The very thing encouraging the Tuileries party was what awed the rebels.
The palace had become a formidable fortress, with a dreadful garrison.
During the night of the fourth of August, the Swiss battalions had been drawn from out of town into the palace. A few companies were left at Gaillon, where the king might take refuge.
Three reliable leaders were beside the queen: Maillardet with his Switzers, Hervilly with the St. Louis Knights and the Constitutional Guard, and Mandat, who, as National Guard commander, promised twenty thousand devoted and resolute fighting men.
On the evening of the eighth a man penetrated the fort; everybody knew him, so that he had no difficulty in passing to the queen's rooms, where they announced "Doctor Gilbert."
"Ah, welcome, welcome, doctor!" said the royal lady, in a feverish voice, "I am happy to see you."
He looked sharply at her, for on the whole of her face was such gladness and satisfaction that it made him shudder. He would sooner have seen her pale and disheartened.
"I fear I have arrived too late," he said.
"It is just the other way, doctor," she replied, with a smile, an expression her lips had almost forgotten how to make; "you come at the right time, and you are welcome. You are going to see what I have long yearned to show you—a king really royal."
"I am afraid, madame, that you are deceiving yourself," he returned, "and that you will exhibit rather the commandant of a fort."
"Perhaps, Doctor Gilbert, we can never come to a closer understanding on the symbolical character of royalty than on other matters. For me a king is not solely a man who may say, 'I do not wish,' but one who can say, 'Thus I will.'"
She alluded to the famous veto which led to this crisis.
"Yes, madame," said Gilbert, "and for your majesty, a king is a ruler who takes revenge."
"Who defends himself," she retorted; "for you know we are openly threatened, and are to be attacked by an armed force. We are assured that five hundred desperadoes from Marseilles, headed by one Barbaroux, took an oath on the ruins of the Bastile, not to go home until they had camped on the ruins of the Tuileries."
"Indeed, I have heard something of the kind," remarked Gilbert.
"Which only makes you laugh?"
"It alarms me for the king and yourself, madame."
"So that you come to propose that we should resign, and place ourselves at the mercy of Messieurs Barbaroux and his Marseilles bullies?"
"I only wish the king could abdicate and guarantee, by the sacrifice of his crown, his life and yours, and the safety of your children."
"Is this the advice you give us, doctor?"
"It is; and I humbly beseech you to follow it."
"Monsieur Gilbert, let me say that you are not consistent in your opinions."
"My opinions are always the same, madame. Devoted to king and country, I wished him to be in accord with the Constitution; from this desire springs the different pieces of counsel which I have submitted."
"What is the one you fit to this juncture?"
"One that you have never had such a good chance to follow. I say, get away."
"Flee?"
"Ah, you well know that it is possible, and never could be carried out with greater facility. You have nearly three thousand men in the palace."
"Nearer five thousand," said the queen, with a smile of satisfaction, "with double to rise at the first signal we give."
"You have no need to give a signal, which may be intercepted; the five thousand will suffice."
"What do you think we ought to do with them?"
"Set yourself in their midst, with the king and your august children; dash out when least expected; at a couple of leagues out, take to horse and ride into Normandy, to Gaillon, where you are looked for."
"You mean, place ourselves under the thumb of General Lafayette?"
"At least, he has proved that he is devoted to you."
"No, sir, no! With my five thousand in hand, and as many more ready to come at the call, I like another course better—to crush this revolt once for all."
"Oh, madame, how right he was who said you were doomed."
"Who was that, sir?"
"A man whose name I dare not repeat to you; but he has spoken three times to you."
"Silence!" said the queen, turning pale; "we will try to give the lie to this prophet of evil."
"Madame, I am very much afraid that you are blinded."
"You think that they will venture to attack us?"
"The public spirit turns to this quarter."
"And they reckon on walking in here as easily as they did in June?"
"This is not a stronghold."
"Nay; but if you will come with me, I will show you that we can hold out some time."
With joy and pride she showed him all the defensive measures of the military engineers and the number of the garrison whom she believed faithful.
"That is a comfort, madame," he said, "but it is not security."
"You frown on everything, let me tell you, doctor."
"Your majesty has taken me round where you like; will you let me take you to your own rooms, now?"
"Willingly, doctor, for I am tired. Give me your arm."
Gilbert bowed to have this high favor, most rarely granted by the sovereign, even to her intimate friends, especially since her misfortune.
When they were in her sitting-room he dropped on one knee to her as she took a seat in an arm-chair.
"Madame," said he, "let me adjure you, in the name of your august husband, your dear ones, your own safety, to make use of the forces about you, to flee and not to fight."
"Sir," was the reply, "since the fourteenth of July, I have been aspiring for the king to have his revenge; I believe the time has come. We will save royalty, or bury ourselves under the ruins of the Tuileries."
"Can nothing turn you from this fatal resolve?"
"Nothing."
She held out her hand to him, half to help him to rise, half to send him away. He kissed her hand respectfully, and rising, said:
"Will your majesty permit me to write a few lines which I regard as so urgent that I do not wish to delay one instant?"
"Do so, sir," she said, pointing to a writing-table, where he sat down and wrote these lines:
"My Lord,—Come! the queen is in danger of death, if a friend does not persuade her to flee, and I believe you are the only one who can have that influence over her."
"May I ask whom you are writing to, without being too curious?" demanded the lady.
"To the Count of Charny, madame," was Gilbert's reply.
"And why do you apply to him?"
"For him to obtain from your majesty what I fail to do."
"Count Charny is too happy to think of his unfortunate friends; he will not come," said the queen.
The door opened, and an usher appeared.
