral tones, "what regret I feel at not being able to endow you as I would wish! But I have ruined myself in patriotic gifts. Save for this house and some little properties which amount to almost nothing, there remain to me in all only 850 louis, which I share with you, my children. This dowry is very small, my dear John, after that which you hoped to secure from your father-in-law."

"The thought of a dower never presented itself to me; be convinced of that, Monsieur Desmarais."

"I believe you, my dear pupil, expecting no less of your delicacy. But, apart from the 425 louis which I leave to you, you shall be lodged here, without expense to you; for we shall never part, my dear pupil. We shall be but one single family, and we shall also find room for your sister, who has so admirably lived down her past; for I no longer see in her the mistress of Louis XV, but the worthy daughter of the proletaire. And so, my dear John, it is indeed settled that neither you nor your wife shall leave me; I count on it, absolutely; it is for our peace and mutual happiness."

"I must thank you for your offer, Citizen Desmarais," answered John, "but I desire but one thing in the world, the hand of Charlotte. That I have obtained. All the rest is in my eyes but a bauble; it concerns me little, and troubles me not at all."

"Such delicacy does not surprise me, coming from you, my dear John. So you accept the terms of contract, as to the dowry? It is agreed?"

"Perfectly, and without objection."

"In that case, let us at once set about drawing up the marriage articles. The notary awaits us."

"Adieu, Charlotte. I shall at once see the members of the Committee of General Safety about your uncle," added John softly to his betrothed.

"Ah, if I had ever hesitated to leave my father's house," replied the young girl to her lover in like tones, "this last interview with him would have removed my scruples."

"Come, my pupil, let us go," said the lawyer, approaching the young couple. "Adieu, my daughter; tell mother that our dear John will dine here—the betrothal feast!"

If there had ever existed any doubt as to the crimes of high treason charged against Louis XVI, the doubt vanished before the crushing proofs furnished against him during his examination. Deseze, Tronchet and Malesherbes, charged with the defense made their main plea on the royal inviolability guaranteed by the Constitution of 1791.

According to the defense of Louis XVI, and, indeed, according to the text of the Constitution itself, the King, even though he violated the Constitution, even though he betrayed the state, even though he led an invasion upon France, and at the head of foreign troops put the country to fire and sword, even then he incurred no penalty other than that of deposition. Such was the brief of the King's lawyers.

In the name of justice, of right, and of reason, Louis XVI richly merited the verdict of guilty.

The sovereignty of the people being permanent, indivisible and inalienable, the Constitution of 1791 was radically null and void, in that it provided for the hereditary alienation of a portion of the people's rights, in favor of the ex-royal family. The Conventionists of 1793 were no more in love with the Constitution of 1791 than the Constituents of 1791 were with the monarchical, feudal and religious institutions which had weighed like an incubus on France fourteen centuries long.

A nation has the power, but never the right, to alienate its sovereignty, either in whole or in part, by delegating it to a hereditary family. Such an alienation, imposed amid the violence of conquest, borne out of habits of thought, or consented to in a moment of public aberration, binds neither the present generation nor those to come. Accordingly, the Constitution of 1791 being virtually null in fact, Louis Capet could not invoke the protection of that Constitution, which guaranteed the inviolability of the royal person, and limited his punishment to deposition in a few specified cases. Louis XVI was, then, legally brought to trial. By reconquering its full sovereignty on the 10th of August, the nation invested the Convention with the powers necessary for judging the one-time King. His crimes were notorious and flagrant; their penalty was written in the books of the law, equally for all citizens; he must, then, undergo the penalty for his misdeeds.

JANUARY 15, 1793.—Having heard the defense submitted by Deseze, one of the attorneys for Louis XVI, the Convention put to a vote this first question:

"Is Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and of assault on the general safety of the State?"

The Assembly contained seven hundred and forty-nine members.

Six hundred and eighty-three replied:

"Yes, the accused is guilty."

The roll-call being completed, the president of the Assembly announced the decision:

"In the name of the French people, the National Convention declares Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and of assault on the general safety of the State."

The second question was:

"Shall the decision of the National Convention be submitted to ratification by the people?"

The members who voted for ratification by the people were two hundred and eighty-one; those against ratification, four hundred and twenty-three.

The president announced the result of the vote:

"The National Convention declares the judgment rendered on Louis Capet shall not be sent for ratification to the people."

"What shall be the penalty imposed on Louis XVI?"

I was present at the sessions wherein the elected Representatives of the people decided the fate of the Frankish monarchy, imposed on Gaul for fourteen centuries. It was not alone the man, the King, that the Convention decapitated—it was the most ancient monarchy in Europe. It was not only the head of Capet that the Republic wished defiantly to cast at the feet of allied Europe; it was the crown of the last of the Kings.

It was eight in the evening. In response to their names as the roll was called the members of the Convention mounted the tribunal one by one, and in the midst of a solemn silence cast their vote.

This evening, Thursday, at eight o'clock, while throughout the spacious hall one might have heard a pin drop, Vergniaud announced the result:

"The Assembly consists of seven hundred and forty-nine members; 15 are absent on committees, 7 because of illness, 1 without cause, censured; and 5 excused; number remaining, seven hundred and twenty-one.

"Required for an absolute majority, three hundred and sixty-one.

"Members voting for death unconditionally, three hundred and eighty-seven.

"Members voting for imprisonment, irons, or conditional death, three hundred and thirty-four.

"In the name of the people and the National Convention, I declare the penalty of death pronounced against Louis Capet."

"Shall the execution of Louis Capet be postponed, yes or no?"

The vote resulted: for postponement, three hundred and ten; against, three hundred and eighty. The postponement was lost. Pale, and with grief impressed upon his features, Vergniaud again ascended the tribunal and in a trembling voice announced:

"The National Convention declares:

"Article first.—Louis Capet, last King of France, is guilty of conspiracy against the liberty of the nation and of assault upon the general safety of the State.

"Article second.—The National Convention declares that Louis Capet shall suffer the penalty of death.

"Article third.—Notice of the decree which condemns Louis Capet to death shall he sent to the Executive Council.

"The Executive Council is charged to notify Louis XVI of the decree during the day, and to have him executed within twenty-four hours.

"The mayors and municipal officers of Paris shall be enjoined to allow Louis Capet liberty to communicate with his family, and to call upon a minister of the denomination he may elect, to attend his last moments."

Such were the memorable sessions of the National Assembly of the 15th, 17th, 19th and 20th of January, 1793.

Glory to the men of energy, to the inexorable patriots!

JANUARY 21, 1793.—The execution of Louis Capet took place to-day, Monday, the 21st of January, 1793!

My sister and I were present at the death of Louis. A vast throng filled the Place of the Revolution. The scaffold faced the avenue of the Elysian Fields, a short distance from the spot occupied by the statue of Louis XV.

"Frenchmen, I am innocent—"

At Santerre's command the roll of drums drowned the rest of the speech. Louis XVI cast a look of rage at the drummers, and cried to them angrily to desist.

The drumming continued. Louis Capet was turned over to Sampson, the executioner-in-chief, and his aides. A few seconds later, the sixty-sixth of these foreign Kings of Gaul had paid the penalty of his crimes, had expiated the wrongs of the monarchy of which he was the last incarnation.

The King's head, held up to the people by the headsman, was greeted with the shouts of the multitude.

No. 155 of Marat's journal terminates its account of the execution of Capet with the following reflections:

"The head of the tyrant has just fallen under the sword of the law; that same blow has overthrown the foundation of monarchy among us. I now believe in the Republic.... Not a voice cried for grace during the execution; a profound silence reigned about the scaffold. But when the head of Capet was shown to the people, from all sides rose the cries, 'Long live the Nation! Long live the Republic!' The execution of Louis XVI is one of those memorable events which mark epochs in the life of nations. It will have an immense influence on the fate of the despots of Europe and on those peoples who have as yet not broken their chains."