"The Right Honorable, the Count of Charny," he announced, "desiring to learn if he may present his respects to your majesty."
The queen had been pale, and now became corpse-like, as she stammered some unintelligible words.
"Let him enter," said Gilbert; "Heaven hath sent him."
Charny appeared at the door in naval officer's uniform.
"Oh, come in, sir; I was writing for you," said the physician, handing him the note.
"Hearing of the danger her majesty was incurring, I came," said the nobleman, bowing.
"Madame, for Heaven's sake, hear and heed what Count Charny says," said Gilbert; "his voice will be that of France."
Respectfully saluting the lord and the royal lady, Gilbert went out, still cherishing a last hope.
On the night of the ninth of August, the royal family supped as usual; nothing could disturb the king in his meals. But while Princess Elizabeth and Lady Lamballe wept and prayed, the queen prayed without weeping. The king withdrew to go to confession.
At this time the doors opened, and Count Charny walked in, pale, but perfectly calm.
"May I have speech with the king?" he asked, as he bowed.
"At present I am the king," answered Marie Antoinette.
Charny knew this as well as anybody, but he persisted.
"You may go up to the king's rooms, count, but I protest that you will very much disturb him."
"I understand; he is with Mayor Petion."
"The king is with his ghostly counselor," replied the lady, with an indescribable expression.
"Then I must make my report to your majesty as major-general of the castle," said the count.
"Yes, if you will kindly do so."
"I have the honor to set forth the effective strength of our forces. The heavy horse-guards, under Rulhieres and Verdiere, to the number of six hundred, are in battle array on the Louvre grand square; the Paris City foot-guards are barracked in the stables; a hundred and fifty are drawn from them to guard at Toulouse House, at need, the Treasury and the discount and extra cash offices; the Paris Mounted Patrol, only thirty men, are posted in the princes' yard, at the foot of the king's back stairs; two hundred officers and men of the old Life Guards, a hundred young Royalists, as many noblemen, making some four hundred combatants, are in the Bull's-eye Hall and adjoining rooms; two or three hundred National Guards are scattered in the gardens and court-yards; and lastly, fifteen hundred Swiss, the backbone of resistance, are taking position under the grand vestibule and the staircases which they are charged to defend."
"Do not all these measures set you at ease, my lord?" inquired the queen.
"Nothing can set me at ease when your majesty's safety is at stake," returned the count.
"Then your advice is still for flight?"
"My advice, madame, is that you ought, with the king and the royal children, be in the midst of us."
The queen shook her head.
"Your majesty dislikes Lafayette? Be it so. But you have confidence in the Duke of Liancourt, who is in Rouen, in the house of an English gentleman of the name of Canning. The commander of the troops in that province has made them swear allegiance to the king; the Salis-Chamade Swiss regiment is echeloned across the road, and it may be relied on. All is still quiet. Let us get out over the swing-bridge, and reach the Etoille bars, where three hundred of the horse-guards await us. At Versailles, we can readily get together fifteen hundred noblemen. With four thousand, I answer for taking you wherever you like to go."
"I thank you, Lord Charny. I appreciate the devotion which made you leave those dear to you, to offer your services to a foreigner."
"The queen is unjust toward me," replied Charny. "My sovereign's existence is always the most precious of all in my eyes, as duty is always the dearest of virtues."
"Duty—yes, my lord," murmured the queen; "but I believe I understand my own when everybody is bent on doing theirs. It is to maintain royalty grand and noble, and to have it fall worthily, like the ancient gladiators, who studied how to die with grace."
"Is this your majesty's last word?"
"It is—above all, my last desire."
Charny bowed, and as he met Mme. Campan by the door, he said to her:
"Suggest to the princesses that they should put all their valuables in their pockets, as they may have to quit the palace without further warning."
While the governess went to speak to the ladies, he returned to the queen, and said:
"Madame, it is impossible that you should not have some hope beyond the reliance on material forces. Confide in me, for you will please bear in mind that at such a strait, I will have to give an account to the Maker and to man for what will have happened."
"Well, my lord," said the queen, "an agent is to pay Petion two hundred thousand francs, and Danton fifty thousand, for which sums the latter is to stay at home and the other is to come to the palace."
"Are you sure of the go-betweens?"
"You said that Petion had come, which is something toward it."
"Hardly enough; as I understood that he had to be sent for three times."
"The token is, in speaking to the king, he is to touch his right eyebrow with his forefinger—"
"But if not arranged?"
"He will be our prisoner, and I have given the most positive orders that he is not to be let quit the palace."
The ringing of a bell was heard.
"What is that?" inquired the queen.
"The general alarm," rejoined Charny.
The princesses rose in alarm.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed the queen. "The tocsin is always the trumpet of rebellion."
"Madame," said Charny, more affected by the sinister sound than the queen, "I had better go and learn whether the alarm means anything grave."
"But we shall see you again?" asked she, quickly.
"I came to take your majesty's orders, and I shall not leave you until you are out of danger."
Bowing, he went out. The queen stood pensive for a space, murmuring: "I suppose we had better see if the king has got through confessing."
While she was going out, Princess Elizabeth took some garments off a sofa in order to lie down with more comfort; from her fichu she removed a cornelian brooch, which she showed to Mme. Campan; the engraved stone had a bunch of lilies and the motto: "Forget offenses, forgive injuries."
"I fear that this will have little influence over our enemies," she remarked; "but it ought not be the less dear to us."
As she was finishing the words, a gunshot was heard in the yard.
The ladies screamed.
"There goes the first shot," said Lady Elizabeth. "Alas! it will not be the last."
Mayor Petion had come into the palace under the following circumstances. He arrived about half past ten. He was not made to wait, as had happened before, but was told that the king was ready to see him; but to arrive, he had to walk through a double row of Swiss guards, National Guards, and those volunteer royalists called Knights of the Dagger. Still, as they knew he had been sent for, they merely cast the epithets of "traitor" and "Judas" in his face as he went up the stairs.
Petion smiled as he went in at the door of the room, for here the king had given him the lie on the twentieth of June; he was going to have ample revenge.
The king was impatiently awaiting.
"Ah! so you have come, Mayor Petion?" he said. "What is the good word from Paris?"
Petion furnished the account of the state of matters—or, at least, an account.
"Have you nothing more to tell me?" demanded the ruler.
"No," replied Petion, wondering why the other stared at him. Louis watched for the signal that the mayor had accepted the bribe.
It was clear that the king had been cheated; some swindler had pocketed the money. The queen came in as the question was put to Petion.
"How does our friend stand?" she whispered.
"He has not made any sign," rejoined the king.
"Then he is our prisoner," said she.
"Can I retire?" inquired the mayor.
"For God's sake, do not let him go!" interposed the queen.
"Not yet, sir; I have something yet to say to you," responded the king, raising his voice. "Pray step into this closet."
This implied to those in the inner room that Petion was intrusted to them, and was not to be allowed to go.
Those in the room understood perfectly, and surrounded Petion, who felt that he was a prisoner. He was the thirtieth in a room where there was not elbow-room for four.
"Why, gentlemen, we are smothering here," he said; "I propose a change of air."
It was a sentiment all agreed with, and they followed him out of the first door he opened, and down into the walled-in garden, where he was as much confined as in the closet. To kill time, he picked up a pebble or two and tossed them over the walls.
While he was playing thus, and chatting with Roederer, attorney of the province, the message came twice that the king wanted to see him.
"No," replied Petion; "it is too hot quarters up there. I remember the closet, and I have no eagerness to be in it again. Besides, I have an appointment with somebody on the Feuillants' Quay."
He went on playing at clearing the wall with stones.
"With whom have you an appointment?" asked Roederer.
At this instant the Assembly door on the Feuillants' Quay opened.
"I fancy this is just what I was waiting for," remarked the mayor.
"Order to let Mayor Petion pass forth," said a voice; "the Assembly demands his presence at the bar of the House, to give an account of the state of the city."
"Just the thing," muttered Petion. "Here I am," he replied, in a loud voice; "I am ready to respond to the quips of my enemies."
The National Guards, imagining that Petion was to be berated, let him out.
It was nearly three in the morning; the day was breaking. A singular thing, the aurora was the hue of blood.
On being called by the king, Petion had foreseen that he might more easily get into the palace than out, so he went up to a hard-faced man marred by a scar on the brow.
"Farmer Billet," said he, "what was your report about the House?"
"That it would hold an all-night sitting."
"Very good; and what did you say you saw on the New Bridge?"
"Cannon and Guards, placed by order of Colonel Mandat."
"And you also stated that a considerable force was collected under St. John's Arcade, near the opening of St. Antoine Street?"
"Yes; again, by order of Colonel Mandat."
"Well, will you listen to me? Here you have an order to Manuel and Danton to send back to barracks the troops at St. John's Arcade, and to remove the guns from the bridge; at any cost, you will understand, these orders must be obeyed."
"I will hand it to Danton myself."
"Good. You are living in St. Honore Street?"
"Yes, mayor."
"When you have given Danton the order, get home and snatch a bit of rest. About two o'clock, go out to the Feuillants' Quay, where you will stand by the wall. If you see or hear stones falling over from the other side of the wall, it will mean that I am a prisoner in the Tuileries, and detained by violence."
"I understand."
"Present yourself at the bar of the House, and ask my colleagues to claim me. You understand, Farmer Billet, I am placing my life in your hands."
"I will answer for it," replied the bluff farmer; "take it easy."
Petion had therefore gone into the lion's den, relying on Billet's patriotism.
The latter had spoken the more firmly, as Pitou had come to town. He dispatched the young peasant to Danton, with the word for him not to return without him. Lazy as the orator was, Pitou had a prevailing way, and he brought Danton with him.
Danton had seen the cannon on the bridge, and the National Guards at the end of the popular quarter, and he understood the urgency of not leaving such forces on the rear of the people's army. With Petion's order in hand, he and Manuel sent the Guards away and removed the guns.
This cleared the road for the Revolution.
In the meantime, Billet and Pitou had gone to their old lodging in St. Honore Street, to which Pitou bobbed his head as to an old friend. The farmer sat down, and signified the young man was to do the same.
"Thank you, but I am not tired," returned Pitou; but the other insisted, and he gave way.
"Pitou, I sent for you to join me," said the farmer.
"And you see I have not kept you waiting," retorted the National Guards captain, with his own frank smile, showing all his thirty-two teeth.
"No. You must have guessed that something serious is afoot."
"I suspected as much. But, I say, friend Billet, I do not see anything of Mayor Bailly or General Lafayette."
"Bailly is a traitor, who nearly murdered the lot of us on the parade-ground."
"Yes, I know that, as I picked you up there, almost swimming in your own blood."
"And Lafayette is another traitor, who wanted to take away the king."
"I did not know that. Lafayette a traitor, eh? I never would have thought of that. And the king?"
"He is the biggest traitor of the lot, Pitou."
"I can not say I am surprised at that," said Pitou.
"He conspires with the foreigner, and wants to deliver France to the enemy. The Tuileries is the center of the conspiracy, and we have decided to take possession of the Tuileries. Do you understand this, Pitou?"
"Of course I understand. But, look here, Master Billet; we took the Bastile, and this will not be so hard a job."
"That's where you are out."
"What, more difficult, when the walls are not so high?"
"That's so; but they are better guarded. The Bastile had but a hundred old soldiers to guard it, while the palace has three or four thousand men; this is saying nothing of the Bastile having been carried by surprise, while the Tuileries folk must know we mean to attack, and will be on the lookout."
"They will defend it, will they?" queried Pitou.
"Yes," replied Billet—"all the more as the defense is trusted to Count Charny, they say."
"Indeed. He did leave Boursonnes with his lady by the post," observed Pitou. "Lor', is he a traitor, too?"
"No; he is an aristocrat, that is all. He has always been for the court, so that he is no traitor to the people; he never asked us to put any faith in him."
"So it looks as though we will have a tussle with Lord Charny?"
"It is likely, friend Ange."
"What a queer thing it is, neighbors clapper-clawing!"
"Yes—what is called civil war, Pitou; but you are not obliged to fight unless you like."
"Excuse me, farmer, but it suits me from the time when it is to your taste."
"But I should even like it better if you did not fight."
"Why did you send for me, Master Billet?"
"I sent for you to give you this paper," replied Billet, with his face clouding.
"What is this all about?"
"It is the draft of my will."
"Your will?" cried Pitou, laughing. "Hang me, if you look like a man about to die!"
"No; but I may be a man who will get killed," returned the revolutionist, pointing to his gun and cartridge-box hanging on the wall.
"That's a fact," said Ange Pitou; "we are all mortal."
"So that I have come to place my will in your hands as the sole legatee."
"No, I thank you. But you are only saying this for a joke?"
"I am telling you a fact."
"But it can not be. When a man has rightful heirs he can not give away his property to outsiders."
"You are wrong, Pitou; he can."
"Then he ought not."
"I have no heirs," replied Billet, with a dark cloud passing over his face.
"No heirs? How about heiresses, then? What do you call Miss Catherine?"
"I do not know anybody of that name, Pitou."
"Come, come, farmer, do not say such things; you make me sad."
"Pitou, from the time when something is mine, it is mine to give away; in the same way, should I die, what I leave to you will be yours, to deal with as you please, to be given away as freely."
"Ha! Good—yes," exclaimed the young man, who began to understand; "then, if anything bad happens to you—But how stupid I am; nothing bad could happen to you."
"You yourself said just now that we are all mortal."
"So I did; but—well, I do not know but that you are right. I take the will, Master Billet; but is it true that if I fall heir, I can do as I please with the property?"
"No doubt, since it will be yours. And, you understand, you are a sound patriot, Pitou; they will not stand you off from it, as they might folk who have connived with the aristocrats."
"It's a bargain," said Pitou, who was getting it into his brain; "I accept."
"Then that is all I have to say to you. Put the paper in your pocket and go to sleep."
"What for?"
"Because we shall have some work to do to-morrow—no, this day, for it is two in the morning."
"Are you going out, Master Billet?"
"Only as far as the river."
"You are sure you do not want me?"
"On the other hand, you would be in my way."
"I suppose I might have a bite and a sup, then?"
"Of course. I forgot to ask if you might not be hungry."
"Because you know I am always hungry," said Pitou, laughing.
"I need not tell you where the larder is."
"No, no, master; do not worry about me. But you are going to come back here?"
"I shall return."
"Or else tell me where we are to meet?"
"It is useless, for I shall be home in an hour."
Pitou went in search of the eatables with an appetite which in him, as in the case of the king, no events could alter, however serious they might be, while Billet proceeded to the water-side to do what we know.
He had hardly arrived on the spot before a pebble fell, followed by another, and some more, teaching him that what Petion apprehended had come to pass, and that he was a prisoner to the Royalists. So he had flown, according to his instructions, to the Assembly, which had claimed the mayor, as we have described.
Petion, liberated, had only to walk through the House to get back to the mayor's office, leaving his carriage in the Tuileries yard to represent him.
For his part, Billet went home, and found Ange finishing his supper.
"Any news?" asked he.
"Nothing, except that day is breaking and the sky is the color of blood."
The early sunbeams shone on two horsemen riding at a walking pace along the deserted water-side by the Tuileries. They were Colonel Mandat and his aid.
At one A. M. he was summoned to the City Hall, and refused to go; but on the order being renewed more peremptorily at two, Attorney Roederer said to him:
"Mark, colonel, that under the law the commander of the National Guard is to obey the City Government."
He decided to go, ignorant of two things.
In the first place, forty-seven sections of the forty-eight had joined to the town rulers each three commissioners, with orders to work with the officials and "save the country." Mandat expected to see the old board as before, and not at all to behold a hundred and forty-one fresh faces. Again, he had no idea of the order from this same board to clear the New Bridge of cannon and vacate St. John's Arcade, an order so important that Danton and Manuel personally had superintended its execution.
Consequently, on reaching the Pont Neuf, Mandat was stupefied to find it utterly deserted. He stopped and sent his aid to scout. In ten minutes this officer returned with the word that he saw no guns or National Guards, while the neighborhood was as lonesome as the bridge.
Mandat continued his way, though he perhaps ought to have gone back to the palace; but men, like things, must wend whither their destiny impels.
Proportionably to his approach to the City Hall, he seemed to enter into liveliness. In the same way as the blood in some organizations leaves the extremities cold and pale on rushing back to fortify the heart, so all the movement and heat—the Revolution, in short—was around the City Hall, the seat of popular life, the heart of that great body, Paris.
He stopped to send his officer to the Arcade; but the National Guard had been withdrawn from there, too. He wanted to retrace his steps; but the crowd had packed in behind him, and he was carried, like a waif on the wave, up the Hall steps.
"Stay here," he said to his follower, "and if evil befalls me, run and tell them at the palace."
Mandat yielded to the mob, and was floated into the grand hall, where he met strange and stern faces. It was the insurrection complete, demanding an account of the conduct of this man, who had not only tried to crush it in its development, but to strangle it in its birth.
One of the members of the Commune, the dread body which was to stifle the Assembly and struggle with the Convention, advanced and in the general's name asked:
"By whose order did you double the palace guard?"
"The Mayor of Paris'."
"Show that order."
"I left it at the Tuileries, so that it might be carried out during my absence."
"Why did you order out the cannon?"
"Because I set the battalion on the march, and the field-pieces move with the regiment."
"Where is Petion?"
"He was at the palace when I last saw him."
"A prisoner?"
"No; he was strolling about the gardens."
The interrogation was interrupted here by a new member bringing an unsealed letter, of which he asked leave to make communication. Mandat had no need to do more than cast a glance on this note to acknowledge that he was lost; he recognized his own writing. It was his order to the commanding officer at St. John's Arcade, sent at one in the morning, for him to attack in the rear the mob making for the palace, while the battalion on New Bridge attacked it in flank. This order had fallen into the Commune's hands after the dismissal of the soldiers.
The examination was over; for what could be more damning than this letter in any admissions of the accused?
The council decided that Mandat should be imprisoned in the abbey. The tale goes that the chairman of the board, in saying, "Remove the prisoner," made a sweep of the hand, edge downward, like chopping with an ax. As the guillotine was not in use then, it must have been an arranged sign—perhaps by the Invisibles, whose Grand Copt had divined that instrument.
At all events, the result showed that the sign was taken to imply death.
Hardly had Mandat gone down three of the City Hall steps before a pistol-shot shattered his skull, at the very instant when his son ran toward him. Three years before, the same reception had met Flesselles.
Mandat was only wounded, but as he rose, he fell again with a score of pike-wounds. The boy held out his hands and wailed for his father, but none paid any heed to him. Presently, in the bloody ring, where bare arms plunged amid flashing pikes and swords, a head was seen to surge up, detached from the trunk.
The boy swooned.
The aid-de-camp galloped back to the Tuileries to report what he had witnessed.
The murderers went off in two gangs: one took the body to the river, to throw it in, the other carried the head through the streets.
This was going on at four in the morning.
Let us precede the aid to the Tuileries, and see what was happening.
Having confessed, and made easy about matters since his conscience was tranquilized, the king, unable to resist the cravings of nature, went to bed. But we must say that he lay down dressed.
On the alarm-bells ringing more loudly, and the roll of the drums beating the reveille, he was roused.
Colonel Chesnaye, to whom Mandat had left his powers, awoke the monarch to have him address the National Guards, and by his presence and some timely words revive their enthusiasm.
The king rose, but half awake, dull and staggering. He was wearing a powdered wig, and he had flattened all the side he had lain upon. The hair-dresser could not be found, so he had to go out with the wig out of trim.
Notified that the king was going to show himself to the defenders, the queen ran out from the council hall where she was.
In contrast with the poor sovereign, whose dim sight sought no one's glance, whose mouth-muscles were flabby and palpitating with involuntary twitches, while his violet coat suggested he was wearing mourning for majesty, the queen was burning with fever, although pale. Her eyes were red, though dry.
She kept close to this phantom of monarchy, who came out in the day instead of midnight, with owlish, blinking eyes. She hoped to inspire him with her overflow of life, strength, and courage.
All went well enough while this exhibition was in the rooms, though the National Guards, mixed in with the noblemen, seeing their ruler close to this poor, flaccid, heavy man, who had so badly failed on a similar occasion at Varennes, wondered if this really was the monarch whose poetical legend the women and the priests were already beginning to weave.
This was not the one they had expected to see.
The aged Duke of Mailly—with one of those good intentions destined to be another paving-stone for down below—drew his rapier, and sinking down at the foot of the king, vowed in a quavering voice to die, he and the old nobility which he represented, for the grandson of Henry IV. Here were two blunders: the National Guards had no great sympathy for the old nobility, and they were not here to defend the descendant of Henry IV., but the constitutional king.
So, in reply to a few shouts of "Hail to the king!" cheers for the nation burst forth on all sides.
Something to make up for this coolness was sought. The king was urged to go down into the royal yard. Alas! the poor potentate had no will of his own. Disturbed at his meals, and cheated, with only one hour's sleep instead of seven, he was but an automaton, receiving impetus from outside its material nature.
Who gave this impetus? The queen, a woman of nerve, who had neither slept nor eaten.
Some unhappy characters fail in all they undertake, when circumstances are beyond their level. Instead of attracting dissenters, Louis XVI., in going up to them, seemed expressly made to show how little glamour majesty can lend a man who has no genius or strength of mind.
Here, as in the rooms, when the Royalists managed to get up a shout of "Long live the king!" an immense hurrah for the nation replied to them.
The Royalists being dull enough to persist, the patriots overwhelmed them with "No, no, no; no other ruler than the nation!"
And the king, almost supplicating, added: "Yes, my sons, the nation and the monarch make but one henceforward."
"Bring the prince," whispered Marie Antoinette to Princess Elizabeth; "perhaps the sight of a child may touch them."
While they were looking for the dauphin, the king continued the sad review. The bad idea struck him to appeal to the artillerists, who were mainly Republicans. If the king had the gift of speech-making, he might have forced the men to listen to him, though their belief led them astray, for it would have been a daring step, and it might have helped him to face the cannon; but there was nothing exhilarating in his words or gesture; he stammered.
The Royalists tried to cover his stammerings with the luckless hail of "Long live the king!" already twice a failure, and it nearly brought about a collision.
Some cannoniers left their places and rushed over to the king, threatening him with their fists, and saying:
"Do you think that we will shoot down our brothers to defend a traitor like you?"
The queen drew the king back.
"Here comes the dauphin!" called out voices. "Long live the hope of the realm!"
Nobody took up the cry. The poor boy had come in at the wrong time; as theatrical language says, he had missed his cue.
The king went back into the palace, a downright retreat—almost a flight. When he got to his private rooms he dropped, puffing and blowing, into an easy-chair.
Stopping by the door, the queen looked around for some support. She spied Charny standing up by the door of her own rooms, and she went over to him.
"Ah, all is lost!" she moaned.
"I am afraid so, my lady," replied the Life Guardsman.
"Can we not still flee?"
"It is too late."
"What is left for us to do, then?"
"We can but die," responded Charny, bowing.
The queen heaved a sigh, and went into her own rooms.
Mandat had hardly been slain, before the Commune nominated Santerre as commanding general in his stead, and he ordered the drums to beat in all the town and the bells to be rung harder than ever in all the steeples. He sent out patrols to scour the ways, and particularly to scout around the Assembly.
Some twenty prowlers were made prisoners, of whom half escaped before morning, leaving eleven in the Feuillants' guard-house. In their midst was a dandified young gentleman in the National Guard uniform, the newness of which, the superiority of his weapons, and the elegance of his style, made them suspect he was an aristocrat. He was quite calm. He said that he went to the palace on an order, which he showed the examining committee of the Feuillants' ward. It ran:
"The National Guard, bearer of this paper, will go to the palace to learn what the state of affairs is, and return to report to the Attorney-and-Syndic-General of the Department.
(Signed) "Boirie,
"Leroulx,
"Municipal Officers."
The order was plain enough, but it was thought that the signatures were forged, and it was sent to the City Hall by a messenger to have them verified.
This last arrest had brought a large crowd around the place, and some such voices as are always to be heard at popular gatherings yelled for the prisoner's death.
An official saw that this desire must not spread, and was making a speech, to which the mob was yielding, when the messenger came back from the Hall to say the order was genuine, and they ought to set at liberty the prisoner named Suleau.
At this name, a woman in the mob raised her head and uttered a scream of rage.
"Suleau?" she cried. "Suleau, the editor of the 'Acts of the Apostles' newspaper, one of the slayers of Liege independence? Let me at this Suleau! I call for the death of Suleau!"
The crowd parted to let this little, wiry woman go through. She wore a riding-habit of the national colors, and was carrying a sword in a cross-belt. She went up to the city official and forced him to give her the place on the stand. Her head was barely above the concourse, before they all roared:
"Bravo, Theroigne!"
Indeed, Theroigne was a most popular woman, so that Suleau had made a hit when he said she was the bride of Citizen Populus, as well as referring to her free-and-easy morals.
Besides, he had published at Brussels the "Alarm for Kings," and thus helped the Belgian outbreak, and to replace under the Austrian cane and the priestly miter a noble people wishing to be free and join France.
At this very epoch Theroigne was writing her memoirs, and had read the part about her arrest there to the Jacobin Club.
She claimed the death of the ten other prisoners along with Suleau.
Through the door he heard her ringing voice, amid applause. He called the captain of the guard to him, and asked to be turned loose to the mob, that by his sacrifice he might save his fellow-prisoners. They did not believe he meant it. They refused to open the door to him, and he tried to jump out of the window, but they pulled him back. They did not think that they would be handed over to the slaughterers in cold blood; they were mistaken.
Intimidated by the yells, Chairman Bonjour yielded to Theroigne's demand, and bid the National Guardsman stand aloof from resisting the popular will. They stepped aside, and the door was left free. The mob burst into the jail and grabbed the first prisoner to hand.
It was a priest, Bonyon, a playwright noted for his failures and his epigrams. He was a large-built man, and fought desperately with the butchers, who tore him from the arms of the commissioner who tried to save him; though he had no weapon but his naked fists, he laid out two or three of the ruffians. A bayonet pinned him to the wall, so that he expired without being able to hit with his last blows.
Two of the prisoners managed to escape in the scuffle.
The next to the priest was an old Royal Guardsman, whose defense was not less vigorous; his death was but the more cruel. A third was cut to pieces before Suleau's turn came.
"There is your Suleau," said a woman to Theroigne.
She did not know him by sight; she thought he was a priest, and scoffed at him as the Abbe Suleau. Like a wild cat, she sprung at his throat. He was young, brave, and lusty; with a fist blow he sent her ten paces off, shook off the men who had seized him, and wrenching a saber from a hand, felled a couple of the assassins.
Then commenced a horrible conflict. Gaining ground toward the door, Suleau cut himself three times free; but he was obliged to turn round to get the cursed door open, and in that instant twenty blades ran through his body. He fell at the feet of Theroigne, who had the cruel joy of inflicting his last wound.
Another escaped, another stoutly resisted, but the rest were butchered like sheep. All the bodies were dragged to Vendome Place, where their heads were struck off and set on poles for a march through the town.
Thus, before the action, blood was spilled in two places; on the City Hall steps and in Feuillants' yard. We shall presently see it flow in the Tuileries; the brook after the rain-drops, the river after the brook.