"Citizens, the tyrant is fallen under the sword of the law. This great act of justice has struck consternation to the hearts of the aristocracy, annihilated the superstition of royalty, and created the Republic. It imparts a character of grandeur to the Convention, and makes it worthy the confidence of France. The imposing and majestic attitude of the people in this solemn hour will cause the tyrants of earth more terror than even the death of their fellow. A profound silence surrounded the scaffold up to the moment the head of Louis XVI fell. That instant, the air shook with the unanimous shout of a hundred thousand citizens, 'Long live the Republic!' It was not the barbarous curiosity of men who came to feast their eyes on the death of a fellow-being; it was the powerful interest of a people, impassioned for liberty, and assuring itself of the fact that royalty had breathed its last.... Formerly, when a King died at Versailles, the reign of his successor was immediately ushered in to the tune of 'The King is dead, long live the King!' as if to make the nation understand that despotism was immortal. This time, a whole people, with a sublime instinct, acclaimed: 'Long live the Republic,' to teach a universe that tyranny had died with the tyrant."

Under date of January 26, 1793, the diary of John Lebrenn bears the record, without comment:

"To-day I espoused Charlotte Desmarais."

Despite the circular addressed by advocate Desmarais to his colleagues in the Convention, and in which he fixed as the date for his daughter's wedding the day of the tyrant's death, Charlotte, without regard for her father's very lively disappointment, and unmindful of his reiterated importunities, would not consent to be married until the 26th of January. With his habitual calculation, considering the union merely as a precaution, the lawyer had chosen Robespierre and Marat as witnesses to the ceremony; those selected by John Lebrenn were Billaud-Varenne and Legendre. The municipal officer of the Section received the vows of the young couple in his office on the evening after the Convention session of January 26. John Lebrenn had several days previously obtained from his old employer, Master Gervais, the deed of his smithy and the lease of the house. The preparations, the modest embellishments of his future home, were finished on the eve of his marriage.

"My dear son-in-law, I leave you an instant to go to look up my daughter's dowry and present it to you."

When Desmarais left the room, his wife addressed her daughter and new-found son:

"My children, this is the decisive instant. I would rather die than live any longer with my husband; but I tremble to think of the rage into which our resolution will throw him. Do not forsake me."

"Dear mother," responded Charlotte, "could you really think that of us? Is not our life bound up with yours?"

"Nevertheless, if he should oppose our separation? He would perhaps be in the right, my children?"

"Reassure yourself, dear mother," quoth John in his turn. "In the first place, the separation will relieve Monsieur Desmarais of one fear, that of being compromised by his relationship with Monsieur Hubert, your brother; who, unfortunately, as you tell me, has refused to accept the proposal made to him in my name."

"Alas, yes; my brother replied that he appreciated your offer, but that he considered it an act of cowardice to remain passive; he wished to retain full freedom to combat the Republic."

"Alas," echoed Charlotte, with a sigh, "I deplore uncle's blindness, but I can not but pay homage to his strength of character."

At that moment the attorney returned, holding in his hands a little inlaid casket which he held out to the young artisan with a radiant air, saying:

"My dear son-in-law, I have found in my strong-box, besides the sum I mentioned, a hundred louis, which I add to my daughter's dower."

But seeing John Lebrenn repulse the proffered casket, the attorney added in great surprise: "Come, take the little chest, my dear pupil. It contains, in fine good louis, the dower I promised you, to which I have just added two thousand four hundred livres. Moreover, it is understood that in recompense for the slimness of the dower Charlotte, you, and your sister will lodge and board with me, without, to put it plainly, any expense to you. We shall live as one family."

"Citizen Desmarais," replied John, "before accepting the dower which you offer me and of which I have no need, it is our duty, my wife's and mine, to inform you of our plans. First of all, I shall continue in my station as an iron-worker."