While this massacre was being perpetrated, about nine A. M., some eleven thousand National Guards, gathered by the alarm-bell of Barbaroux and the drum-beat of Santerre, marched down the St. Antoine ward and came out on the Strand. They wanted the order to assail the Tuileries.
Made to wait for an hour, two stories beguiled them: either concessions were hoped from the court, or the St. Marceau ward was not ready, and they could not fall on without them.
A thousand pikemen waxed restless; as ever, the worst armed wanted to begin the fray. They broke through the ranks of the Guard, saying that they were going to do without them and take the palace.
Some of the Marseilles Federals and a few French Guards—of the same regiments which had stormed the Bastile three years before—took the lead and were acclaimed as chiefs. These were the vanguard of the insurrection.
In the meanwhile, the aid who had seen Mandat murdered had raced back to the Tuileries; but it was not till after the king and the queen had returned from the fiasco of a review that he announced the ghastly news.
The sound of a disturbance mounted to the first floor and entered by the open windows.
The City and the National Guards and the artillerists—the patriots, in short—had taunted the grenadiers with being the king's tools, saying that they were bought up by the court; and as they were ignorant of their commander's murder by the mob, a grenadier shouted:
"It looks as though that shuffler Mandat had sent few aristocrats here."
Mandat's eldest son was in the Guards' ranks—we know where the other boy was, uselessly trying to defend his father on the City Hall steps. At this insult to his absent sire, the young man sprung out of the line with his sword flourished. Three or four gunners rushed to meet him. Weber, the queen's attendant, was among the St. Roch district grenadiers, dressed as a National Guardsman. He flew to the young man's help. The clash of steel was heard as the quarrel spread between the two parties.
Drawn to the window by the noise, the queen perceived her foster-brother, and she sent the king's valet to bring him to her.
Weber came up and told what was happening, whereupon she acquainted him with the death of Mandat.
The uproar went on beneath the windows.
"The cannoniers are leaving their pieces," said Weber, looking out; "they have no spikes, but they have driven balls home without powder, so that they are rendered useless!"
"What do you think of all this?"
"I think your majesty had better consult Syndic Roederer, who seems the most honest man in the palace."
Roederer was brought before the queen in her private apartment as the clock struck nine.
At this point, Captain Durler, of the Switzers, went up to the king to get orders from him or the major-general. The latter perceived the good captain as he was looking for some usher to introduce him.
"What do you want, captain?" he inquired.
"You, my Lord Charny, as you are the garrison commander. I want the final orders, as the head of the insurrectionary column appears on the Carrousel."
"You are not to let them force their way through, the king having decided to die in the midst of us."
"Rely on us, major-general," briefly replied Captain Durler, going back to his men with this order, which was their death-sentence.
As he said, the van of the rebels was in sight. It was the thousand pikemen, at the head of whom marched some twenty Marseilles men and fifteen French Guardsmen; in the ranks of the latter gleamed the bullion epaulets of a National Guards captain. This young officer was Ange Pitou, who had been recommended by Billet, and was charged with a mission of which we shall hear more.
Behind these, at a quarter-mile distance, came a considerable body of National Guards and Federals, preceded by a twelve-gun battery.
When the garrison commandant's order was transmitted to them, the Swiss fell silently into line and resolutely stood, with cold and gloomy firmness.
Less severely disciplined, the National Guards took up their post more disorderly and noisily, but with equal resolution.
The nobles, badly marshaled, and armed with striking weapons only, as swords or short-range pistols, and aware that the combat would be to the death, saw the moment approach with feverish glee when they could grapple with their ancient adversary, the people, the eternal athlete always thrown, but growing the stronger during eight centuries.
While the besieged were taking places, knocking was heard at the royal court-yard gate, and many voices shouting: "A flag of truce!" Over the wall at this spot was seen a white handkerchief tied to the tip of a pike-staff.
Roederer was on his way to the king when he saw this at the gate and ordered it to be opened. The janitor did so, and then ran off as fast as he could. Roederer confronted the foremost of the revolutionists.
"My friends," said he, "you wanted the gates open to a flag of truce, and not to an army. Who wants to hold the parley?"
"I am your man," said Pitou, with his sweet voice and bland smile.
"Who are you?"
"Captain Ange Pitou, of the Haramont Federal Volunteers."
Roederer did not know who the Haramont Federals were, but he judged it not worth while to inquire when time was so precious.
"What are you wanting?"
"I want way through for myself and my friends."
Pitou's friends, who were in rags, brandished their pikes, and looked with their savage eyes like dangerous enemies indeed.
"What do you want to go through here for?"
"To go and surround the Assembly. We have twelve guns, but shall not use e'er a one if you do as we wish."
"What do you wish?"
"The dethronement of the king."
"This is a grave question, sir," observed Roederer.
"Very grave," replied Pitou, with his customary politeness.
"It calls for some debate."
"That is only fair," returned Ange. "It is going on ten o'clock, less the quarter," said he; "if we do not have an answer by ten as it strikes, we shall begin our striking, too."
"Meanwhile, I suppose you will let us shut the door?"
Pitou ordered his crowd back; and the door was closed; but through the momentarily open door the besiegers had caught a glimpse of the formidable preparations made to receive them.
As soon as the door was closed, Pitou's followers had a keen desire to keep on parleying.
Some were hoisted upon their comrades' shoulders, so that they could bestride the wall, where they began to chat with the National Guardsmen inside. These shook hands with them, and they were merry together as the quarter of an hour passed.
Then a man came from the palace with the word that they were to be let in.
The invaders believed that they had their request granted, and they flocked in as soon as the doors were opened, like men who had been kept waiting—all in a heap. They stuck their caps on their pikes and whooped "Hurrah for the nation!"—"Long live the National Guard!"—"The Swiss forever!"
The National Guard echoed the shout of the nation, but the Swiss kept a gloomy and sinister muteness.
The inrush only ceased when the intruders were up to the cannon muzzles, where they stopped to look around.
The main vestibule was crammed with Swiss, three deep; on each step was a rank, so that six could fire at once.
Some of the invaders, including Pitou, began to consider, although it was rather late to reflect.
But though seeing the danger, the mob did not think of running away; it tried to turn it by jesting with the soldiers. The Guards took the joking as it was made, but the Swiss looked glum, for something had happened five minutes before the insurrectionary column marched up.
In the quarrel between the Guards and the grenadiers over the insult to Mandat, the former had parted from the Royalist guards, and as they went off they said good-bye to the Swiss, whom they wanted to go away with them.
They said that they would receive in their own homes as brothers any of the Swiss who would come with them.
Two from the Waldenses—that is, French Swiss—replied to the appeal made in their own tongue, and took the French by the hand. At the same instant two shots were fired up at the palace windows, and bullets struck the deserters in the very arms of those who decoyed them away.
Excellent marksmen as chamois-hunters, the Swiss officers had nipped the mutiny thus in the bud. It is plain now why the other Swiss were mute.
The men who had rushed into the yard were such as always oddly run before all outbreaks. They were armed with new pikes and old fire-arms—that is, worse than unarmed.
The cannoniers had come over to their side, as well as the National Guards, and they wanted to induce the Switzers to do the same.
They did not notice that time was passing and that the quarter of an hour Pitou had given Roederer had doubled; it was now a quarter past ten. They were having a good time; why should they worry?
One tatterdemalion had not a sword or a pike, but a pruning-hook, and he said to his next neighbor:
"Suppose I were to fish for a Swiss?"
"Good idea! Try your luck," said the other.
So he hooked a Swiss by the belt and drew him toward him, the soldier resisting just enough to make out that he was dragged.
"I have got a bite," said the fisher for men.
"Then, haul him in, but go gently," said his mate.
The man with the hook drew softly indeed, and the guardsman was drawn out of the entrance into the yard, like a fish from the pond onto the bank. Up rose loud whoops and roars of laughter.
"Try for another," said the crowd.
The fisherman hooked another, and jerked him out like the first. And so it went on to the fourth and the fifth, and the whole regiment might have melted away but for the order, "Make ready—take aim!"
On seeing the muskets leveled with the regular sound and precise movement marking evolutions of regular troops, one of the assailants—there is always some crazy-head to give the signal for slaughter under such circumstances—fired a pistol at the palace windows.
During the short space separating "Make ready" and "Fire" in the command, Pitou guessed what was going to happen.
"Flat on your faces!" he shouted to his men; "down flat, or you are all dead men!"
Suiting the action to the word, he flung himself on the ground.
Before there was time for his advice to be generally followed, the word "Fire!" rang in the entrance-way, which was filled with a crashing noise and smoke, while a hail of lead was spit forth as from one huge blunderbuss.
The compact mass—for perhaps half the column had entered the yard—swayed like the wheat-field before the gust, then like the same cropped by the scythe, reeled and fell down. Hardly a third was left alive.
These few fled, passing under the fire from two lines of guns and the barracks firing at close range. The musketeers would have killed each other but for the thick screen of fugitives between.
This curtain was ripped in wide places; four hundred men were stretched on the ground pavement, three hundred slain outright.
The hundred, more or less badly injured, groaned and tried to rise, but falling, gave part of the field of corpses a movement like the ocean swell, frightful to behold.
But gradually all died out, and apart from a few obstinate fellows who persisted in living, all fell into immobility.
The fugitives scattered over the Carrousel Square, and flowed out on the water-side on one hand and on the street by the other, yelling, "Murder—help! we were drawn into a death-trap."
On the New Bridge, they fell in with the main body. The bulk was commanded by two men on horseback, closely attended by one on foot, who seemed to have a share in the command.
"Help, Citizen Santerre!" shouted the flyers, recognizing in one of the riders the big brewer of St. Antoine, by his colossal stature, for which his huge Flemish horse was but a pedestal in keeping; "help! they are slaughtering our brothers."
"Who are?" demanded the brewer-general.
"The Swiss—they shot us down while we were cheek by jowl with them, a-kissing them."
"What do you think of this?" asked Santerre of the second horseman.
"Vaith, me dink of dot milidary broverb which it say: 'De soldier ought to march to where he hear dot gun-firing going on,'" replied the other rider, who was a small, fair man, with his hair cropped short, speaking with a strong German accent. "Zubbose we go where de goons go off, eh?"
"Hi! you had a young officer with you," called out the leader on foot to one of the runaways; "I don't see anything of him."
"He was the first to be dropped, citizen representative; and the more's the pity, for he was a brave young chap."
"Yes, he was a brave young man," replied, with a slight loss of color, the man addressed as a member of the House, "and he shall be bravely avenged. On you go, Citizen Santerre!"
"I believe, my dear Billet," said the brewer, "that in such a pinch we must call experience into play as well as courage."
"As you like."
"In consequence, I propose to place the command in the hands of Citizen Westerman—a real general and a friend of Danton—offering to obey him like a common soldier."
"I do not care what you do if you will only march right straight ahead," said the farmer.
"Do you accept the command, Citizen Westerman?" asked Santerre.
"I do," said the Russian, laconically.
"In that case give your orders."
"Vorwarts!" shouted Westerman, and the immense column, only halted for a breathing-spell, resumed the route.
As its pioneers entered at the same time the Carrousel by all gates, eleven struck on the Tuileries clocks.