"Citizen Desmarais, I hasten to disabuse you of a misunderstanding that exists between us. Upon mature consideration my wife and I have decided to dwell in our own house, completely separated from you."

"What do you mean!"

"I mean, Citizen Desmarais, that my former employer has sold me his establishment. Whence it follows that my labors and the care of my forge will oblige me, as well as my wife, to live elsewhere than here with you. I have, in consequence, hired the house previously occupied by my old master, and this very night my wife and I shall take possession of our new abode. The question has been considered and settled."

"Aye, father," added Charlotte. "Such is, indeed, our firm resolution."

At these words, pronounced by John Lebrenn and Charlotte in a voice that admitted of no reply, advocate Desmarais turned livid with rage and amazement. Forgetting now all his tricks of dissimulation, distracted with fear, and exasperated by what he took as an indignity on the part of his daughter and her husband, the lawyer cried to Charlotte, as he shook with anger and fright:

"Not another word in that tone, Citizen Desmarais," interposed John. "Do not oblige me to forget the respect I owe the father of my wife; do not oblige me to tell you for what reasons your daughter—and her mother—have resolved to fix their abode elsewhere than with you."

"My wife! She also—would dare——" cried the lawyer, his rage redoubling till it almost choked him.

"Yes, monsieur, I also wish to leave you," replied Madam Desmarais. "You have treated me most cruelly, because my unhappy brother, a proscript and a fugitive, came to ask of you a few hours' shelter. You denounced me to the commissioner of our Section, adjured him to hale me away as a prisoner. You have even gone so far as to declare to me, 'If it were necessary, madam, in order to save my life, to send you to the scaffold—I would not hesitate an instant. Just now I must roar with the tigers; but then I should become a tiger.'"

"Hold your tongue!" shrieked the advocate, in a frenzy. "Do you wish to get my head cut off, gabbling like that before this man who perhaps awaits but the moment to settle me? Serpent that he is, whom I have warmed in my bosom!"

"It is a plot against my life!" continued Desmarais wildly. "They want to draw upon my head the fury of the Jacobins, and have me packed off to the scaffold. They want to be rid of me so that my dutiful daughter and son-in-law may play ducks and drakes with my fortune! But the old fox knows the trap! I shall stay at the Convention. My daughter and son-in-law may take themselves off, if they so wish; but as for you, Citizeness Desmarais, you shall not leave this house. The wife, according to the law, is bound to reside at the home of her husband."

"I will live with you no longer," resolutely replied Madam Desmarais. "A hundred times rather die!"

"Once would suffice, worthy wife! And it would be good riddance to a most abominable burden."

"Come, mother," said Charlotte, wroth at her father's brutal language. "Come. You shall not remain here another instant."

"Your mother shall stop where she is," cried the lawyer threateningly. "As for you, my daughter—as for you, my son-in-law—I shall denounce your execrable complot to my friends of the mad-men's party, to Hebert, to James Roux the disfrocked priest, to Varlet. Get you hence—I drive you from my house." Then seizing his wife by the arm, Desmarais added, "But not you. You stay!"

"You will please to allow my mother full control over her own actions, Citizen Desmarais," said Lebrenn calmly, and mastering his indignation. "Unhand her!"

"For the last time, Citizen Desmarais," quoth John Lebrenn. "Allow Madam Desmarais to follow her daughter, as is her desire. My patience is at an end, and I can not much longer tolerate the brutality I see here."

"Would you have the boldness to raise your hand against me, wretch!" replied the advocate, foaming with rage, and roughly wrenching his wife's arm. "Malediction on you both."

"Aye, I shall succor your wife from your wretched treatment," John answered; and seizing the lawyer's wrist with his iron hand as if in a vise, he forced the attorney to release his almost fainting spouse. She, on her part, made all haste to leave the now intolerable presence of her husband, and, supported by Charlotte, disappeared into the next room.

As John left the parlor to rejoin his bride and his second mother, advocate Desmarais, hiding his face in his hands, sank into an arm-chair, crying: